Chapter Text
Consciousness returned slowly to Harry.
The first thing he became aware of was a strange, rushing sensation like a gust of wind blowing through his chest, or his stomach -- he wasn’t sure which. But it radiated out through his veins and he could sense it in his whole body, from his hair to his toes. It... vibrated, vague and unsettling.
His other senses began returning to him, faint voices talking over each other in angry whispers, a sharp potion-like odor that gave cognizance to his surroundings: he was in the medical wing, yes. Madam Pomfrey was one of the voices.
Struggling a bit against the whirl of his mind, Harry forced his eyes open. He was greeted by the sight of people standing around his bed: Madam Pomfrey was circling his feet with her wand and murmuring incantations and McGonagall was standing close to his head, her face tight with worry. But her gaze was off to his left, on a man standing in between his and another bed.
Harry cleared his throat, and watched as three sets of eyes swiveled in his direction. The man was Professor Highlash, the new teacher for Advanced Magical Theory, and with a jolt, Harry began piecing together what happened. He jerked, trying to sit up, and was firmly pushed back into the pillows by McGonagall’s implacable hand.
“Potter. How you do you feel?”
Harry cleared his throat again, eyes flicking from one face to another. “Bit weird. What happened? I remember…”
“Yes?” Pomfrey asked, still circling her wand, only now over his stomach. The twisty feeling intensified, verging on discomfort.
“We were in Advanced Theory…” Harry said tentatively, glancing over at Highlash, who nodded with a severe look on his ancient face, “practicing connecting our minds with our magical cores. And… something happened. What happened?”
The adults exchanged looks that he couldn’t interpret and dread twisted inside Harry alongside the new sensation. Was that it? Had something happened to his magic? McGonagall laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, and Harry turned his face up to her in raw panic.
“There was an… incident, with your magical core,” she told him quietly.
Harry pushed back a brief wave of nausea and screwed up his courage. “Am I… Am I a squib now, or something?”
Pomfrey, who had finished circling his head with her wand, withdrew it abruptly. Cheerfully, she announced, “All there!” her voice extremely confident and louder than anyone had been yet. Harry sagged against his pillows with relief and began to smile until he noticed another look being exchanged among the adults.
Uncertainly, he looked at Professor Highlash. “What happened?”
Highlash looked down to the bed next to him silently. McGonagall answered. “You tried to intervene when you saw a student attempt to hex someone standing near you. Unfortunately, your shield charm -- though skillful as ever, Potter -- was not quite quick enough. The hex penetrated its intended target and your shield bounced the hex back toward you.”
Harry had a sudden blurred memory of Zacharias Smith casting his wand with a muttered snicker in his and Malfoy’s direction, and of his own automatic response. He was astonished his shield hadn’t worked in time, but chose not to comment on it. “
Smith,” Harry supplied grimly. “Bloody coward.”
“Indeed.” McGonagall’s lips were pursed tightly. “He has been dealt with.”
“What was the hex he sent?”
“Apparently, he thought it would be amusing to bind Mr. Malfoy’s mouth closed. Unfortunately — for many reasons — the binding spell was miscast,” McGonagall said with another glance to the bed next to him. Harry thought for a moment about the funny sensation inside him.
He sighed. “It’s Malfoy over there, isn’t it?”
“Yes. He should wake up shortly.”
As if on cue, Malfoy gave a quiet, pained moan and made a bucking motion that Harry could sense even without being able to see him. He saw Highlash murmur something to Pomfrey, who was performing her tests on Malfoy’s midsection. She nodded and removed herself, bustling back quickly with a vial of what Harry recognized as Calming Draught. Pomfrey waited next to Highlash for a moment as the teacher murmured something to Malfoy, and then moved out of the way, no longer obstructing Harry’s view.
As Pomfrey handed the potion to Malfoy and resumed her tests, Harry looked long and hard at him. Malfoy gulped down the contents of the draught rather frantically. His face was white and had a greasy sheen to it. He seemed to be attempting to keep still.
Highlash waited until some of the tension drained from Malfoy’s body, then addressed them both from the foot of their beds, his gravelly voice low and serious. “We wanted to wait for both of you to be awake to fully explain what’s happened.”
Harry flicked another glance to Malfoy, who seemed a bit steadier, but whose face showed the same fear Harry felt.
Malfoy gripped the sheets beneath him and licked his lips. “Something is wrong with my core,” he said, voice shaking. “Smith…”
Highlash nodded. “Not wrong, exactly. Your cores have not been drained. Power remains intact for both of you— Correct, Madam Pomfrey?”
Madam Pomfrey moved her wand away from Malfoy’s head. “Yes, both fully intact and at full strength. But the initial tests hold true; your theory was correct.”
“What— What theory?” Harry asked into the sudden pause.
“Smith sent a miscalculated binding spell that hit you, Mr. Malfoy,” Highlash said with a nod in his direction, “and rebounded to you, Mr. Potter, when it hit the shield charm you had aimed at him. The problem with this is that you both had your guards down and were mentally accessing your cores at the moment, the essence of which drew the binding spell.”
“Potter’s magic!” Malfoy burst out, squirming with sick realization. He shot Harry a nasty look. “It’s Potter’s magic, what I feel.”
Harry started, discomfited when McGonagall pressed a light hand against his shoulder again. “Wait, what?”
“I’m afraid so,” Highlash confirmed. “The tests show that your cores have— Well, fused, for lack of a better word. Magically intertwined. We were hoping that the effects wouldn’t be as strong as they apparently are but if you’re already sensing it, the spell has taken full hold.”
Harry concentrated on that strange sensation, that silky twisting, like rivulets of water flowing through him. His heart thumped heavily and his voice came out flat. “How long will it last?”
Highlash splayed his hands. “We can’t be sure. Apparently, Mr. Smith intended his original spell to last for a week. There have been a few instances of this, particularly for Unspeakables and Aurors and those who consciously access their magical cores on a regular basis — so there is a basis for similar occurrences that we’re aware of — but it is still rare. Extremely rare, indeed.
“It should wear off on its own as soon as the original spell was meant to but there are several different variables to account for to ensure that can happen,” he finished, looking back and forth between them as though he couldn’t figure out where to settle his eyes.
Malfoy made a disgusted noise in the back of his throat and Harry looked over at him again. “So, what then?" he scoffed. “We can’t do magic? Maybe that’ll help Potter to reign in his Savior tendencies and ensure no one else gets caught in the backlash of them again.”
Harry fought back a wave of fury. “I was trying to help you, Malfoy. Merlin knows why. I guess you just need a lot of saving, don’t you? Maybe next time I’ll let you get blasted.”
“I’d prefer that over this,” Malfoy said, sneering. “This is disgusting, to be forced to feel— to feel…”
“It’s not a picnic for me, either,” Harry retorted. He shifted uneasily as the vibration, that friction, began to grow and become uncomfortable. It settled somewhere in his ribcage, like heartburn, and almost felt like an itch that had been going on too long.
Malfoy looked distinctly scratchy too. He pressed his hands flat over his stomach and shot a hateful look in Harry’s direction.
Highlash stepped forward and held up a hand. “This is exactly what I mean. Not only will you have to learn to work together, you will both need to figure out a way to utilise your cores as one. There could be repercussions for your magic if you’re unable to do that.”
Malfoy’s sneer dropped off his face and went back to looking scared. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that not only do you need to continue using your magic to ensure that your cores remain at full strength — think of it as magical exercise — but you need to find a place of connectivity between them. Negative emotions affect your magic in much the same way curses can and when your cores do not act in symmetry, you’re both in danger of shredding them.”
Harry felt the blood drain from his face. “I don’t— I don’t understand…”
“Your cores are one now,” Highlash spelled out in a severe tone. “They need to behave as such or else.”
There was a long silence. Finally, Malfoy took a deep breath and lifted his face toward Highlash. “His magic is… it’s too strong, too uncontrolled,” Malfoy said grudgingly. “How am I going to get it to listen to me?”
Harry nodded. “His is strange too. It's too... smooth, too shifty. It won’t stay still.”
McGonagall pressed her hand on Harry’s shoulder again and this time he let himself take comfort from it. “There are techniques we will go over shortly. For the time being, you and Mr. Malfoy will be paired in any classes you share, and will have free periods in any that you don’t. During some of these, you will work with Professor Highlash.”
Harry darted another look at Malfoy, who was staring at him with narrow grey eyes. “Why? Why do we have to partner?”
“It’s imperative you stay near one another until the binding has worn off. A magical core physically separated from a wizard is a very grave thing. Frankly, being rendered a squib would not be the worst of it,” Highlash said, almost gently.
Harry latched onto the least frightening thing part of that. “How ‘near each other?’ We’re in different dorms.”
The headmistresses shook her head minutely. “You will be rooming together for the duration. The rooms in the guests’ tower are completely empty — one of them will be made up for you.”
Another disgusted noise came from Malfoy’s direction and Harry determinedly did not look at him, instead directing his inquiry at Highlash. “Can’t we just… You know, be around each other a lot during the day? Maybe room next to each other?”
“The effects will get stronger as the spell wears on, I’m sorry to say. While it may be possible for you two to sleep apart, at least tonight, it would not be advisable for either of you to have a distance further than a foot between you. If the spell strengthened while you were sleeping, for example, there could be some severe consequences.”
Harry nodded dully, picking at a loose thread in his bedsheet and finally McGonagall moved away from his bedside. He looked up at her, noting that some of the tightness of her face had faded.
“Well, gentlemen, once you’re fully stabilized, I suggest you eat a proper dinner and collect your belongings. I shall meet you in front of the guest dormitories at eight o’clock,” she said. “I trust that you will both have the sufficient sense to adhere to Professor Highlash’s warnings and endure this with the decorum I’m… sure… you’re both capable of.”
Harry and Malfoy exchanged sardonic glances as she swept out in perhaps the first moment of full agreement between them, ever.
***
It was much harder to walk into the Great Hall for dinner than Harry had thought it would be. He and Malfoy had barely exchanged two words since leaving the medical wing — those two being monosyllabic — and yet Harry could already feel the heightened strain on the connection between them: when Malfoy walked too fast ahead of him on those damned long legs of his, that immense ache would return as a deep itch he could not scratch.
Harry was pretty sure it was happening to Malfoy, too. Whenever he was too far ahead, he would slow abruptly, waiting for Harry to pull up beside him. It simply became more comfortable to walk shoulder-to-shoulder, so they did that, in silence.
When they finally walked into the Great Hall, a hush swept over the rowdy crowd. Harry had gotten used to stares, even from those classmates who had known him for years, but this felt different -- almost ominous in its completeness. The hush was broken by Ron’s loud, “Harry!” and with relief, he saw Ron and Hermione get up from their seats and run over to his side.
Hermione threw herself into his arms, her thick frizz of curls falling into his face and hiding his view. He clutched at her tightly for a moment. Ron waited until she released him before grabbing Harry’s arm and leading him over to the Gryffindor table. Malfoy stood in place for a split second, then followed wordlessly, which earned him a sneer from Ron.
“Oi, what d'you think you're doing, Malfoy?”
“Leave it, Ron,” Harry said tiredly. Hermione gave him a worried look and he shot her what he hoped was a reassuring smile.
“What happened, Harry?” she asked as they sat. Malfoy took a place at the edge of the long bench, with as much of the foot of distance allowed between them as he could manage. “Professor McGonagall wouldn’t let us in to see you and wouldn’t tell us what had happened. All we saw was you and Malfoy, unconscious, and surrounded by a, a light for a few minutes. They took Zacharias away right after.”
“I heard he was expelled,” Ron supplied around a mouthful of food.
Hermione nodded earnestly. “Everyone’s talking about it. They said he cursed you and Malfoy, but—“
Harry began piling his own plate with roast beef, mushrooms, and three different types of potatoes. “He did. He was aiming for Malfoy, and I put up a shield charm that backfired.”
“Merlin, Harry, why’d you do that?” Ron blurted, eyes wide.
Malfoy shifted uncomfortably next to him and Harry noticed he hadn’t started eating. Without thinking, he began loading another plate with the roast chicken, dinner rolls, and everything green he could see. He shoved it unceremoniously in front of Malfoy and turned back to Ron with a grimace.
“Habit, I guess,” he muttered, then turned back to Malfoy, who was staring down at his plate with a look of shock. “You should eat. They said we need to keep our strength up.” Malfoy gave him a furtive glance and nodded once before primly tucking in to his food.
Harry began eating, as well. Between bites, quietly, he relayed as much information as he knew. Ron’s face bleached itself of color, leaving his freckles standing out in sharp relief when Harry got to the part about his and Malfoy’s cores being entwined. Hermione chewes on her lower lip. When he'd finished talking, both of them were silent.
“Blimey, that’s bad,” Ron finally murmured, taking a quick glance around to see who was still listening. Harry followed his eyes; a lot of people were. Fortunately, they had been speaking quietly enough -- and were sitting far enough away from the rest of the table -- that everyone would just have to live with their curiosity.
“So we’ve been told,” Harry said darkly. “But whatever. I lived through last year, I can get through a week of this, right?” He jerked his head in Malfoy’s direction. Malfoy responded by scooting ever-so-slightly closer to him. A tension Harry hadn’t been aware of building inside himself eased off slightly.
“Harry,” Hermione said slowly, “I mean, of course you can, but I hope you understand the seriousness of this. There are a lot of theories about the magical core of witches and wizards, but it’s not as though they can be fully studied, can they? We know that personal signatures are traceable and are in the blood, but beyond that, it’s mostly guesswork. People have died from depletion of their magical core.”
“That’s what Highlash intimated,” Malfoy said stiffly, weighing in for the first time. “But he said there’s precedent for this sort of situation.”
Hermione seemed to struggle with speaking to him for a moment before her natural inquisitiveness got the better of her. “With who? When?”
Malfoy glanced at her and didn’t say anything. Harry sighed. “Aurors,” he said. “And Unspeakables. But he said it should just wear off when the original spell was supposed to, if we’re careful. We’re meeting with him tomorrow.”
That itch was back. Harry swallowed hard didn’t wait for Malfoy, scooting closer until their shoulders were brushing again. An immediate rush of calm filled his centre, where Malfoy’s annoying magical core had been squirming in the worst way. It was as though a brewing storm had become a light, spring rain.
Hermione settled back into her seat, casting a questioning look between the two of them. “That’s good to know,” she said uncertainly. “That means there’ll be something I can research on the subject.”
Harry took a gulp of pumpkin juice and looked down at his empty plate, then at Malfoy’s. Malfoy had eaten maybe half of what Harry had given him, but that was good enough for him. He nudged Malfoy again and got a surprised jerk in response. “You ready?”
“I suppose,” Malfoy gritted out, “if you’re done stuffing your face.”
Harry felt a slow burn of anger rise but tamped it down. “Not quite,” he said lightly jusy to irritate him. He grabbed a couple of chocolate pasties with one hand. “But I can finish on the way.”
Malfoy sneered at him. “You have absolutely no manners, do you? One would think they starved you, growing up.”
Like a flash, Harry’s carefully reigned anger transformed into embarrassed fury. He found himself stepping closer to Malfoy wand already in hand. Malfoy looked stunned at his reaction and took a quick step away, then another, as Hermione caught Harry’s arm.
“Harry, he doesn’t know,” she said in a low voice that finally penetrated the fog in his head. “He’s just being nasty.”
Harry slowly became aware of the buzz of other voices beginning to whisper and with it, the simmering pain of Malfoy’s core reacting with his. Malfoy stood stock-still in front of him, grey eyes wide, mouth agape. With monumental control, Harry took a deep breath. He exhaled harshly. “Just keep your bloody mouth shut, Malfoy, and maybe we can get through this. Let’s go.”
Harry stalked away, trying to ignore the raw plummet in his chest at separating -- and the effortless settling inside that happened when Malfoy caught up.
***
They made haste to the Slytherin dormitories. The common room was just as Harry had remembered it: stone walls, eerie green cast from the lake, posh fireplace. He avoided looking at anyone as his presence was noticed. Blaise Zabini, one of the few Slytherins to return to eighth year, was sitting with Pansy Parkinson and a slightly younger female student Harry didn’t recognize, on a plush, Chesterfield sofa.
“So it’s true, then,” Zabini called out. Malfoy headed over to his friends and Harry folllwed. It was only fair, he reasoned reluctantly, trying to hold back his irritation. After all, Malfoy hadn’t complained about sitting with Harry’s friends over dinner — at least not overtly. Zabini was grinning in a way that made Harry uncomfortable. “Slughorn came in and admonished us to give you two an ‘easy time of it,’ and said you’re moving in together. Nott told me he heard Smith had cast a marriage spell at the two of you.”
Malfoy snorted and perched on the arm of the sofa. Harry stood as close as he could without touching him.
“You know better than to listen to rumors,” Malfoy said haughtily. “And because of that, I’ll spare you the details. Suffice it to say, I’m stuck with Potter for a few days.”
Parkinson’s eyes were bright with glee. “Oh, but Draco, rumors are so much fun. Why on earth wouldn’t we listen to them?” Her voice became sly. “And maybe add to them if we don’t have enough real information?”
Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Quit it, Pans. Potter and I are glued together for a week or so. That bitter dolt of a wizard, Smith, thought it’d be funny to try to ruin my life for a bit -- as if he has the talent or power to do so. Just the same shit we’ve been dealing with since… Well. Potter here was trying to maintain his hero status and, shockingly, it didn’t work out this time.”
“What same shit?” Harry cut in, ignoring the insult. Parkinson looked at him levelly and Harry quite suddenly remembered the note he had received over the summer from her. It had been filled with sardonic comments about his hair and clothing, but somewhere buried in the subtext had seemed to be a genuine apology for attempting to give him up to Voldemort. He had received a few like it, even one from Malfoy, which he immediately dismissed from his mind. He returned her look and gave her a half smile.
With a sniff, she looked away. “The same shit all Slytherins have been dealing with from the other Houses and even a few of the professors. A lot of people aren’t too happy that some of us came back, or that they decided to keep this House at all,” she said, casually studying her silver-polished nails.
“But that’s—“ Harry's objection was cut off by Malfoy.
“Shut it, Pansy, or he’ll decide we’re another cause,” Malfoy said derisively. Zabini chuckled, watching Harry with a perceptive tilt of his head.
“Fine, fine,” she said airily, miming locking her mouth and throwing away the key. “Go live your dream, Draco. I’ll stay out of it.”
“Liar,” Zabini coughed. Parkinson smacked him on the shoulder, flashing a wicked grin.
“Are you okay, Draco?” The younger girl asked in a pleasantly delicate voice. She was rather pretty, Harry noticed objectively, with deep brown hair, matching eyes, and pale skin. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Draco tensed up for the first time since returning to the common room. Harry felt it at his shoulder first, where they were touching, that slight clench of muscles and then — strangely — in his midsection, like something unpleasant winding up tightly. He looked at Malfoy in question.
“Perfectly fine, Astoria,” he muttered, not looking at her. “No need. We should get going.”
He grabbed Harry’s arm and began walking off. Behind him, Harry could hear Zabini and Parkinson hoot indecent teases as he and Malfoy ducked into a stone hallway that led to the dorms. When they were out of sight, Draco dropped his arm and pushed open the third heavy stone door they came to. Harry followed Malfoy in and surveyed the room as Malfoy flicked his wand and things began to fly out of his trunk.
Malfoy’s room was… rather cosy, Harry thought, walking around to keep close to him as he shrank his things and shoved them into a leather tote. Harry could feel Malfoy’s spells like a flicker on his core, but the discomfort of it wasn’t so bad and he continued looking around. The walls were stone and there were still those green shadows on everything, but Malfoy had photos next to his bed of his family and there was a merry fire crackling in the hearth in the corner of the room, warming it up.
“I like the fire,” Harry said inanely, having had enough of the silent treatment. “We don’t have fireplaces in our dorms -- only the common room. …But I guess you’ll see soon enough, right?”
For a minute, Harry thought he wouldn’t answer, but then Malfoy grudgingly said, “It’s the lake. The chill seeps in through the walls and the fire keeps it away. They’re in all the rooms.”
Harry nodded. He hesitated. “Who was that girl?”
Malfoy gusted out an irritated exhale. “Friend of the family,” he said curtly.
“Because I felt… I mean, I could feel…”
“Merlin, Potter, you think I want to talk about your feelings?”
“Actually, I was talking about yours,” Harry continued stubbornly. “I could feel your reaction to her. I didn’t know that was a side-effect of— of this,” he finished, gesturing between them.
“I didn’t either,” Malfoy said grimly. “Just keep to your own business, okay?”
Harry sighed. “Fine.”
Malfoy finished up and they made headed to the Gryffindor tower. Harry expected to make short work of getting his things, but got sidelined by Neville, who was, “sure glad this one wasn’t my fault, mate," and Ron, who made sure Malfoy heard his gagging noises, and finally Ginny, who glared at Malfoy with implicit threat.
“Take care of yourself, Harry,” she murmured, clutching tightly at his hands for a moment. He gave her a quick grin and dropped his chin on the top of her head in a light hug, inhaling the scent of her hair — he always had loved her hair — before moving away. He felt the same sense of tightness he had in the Slytherin dungeon, only this time the coil felt ready to spring and Harry threw a look at Malfoy.
“Will do, Gin.”
“If you’re quite done groping each other,” Malfoy said in a bored voice, “it’s nearly eight and you haven’t packed yet.”
“Oh, shit,” Harry blurted. He cast a quick spell to check to ensure Malfoy wasn’t having him on, but no — it was five till. He pointed his wand at the door and sent a Patronus ahead of them to let McGonagall know they were running a behind and heard Malfoy grunt a little at it. He mumbled an apology and led Malfoy to his room.
Quickly, Harry stuffed his school robes, Invisibility cloak, map, and some random clothing into the little leather bag Hermione had given him for his birthday, which had an undetectable extension charm similar to the one she had made the previous year. He threw in his books, pyjamas, and toiletries, and tightened the drawstring at the top to close it, then looped it around his neck. He turned to find Malfoy immediately next to him, so close Harry could feel the heat coming off him, and an oddly pleanant dizziness stilled him for a moment.
Malfoy was looking around. “It’s so…”
“Yeah?” Harry challenged.
“Red,” Malfoy said, not bothering to mask his disdain.
Malfoy blinked at Harry's sudden grin, but his mouth seemed to flick up at the corners in a barely-there, return smile. “It is, at that," Harry said. "Come on. McGonagall’s waiting.”
She was, in fact. She stood patiently at the door that led to the guest's quarters and gave them a small, approving smile when they reached her. “Thank you for the Patronus, Potter. It was courteous of you.”
“Sure thing. Sorry we’re late.”
“How are you both feeling?” she asked.
Harry and Malfoy exchanged quick looks. When Malfoy was silent, Harry blurted, “We can feel it when the other does magic.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “Of course. The link between you ties each of you to the other’s actions. Anything else? Feeling ill in any way?”
“No…” Harry said, hesitating. “But we can — or at least I can, so far — feel, or sense, what the other is feeling too.”
Malfoy sighed. “I can, as well. I just chose not to natter on about it like a prat.”
Harry bristled and McGonagall raised her eyebrow at Malfoy, who dropped his head and shrugged, sort of feebly. “Sorry.”
“Well, then.” McGonagall turned. She tapped the wooden door twice with her wand and murmured, “Fawkes.”
The door opened and they stepped inside to follow her up a long, narrow stone staircase that led to a wide hallway, dotted with doors. She opened the first one they came to and Harry braced himself.
It… wasn’t bad, actually. He didn’t quite know what he’d been expecting, but something more like how he'd envisioned Professor's quarters, maybe, filled with bookshelves or strange portraits of disapproving adults. In fact, there was only one painting, above the large stone fireplace, and it depicted a Quidditch match — a historic one, if the uniforms were anything to judge by. The rest of the room was very comfortable-looking. The floors were a polished wood, rather than the stone he had become accustomed to and there was a bookshelf along one wall that had some interesting titles in it like Aurors Through The Ages, Potion Remedies For the Practical Witch or Wizard, and Glamour Charms to Help You Be a New You! There were even a couple of Muggle science-fiction books, which Harry had always had a fondness for. There was a large, comfortably stuffed loveseat in pale brown facing the fireplace with a squashy chair angled beside it, as well as a wizarding chess-set between two chairs in the corner beside a long, highly polished desk.
Harry and Malfoy wandered around together, taking it in and Harry noted Malfoy’s eyes land on a book title, Making Friends Out of Enemies: Bridging the Gap Between Wizarding Worlds. Malfoy snorted lightly.
“Guest rooms respond to the preferences of their inhabitants, in a way slightly similar to the Room of Requirement,” McGonagall explained briefly. “The sleeping quarters are beyond that door. They have washroom accommodations attached. The house-elves have been made aware of your occupation here.
“I’ll leave you to it, Gentlemen. Please attempt to get some sleep tonight, if you can. You're to head to the medical ward immediately if either of you experience core-pain. Send me a Patronus again if you have a need. I’ll see you both in Advanced Transfigurations in the morning,” she said. She hesitated for a moment as though she wanted to say something else, but refrained, leaving quite abruptly.
Quite abruptly leaving Harry quite alone with Malfoy.
The silence was too loud. Harry looked around wildly for a moment. “Want to play some chess? I’m not very good, but we could kill some time before — you know, before bed.”
“No, I do not want to play chess with you, Potter,” Malfoy said tightly. He thrust a hand through his flaxen blond hair, which had gotten a little longer over the summer. His gesture tousled it attractively and Harry looked away, a sudden heat rising in his cheeks.
“Well, what do you want to do?”
Malfoy sighed. “Look, I’m tired. Can we just go to sleep?”
Harry looked back at him closely. Malfoy’s normally pale skin was slightly waxy and his grey eyes were tinged with red.
“All right, fine.” He paused. “Do you need to… Er, shower or something?”
Malfoy bit his lip. “I’ll… We can shower in the morning.”
“All right,” Harry said with relief, not quite ready to face the idea of sharing a bathing routine yet.
“But--” Malfoy’s jaw suddenly flexed, and he seemed to force the words out. “I need to use the loo.”
“Oh.” Heat swamped Harry’s face again, crawling down his neck. “Yeah, me too. I’ve thought about that a little, actually. We can just, you know, put up a Muffliato -- and maybe a Disillusionment charm or something -- and stand close to the other, turned away.”
Something akin to admiration flickered on Malfoy’s face. “That should be fine.”
They walked through the sleeping quarters to the bathroom, Harry diligently ignoring the massive four-poster bed covered Made up in sumptuous, cream bedcovers with scrolls of gold threading. They each paused for a moment to put down their belongings, side by side, on a trunk at the foot of it, before continuing.
In the bathroom, he and Malfoy approached the toilet. Malfoy attempted to put up the quieting charm, with no success. Swallowing hard, Harry tried next, to no avail. They looked at each other nervously. Malfoy cast a Disillusionment charm on himself, which flickered briefly and died. A pit grew in Harry's stomach, a tightness that had nothing to do with their link.
Malfoy was starting to shift from foot to foot and if Harry was honest, the pressure on his own bladder was not quite comfortable either. With frustration, he growled out the Disillusionment incantation rather loudly, flicking his wand forcefully at himself. Nothing happened but for Malfoy’s sudden, panicked groan.
“Stop it, stop it, Potter,” he gasped.
Harry lowered his wand. “What? I’m sorry— Are you okay?”
“Just feel dizzy.” Malfoy swallowed convulsively several times, bending at the waist. Harry reached out a tentative hand, grasping Malfoy’s forearm to help steady him. After a beat, Malfoy straightened and shook off Harry’s touch.
“I’m all right. Your magic…”
“Oh. They said we were supposed to still use it.”
“I think…” Malfoy tightened his lips. “I don’t think we can use it on ourselves, or each other.”
Harry fought back an embarrassed cringe — he had shared a dormitory with several boys for whom the word modesty had no meaning for the last seven years. He was quite used to hearing things and seeing too much in the bathrooms. But this was, well, Malfoy.
He took off his glasses and rubbed his face. “Fine. It’s fine. It’s nothing. Take your piss, and I’ll do mine, and we’ll go to bed — go to sleep.”
Malfoy pierced him with a long, narrow look before suddenly swiveling on his heel. Harry did the same, so they were back to back. He edged away just enough so that they weren’t touching. There was a shift of fabric and a zipping noise and, after a moment, the steady stream of piss into the toilets. Malfoy is holding his cock right now, Harry thought out of nowhere, and swallowed hard again, humiliated that it even occurred to him. The whole situation was entirely too intimate for them and Harry stood still, unsure where to put his hands or eyes or brain, obviously, if it was going to go such places on its own.
After several long seconds, Malfoy finished and flushed, and Harry heard the rustle of clothing being done up. Wordlessly, as if with one mind, he and Malfoy rotated so that Harry was facing the toilet and Malfoy, away. With fumbling fingers, Harry undid his own flies, aimed, and peed. He shook off, flushed, restored his own clothing.
They walked over to the sink to take turns washing their hands. Without speaking they returned to the bedroom. Harry straightened his shoulders and followed Malfoy to their belongings.
Malfoy began hunting through his bag, finally finding what he was looking for. He pulled out a silvery set of nightclothes and unshrank it. Harry did the same, searching through his bag blind — the opening was just big enough for his arm to fit through — until he felt the familiar, worn fabric of his Cannon’s T-shirt. He searched for another moment until something flannel slipped through his fingers. He grabbed it gratefully, yanking out his pyjama pants.
“Turn again?” Malfoy said abruptly, voice oddly rough.
“Yeah.”
They faced away from each other and disrobed and exchanged muttered curses like, “Watch it, Potter!” and “I’m not the one stabbing you with my arse, you bony tosser,” when their arses bumped, until they were finished.
Finally done, they faced each other again and Harry surveyed Malfoy, whose sleepwear was made of some kind of silky material. The top two buttons of his shirt were undone at the throat. It left Malfoy’s collarbone exposed, as well as the shiny edge of a scar at the top of his chest. As pyjamas went, they were pretentious and stupid and probably not nearly as comfortable as Harry’s tee and flannels, but… They suited him. He looked posh and slightly younger and irritatingly attractive.
Harry’s eyes flicked up to Malfoy’s face. Malfoy was watching him, eyes compelling and thoughtful. He stood in a shaft of moonlight from the window, which made his hair shine silver.
Harry turned away with a nervous grunt and was surprised when he was halted by Malfoy’s hand on his arm. “What were you just thinking about, Potter?”
Defensively, Harry shrugged him off. “Why are you so interested?”
A crease appeared between Malfoy’s eyebrows and he gestured with one hand. “I felt…”
“If it’s not my business what you feel, it’s not yours what I do,” Harry muttered, flushing for the thousandth time in thirty minutes. He jerked his head toward the bed. “Let’s just get in.”
Malfoy's face tensed, his shoulders coming up. They moved in tandem, climbing into the bed from the foot of it and crawling up to the pillows. After slipping under the covers, Harry cast a quick, wordless Nox and felt Malfoy’s surprised intake of breath. There was a heavy pause, and then Malfoy murmured, “You can do wordless, wandless magic?”
“Well, yeah. For some stuff. Basic spells. I’ve only done the more complicated ones accidentally,” Harry said, feeling more comfortable with the light out, even though he was still too aware of Malfoy, just inches away from him.
“That’s… uncommon. For most wizards.”
“Do you know any?” Harry asked without thinking. It was strange how it seemed, in the dark, they were able to have an almost a normal conversation.
“I can do some wordless and some wandless, but I haven’t done both at the same time,” Malfoy admitted, somewhat stiffly. His disembodied voice took on a sneering quality. “I guess you’re just good at everything aren’t you?”
Harry’s hands closed in frustration. He ached to give Malfoy a sharp fist to the nose to repay him for the train in sixth year, but he knew it would only lead to more trouble. Even just the tension brought on by Malfoy’s words had an unpleasant effect on Harry’s chest; his fingers twitched and his legs jerked uneasily from it. He rolled to his side, tugging the blankets with him to more securely warm himself and smiled meanly when Malfoy gave an offended yelp and tugged them back. Harry let go of the extra he had taken and felt Malfoy settle back against his pillows with a huff.
He couldn’t figure Malfoy out. His mind returned to the simple letter he had received from him early in the summer after the trials, thanking Harry for speaking up for his mother (and himself, although he neglected to write that part), and for the return of his wand, which Harry had shoved into his hands as he walked out of Wizengamot after being declared free on probation. He remembered Malfoy’s startled expression, that split second of shining joy on his face, which had grown much thinner while he waited for his trial. The letter wasn’t detailed and didn’t ask for a response, but Harry had opened and reopened it in the weeks following to look at the precise, flowing script of it and be surprised anew at the kind, grateful simplicity of its contents.
He’d thought… Fuck, he didn’t know what he thought. He thought, for the first time, that maybe he and Malfoy could have been friends if their families had been different, if their destinies had led them down alternate paths. He’d wondered what would have changed if he had tried being nice to Malfoy in first year, maybe hadn’t turned up his nose at that handshake, while still figuring out a way to defend his friends from Malfoy’s inherent snobbery.
Upon coming back for eighth year, Harry had searched for Malfoy, picking out the highlights of his pale hair across the Great Hall and expecting Malfoy to respond well to his friendly smile -- which, of course, he hadn’t. He’d sneered, like always, and Harry had felt like an idiot. The idiocy he could cope with (he had a lot of practice) but the weird sense of… disappointment that had accompanied Malfoy’s sneer had been something else entirely.
“Malfoy?”
Malfoy’s voice was rough, on the verge of sleep. “Mm, what is it now, Potter?”
Harry wasn’t sure. Out of the thousands of things he wanted to say, he finally picked out, “Nothing. Just wondering if you were asleep yet.”
Malfoy’s voice grew slightly sharper. “I almost was, you annoying tit. Now shut it.”
Harry did. He willed his thoughts to Quidditch, replaying the most recent match he had attended in his head. Soon enough, Malfoy’s breath turned deep and even, and Harry rolled back over to face him. He studied Malfoy's relaxed features in the shadows, which were strangely beautiful in repose. Malfoy’s face had filled out some and he’d lost the pinched, pointy look that Harry had long associated with him. His nose was long and straight, his cheekbones high and elegant, and his chin — well, yeah, was still a bit pointy. His hair fanned the pillow it rested on. Harry turned onto his back again and stared at the bed hangings in the dark.
Sleep, as it turned out, would not come for a long time.