geoviki | Shiverslash

Friends don't let friends write shiverslash. For

ajhalluk I blame it on her recent trip to Amsterdam, oh, and this. "...certain writers in the HP fandom, ... appear to regard hypothermia as a precursor to animated sexual gymnastics. The only time I've ever had hypothermia I'd have swapped Jude Law naked, willing and able for a hot water bottle in an instant had either been available to me..."

Harry/Draco/Jude Law?!
Rating: PG for ribald speculation and a few choice words
Warnings: hypothermia, badfic, implied rudeness to Hufflepuffs, hint of crossover

Comfortably Numb

There is no pain; you are receding; a distant ship smoke on the horizon.
- Pink Floyd

When Draco Malfoy caught up with that Creevey prick, he decided, he was going to rip the little bastard's brain out through his nostrils.

Then he decided that probably no one would notice the difference.

Draco was still trying to come to grips with the humiliating position he found himself in – caught in the grip of an unexpectedly thorough Petrificus. Creevey had caught him leaving the changing room after Quidditch practice, felled him after a mumbled apology, and dragged him under the Hufflepuff stands. Draco was mortified by the provocative poses that he'd been arranged in, followed by the appearance of that damned Muggle camera. But something had startled the little porn-purveyor and he'd scampered off in terror, leaving Draco in his current predicament. Which consisted of slowly freezing to death. Scotland in winter was no Miami Beach.

Well, Crabbe and Goyle were in line for a bit of minion-thrashing. But if they didn't get themselves out here to rescue him pretty soon, he'd be settling instead for minion-haunting.

Where the fuck were they?

He was imagining the looks of horror he'd be getting if he lost his hands and feet to frostbite and had to gimp around on leg stumps, when he heard the crunch crunch of shoes on gravel. Finally.

He attempted to direct his rescuer with a manly shout, but what emerged from his paralyzed throat was more of a high-pinched whine that sounded far too much like Pansy Parkinson.

It worked, though – he heard the footsteps deviate and come closer. But neither Crabbe nor Goyle made the groveling appearance that he expected - instead, he was treated to the confused look of Hogwart's very own Saviour of the Wizarding World and all-round git, Harry Potter.

"Dra— Malfoy? What are you doing there on the ground? You'll get hypothermia. Or worse."

Draco knew that Potter wasn't the sharpest quill in the ink bottle, but this was beyond ridiculous. He tried to open his mouth to bestow a few choice words on his tormentor, but what came out were more of those embarrassing Pansy-whimpers.

It didn't help that Creevey had left him in a rather kinky Play-witch presentation, his shirt unbuttoned to his waist, exposing his chest to the bitter northern wind. And he didn't even want to think about where his Slytherin tie was.

"Colin said you were waiting for me." Draco watched with disbelief as Potter cast him a few sidelong, covetous glances. "So, ah, what exactly did you want?"

"Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee," was all he could answer.

Finally, Potter got the message. "Oh, I get it. You were afraid you'd run away before I got here, so you stunned yourself. That's okay, though. Now that I'm here, I don't think we need to keep that spell on you. Finite incantatum."

Once the hex was removed, Draco launched into a tirade of well-deserved abuse towards the universe in general and Creevey and Potter in particular. Unfortunately, he was no more able to articulate his particular woes now than he was before, due to the immediate onset of chattering teeth. So while his intent was to say, "Creevey put a bloody binding hex on me, you ignorant fuck," what came out sounded more like, "Eeeeee ptbbbbiiiiii mmm iiiiii fuck!"

Which Potter took as an invitation.

"Oh. Oh. Well, I know you were starting to notice how I kept watching you in the Great Hall, and how I would try to provoke you into getting physical. I reckon you worked it out, then, huh? I never thought you'd feel the same way, though."

Potter crouched down beside him and patted his arm gently. Draco immediately attempted to tell him to get his bloody hands off him. But Potter seemed to have heard only "hands" and "get off."

"All right. I'll just help you undress the rest of the way, then. It would be easier if you weren't all curled up in a ball, though. And you ... you're trembling. I am, too. This is a special moment, Draco. I promise I'll make it good for you."

All Draco's attempts to scramble away from Potter, who had clearly gone insane, were in vain. Potter took every wriggle and jerk as encouragement. Meanwhile, Draco's arms were shaking so badly, he couldn't pull out his wand for a well-placed curse.

"Relax, Draco. I won't hurt you." Draco felt something wet on his bare neck, which seemed to instantly change to ice. Yuck – tongue. He briefly wondered if it would freeze and stick there, like touching bare metal. He could see the Daily Prophet headlines now: Boy-Who-Lived Doesn't after Failed Molestation Attempt.

"Pppppttttttbbbbmmmmmwwwwbbbb," he screeched, which was frozenese for "Put your tongue back in your mouth where it belongs!"

"Shhh, Draco. Let me. I've been imagining this for a long time. Your skin, so pale and white beneath my mouth. Although it's a little bluer than I imagined. Is that some kind of pureblood thing?"

He gave up. He was going to die, frozen into a solid block of ice while bloody Harry Potter got off on his corpse. It was so unfair – none of his many sins (of which he admitted there were a few) deserved this ignoble death.

He sighed.

"Draco, my Draco, so you feel it, too?"

Just when he thought things couldn't possibly get any worse, he heard a baleful, tuneless crooning. Potter was singing!

"Can you feeeeel the looooove toniiiiiight," Potter croaked.

Kill me now. Let me die.

Suddenly there was a commotion next to them and Potter jumped back with alarm. A man stood there, with a look of shock and bewilderment on his face. His very attractive face. His stunningly gorgeous face. His—

"Where the hell am I?" the man asked. He had a pretty nice voice, too.

"Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," Harry replied, equally shocked. "No one is supposed to be able to Apparate here except — um — you're not a house-elf are you? House-elves aren't usually so—"

Handsome, Draco thought. Stunning. Awe-inspiring. Erotic. Well-hung.

"— tall."

"What? No. No, I'm...an actor. I'm Jude Law."

Jude Law's shirt was in the same disarray as Draco's was, and his feet were bare. Draco expected to have a fellow hypothermia sufferer in just a minute or two.

"Oh. I saw you in Cold Mountain. Okay, I know it was a chick flick, but it had some war parts, too, so I thought I could get away with it without my mates giving me too much grief." Potter looked chagrined for a moment, then added, "My name's Harry, and this is my boyfriend, Draco."

Law peered down curiously at Draco, who tried to enlist his help. "Get this imbecile off of me," he wailed through the lockjaw that gripped his chattering teeth.

"Nice to meet you, too," Law replied politely. "How did I get here?"

"Dunno," Harry said. "Where did you come from?"

"The Amsterdam Hilton, actually. I'd met this delightful woman in the bar, you see. We'd shared a few glasses of chianti, and we'd retired to her room. Things were getting cosy – quite cosy – when all of a sudden, she screamed something about how my feet were as cold as a wizard's arse. Then she said something in Latin - with quite a Mancunian accent – and suddenly it was raining hot water bottles. The next thing I knew, here I was."

Harry nodded. "Yes, that happens more than you'd imagine."

Law scrunched up his adorable nose. "It does?"

"Well, yes. In badfic. Something Draco and I end up in too often."

"Oh. So how do I get back to Amsterdam?"

Harry looked at him carefully. "Ah, are you sure you wouldn't like to stick around here a bit? Not to be rude or anything, but your last three movies haven't exactly set fire at the box office. And we have a nice little franchise. Quite a money maker – we practically print out pounds. How'd you like to play a Bulgarian seeker?"

Law pricked up his adorable ears at that. "Well, I could use a real hit, now that you mention it. Christ, you know it ain't easy – you know how hard it can be. But listen, could we talk about this somewhere a little warmer? I'm not quite dressed for this weather."

"Oh, sure, sorry, Mr. Law. I'll take you to our headmaster – you'll like him. He's a newbie himself." Harry stood up and brushed off his robes. "You don't mind waiting here until I get back, do you, Draco? I won't be long. Unless Snape hauls me in for another Legilimen lesson."

Law was frowning down at him. "Don't you think we ought to bring him with us? He looks awfully uncomfortable."

No shit, Sherlock. But to his utter dismay, he heard Potter laugh. "No, he'll be okay. They don't call him the Slytherin Ice Prince for nothing!"

He tried to voice his objection. "That's not canon - that's fanon!"

To no avail.

"No offense, Draco, but you sound like Pansy Parkinson when you squeal like that." Harry leaned down and arranged Draco's frozen limbs in the approximation of a hug, then gave him another very wet slobber. "Be back soon, my love."

They were gone. He was fading from consciousness, the view of the underside of the Hufflepuff stands (with all the gross food scraps and gum stuck up there - bleacchhh) growing dimmer. Before he blacked out and gave himself up to death, he thought he heard a voice calling to him, a sweet, haunting voice.

"Do you remember the Shire, Mr. Frodo? It'll be spring soon . Come on, Mr. Frodo. I can't carry it for you, but I can carry you!"

Maybe there really was an afterlife.

ETA: Well, that was the ugly, now for the good and the bad...

themostepotente translated my first ever drabble into French, here! Tres bien! Merci!

And weeping and gnashing of teeth are heard throughout the fandom as we bid

isiscolo bon voyage! Well, it's bad for us, but good for her.