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Harry Potter and The Sanguine Brother's Bond	By : OranjeJoe Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 7043 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 10
- 11
- 12
I should probably wait to release this one, but I’m in an impatient mood so what ever. I’m not going to make any promises about the next one coming soon, because that will jinx it. So let’s say the next one is never coming, and then it’ll be here tomorrow.

---ooo---

His arms swung wildly about in front of him as he made to clutch at the banister. Somehow he had managed to make it all the way out onto the little roof porch that looked over the garden. Kreacher had seen him on the way up here, and Draco could hear him trying in vain to get through the sealed door that led onto the roof. He listened to the noises of banging magic for a time, willing himself to focus on them instead of what he had just done.

A slow undulating sickness wound its way about in the lowest part of his stomach, grinding its way along his insides. He tried inhaling the damp evening air but it brought no comfort. Instead there now grew an icy cramp in his chest, and a creeping anxiety that crawled up his back. Each time the slimy creature in his stomach ground past his spine cold tendrils would weave into the very pores of his bones, causing his entire body to convulse.

Rocking back and forth, the world coming in and out of focus in time with the nauseating rhythm. The smell of the paint that came along with the heavy scent of the moist night air had never before been so rough or so dusty. Coughing, Draco closed his eyes and lost the last of his grip, tumbling down to lean crippled against the railing.

And his last thought was: all he had done was kiss Harry fucking Potter and now he was dying. A crack beneath him and through the thick ice and all around him was pain. The coolest of fire penetrated every cell in his body, wrenching his gut out and all around him into the dark waters of his death. And all because Harry fucking Potter had been - and to die now after surviving the kiss of a dementor. Harry’s kiss was so much better, and to try and escape the pain of drowning, Draco willed his mind back to the endless expanse of him that he had touched by their lips.

There were probably pine trees out above him. Through the wall of white death, was all he could think about.

It was almost like there was a stillness and he could just hang in the arctic darkness of his death and be a frozen mind bloated and full and just…hanging. There was pain but it was so far beyond or behind or unpart of him that Draco no longer cared that he was dead. Or dying? Was he still dying? Hanging.

The kiss of death. Why didn’t Ginny die? If he was dying because he kissed Harry Potter, or Harry Potter kissed him, oughtn’t she have died too. The weasel bitch. Yes, she deserved to die. What did they even have in common? She was never alone.

Were these the kinds of thoughts he really wanted to have, in the final moments. He didn’t really say it as a question anymore, because there was no one he would ever have to talk to again. And he wasn’t himself anymore so he was just talking to no one.

Looking up now to the icy white rough scraping against his face and little specks of dirt trapped inside. Sharply did Draco’s dying mind remember all the dreams of that white beast, and knowing that he had seen it once before at the moment of his death, he hoped to see it now. Pawing at the clear patches where he imagined his writing body could be seen.

But alas it was only in dreams, and even then it never quite did what he wanted. He was coughing now, the dark water turning crimson before his eyes. Pushing upwards against the tiny crystalline death, cold, running upwards was the whole weight of ‘the beneath him’.

Little bits of the ice stirred and mixed back into slush when his face got really close, or one of the larger bits ground against his contortion in this underwater anti gravity.

Watching the little bits float around in the diffuse light was at once sublime and terrible because he was dying, but still even as his body froze and his lips drained of all their former life he could still feel the tender trepidation of another quivering against him. It was faint, but lasting. Dull like all his other senses, reduced to a mute equality. It wasn’t pleasant. Nothing ever could be. Neutral.

He passed into a quiet boredom, where still the pain was like a dull ringing, but mostly he just felt the blood diffusing now. His life mixing with the darkness, and his insides growing cold. A bloody hand was in front of him.

After a great many minutes of study it was his own. Where was he bleeding from, all he’d done is kill Harry Potter.

He’d kissed Harry Potter. Not killed him. Or maybe he had. That would explain a great many things. Like why he had cried the whole Arctic and was drowning. But that was just in his mind, really. Probably.

It probably shouldn’t be taking so long. Dying. Or at least it could be a little more dynamic. Or maybe death was just an infinite boredom, where you sat trying to breath underwater and stewed in your thoughts for an eternity. But you weren’t allowed to really feel anything about them. Like all the bonds between them had been severed and they just floated now, mixing sweetly like his blood in the water.

He kissed Harry Potter.

He was a thing, a being separate from all the rest.

He was human, and was told what love was.

He was told that kissing was love. Or maybe a step along the road.

Harry Potter was a thing. A being quite separate from all the rest.

Take him and shove him into the great moving swelling mass of humanity and still like a beacon he would ride above the rest.

Carry that great torch you handsome mother-fucker was all that Draco could think about this. It was absurd really. Like being hit with something mid way through jumping a river bank. All he could feel was the mute reality of being totally silently fucked. And the cold water. And the pain. Maybe a bit of the fall, but that happened so fast.

Well, and then it started again and he realized that the reason it was all getting so boring is that the little thing that dragged him down here had gone away but really it was just making its first circle around to kill him, and because he was dying his mind had made time into something infinite and stretched.

But now he could feel the rushing pressure of its coming back, swimming with the cold eyes of a hunter. His back was all tingly and bracing for the impact. So sharp was his fear, coursing through him with the gritty breathing of being forced against the ground, but in this case up against the ice. Oh his heart was on fire and all his insides were burning with primal fear, except his stomach. That fickle asshat was gurgling with delight at the prospect of getting eaten by that thing that had been crawling around there in the first place.

Draco closed his eyes, arching his back against the grey ice water and hoped that maybe embracing the whole idea of non existence would make it less of a shock when it actually came time to rip his flesh asunder.

---ooo---

Even in the paltry light of the night Harry could see that it was wrapped in the same shimmering paper that Dumbledore had used on his first present. As he dragged it closer, into a shaft of light from the window, he could see that it was not one, but two packages.

With the same delicacy he had used on the previous present from Dumbledore, he pulled loose the emerald green ribbon. The first package was light and wobbly, and he peeled away the wrapping to meet a delicious smell. It was one he knew all too well, treacle tart. Trust Dumbledore to know that its flaky sugary goodness would always bring him happiness.

And yes for some reason he was feeling rather morose, probably to do with the uncertain way of Draco’s hurried exit. Was it hurried? Did it suck? It that why he left…

Potter forced himself to slice of a bit of the tart with a cutting incantation, food was always supposed to distract the love torn heart right? Merlin’s beard he needed to stop thinking like that. There. Was. No. Love. Certainly not yet anywa-----

Oh it was so hard to keep himself from thinking things, even if he was currently savoring the sweet taste of one of the best treacle tarts he’d ever had. Dumbledore certainly knew his way around this particular pastry, and why he had decided to hold out until this particular birthday would take some explaining.

He would never admit it, but one of the only things he’d ever cherished about living with the Dursley’s was an unspoken arrangement he had with Aunt Petunia. For some unimaginable reason, the shrew of a woman enjoyed making treacle tart the most amongst all other pastries; for some even more unimaginable reason Dudley liked treacle tart the least amongst all other pastries.

In fact you might say he hated it. Harry, of course, was never allowed any at meal times. Afterwards, as she was cleaning up and Vernon and Dudley had moved on to vegetate in the living room, she would ask Harry to clean the pan for the treacle tart. She would also remind him that they didn’t like wasting food, which was hardly ever a problem when ‘Dudders’ was around to donate his charitable services.

And so Harry would hide away in his cupboard and relish one of the only bright parts of his childhood. Perhaps it was the circumstance, but never had another recipe compared to hers. Except perhaps this one, which surpassed all others in its lightness, its sweetness, its caramelized perfection. And thank goodness Harry had something else to think about for a bit, even if his childhood was mostly a dark place.

He finished half of it before he realized he was really even eating it and not just thinking about how awesome it was. He put down the tray that it was baked in, the darkness making everything seem far away and sharp like the sound of foil on the ancient table.

His hair was seeming to cling about his face, and after the emotional turmoil and subsequent suppression he was now dealing with, it was a mild from of claustrophobia. He also kept holding his breath.

Letting it out, Harry picked up and unwrapped, with the same care as the rest, the second present. He let it drop with surprising haste once its contents were revealed. It couldn’t be.

But yes all the dents were the same, even with the new cover he had given it, the year had been a rough one. Great silence over took his mind as he put his shaking hand on the cover. And a thousand memories of this book passed by in a rush the moment he flipped it open to see the familiar scrawling words written all around the free space.

The next moment he was aware of, he was standing by the window. Just beginning to wonder how in the hell it had come back to him. Not to mention how Dumbledore had come to posses it. As he leaned against the antique glass, and felt the sugar coursing through his veins with a slight jitter, the trembling and the spider cracks that he traced in the window panes brought uncertain thoughts.

He wasn’t sure what the right thing to do in this situation was. There wasn’t enough precedent of arch rivals suddenly deciding to make out. Okay it didn’t happen suddenly, certainly before he had expected it too. Had he expected it to?

They hadn’t really made out either.

Were they supposed to talk now? Or fade away into obscurity?

That was a dramatic thought. Did it fit…melodramatic then. This didn’t have to be a defining moment, why did everything have to be a defining moment lately. Life wasn’t supposed to be so cut up and decided.

Harry decided to stop strategizing about every moment of his life for a little while, and though he realized the irony of deciding indecision he sort of leapt from the windowsill and walked towards the door to keep himself from dwelling on it.

Out into the dark hallway he still wasn’t thinking about it, right or left? Right. Smelled like Draco. Don’t think about it. Or is that an okay thing to think about? Do normal people think about the way other people smell? And smell them in places they aren’t but semi recently were?

Hush. Not analyzing was the point. It was dark in the house, and he spent a few minutes really enjoying how the teal of the walls was a dark turquoise in the low light, and how very nicely it mixed with the deep red of the carpet runners. All this played out among the dark wood and little glints off silver things in the cabinets, and the nape of his neck was humming with the enjoyment of the flow of the moment, and he was only thinking about thinking about Draco and their kiss a little bit.

He followed the faint smell that he realized was only partially Draco, and mostly composed of smells from the party, food, flowers and the like. As he drew closer, he suspected, he nearly ran over kreacher in his floaty half stupor of trying to subsume himself in the moment.

In reality he didn’t even come close to hitting the creature, his mind just used the extra space in his head to imagine what would have happened if he hadn’t been paying attention and had run into the grumbling thing as it rounded the corner out of the little study that lead onto the roof. As it was he saw him coming with what must have been ten minutes of mental clearance, time enough even to duck into the shadows and avoid what ever the he was mumbling about.

It was official, he was going crazy. But the craziest thing was that he didn’t care and he wasn't going to think about it. Just laugh at the absurd Harry Potter, he told himself.

And maybe he said it out loud, and continued laughing all the way out onto the little porch and took in deeply the smell of the night air and all the British country side that was carried on the breeze.

His laughs slowly grew deeper and longer apart. Lower in a sort of panicked way, and his eyes were still looking cheerily at the clouds, even as slowly he began to smell the metal smell of blood faint in the after thought of his breathing in.

Shit and shit and shit and shit, life was shit and Draco was bleeding, had coughed up blood, and his pale form clung in crystalline majesty to the railing, blond locks rustling in the breeze. Blowing across his eyes shut tight in pain and contortion, the drying glisten of tears rolling in slow motion down his cheeks, and wet hot blood dripping sweet and dark upon his lips.

Harry was on the ground in an instant, his mind flowing through a dark routine, only really taking in reality when he breathed in. So now Harry breathed in and realized that he had his head pressed against Draco’s chest and felt the wet cloth against his face. Had to remind himself that he was listening for a heart beat, because the closeness was so sweet.

The taste of Draco’s blood on his lips was mystical… or something. It never felt so real to be alive as when he finally felt the steady beat of a heart beneath his head. The wind whipped by, wet and perfect, and Harry enjoyed the stillness and the sweetness of having Draco’s life on his lips. He was crazy and then remembered to panic, but Malfoy was too weak to be apparated. He had never done side along. Get help.

There was a gentle tugging in his lower stomach as he thought of the burrow, and as he looked back from the fluid vortex of apparition, the fragility of human existence lay broken and lonely against the banister. A tear escaped his eyes and went to land on Draco’s cheek before, in a wisp, he vanished.

---ooo---

“I expect that the minister will summon you sometime tomorrow, Harry, best if you get some rest.”

“I’m not feeling very restful...professor. And that shrewd old man is tiring no matter what the circumstance.”

“Ah to be young and sour. Better to get it out of the way now I suppose, but careful not to let yourself get curmudgeonly too fast.”

They fell into silence, as they had been doing off and on for the past couple of hours, sitting by Malfoy’s bedside as the mediwizards analyzed his illness. Dumbledore had been getting steadily more direct about getting Harry to go to sleep, but he wasn’t about to give in until they came back with news.

“Do you have any idea what could cause this?”

Dumbledore just continued stroking his beard.

Harry waited.

Minutes passed and Dumbledore, still not answering, summoned a gilded tray with some tea and fresh croissants. Harry took the tea rather grumpily, earning a chuckle from the headmaster.

“Settle down now. If you’re not going to sleep, at least relax a bit.” Harry cut across with a stare of incredulity, and Dumbledore sighed, giving in at last. “I know less about this incident than you, I would imagine. All I know is that shortly after you and Draco left the party, you came back covered in his blood. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“You can’t possibly believe I had anything to do with this? I would never - I mean that’s, we - alright… we kissed.” Harry turned red, and folded his arms across his chest, realizing for the first time that he was still wearing Draco’s blood on his robes.

“Would you like me to send for another set of robes, Harry? Its probably no good to show up at the ministry covered in the blood of another wizard. Especially not during these times.”

“Were you listening?… sir.” The old amber clock in the corner read simply ‘way past midnight’, and so Harry turned to his watch, marveling at the absurdity of things lately. He’d just told someone that he and Draco has kissed, and yet that didn’t seem to change and thing.

“Oh yes, Harry, I am always listening. And watching. For example, I also know that you were the one who saved Draco that night. So no, I don’t believe you had anything to do with Draco’s current predicament. Directly at least.”

Harry pursed his lips as he frowned into his tea cup, “How did you know about that then?”

“It was written on your face, every time you looked at him. You know, I think it might be one of the reason’s why occlumency does not come so easily to you.”

“And why is that?”

“Because, my dear boy, you wear your heart on your sleeves. One hardly even needs to look into your mind to know what you are thinking.” Dumbledore took one of his characteristic pauses, and looked at Harry over the top of his glasses. “In any case, you were asking about Draco. You say you kissed him, and was it then that he started bleeding?”

“No. I don’t know when. I found him like this on the roof.”

“Did he have anything on him when he left? Did you fight?”

“I don’t think so. And no… well I got angry at him, and disarmed him. But nothing ever came of it. I gave him back his memories. Does it have anything to do with that?”

“Did it feel like a negative thing when it happened?”

“No.”

“Then probably not. But, I will say this, and only this, until we know any more. You probably shouldn’t kiss him anymore Harry. And touching probably isn’t best either.”

And what was Harry Potter supposed to make of that? A long undulating wave of thought and emotion struck him, and he rode it, trying to disentangle his feelings, pulling out strings of relief that he wouldn’t have to awkwardly bumble around with what to do next with Draco, because someone had given him permission to do nothing. There were also large quantities of regret, longing… a loneliness that was looking to become permanent.

He sank into his chair, holding the cup tight in his hands, and folded in on himself to stew in his thoughts. So much for not strategizing, that was turning out just as deadly as anything else. He must have fallen asleep sitting there, and thinking this, because the same though was bobbing up and down is his mind as he was jostled awake by someone’s shouting.

“Potter. Fucking Potter! Wake up you twat!”

Harry pushed his glasses up against his nose as Draco came into focus, he was looking paler than ever and there were deep circles under his eyes. Despite loosing nearly a pint of blood he was still able to get this fiesty. Noisy bugger.

“Ugh finally, Merlin I’ve been yelling at you for the last ten minutes, do you have any idea how hard it is to yell like this! I thought I was dying!”

“Clearly not hard enough Malfoy, could you quit the yelling?”

It looked as though Malfoy attempted to cross his arms, but only his shoulders heaved up slightly before he gave up. Rolling his head to face away from Harry, he sighed “What happened?”

“How should I know? You’re the one who is dying.”

“I’m dying?” Malfoy whipped his head around and locked Harry with his gaze, primal fear in his eyes.

“Shit… no, I didn’t mean that. They don’t think you’re dying. But they have no idea what is wrong. As far as they can tell you’re perfectly healthy. Aside from the coughing up blood… that’s what they knew last night.”

Draco was quiet for a moment; he finally gave up staring at Harry, and laid back against his pillow. They breathed in relative silence for awhile, both of them feeling the vibrations of the other’s thinking, trying desperately to think of a way to talk about what happened without it being awkward.

Draco said, finally “I’m sorry.” It was in that dreadful despondent lonely way that Harry knew all to well, and he wanted nothing more than to tell him that he shouldn’t be sorry, and that it was a wonderful thing. But Dumbledore’s words came back to him, and saying anything to Draco would only make it harder once they both realized that nothing more could happen.

“Me too, I guess.”

Malfoy looked at him again, and Harry wished he wouldn’t, they were too much alike in their loneliness to look at each other directly like this. “What for?”

“Nothing.”

Malfoy went back to looking at the painting on the wall, “You suck.”

The two wizards in the painting were playing chess, though neither seemed to be particularly engaged in the game. The way they avoided each other’s gazes, and watched very intently the haphazard way the pieces moved to kill each other. It was as if neither wanted to the other to know how desperately they enjoyed the simple act of being with another person, doing something seemingly mundane. Or maybe Harry was just reading too much into it, and the artist was just terrible at getting people to interact properly.

“Is my mother here?”

“No.”

Malfoy sighed, clearly discontent with the lack of information in Harry’s reply. “Well?” he said with impatience and venom that was probably inherited from his father. And Snape. Harry caught himself getting angry at Malfoy, and was reminded that he probably had almost just died, and didn’t need to be hassled. But it was so hard not to rise to the Slytherin’s arrogant baiting. There was something wrong with him, he was going crazy. Or was he already crazy?

“Potter. My mother. Where is she?” Malfoy was staring at him again, his dark lidded eyes holding their familiar contempt, but there was something else behind them, behind the icy shield.

“Are you going deaf? I swear.”

“Oh sorry.” Malfoy was still staring, waiting for him to continue. Harry sighed, as if it were the hardest thing in the world to explain to Malfoy that his mother and Snape had gone off to find someone. And there, he had already thought it out, so saying it would just be redundant, and he was quite tired. And someone would comeback to tell Malfoy everything anyway. Someone fresh and unburdened by the prospect of being alone again for quite sometime. Maybe forever. But yes, Malfoy had been through a traumatic experience, so maybe he didn’t deserve the silent treatment, even if they couldn’t really even be friends or whatever.

“Your mother… and Snape…” Harry was out of breath, and slouching in his chair. Malfoy just stared at him, blankly with one eye kind of raised. He understood that Harry was moping, but anyone could tell that his own patience was running low. Especially after nearly dying. And kissing the boy-who-lived. Quite tiring.

“They went… to fetch someone. Or something. To check on something? Find it out. Whatever. They were muttering.”

“They didn’t say when they would get back?”

“mmm… soon?”

“Very helpful. Have you ever thought about taking notes? It might help you remember things.”

Harry was silent for a few moments, before finally he mustered up the energy to ask “How can you have enough effort to be insolent right now… Malfoy?” An after thought, a habit, who else would he be talking too?

Malfoy turned back to the painting in a huff, but secretly he was mollified. And the tense thinking silence returned, and the clock that now read ‘early morning’ was steadily ticking away. Harry noticed that Malfoy slowly began to scrunch up his face until finally his lips were just a thin dark line.

“Thank you. Harry Potter. For saving me… last night… and the other time.” Another wave of thoughts began to undulate through Harry’s mind, but he was in no state to parse out what it meant in english, so he just sat there and stared mutely at the wall.

They weren’t really thinking anymore, just two boys laid out on a large flat rock in the middle of the ocean. They’d been put there by a terrible storm that was long and quiet, to the point where no one else really noticed it anymore, it had been going on so long. So now they just laid there, breathing occasionally and not really looking at anything. But sometimes they felt the salt spray against their face, and they squinted a bit, lest their eyes stung. It was like being dead, but they were only stranded. Harry watched the storm pass on into the distance, thinking slowly about what it was like to have his hair whip against his face, and Malfoy looked towards the next one vaguely tense about the prospect of lighting, in that abject primal fear of bad weather that people tend to have.

Dumbledore returned to find the boys this way, and remembered well that the present was an empty calm place when one thought like this, but it wasn’t productive. And he hoped that when the time came they would learn the value of all directions and perspectives. Fear and knowledge, in their proper places, at the behest of the present.
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Harry Potter and The Sanguine Brother's Bond