Bond

They were waiting outside a classroom, lined up like schoolchildren. A couple Aurors walked past them, shooting them amused glances. Harry fidgeted.

"Don't know why we even bother to show up on time anymore," Ron muttered.

Auror Sylwen was always late. The first couple times, she'd claimed they just hadn't seen her because she was so well hidden by a Disillusionment Charm, but Harry thought it more likely that trainee Aurors were low on her list of priorities.

"You wouldn't want to miss her turning Seamus' hair pink, would you?"

Ron grinned. "Good point."

Sylwen had singled Seamus out from day one, much like Wickley and Haff had singled Harry out, but without the spitefulness. She often mocked Seamus, but anyone with eyes could tell it wasn't meant harshly. Seamus, being Seamus, didn't seem to mind, and often laughed as hard as everyone else when he left class looking significantly different than when he'd entered.

Right now, though, Seamus wasn't laughing. A sense of foreboding filled Harry.

"Something wrong?"

Seamus shrugged, not quite meeting his eye. "No, I guess not. Just... Have you seen the Prophet this morning?"

Harry had long decided it was better for his mental health that he not see the papers any morning. He shook his head. "Why?"

"There's a piece about you.. here."

Seamus handed him a folded-up copy. Harry scanned the front page, feeling a little sick – and sure enough, halfway down the page was a picture of a kid with pimples and a bruise on his jaw, looking forlorn, under the words SAVIOUR ASSAULTS TEEN IN DIAGON ALLEY. Harry didn't bother to read the paragraphs below the picture. He handed the paper back to Seamus.

"So?"

"So... So nothing."

"You don't – you don't still believe the Prophet, do you, Seamus?"

Seamus' face flushed, and Harry knew that he, too, was remembering their drawn-out disagreement in fifth year, when Seamus had refused to believe Voldemort was back. Harry thought he should apologise, tell Seamus he didn't mean to insinuate he was a fool, except – except he meant exactly that, and he was getting angry, too, that same sudden, vivid anger that had driven him to "assault" Pimple Face in the first place.

"Let me see that," Seamus' partner Eric said suddenly. He snatched the Prophet out of Seamus' hands. "Woah, Harry – you don't do things half way, do you? Weren't you scared he might press charges? Oh, of course not, a kid wouldn't press charges against Harry Potter –"

"He's not a kid," Harry said.

"He's nineteen."

"And how old are you?" Harry snapped. And then the other shoe dropped, and the sick feeling in his gut returned. "You know him?"

Eric scowled. "Yeah, I know him. He's my cousin. Imagine my surprise when he told me one of my classmates had beaten him up –"

"I didn't beat him up."

"Only because someone stopped you."

"Well, it's not my fault you've got a little shit for a cousin, is it?"

Ron lay a warning hand on his arm.

Eric's eyes narrowed. "Did you just insult my family, Potter?"

"Your family insulted my friend. In my book, yeah, that makes your cousin a prick."

And then, predictably – and Harry had been asking for it, itching for it, wanting it, knowing it was the only thing that would cool the stupid rage boiling in his veins –, Eric slugged him.

Harry saw red, and his rage – that nasty undercurrent of uncontrollable rage Harry had thought he would be free now that the part of Voldemort in him was dead – took over. He swung a punch, and then another, and found himself pinned to the floor by Eric, who was bulkier and heavier than Harry (not that either was a particularly difficult feat). Harry tasted blood in his mouth. His left hand throbbed with pain.

Eric released him almost immediately and backed away. "Oh, shit, Harry, I'm sorry –"

Harry couldn't stand the terrified expression on Eric's face. He turned his head away, disgusted – he'd deserved it, and here was Eric, realising what he'd done, suddenly afraid he'd be punished for striking the Saviour.

And Ron, staring at him, stunned. "Merlin, Harry."

Harry suddenly felt lost, confused, ashamed. What had possessed him? Why did he need these fights like he needed air? Why did Eric's fury and hatred feel so much better than the concerned, frightened glances he kept shooting Harry now?

Harry stood up and wiped his mouth with the back of his right hand. He felt his lip gingerly, and scowled when he realised it was split. He looked at Ron, eyes asking a silent question.

Ron shook his head. "Sorry, mate. That's Hermione's gig, not mine. I'd just as likely blow half your face off."

Harry wasn't particularly surprised. His shoulders slumped. When Sylwen saw this – what if they kicked him out of training for getting into a fight?

A ripple went through the group of trainees when Auror Sylwen arrived. She stood a head taller than any of them, and her glittering black eyes zeroed in on Harry in no time at all.

"Lovely," she said when she saw the state of Harry's face and the way he was cradling his left arm. "Mr Potter, you should probably go to St Mungo's to have that looked at."

Harry's eyes widened. "St Mungo's! But – can't you –"

"I'm not personally authorised to cast medical spells on trainees, Mr Potter. Insurance reasons, you understand. Now please go. Your arm –"

Harry reluctantly started to leave.

"I'll come with you," Eric said quickly, but Harry stopped him with a look.

"No thanks," he said, and quietly left the Ministry building.

Sylwen hadn't even asked what had happened, which he supposed was a small blessing in itself. If it had been Wickley or Haff, Harry would have been up for disciplinary action in a flash.

The Auror was probably right, he knew. His wrist hurt like hell, though the pain was already beginning to dull. It took all of his focus to Apparate in front of the condemned department store that was St Mungo's disguise. He hesitated, then walked up to the building and entered.

It was all right at first. No one took notice of him until he walked up to the front desk. The Welcome Witch glanced up at him for a fraction of a second – and her eyes widened and stayed up. Harry hated that look.

"Where can I go for –" he began.

"How did you get that?" the witch asked, sounding obscenely curious.

"Look, I just need a quick –"

He shivered, suddenly uncomfortable, and knew without looking that several pairs of eyes were fixed on the back of his head. Beneath the regular chatter in the hall, furious whispering could now be heard. And suddenly, Harry had to get away.

"Never mind," he said, and turned on his heel.

He tried not to look anyone in the eye as he walked out. Sylwen, who taught Concealment and Disguise, would probably be disappointed if she knew Harry hadn't thought to at least change his hair and scar, in this situation.

Harry felt sick as the echoes of the whispers ran through his head. His arm still hurt like hell and his lip was still sore. It hit Harry all at once: there was one place he could go to get rid of both the pain and the whispers.

Harry passed through the gate without announcing himself. He wasn't sure who had given the gate instructions to let him through whenever he showed up, but he was grateful for it. He knew the Malfoys would be warned of his arrival, anyway.

Malfoy was waiting for him on the doorstep, arms crossed over his chest. To say he didn't look glad to see Harry was putting it mildly. "What are you doing here?"

"Hello to you too," Harry said, suddenly realising this was probably a terrible idea. "Don't worry, it's not Ministry stuff, I just... I, er, I..."

Malfoy blinked a few times, apparently getting over the shock of having Harry on his doorstep on a day that wasn't a Saturday. "What happened to your face?"

"That's kind of why I'm here. I thought maybe you could –"

"They invented hospitals for a reason, Potter," Malfoy said, but he stepped aside to let Harry in, and he didn't really sound angry.

Harry followed him to the drawing room, wondering whether he should just turn around and leave. But Malfoy hadn't thrown him out yet, had he? He glanced at Malfoy, walking steadily in front of him, not saying a word. His trousers were slung low on his hips, revealing a sliver of deathly pale skin between his shirt and the top of his trousers.

Shit.

Inside the drawing room, Draco turned to face Potter. The Auror looked like a hippogriff had had a go at him, but that didn't explain what he was doing here. Nor did it explain the look on his face, a cross between horror and confusion.

"Missed me, did you?"

"Hardly."

Potter's eyes were fixed on a tapestry hanging behind Draco. A slim line of dried blood snaked across his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his robes. He stood there, stiff, looking uncomfortable.

"Well, don't drip blood all over my good carpet," Draco drawled.

Potter rolled his eyes. "Sorry."

"This is becoming a habit, isn't it?" Draco indicated for him to sit with a swooping, exaggeratedly elegant hand gesture. "I don't suppose you're here for a casual visit."

"Am I ever?"

"Fair point. All right, where does it hurt?"

"Everywhere," Potter said, closing his eyes, and he didn't sound like he was joking.

Draco knelt down by the chair Potter had chosen and looked him over. There was a little blood on his elbows, where his robes had been torn, and scrapes on the palms of his hands as though he'd fallen, but few visible injuries other than that. Except Potter was holding his arm oddly, at an angle that certainly couldn't be comfortable. Draco reached out and drew his fingers lightly across it.

He heard a sharp, involuntary intake of breath from Potter and a rare smile formed on his lips despite the situation. He applied a light but firm pressure to the skin beneath his fingers, moving up and down. There was a dark bruise flowering on Potter's wrist, and some swelling around that. Potter said nothing, but from the way his entire body tensed, Draco knew something was wrong. The smile faded and he backed off.

Potter's eyes fluttered open. "What is it?"

"I think it might be sprained."

"That's all right, then, isn't it?"

"I don't know. It depends on how long it's been since it happened. I'm not a Healer, Potter."

"I know. But you're good at this. I saw that last time. And I trust you."

Draco repressed the flutter in his chest at the words and scowled. "You're an idiot."

"I've heard that one before."

"How surprising."

"It's not like you would kill me," Potter said. "Seeing as how you owe me your life and everything."

"How utterly tactless of you to bring it up. Salazar. All right, I'll try to heal your wrist. And if it hurts, then tough luck, right?"

"You can kiss it better if it does."

Draco looked up sharply. There was the smallest of smiles playing at the corners of Potter's lips, despite the strain in his features caused by the pain, and Draco found himself at a loss for words. Before Potter could say anything else to unnerve him, he reached out and ran his hands over the other man's arm again. He had the satisfaction of feeling the shiver than ran through Potter and the muscles of his arm flexing and tensing beneath his touch.

"If it's only sprained, time and a pack of ice should suffice to make it heal."

"I don't have time," Potter said. "I should be at the Ministry right now. I have class all afternoon. I won't be able to do anything if I can't even hold my wand properly."

"Wandless magic can be worth learning," Draco observed.

Potter shot him a withering look.

With one hand, Draco held Potter's arm in place firmly, pinning it to the armrest of the chair, ignoring Potter's wince. With the other, he took out Crabbe's wand.

"You know, I'm technically not allowed to use magic on you," he said as a last warning.

The words caused a small smile to quirk Potter's lips up, much to Draco's satisfaction. "When has that ever stopped you?"

The decision was made, then. Draco placed the tip of Crabbe's wand on Potter's wrist and recited the spell. Despite what he had said, he did have experience healing many minor injuries – experience he had gained during the war, thanks to events he hoped would never occur again. Sprains like this were more complicated than simply sealing wounds, because the spells acted on the inside of the body – soothing the stretched ligament, repairing any tears it found. The process could be more painful than the sprain itself if done too hastily. Draco moved his wand a fraction of an inch, his eyes trained on Potter's expression.

"Does that hurt?"

Potter smiled humourlessly. "Not any more than it did before."

"That's good." Draco added another spell to reduce the swelling. "Wait here," he ordered, and left the room.

He came back with a small jar of a green, viscous pomade which would help the bruise fade and held it out to Potter, who looked up at him as though he were stupid.

"Oh," Draco said as it occurred to him that Potter couldn't open the jar with one hand.

He untwisted the lid and carefully scooped a small amount of the greasy product into his palm. Reaching out, he used the tips of his fingers to gently massage it over the ugly bruise on Potter's wrist.

"It should be gone in a half-hour or so," he said, screwing the lid back onto the jar.

He glanced down at Potter's wrist again and took it in his hands. The skin there was tinged a light green from the pomade, which made him smile.

"I always knew green would suit you," he said without thinking.

Potter's stunned silence made him realise what he had just said.

"I meant... It's such a Slytherin colour. I always felt there was some Slytherin in you. Like how you got your name in the Cup when you were only a fourth year."

"That wasn't me," Potter said defensively.

"How about managing to sneak out of the Castle even when you weren't allowed? Throwing mud at me when I couldn't see you?"

"I was a kid! They were just stupid pranks."

"Maybe," Draco said. "Maybe not. To even survive the Dark Lord all these years, you can't not have a little understanding of the way a Slytherin thinks."

Potter was silent again, but not as though he'd run out of arguments. Draco could feel the rebellion and denial welling up in the air between them and knew Potter was holding back. The silence was full of uncertainty. Potter was thinking.

"I... was almost Sorted into Slytherin."

It took a few beats for Draco to register that Potter had spoken. It took even longer for him to understand what had been said.

"What?"

"The Sorting Hat wanted to put me in Slytherin." Potter's voice was louder now, less hesitant; now that he had said it, it seemed he had been relieved of a burden. "It told me I had qualities that your house would admire, and that I would fit in well. But I... refused."

"You refused?"

"Yeah," Potter said. "I didn't want Slytherin. It was the last house I wanted to be in."

"Why? I mean – if you had to do it over again, then I could understand why. But why did you think it would make such a difference when you were eleven?"

"To be honest..." Potter's gaze shifted until he was staring at a spot on the wall over Draco's shoulder. "It was kind of your fault. I really didn't like you. And Hagrid had told me that every dark wizard had come from Slytherin." He smiled and turned his gaze back to Draco, a sudden warmth in his expression. "I've never told anyone this. Except Dumbledore."

Alarms went off in Draco's mind as he realised how close they were. Their hands were still touching, but worse than that, he had forgotten to put his barriers up. The denial, the uncertainty, the relief, and now the warmth he had received from Potter hadn't just been impressions, they had been actual feelings, made accessible by the life debt. He had noticed this once or twice before – the last time he had healed Potter had been the first time – but never with this strength.

The alarms kept ringing, but Draco couldn't pull back. He didn't want to pull back. Instead, a strange, suicidal fascination for the feelings he could perceive made him lean even closer, until their faces were inches apart. Potter looked down at him, his expression confused – and a mimicking confusion washed over Draco. Potter tilted his head, almost closing the gap between them – and suddenly he jolted back, as though awaking from a nightmare.

"Did you – was that – did you feel that?"

Malfoy's reaction was revealing. He bolted upright, snatching his hand back; his eyes widened in panic and he looked for all the world like a deer caught in the headlights of a car. Harry wasn't sure what to make of it, but when Malfoy made to stand, he reached out to catch his wrist. Again he felt a faint rush of emotions, dismay and fear primarily this time. And worse, he felt something else, something subtle and complex sliding away from him, pulling away from the link. Something that had, until now, been infiltrating and exploiting that link.

Malfoy.

Everything fell into place like the pieces of a puzzle. The identical marks on their palms were no coincidence – they symbolised a link. He could feel Malfoy.
And Malfoy could feel him.

"Fuck," he said, and could think of nothing else to say.

He explored the link, trying to draw more of the foreign emotions to him. Most of it was cold darkness, rather like Malfoy's exterior, but beyond that he found curiosity, and interest, and then something more complex, twisted into strange, confused knots, something so faint Harry couldn't identify it. He touched it, wrapped himself around it quizzically – and Malfoy wrenched his arm free and struck him across the face. Harry was roughly sent back into his own consciousness. It registered that Malfoy had just slapped him – slapped him, like a girl – and he reeled back, stunned.

"What –"

"Don't ever do that again," Malfoy said through gritted teeth.

That, along with the slap, riled Harry up; he stood and slammed his palms down on to the table between them. "Do what? What you've been doing to me all these weeks? Invading my mind, my privacy – delving into my emotions – what gives you the right, Malfoy? Have you no sense of – of intimacy, of respect? How could you just –"

He stopped, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks as he remembered some of the things he had thought about Malfoy; it infuriated him even further to think that Malfoy could probably feel his embarrassment right now. He had been able to feel it for a while now, hadn't he? "I sensed your confusion." Harry gathered up all the anger he could muster and sent it through the link, of which he was now also conscious, if only faintly. He had the satisfaction of seeing Malfoy flinch.

"You're a bloody hypocrite, Malfoy. You know what? You were right. You're not an angel, and you're not worth my time. I'm only sorry it took me this long to realise it."

"I never pretended to be anything I wasn't –"

"No, you didn't, did you? I was just stupid."

"I didn't say –"

"And I won't even hold that against you, because it was my bloody fault, but you cannot act all self-righteous because I've discovered your secret." Harry closed his eyes, but didn't bother to calm his anger now that he knew Malfoy could feel it. Good. Let him know. "Fuck you, Malfoy. Why did you hide it from me?"

"Because I didn't want you to know you could – could –"

"See into your soul? Yeah, I can see how that would be problematic. But you had to know that even if I knew, I wouldn't? I would have tried to hide my emotions, but I wouldn't have –"

"And I'm supposed to just take your word for it, am I?"

"You might not know anything about honesty, but maybe other people do, have you ever considered that? Maybe I'm not interested in violating your privacy, because all I've been trying to do lately is help you, but now –"

He let forth another burst of anger, making sure that Malfoy caught it, and his consciousness surged forward, blindly groping for the link. He found it, and pushed until he was submerged by feelings that were not his own: cold, alien, and distant, except for a fierce, heart-racing panic that was coursing through Malfoy like fire, and then –

Harry slammed into the mental equivalent of a brick wall and felt nothing. He opened his eyes, surprised. Malfoy was white-faced, beads of sweat on his forehead, and he was breathing heavily.

"How –" Harry began.

"Occlumency." Malfoy's eyes were hard as steel. "If you ever try that again," he said, his voice very quiet, "then so help me Merlin, I will make you pay."

"That's rich, coming from you," Harry said. "How do you think I feel, knowing that you've been doing it this whole time?"

"I know exactly how you feel."

"Yeah, you do," Harry said hotly. "And to think I was sorry about having contracted the stupid debts – and you knew what I was thinking the whole time, you knew I was sorry and you still tried to guilt-trip me about it –"

"Not what you were thinking. Only your feelings."

"Only my feelings," Harry repeated incredulously, and again he felt that burning shame as he remembered the affection – the attraction – he had felt for Malfoy. "Fuck you."

"I'm sorry."
That brought Harry up short. "What?"

"I'm sorry."

"You think sorry is going to cut it?"

"You're the one who told me –"

"Words don't mean anything, Malfoy; you have to actually feel it."

Harry remembered the feel of Malfoy's emotions, cold and unfriendly, almost empty except for the flash of white-hot fear he had been experiencing. Could that Malfoy even feel guilt? "It's your one last chance … Be a man … try... Try for some remorse..." Voldemort hadn't been able to find remorse in himself, had he?

"You don't know what I'm feeling."

"I don't, do I? Because you won't let me. But it doesn't bother you to know what I'm feeling, does it?"

"I said I was sorry. What more do you want?"

"I want it to be true!"

Malfoy scowled and reached out to grab Harry's wrist, knowing the touch would deepen the link. The walls dropped, and Harry was launched into that cold world again. He found a surge of annoyance, tinged with, yes, somewhere, somehow, a hint of very faint remorse. Then Malfoy snatched his hand back.
He ground his teeth together. "Satisfied?"

"I –"

"That's the last time you're getting anywhere near my mind, Potter, so you had better not say 'No.'"

"I, er... Thank you."

Malfoy arched an eyebrow. "You're welcome."

"Can you feel what I'm feeling right now?"

Malfoy shook his head. "It's not like I try to. It's sort of faint already, unless we're touching. I try to block it out like I blocked you out when you tried to... force your way in. But I can tell, if I choose to."

His eyes lost their focus and his voice took on a dreamy, faraway tone that reminded Harry eerily of Luna. Harry thought he felt a tendril of consciousness brush against his own, gentle, nothing like Snape's invasion's in fifth year.

"You're complicated."

"You aren't," Harry said, feeling queasy as he felt the cold, alien touch sift through his feelings. "Stop that, will you?"

Malfoy retreated, and the glaze over his eyes left. He blinked.

"Sorry. It was just so... easy. You were just there, and it was like..." He shook his head. "It was too easy."

"Is it a side-effect of the debt?"

"I don't see what else it could be. It's certainly not normal. I think the reason I can feel you more strongly is that I'm the one who owes you. I suppose it's meant to allow me to know when you're in danger. You can't feel it at all, can you? I mean, usually."

Harry shook his head.

"You know," Malfoy said, "I've certainly never looked for anything. I really didn't care."

"But you saw it anyway."

Malfoy ducked his head, his cheeks tinged a light shade of pink. Harry wondered how much he knew and decided he didn't want to know.

"Never mind," he heard himself say, scarcely believing it himself. "It doesn't matter."

Malfoy looked at him incredulously. "It doesn't?"

"What's done is done," Harry said. "I'll just be careful from now on. You hate the fact that I saved your life; well, now so do I. We're finally starting out on even ground."

"You call this even?"

"Because I know," Harry said. "You should have told me."

"I know."

"If you lie to me again – about anything – I will find someone at the Auror Office to swap with. For fifty Galleons a month, plus my eternal gratitude, trust me, it won't be very hard."

Malfoy opened his mouth to say something, but Harry didn't let him get a word in edgewise.

"And don't try to pretend you don't care, because I know you do. You know, deep inside, that all I've done is help you. Maybe the next guy to come around will actually listen to the Ministry. He'll cut your family off from your Gringotts account and arrange for you to be on twenty-four/seven house arrest. How would you like that?"

He expected Malfoy to get angry, as he usually did when Harry threatened him with a Ministry crackdown, but Malfoy seemed to realise how precarious his situation was. He clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles turned white, but nodded when Harry looked at him in askance.

"All right. No more lies."

"And you stay away from my emotions."

"Of course."

"And forget this. Forget the whole thing and let's never mention it again."

"Is that really okay with you?"

Harry gritted his teeth. "No. It's not. It isn't okay at all, but I don't really have a choice, do I? Despite everything, Malfoy – even this –, I still can't find it in myself to want to deliberately hurt you. And until I can, I won't be able to stop coming here."

A shadow crossed Malfoy's face. "You would feel guilty if you 'hurt' me?"

"You hurt me, and you apologised," Harry pointed out. "In the most explicit way possible."

"Don't take me for something I'm not, Potter. You said it yourself earlier – I'm not an angel. It took you long enough to figure it out; don't change your mind again. I avoid guilt because I find it... unproductive."

Harry shrugged. "Can I see your hand?"

Malfoy looked at him strangely, but held out his left hand, palm up. Harry stared out at it, not touching it. He reached out so that his own hand lay parallel to it and stared at the marks. They shone so brightly it was almost a glow now, standing out against the skin noticeably. He wondered how he'd ever been able to think they were scars.

"What do you reckon they mean?" he asked. "Why are they shaped like that? An eight..."

"They aren't numbers," Malfoy said, his eyes also fixed on the scars. "They're hourglasses, counting down the days until I repay my debt to you."

A shiver ran up Harry's spine at the chill in Malfoy's voice. He could see it, now – the way the symbols were slightly flattened at the top and bottom where an eight would have been curved. And, suddenly, he desperately wanted to be anywhere else but here.

He took a step back. "I'm just – going to go. Thanks for – for –" For a second, he couldn't remember what he was thanking Malfoy for. "Thanks for helping, I guess."

Malfoy took a second before answering, not sounding any more convinced than Harry felt. "You're welcome, I suppose. Are you going to tell me what happened?"

"I got into a fight."

"Do you ever win these 'fights'?"

Harry thought back to the scared look on Eric's face. "I can't seem to lose them, either."

"Hey, Potter."

"What?" Harry asked rather curtly, still a little annoyed.

Malfoy's voice was soft. "Promise me not to get into any more trouble."

A hot flash seared through Harry's chest at the words.

"Because if you do, I don't want that blasted debt forcing me to save you."

Harry scanned Malfoy's expression, trying to read it. Trying and failing.

"I promise."