Chapter Text
The air was heavy with spellfire, thick on his tongue and loud in his veins. His blood sang and Harry knew he hadn’t felt so alive in a long time. Five years they’d been apart, yet it felt like no time at all. The anger and haughtiness in those molten silver eyes were enough to set his teeth on edge. There had never been anyone else like Draco Malfoy. Never had a wizard confused him so: Harry was torn between punching that not-so-pointy jaw and tracing it with his tongue.
His normally perfect blond hair was dishevelled and hanging around his face. The poise Malfoy had always possessed was gone as well, replaced with a feral grin that promised pain. His chest heaved and every exhalation had Harry wanting to burrow between his ribs.
A duel had never been so arousing before. And Harry certainly hadn’t expected to be shoved against the wall and kissed until he felt lightheaded. But that’s how it happened. They panted against each other’s mouth and Harry didn’t think he’d experienced anything more erotic than the combination of adrenaline, hatred-fuelled lust, and a desperation that shamefully originated from his school years. Who knew he’d fancied Malfoy so much? Everyone except him, apparently.
The dream, for Harry knew it was another one of those memories-turned-dream, veered off course like all the other ones had.
“Harry…”
This time, Malfoy’s voice was much closer. Harry could smell his magic, a sweet-spicy aroma that reminded him of apple crumble and autumn. Together, they were the heart of a raging thunderstorm and the urgency in Malfoy’s eyes told Harry they didn’t have much time left. The red threads danced around them, and the dream continued in a very bizarre way.
It was both exactly like the memory, yet not at all like it had happened.
Harry’s frantic hands unbuttoned Malfoy’s trousers while the other wizard did the same to him. Their pricks were hard and straining against their pants, and after their duel there was no doubt that a handjob would be unsatisfactory. Harry let the dream play out, his eyes locked with Malfoy’s. In the memory, they’d been unable to stop kissing.
Yet now, it also felt insufficient. Harry couldn’t tear his eyes away, couldn’t swim back to the surface of this silver ocean he’d found himself in. Draco captured his entire attention, he barely noticed when he was turned around and had his legs pulled apart to fit the other wizard. He was half-twisted around, unwilling to lose eye contact, and never before had he stared another wizard in the eye as they penetrated him.
But Draco was different from other wizards. His hands took hold of Harry’s hips and angled them just so, and began thrusting inside him. It was the best shag of his life, high as he was on adrenaline and endorphins and all that other crap he was forgetting about. Every slap of flesh against flesh was a reminder that for one night, Draco had possessed Harry and they’d both loved it.
“Harry…”
Draco’s voice was impossibly soft, a violent contrast to the ferocity of his thrusting hips. It tore a brand new hole in Harry’s chest, it made his blood boil with boundless joy. It was a study in contradictions, because the last person he’d ever wanted to be owned by now had the keys to his heart. This heart he’d accepted had died with him in the Forbidden Forest and hadn’t returned. It was terrifying, and Harry was properly terrified by all those new possibilities.
“Harry…”
He finally closed his eyes, unable to look at the pain and loneliness in those eyes like silver moonbeams. He’d known, from that moment, that Draco Malfoy would be both his salvation and his damnation. The first because it would mean Harry wasn’t broken beyond hope, and the latter because it promised torment for surely the other wizard would never feel this way.
If only he’d known, then. What a fool he had been.
“Harry…”
Draco’s arms are tight around him, his forehead leaning on the top of his head. Words were meaningless, they were a hindrance when there were these vibrant red threads around them. The gaping hole in Harry’s chest was slowly sewn shut by them. When he opened an eye, he saw Draco’s left arm and all air left his lungs.
It was bare.
A single red thread sank into his pale flesh and danced under his skin, as though in celebration. Harry’s eyes shot up to Draco’s, who was equally baffled by the situation. There they both were, reliving this memory (Harry was positive now that this dream-Draco was in fact real-Draco), Draco with his cock up Harry’s arse, and these wild magical strings were weaving around them. Through them.
“You’re still alive, aren’t you?” Harry croaked. “You’re in Hogwarts, aren’t you?”
A light entered Draco’s eyes and for the second time in these strange memory-dreams, he nodded. It was almost imperceptible, and might have just been a twitch. But Harry knew.
“I’ll find you. You aren’t allowed to—” the word ‘die’ got stuck to his throat like molasses. “You aren’t allowed to leave.” -me.
Draco sighed softly, the warm air tickling the back of Harry’s neck. This close, he could smell the other wizard’s sweat and a hint of apple crumble and even earl grey tea with too much sugar. Harry was sure it was what his own aroma of Amortentia would be. He breathed in deeply, committing it all to memory.
Just in case.
🝰
Morning found Harry painfully hard. It was especially embarrassing because he’d come once already in his sleep, and now all he could think about was the sensation of Malfoy’s prick inside him, the velvety softness of his mouth. Malfoy’s sharp tongue, which never softened even as they became friends, always keeping Harry on his toes and riling him up like no one ever had.
Harry reached into his pyjamas and wrapped his fist around his leaking cock. Merlin, he felt so close already. He ran his thumb over the glans and gasped into the cold air of his bedroom. They’d only shagged once, but it had been the best one of his life. He imagined taking that precious ponce’s prick in his mouth, imagined having all the time in the world to map every curve, every vein with his tongue. Harry would remember it all, he’d remember the exact shade of flushed pink Malfoy’s cock would take, he’d remember with precision just what made Malfoy gasp and moan and lose control. He’d remember Malfoy’s taste as though his life depended on it.
He came with a shout and his free hand stroked the runes on his chest, sending his pleasure to new heights. With a lazy wave of his hand, Harry vanished the mess and allowed himself to melt back into the bed, boneless and flying high on the last tendrils of his orgasm. The sun began to rise and fill his bedroom with light, but Harry decided he deserved a bit of a lie-in. Just until he could feel his legs again.
🝰
After his jog and breakfast, Harry spent a few hours in his office. A few students from Slytherin had requested a private meeting, and he also had to supervise a detention. It crawled by, his mind too focused on this morning’s dream and the persistent feeling that today was his last chance. He had to find Malfoy today, or he would never see him again.
During lunch, he struggled to keep his eyes off Professor Bishopps. He’d always prided himself with having a very reliable bullshit radar, but for some reason Jupiter Bishopps had simply slipped under it. Was it because he looked so old? Or maybe because they’d been colleagues for a decade? Bishopps hadn’t been a teacher here when Harry attended Hogwarts, so he’d had to join the faculty between 1998 and 2003. That was a reasonable amount of time for a rogue Death Eater to find an old pal on the Continent and rope them into coming back to the UK.
Maybe Rookwood had something on Bishopps. He wouldn’t be surprised if that were the case — Rookwood may have been a Ravenclaw in his day, the Unspeakable had moved in some of the most dangerous snake pits and he had to be well-versed in secrecy.
Harry tilted his head. Hermione had said that anyone could develop an accent if they lived in one place long enough. Had Bishopps even gone to Hogwarts, then? Or Durmstrang? Or perhaps even Beauxbâtons? He speared a carrot with his fork and chewed it thoughtfully. It was disconcerting to realise he knew virtually nothing of Bishopps’ past. How was this possible? He could ask McGonagall, she’d tell him, especially if he gave the truth behind his query.
Alternatively, he could just ask the wizard himself. Somehow, this idea churned his stomach and Harry would much rather finish his vegetable and beef stew before he could further sour his appetite. The Ancient Runes professor made him feel uneasy, especially when he turned around and asked him again about Malfoy.
“Any luck then, on locating the Potions Master?” he asked gruffly. As always, Harry tried to place that damned accent but couldn’t.
Should he give him a hint? Shove him on his toes and see what came of it? Not for the first time, his inner Slytherin reared its head and saved the day.
“No, no change. Have you noticed anything worth reporting?” Harry looked up at Bishopps, an eyebrow quirked.
“Not much left to hope for, is there?” said Bishopps. “Best to hope the lad will turn up somewhere.”
Harry hummed noncommittally and returned to his stew. He wanted to punch that jerk and knock all his teeth out. One carefully measured bite of stew after another, he continued to picture this particular scene. It was all he could do to maintain a hold on his temper, because how dare that ancient buffoon speak of Draco Malfoy like his life didn’t matter while being in cahoots with Augustus Rookwood!
All this stress gave him a headache by the time lunch was over. He could take a headache relieving potion later. With a jerk of his head, he asked McGonagall if he could follow her to her office. She pursed her lips and he could hear ‘Use your words, Potter!’ in the back of his mind. He inclined his head both in silent apology and to hide the little smile on his face.
As always when he entered the Hogwarts’ head office, Harry looked around and took in which portrait was there and who was pretending to sleep. He winked at Phineas Nigellus Black — who grinned and nodded in salutation — and ignored Dumbledore. He’d had a few talks with Snape’s portrait over the years and he’d come to respect the late Potions Master, so he gave the surly wizard a little wave. As expected, Snape sneered and went back to pretending Harry didn’t exist.
“What is it now, Potter?” McGonagall eyed him over her spectacles.
Harry chuckled at her no-nonsense tone. “Nothing life-threatening, Minnie.” She predictably rolled her eyes as the name. “I was just curious about one of our staff members and wanted to ask you about it in the privacy of your office.”
Her lips twitched and she sat down behind her desk, gesturing to the chair facing her. “What may this be about?”
“Professor Bishopps. How well do you know him?”
McGonagall looked taken aback for a beat, but she recovered rapidly. “Jupiter? He came to us when Bathsheda Babbling took an abrupt leave of absence in 2001. She left over the summer with nothing more than a note left behind, something about ill family members in Canada.”
“And Jupiter Bishopps sort of, fell on your lap?” he asked, sceptical about the convenience of the situation.
“Oh, the Board of Governors and I interviewed a few candidates, but Bishopps was by far the most qualified.”
“Where did he go to school?” Maybe this would satiate his unease.
McGonagall sighed impatiently. “Ilvermorny.”
What? Harry blinked and leaned back in his chair. Ilvermorny? Surely not. The wizard had not a single trace of an American accent. Even if he’d been to the American school of magic sixty years ago, Harry recognised the differences in spellcasting, in their approach to magic in general. He’d spent months with the American Aurors after all, and the cultural differences were rather obvious. Jupiter Bishopps had most definitely not gone to Ilvermorny.
“Are you sure?” he asked hesitantly. He could tell he was pushing McGonagall a bit; she’d always been very strict with her staff’s private information.
“Am I sure? Potter, of course I’m sure.” The headmistress huffed and unlocked one of the many drawers beneath her desk, then pulled out a file. “I don’t know what your current obsession with Professor Bishopps is, but he is very qualified for this post. It says here, exactly as I remember, that he did the majority of his Runes Mastery in Columbia, then Brazil. He continued it in Iran with a group from the Runology Guild. He lived in Portugal when he applied to the Ancient Runes post.”
Harry wasn’t the type to brag, but he’d been to most of those places — with the exception of Iran — and he knew what the local accents sounded like. Bishopps’ accent was too Continental, too European. He spoke British English. Not American English.
But he couldn’t prove any of this. McGonagall wasn’t going to accept his gut feeling as reason enough to investigate Jupiter Bishopps. Harry was on his own.
“Thanks, Minnie. I was just curious, I thought he and Malfoy were friends and wondered how they’d met.” Not a lie.
McGonagall’s tight expression softened. “Of course, I understand, Potter.” She sighed heavily and suddenly appeared her proper age, which was definitely nearing a hundred by now. “I’m afraid we’ll need to contact the Potions Guild for a replacement. We already lost a full week of lessons.”
His insides went cold. He understood her position, he knew she had to do what was best for the students and right now, they needed a potions professor. But there was a sort of permanence, of finality to that statement. All he could do was nod stiffly and bid his old Head of House a good day before taking his leave. Ron and Hermione were due to arrive soon anyway.
🝰
Harry told his best friends about this morning’s dream. He avoided the salacious details and the explicit scene that had played out, but he relayed to them the sense of urgency. It might have sounded mad to everyone else, but Ron and Hermione were used to his brand of crazy and if nothing else, they’d learned to trust his instincts a long time ago.
Hermione was properly horrified when he showed her Malfoy’s potions journal and the high concentration of numbing ingredients. The puzzle pieces slowly added up, but none of them could answer the question of why Malfoy still showed up in his private potions lab on the Marauders’ Map this morning. A few times Harry thought he saw other names appear around there, blinking out like Rookwood’s had, but he gave up after staring at the Map for a solid half hour.
As agreed yesterday, they headed to the clearing in the Forbidden Forest — Harry’s personal valley of death. The entire way there, Ron kept squealing at every little sound much to their amusement, while Hermione had a running commentary on the changes since the war.
“The air is quite different, isn’t it? This place doesn’t feel the same anymore, don’t you agree Harry?” Hermione eagerly chirped away.
“Probably because we’re no longer terrified students, Hermione,” Harry said with a laugh. “But you’re right. The Forbidden Forest isn’t as inviting to students as it used to be. Malfoy’s the only one who comes here on his own once a month. Remember our very first detention with Hagrid, back in First year?”
Hermione shuddered. “God, don’t remind me. I still can’t believe you ran into Voldemort feeding on a poor unicorn.”
“Blimey, I don’t know how any of us are still alive sometimes,” Ron quipped in a quivering voice.
Harry hid a smile in the collar of his cloak. Head Auror, hunting criminals and the scum of society, but Ron was still scared of the Forest. He really shouldn’t find it as funny as he did. With a pang in his chest, Harry knew Malfoy would be sniggering right alongside him.
“Is it much further?” Hermione asked after a while. They were deep in the forest by now, the ancient magic heavy in the air like dust particles. The sun didn’t reach the moss-covered ground and they’d all tripped more than once on an overgrown root.
“We’re close.” Harry wasn’t sure how he knew, but he did. It was in his bones, thrumming and filling the spaces between muscles and sinew. Similarly to when he’d come on Monday, Harry felt that odd pull in his chest. It was much stronger now too, as though those red threads from his dreams were hooked around the fresh rune-shaped scars. It felt like destiny, like Harry’s whole purpose was to find the clearing where he’d died, where Draco Malfoy had disappeared, where the Corfestum was sure to wait for them.
And indeed it was. Next to him, Hermione gasped and Ron swore colourfully enough to make his mother blush. The magical presence, which Harry now knew to be a Corfestum, shifted from a blood red to a hazy yellow, from an alluring turquoise to a blinding white. Despite himself, Harry was drawn to it. Before he knew it, he was just in front of the Corfestum and his hand was stretched in front of his, so close, so close —
“Harry…”
The disembodied voice jerked him back to alertness. He shook his head to clear it and, just like the first time, he tripped on an object on the ground and fell on his arse.
“Harry, are you alright? You were looking right at it! You know you shouldn’t be doing that!” Hermione sounded panicked. “Oh my god, I didn’t think there would be one here! What is it doing here? They’re not supposed to be out in the… the wild! Any student could get lost in the forest!”
“I’m fine,” he managed to say. The magic in the air was familiar, Dark and sweet. It smelled like apple crumble and autumn. But beneath it, there was a clear scent of Death magic. Harry swallowed thickly and knew this magic belonged to him. It was cold and sharp, blades made of ice ready to slice through the warmth of life. He forced his eyes closed and patted the ground around him to find what he’d tripped on.
His hand froze when he found it and his eyes snapped open.
Draco Malfoy’s hawthorn wand. Unicorn hair core. Even after all those years, it still responded well to Harry. It warmed in his hand and his magic tickled his fingertips, eager to come out. Even after all these years, Harry thought in wonder.
“I found Malfoy’s wand.”
Hermione gasped. “Oh god, you did? And last time you’d found his wicker basket, right? He clearly disappeared right in this spot—”
“Harry…”
“Do you guys hear that?” He needed to know. He’d heard his name called by this Corfestum before.
“Hear what?” Ron asked, and Harry heard him shuffling around the clearing. “There’s only us here, Harry. Can you get up? I don’t like the idea of you being so close to this creature, mate. Those things always seem to have a particular appetite for you.”
Ron wasn’t wrong.
“No, I meant, didn’t you guys hear someone calling my name?” Harry palmed Malfoy’s wand and pushed himself to his feet, eyes closed again.
There was a beat of silence.
“No Harry, no one said your name.” Hermione clearly sounded worried now. “Are you hearing something? It might be coming from the Corfestum, you know, they can—”
“Harry…”
Fuck, he couldn’t do it this way. The voice was stronger than before, and he’d recognise that drawl anywhere. Digging in his pockets, Harry grabbed the Marauders’ Map and threw it in the general direction of Ron and Hermione.
“Take the Map. Find me on it when I go.”
“When you go?” Ron sounded rightfully alarmed. “Harry, mate, what are you doing?”
“Trust me, Ron. I need to do this, alright? Just… Just find me on the map, and send a Patronus to your team. I think I know how to find Malfoy.”
“Harry, no, don’t, please think about this!” Hermione gasped and Harry knew she’d looked directly at the Corfestum.
“I have to go! Ron, grab Hermione and don’t fucking look at the Corfestum! Please, trust me on this.” Harry let out a shaky breath and turned back to face the Dark creature.
When he opened his eyes, he was assaulted with the most beautiful grey colour he’d ever seen. It shimmered like polished silver, it breathed like a thundercloud and Harry was powerless beneath its beckoning. Draco Malfoy was the thunderstorm to his lightning, and this time the Corfestum didn’t change its colour.
Harry walked into the magical fissure and thunder roared in his ears.
🝰
Harry was compressed from all sides. It felt like Apparition, but also not quite. One could not Disapparate on the school grounds, after all. His skin tingled and he felt raw, chafed by this foreign magic trying to transport him somewhere. If he tried to breathe, he knew he’d panic from the lack of air.
His eyes were closed, at least he thought they were — but now, before him, was another one of those memory-dreams. It was a collection of them instead of a single long memory. It was almost like looking through a picture book with moving photos, with each page threaded with a delicate red string.
It took Harry a few of those snippets to realise what he was looking at. They were small moments from over the years, between him and Draco. The runes on his torso hummed with pleasure at the sight of those moments. A lingering hand on a wrist, a secret smile behind the other’s back, a simple exchange of Christmas presents. They’d made that their own tradition, before parting ways to the Weasleys for Harry, and to Malfoy Manor for Draco.
So many of those moments were ones that Harry had conveniently shoved to the darker recesses of his mind. Tight hugs, almost-kisses. Nights with too much rum and sour lemon bites when Harry had introduced Draco to the magic of the Honeydukes secret tunnel. They’d held hands as drunken fools more often than he’d realised.
Then, Harry’s thirty-first birthday two years ago. Draco had claimed it was supposed to be his lucky year since it was the same digit as his date of birth. Harry hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but now he saw how much they both wanted to kiss, how often they touched casually. He did this with exactly no one else.
So, this was how it’d happened. This was how Harry Potter had fallen in love with Draco Malfoy. It wasn’t easy or quick, it wasn’t spectacular or breathtaking. Instead, it was one small moment after another. It was one shy smile, one night of laughing, one drunken crying fit; it was a decade of running around the Black Lake at sunrise.
It was quiet and gentle. It was a soft December snowfall instead of a July thunderstorm.
Harry understood. They were both forces of nature, striking and thundering and so very loud. Both with a presence that felt, at times, larger than life.
But Harry understood. So he closed his eyes and allowed his magic to follow the voice that so tenderly called his name.
🝰
A moment after he’d stared at the Corfestum in the Forbidden Forest, or perhaps it had already been hours, Harry stumbled on his feet. The shocking difference between the too-tight-squeezing-no-air moment and the place where he’d now found himself left him disoriented and unsteady. Harry blinked a few times to make the spots in his vision go away, dragging in heavy gasps of air for his burning lungs.
A small noise beside him alerted him to the presence of someone else. His legs were still too shaky to stand on their own, so Harry leaned against the closest surface and tried to make sense of the scene.
The noise had come from Draco. He was strapped to some sort of medical chair, one like those found in Muggle dentist offices, and his dull grey eyes stared unseeing at the ceiling. For the briefest moment, Harry was terrified that he’d been too late. Draco looked positively dead. But then he noticed the very shallow rise of his chest and the panic receded.
It came back in full force when he felt his eyes drawn to another bloody Corfestum. Draco’s entire left arm was somehow running straight into the fissure-like creature. There were various spells floating above his body, charts and monitoring charms. Harry assumed there were some form of diagnostic charms as well. This Corfestum, unlike the one in the Forbidden Forest, pulsated with life and energy. It dawned on Harry, then, that this creature had been feasting on Draco for a whole bloody week.
This jolted him into action. There was a room separator made of glass and wood behind the Corfestum, and if Harry concentrated enough, he could hear voices. One voice in particular.
Jupiter Bishopps was there. Jupiter Bishopps knew where Draco Malfoy had been for the past week.
Hot fury sizzled through his veins and it took a momentous effort to calm down and not barge in there to duel every single one of those bastards. He still didn’t know how many there were, he didn’t know who they were. For all he knew, this could be a whole team of Unspeakables and they could just zap him out of existence!
Harry focused instead on Draco. Would the others be alerted if Harry cancelled all those spells? He shouldn’t risk alerting them of his presence just yet, so Harry turned to the Corfestum. He’d read all about them in Hermione’s files. Unlike Dementors, they could actually be killed, only it was quite difficult. He quirked his lips in a mix of amusement and defiance. Well, it was difficult for normal wixen. But Harry had never been normal, had he?
The creature was clearly focused on Draco, because unlike the instances in the Forbidden Forest, Harry didn’t feel any strange tug from it. He got a few steps closer to the Corfestum, and just as he raised his wand, the voices from the other side of the wall became louder.
“No, tonight! We must move the subject tonight!” A feminine voice said.
“No, we must wait until Mabon is over,” said Professor Bishopps.
Harry bared his teeth. So he’d planned to take Draco away for good tomorrow, then?
“Unspeakable Rookwood, I understand your concerns, but we have just received a memo from Level Nine that a squadron of Aurors is on the way!” the first voice yelled. “We are packing up now.”
“It will be Potter and his little friends, nothing to worry about, Unspeakable Zyla.”
The man who’d answered the angry Unspeakable Zyla led Harry to one conclusion: this was Augustus Rookwood. The Death Eater spy in the Department of Mysteries.
The Ancient Runes professor hiding under the identity of Jupiter Bishopps.
Harry’s heart raced and his hands shook. Death Eater, there was a Death Eater in Hogwarts, and had been for over a decade. How the bloody fuck had this happened? The wards, they—!
Then he remembered. Unspeakables had uncontested access to Hogwarts.
Merlin, Morgana, and Godric — he would have extremely strong words with Kingsley Shacklebolt after this was over. He would hex the Minister of Magic and there would be no one to stop him.
Harry took a steadying breath and looked at the Corfestum, more determined than ever. It was time to banish this horror.
“Ablegare frigus cor, ablegare frigus anima!” he whispered. Just as he’d read in Hermione’s notes, the spell was Dark and it demanded a payment. He let his instincts guide him, and slashed his hand with a quick underpowered Severing charm. Harry could feel it in his very core, in his chest beneath his breastbone and between his ribs. The spell didn’t just demand blood, it demanded magic from the source — from deep within his magical core. He gasped and focused on the spell with his entire being. He could not fail Draco now, he could not abandon him to these immoral Unspeakables who might do Merlin knew what to him. Harry poured all his love and his determination into it, and the spell took it all.
It took and it took until Harry felt dizzy. Then it abruptly stopped. The Corfestum made no sound, but Harry could see that it was shrinking in on itself, trembling. He didn’t know if those creatures could feel anything beyond hunger for human emotion and magic, but he reckoned the creature probably felt a bit of fear as it greeted Death. His eyes shifted to the charts and monitoring charms floating above Draco and kept a sharp eye for any change. When the only thing that remained of the Corfestum was the fissure with Draco’s arm, Harry yanked it away.
Everything happened at once.
The remainder of the Corfestum disintegrated.
The alarms on the diagnostic spells blared out in a high-pitched cacophony.
A door, somewhere, bursted open and Harry vaguely thought he heard Ron’s authoritative voice.
Draco gasped for air and seized up on the medical chair, his body thrashing around. With a series of flicks with his wand, Harry cut off every single strap holding him down. He grabbed Draco’s body and in fit of madness, shouted “Bombarda!” at the closest stone wall.
There was a loud commotion behind him, and he could hear a few Aurors yelling at the Unspeakables to surrender their wands. Harry didn’t give a shit about any of it.
The hole in the wall spit him into an unfamiliar corridor. It was narrow and difficult to carry Draco like this. It reminded him of servant quarters — he knew old buildings had those. The Map didn’t show them because the Marauders hadn’t discovered those, which explained why it had kept showing Draco in his rooms.
“Think, Potter, think,” he muttered to himself. If the medical chair hadn’t been moved, then it was either directly beneath or above Draco’s private potions lab. They were in the dungeons — which meant he should go up. His instinct agreed with his deduction, so Harry ran down the corridor as quickly as he could while carrying Draco. He needed to get him to Madam Pomfrey immediately.
To his right, an even narrower staircase appeared and Harry dashed into it and up the stairs. He didn’t care at this point where it led him, as long as it led him out of here. When he got to a door — if he could still call this wide plank of rotten wood a door — Harry shouted another “Bombarda!”
And good thing he did: the door had been walled in behind the stones and a tapestry. Harry looked around and found himself on the second floor. Not too far from the hospital wing. His knees hurt and he’d have quite a few bumps on the head from his trek through the disused servant quarters. But none of it mattered, because Draco needed Madam Pomfrey and Harry was not about to let him die.
He crashed into the infirmary and dropped Draco on the last bed at the back of the room.
“Oh Merlin, is that Professor Malfoy?” Madam Pomfrey rushed up next to him and rapidly casted a dozen diagnostic spells. “He’s severely dehydrated, malnourished, magically drained, and his internal organs have begun to fail. What happened, Potter?”
Each diagnosis was a punch to the gut. Harry shook his head at the medi-witch. “I don’t know. The Unspeakables, they did something to him. Exposed him to… to a Corfestum.”
All colour drained from Pomfrey’s face and she turned around to cast a Patronus. Harry didn’t care to listen to the message she gave it, and instead gently arranged Draco more comfortably in the hospital bed. Now that he looked at him properly, he could see the dark circles under Draco’s eyes, the lack of colour in his lips. At least now his eyes were closed.
Harry wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to forget their earlier dullness.
Too strung up to sit anywhere, he paced the hospital wing. At some point, Hermione joined him and squeezed him into a tight hug. Harry felt hollowed out, numb and empty. He should be celebrating, should be happy to have found Draco. Hermione tried to tell him about the arrest of Augustus Rookwood, who’d been posing as Jupiter Bishopps for twelve years, but he didn’t register any of it. He gently told her to bugger off and was grateful when she left him to fret on his own.
Draco was alive. But he was in terrible shape. It was dark outside. Pomfrey had spelled over a dozen potions in his stomach. She couldn’t tell him when he’d wake up.
Harry tried really, really hard not to think about the possibility that he might not wake up. In a fit of curiosity and maybe because he needed something else to focus on, he rolled up the sleeve of Draco’s left arm. Tears spilled down his cheeks and he let out a watery laugh.
The Dark Mark was gone.
🝰
He must have fallen asleep, because when Harry next looked at Draco Malfoy’s face, the other wizard was awake and smiling at him. It was that same smile that made his stomach do little flips. The hospital wing was dark and the clouds outside hid the stars from them, but the light in Draco’s eyes was so bright it might as well have been the sun.
“Hi,” Harry said very lamely.
The smile transformed into a grin. “Hi.” Draco’s voice was rough with disuse. “Suppose I have you to thank then, Mr Saviour of the Wizarding World?”
Harry scoffed but still felt a pleased blush creep up his cheeks. “Shut up.”
Tentatively, he reached for Draco’s hand and was immensely relieved when Draco slipped his fingers between his. They remained quiet for long minutes, both watching Harry’s golden fingers slide between Draco’s milky white ones. The blond’s hand was cold but Harry wasn’t bothered by it. He traced the different lines in his palm with a thumb, wondering how long he’d be allowed to do this.
He wanted to believe it wouldn’t be only for tonight. But if Harry Potter had learned one lesson in life, it was to never put all his hopes into one basket.
“How are you?” he asked softly, still watching their odd display of tender affection.
Draco hummed and shrugged with one shoulder. “Feel like shit, to be quite honest.”
Harry looked up sharply. “Should I get Pomfrey?”
“Merlin, no.” Draco let out an amused breath. “I reckon she’s given me all the potions I need for now. It’ll take some time to recover, I can feel how drained my magic is.”
A cold shiver went down Harry’s back. “Yeah, I think I got there real fucking close. You were barely breathing.” He didn’t mean for his voice to sound so small and he went to pull his hand away, embarrassed, but Draco held onto it.
“I’m glad you found me, Harry,” he said. “I knew you would.” Sincerity laced his words and it sent another wave of heat up Harry’s face.
“The er, the dreams, did you have those too?” He slid his fingers back into place. Draco’s skin had never felt so at home against his.
“The memories? Yeah, I had them too.” Draco took a shaky breath and closed his eyes. “I thought I was losing it. When I realised those were memories replaying over and over, and nothing was changing in them, I—” He caught his lip between his teeth, throat bobbing a few times. When he continued, his voice was small and broken. “I thought I’d died and that it was my personal hell. Replaying all those significant moments between us, and tormenting me with the inevitability of…”
“I know,” Harry said, squeezing his hand, “I didn’t realise I could do anything at first.” A single tear slid down Draco’s cheek, and Harry reached over with his free hand to wipe it. “I’ve been a huge prick, haven’t I?”
Draco laughed wetly and nodded. “Yeah, you have. You can be a real fucking arse, Potter. I’ve never met anyone as oblivious as you. This whole time, I thought you were doing it on purpose. Being too kind to reject poor little Death Eater me,” he said with a sardonic smile. It didn’t reach his eyes and all of it twisted Harry’s heart.
“I’m sorry.” There was nothing else he could say in his defence. Harry took a deep breath and leaned forward on his elbows on the hospital bed. “Did you know we’re soulmates?”
Draco’s eyes widened comically and he shook his head minutely.
Without hesitation, Harry unbuttoned his teaching robes and lifted his shirt. Draco squinted and whispered the name of the runes.
“Algiz, Gebo, Teiwaz, Sowelu.” He frowned in concentration and Harry knew he was doing that thing where he looked through his memories like a catalogue. His expression brightened when he found the information in the confines of his own mind. “Oh. Protection, partnership, warrior, wholeness. Very unconventional sequence, but yes. I believe you are right. How did you find out?”
Harry shrugged unapologetically. “Hermione.”
“Of course,” Draco laughed. His free hand went to his own button-down shirt and he undid the buttons in the middle. And revealed the exact same rune sequence. “Wow. Soulmates,” he whispered reverently.
“You er, don’t mind then?” Harry asked, full of hesitation and unease.
“What? Why would I?” Draco blinked a few times at him. “Harry, surely you can’t believe this is all your fault, right?” When silence met his question, he sighed and rolled his eyes. “Merlin save me. Harry, these are reciprocal runes. Have you never heard of the Eastern Asian myth of the red thread of fate?”
Harry shook his head. “Red thread like the one from our dreams?”
“Yes. Those weren’t normal dreams, nor memories. Not really. They were… something of an in-between. I think we were linked by those threads of fate before all of this happened, it would explain why you could see me even when I was under the influence of the Corfestum.”
The last thing Harry wanted to think about right now was those blasted Corfestums. He’d kill every single one of them if he ever came across any again.
“And those threads then?” he asked instead. The scarred runes on Draco’s chest were impossible to look away from. Harry wanted to run his fingers across them, trace them, lick them.
“I’m too tired for the whole story, but the basics of it is this child, a wizard, threw a rock at one of the village witches, another child. It left an ugly scar on her face. They go their separate ways for some time, then their parents arrange their marriage, and both families agree it’s an excellent match. When the wizard meets his betrothed, he watches her perform magic and falls in love with her beauty.” Draco closed his eyes and sank a little deeper into his pillow. “Before the wedding, a Seer tells him about the red string around his little finger, and that when he’ll look into the eyes of his soulmate, he will see their end of the thread.”
Harry smiled despite himself. “I didn’t take you for a romantic sap, Malfoy.”
“Shut up,” Draco huffed, slurring the words a bit. “Let me sleep now. We’ll talk later.”
“Sure, of course.” Harry moved to take his hand back, but instead of letting it go, Draco pulled him until Harry was leaning over the bed. “Er…”
“Shut up and cuddle me.” Draco cracked an eye open in challenge.
“Fine, princess.” The name felt both silly and utterly embarrassing by the mere fact that it had come out of Harry’s mouth, but Draco looked so pleased that Harry refused to take it back. Instead, he threw his teaching robes onto the chair he’d just been sitting on, and crawled into the hospital bed with Draco. “Happy now?”
Draco pulled his arm over his waist and turned on his side. “Yes. Goodnight, Harry.”
The situation was surreal. Harry’s heart raced furiously in his chest, and briefly he wondered how in the world he’d ever sleep. But then Draco’s breath evened out. Harry never thought he might seek reassurance in watching someone’s chest rise and fall with each breath. But he did, and after one hundred breaths, Harry finally felt himself relax.
Draco was safe. Draco was here with him, and he wanted Harry to remain with him. The tension coiled inside his chest, the tight vice around his lungs and laced through his heart, eased at last. After what felt like a week, Harry could breathe at last.
“Goodnight, Draco.”