Title: To Tender a Gentle Touch
Author: eeyore9990
Characters: Harry Potter/Madam Pomfrey (unrequited)
Rating: R
Warnings: wank-fic, cross-gen
Themes/kinks chosen: Medical Scenes—playing doctor or medical kink
Word Count: 1030-ish
Summary: Harry is obsessed with the way Madam Pomfrey treats him; finding a way to be treated again is never an issue at Hogwarts.
Author's notes: This is ridiculously short, for which I must apologize. I'm really hoping the image in my head translated into fic without being terribly garbled in the process. :P Thanks to unbroken_halo for all her help with this fic. Also, St Mungo's Healers wear lime green, but Madam Pomfrey is far more stylish than them. *cough* She likes her robes crisp and white, tyvm.

---

Harry swooped and dove, chasing the Snitch all around the pitch, Malfoy hot on his heels. Looking back over his shoulder to judge how close Malfoy was, he happened to catch a glimpse of white. The fresh, crisp white of Matron's robes.

Heart beating fast and faster, Harry put on a burst of speed and flattened out on his broom, pointing it straight at the ground as the blessed little Snitch dove to avoid him.

A collective gasp sounded from the stands above him as he reached out and grabbed the Snitch, clenching it in one fist as he made the conscious decision to only pull up enough so that his abrupt collision with the ground wouldn't kill him. Sharp pain bloomed through him before his eyes rolled back and darkness overwhelmed him.

~*~

When he woke up, he was exactly where he'd hoped to be. Peeking from beneath barely parted eyelids, he strained to see if anyone else was in the infirmary with him. Nope. All empty.

"Awake then, Mr Potter? If I didn't know better, I'd think you enjoyed the beds here more than the ones in your dorm."

Harry felt a blush working up from his chest and hoped Madam Pomfrey wouldn't notice it. Not much luck there, what with how brightly lit the room was. He shook his head meekly, but she wasn't finished.

"Your friends were here earlier. If you insist on becoming a regular visitor, you'll have to inform them of visiting hours." She directed a stern glance at him and added, "I don't care how clever the three of you think you are; the rules apply to everyone." Almost as soon as she finished speaking, she was pressing the back of her hand to his forehead, the skin soft and cool.

He closed his eyes, sniffing delicately. The scent of medicinal herbs surrounded her, and he shivered as his body began to respond.

"I mended your bones while you were unconscious, but you'll remain here until dinner for observation for that nasty bump on your head. No arguments now," she said when Harry opened his mouth to tell her he understood. "It's for your own good. If you don't want to be here, you should take better care of yourself."

Harry smiled softly, allowing his eyelashes to drift down over his cheeks. "But no one takes care of me the way you do, Madam."

"Oh, tosh! Enough of that nonsense, Potter." Her hands gently smoothing the sheets over him belied her stringent tone and his breath caught as his pulse began to race. "Rest. I'll be back to check on you shortly."

Harry nodded, unable to speak as his throat had gone dry. He watched her walk away, her shoes clicking against the stone floor in a rapid, authoritative pattern. As she disappeared behind the door to her office, he let out a small moan and slid his hand down his body.

He was in pajamas, standard infirmary-issue. He closed his eyes as he imagined her peeling his Quidditch leathers from his body, hands soft and soothing as they worked over his skin, cleaning him and checking for injuries. A small moan slipped from between his lips as he imagined all the harsh words she'd speak even as her hands belied the anger in her voice. So capable, so loving. They'd clear away the pain and leave only comfort behind.

Harry sighed, fingers ghosting over his erection.

He loved it here. He could still remember the first time he'd been here, when Madam Pomfrey had been fussing over him after he'd gone to defeat Quirrell. He'd been so afraid of her, with her unrelentingly harsh tone. But then... she'd touched him.

Five years later and he could still feel that touch. The way she'd picked up his hand and pressed her fingers against his wrist, the touch so light it had been as if she cared for him. He'd never felt that before in his life, and it had amazed him the amount of pure emotion that had poured through him from it. One simple, gentle touch.

His breathing sped as he relived all such touches over the years, every single one committed to memory. His hands drifted all over his body then, cataloguing each injury she'd healed. His arm, his ribs, his face, his nose. Every place she'd ever touched him tingled as if still holding traces of her like... like magic. Every pain he'd ever felt had been worth it, simply for the experience of having her wipe it away.

Finally he could stand it no more. Turning his head, he pressed his nose into the pillowcase and breathed deeply, catching the finest traces of medicinal herbs that permeated everything in the infirmary and that smelled... so much like her. Grasping his cock, he began to stroke it roughly, considering once again hurting himself there so that he could know what it felt like to have her capable hands on his cock, the touch tender and kind.

His breathing came in gulps, the sheets that she'd smoothed and tucked caressing him all over, the pajamas she'd pulled onto his unconscious body so soft, the material holding the essence of everything he'd come to love about this place. To love about her.

Gently, so gently, he rolled his balls with one hand, the other continuing to slide almost viciously over his cock, the friction almost too much. Almost painful. He bit his lip and arched his back, grunting as he allowed images of her to fill his mind, of her voice to crush him while her hands healed him. Fixed him. Made him whole.

His orgasm boiled up through him and he whimpered, flooding the sheets and pajamas with his come, stripes of it making a mess of him and the whole bed.

On the table beside his bed lay his wand, and he considered again not using it. Not cleaning himself. Letting her find him like this, show her the proof of his love for her.

But he couldn't do that. Not to her.

Not to the one whose hands had been the first to tender a gentle touch.