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It all started with a headache.
Well, to be fair, Malfoy didn’t know it was a headache. All he could really hear from the other side of the average-sized dorm room for two students were breathy sighs, whimpers and occasional moans. He was sure one of them was literal whines.
Malfoy’s thoughts on this? Potter was having a really long, very pleasurable wank all on his own, and is severely vocal about it.
Malfoy didn’t mind it, of course, in fact, all those sounds very doing similar things, not that he would ever admit to that, but unlike someone, he had self-restraint and intellect. Potter had conveniently– or rather inconveniently– forgotten to cast silencing charms and now Malfoy is the one who is forced to suffer through his very hypothetical crush pleasuring himself.
Obviously, like any other normal person with moral sense, dignity and tolerance, Malfoy had had enough. Maybe he was just jealous that Potter’s hand was having more fun with the ‘Golden Dick’ and not Malfoy’s mouth but who is he to convey that?
Crossing the length of the room, minutely avoiding tripping over strewn clothes and discarded items in the dark, he reached the blindingly charmed dark crimson and gold four-poster bed, making sure his feet were stomping loud enough to make noise to alert Potter, in case he wished to pause his actions in the fear of getting caught… he did not. So Malfoy frustratingly pulled back the drawn curtains.
He was prepared to see a cock out– would not be the first one anyways– held in a firm grip of Potter’s wide and rough hands. He was prepared to watch Potter’s face, the bliss of an expression turning into embarrassment, frustration due to intrusion, maybe even fear. He also had a small clue about what he would say, what kind of words he might speak to Potter before he sneered and left, or if he felt brave enough, he might just help Potter with his problem using his skilled mouth and experienced hands.
But he was definitely not prepared to see Potter, the whole of 5 feet 9 inches, curled into an uncomfortable position, hands at his head, fingers desperately moving around, possibly to relieve him of what looked like a nasty headache. With his glasses not shielding his eyes his green eyes showed brightly in the low light of a small candle and moonlight, sparkling with unshed tears. His mouth shifted from silent sighs of relief to pain-induced frowns.
Malfoy did not, could not, speak for at least a minute, trying to process the vulnerable state of the boy who lived. Seeing as Poter hadn’t moved an inch other than his hands, it seemed as if his presence hadn’t been noticed yet.
Malfoy slowly and cautiously, keeping his voice in a low hush, spoke, “Potter?”
Potter’s eyes flew wide open and he visibly winced at the suddenness. He uncurled himself, struggling to think straight and put on his best defensive face, which for Malfoy, looked like he was trying his hardest not to cry.
“What is it, Malfoy?” he said harshly, his voice breaking.
Malfoy gulped. “Are you feeling alright, Potter? Looked quite in a distress earlier.”
“What is it to you if I am not feeling fine anyways? As far as I remember, it would give you quite some entertainment, wouldn't it?” Potter replied, each word making his eyes water slightly more.
“Listen, I have apologized for that before and I refuse to do it again. Forgive me for wanting to check up on you and your stupid little noises,” Malfoy replied, offended.
‘Whatever. Malfoy. Do me a favour and leave me the fuck alone.”
“If that’s what you want, scarhead. But if so, then make sure that you shut up when sorting your problems. Maybe keep your thinking to a minimum, your stupid little head can’t take so much stress, Merlin knows that even trying would give you a headache.”
Malfoy swung the curtains back close with more force than necessary, mumbling about ungrateful prats. His previous sympathy changed into anger and his half-hard cock flaccid again.
The room was silent again for a while, and Malfoy thought that maybe Potter finally put a silencing charm while suffering. Tiredness overpowered his petty emotions way too quickly as he slipped into a slumber.
As someone who lived with Death Eaters and hosted a literal Dark Lord his house, Malfoy had trained himself to be a light sleeper, as danger lurked at every corner and staying alert, straining his ears at the smallest of sounds, mind and body ready for any action at all times was of important essence.
So when he rehears moans and whimpers, similar to the earlier ones, he is awake again, though without his will he might add. Casting a tempus charm, it showed him that it hadn't even been half an hour since the last Potter encounter.
Sleep deprivation, frustration, and his crush spite are the ones to blame for his following actions, and not Malfoy as he slipped out of his bed and rapidly made his way towards the Gryffindor’s bed for the second time that night, stomping heavily. He noisily pulled back the curtains, muttering a small, “Shove over, Potter,” grimly, before plopping down near the pillows at the head of the bed.
As Potter’s eyes opened again and looked around, trying to focus on what the actual fuck was happening, Draco arranged and shifted into a better position to sit. Potter’s unsaid protests to the intrusion and lack of warning died down in his throat, replaced by an unexpected moan, as Malfoy forcibly lifted Potter’s head into his lap, pressing his fingers in just the right places.
Swiftly, Malfoy accioed a small vial of hair oil from his bedside drawer of all bodily products, that he catches single-handedly, making sure to have his other hand still moving in the bush of hair.
If Potter had any thoughts earlier– unlikely according to Malfoy– at that point, he had no idea what thoughts were as his aching and pounding head welcomed the continuous angelic touch it was receiving.
Malfoy’s fingers never left his head nor did his scowl which looked way gentler and fonder than it ever had, even if he kept muttering about how he could not even sleep and how was he supposed to function in these circumstances and oh god Potter can't you shut up why do I have to do everything in this goddamn castle, but Potter heard no word of it as his mind filled with bliss and cotton.
The jasmine-scented oil was cool on Potter’s scalp and pointy fingers were applying pressure on every part of his head. His previously red face of distress was less scrunched now and eyebrows shot high up in his forehead, eyes fluttering from time to time. He may not even realize the sounds he was making as they poured out of his mouth. Malfoy worked his finger magic– haha finger magic– pulling thick curly strands of raven hair, his pale fingers glistening in contrast with the dark oily hair, moving in rhythmic motions on the scalp, rubbing at the temples and everywhere.
Potter had not even realized how much his neck had ached until oily smooth fingers were man-handling his head to massage his neck, ears, forehead and eyebrows. The pain was being soothed, forced to submit to relaxation and he didn’t care that the other morning his pillow would be dirty or his face would be irritatingly slick and soft but maybe, this was heaven.
Malfoy looked down at the defeater of Voldemort and his previous petty anger vanished into fondness. Potter looked younger in such a state of bliss and pleasure, expressions languid.
Soon enough, the weight in his lap got much heavier as Potter let himself go and fell soundly asleep, finally cleared of his pain, but Malfoy did not stop his actions for another five minutes until he yawned and was reminded of his own tiredness.
As he reached to lift Potter off of him, he was met with a whine and furrowed eyebrows and decidedly did not touch him in the fear of waking him up. But Potter unconsciously turned, just to grip and cuddle with Malfoy's available left thigh and Malfoy was certain that this boy would be the death of him.
He slowly scooted lower until he was practically cuddling with Potter, who once again shifted to hug Malfoy’s left arm and let out soft snores which were more peaceful than annoying.
The next day was less awkward than Malfoy thought it would have been as Potter sheepishly thanked him for the massage and apologized for his behaviour.
“I get headaches often, though thankfully they aren’t as excruciating as when Voldemort was back, they aren’t as horrible as now. Thank you for that I haven’t slept that well in weeks.”
And well, it became a routine for them whenever it happened. Mostly, Potter would just invite himself into Malfoy's bed, snatching whatever book he was reading and handing him the hair oil instead and then just plopping his head into Malfoy’s lap.
And years later, the routine continued as Malfoy massaged Potter’s head with his special jasmine-infused hair oil, before giving him a small kiss and letting his arm get cuddled before drifting off to sleep.