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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
- 11
- 12
- 13
For those of you who think this is going to get light and fluffy soon, this chapter shall serve as your disillusionment. Seriously though, I don't appreciate sudden love fics, so I hope to steer this one away from that.

I'm sorry if this can seem somewhat cryptic or non-sensical at times, but if you can hold everything together it should make hard, lasting connections down the line.

-ooo-

The air inside the elevator was stifling. Harry was already feeling woozy from not sleeping hardly at all during the night, combined with the frustration of dealing with… Malfoy. Needless to say, the enormous amount of body odor that was rolling of the stubby man beside him was not helping the situation.

His beard must have taken ages to grow, and though he stroked it often, and made sickening little loving noises, his attentions did nothing to calm its wild tangles. It was so greasy, Harry nearly lost the measly croissant that was the only thing occupying his stomach. Just looking into its deep, cavernous disgusting coils was enough to make his heart stop momentarily. Or so his melodramatic mind thought in this heat stupor. He had to go visit the minister too, what a joy.

If only Dumbledore could come with him, but yes, Draco needed him now more than he did. After all he wasn't really going to interact with the minister. It was like dealing with a particularly grumpy blast-ended skrewt, he supposed. You just had to remain calm and doge its blasts. Nothing you said really made a difference, unless you too could blow fire out of your anus. But it took many years of political training to be able to muster that kind of flaming bullshit, and it was too early in the morning for Harry to even attempt something that energetic.

"Nasty little trick don't you think Harry? I hope they find who ever put these sweltering charms on the elevators. The ink on the memos is starting to run."

Harry was momentarily shaken out of his stupor by Arthur's words, nodded, and then went back to brooding on the ugly man's beard.

They got off the elevator at the very top floor, after Arthur gave the attendant the letter of invitation they had been given, and the receipt that Eric the wand checker had given them. The ministry was more cautious, it seemed, now that Voldemort was being more boisterous than ever.

They even had to check in again with a slight brunette receptionist, who, Harry thought darkly, would hardly last three seconds against a death eater. So who were they trying to fool? How was a scrawny elevator attendant, and a retarded bitch supposed to defend the minister? Not that Harry really cared, except for the fact that they were all human.

"I'm afraid you'll have to wait here Arthur, only Harry has been requested, hmm." Said the bitch. She had a twinkle in her eye that made Harry want to vomit in her perfectly set hair. He surely was dark today, he thought morosely as he left Mr. Weasely at the reception desk.

"I'll be down in my office Harry, you remember where that is right?"

Harry nodded as he turned to knock on the large gilded door that lead into the minister's office.

Two large windows silhouetted Scrimgeour as Harry moved into the room. Harry noticed a small fire burning to his left, the only thing dynamic about the rather simple office. The shelves were lined with many books, and in the farthest corner, a pensive. It was far less extravagant then when Fudge had been in power, and for that Harry had to give the minister some respect. At least he was all business, no pomp.

"Ah, Harry ma' boy, please, do have a seat." The tawny lion of a man gestured towards the high backed seat to Harry's left. The place smelled of a sort of dusty oldness, that made Harry feel quite stagnant. Not that that was anything new to his mental state of late. He wasn't sure if he disliked it or not. It was probably just the circumstance, at this moment, with him destined to face off against The Dark Lord, he was probably going to be at odds with any kind of bureaucracy.

So all in all he probably would have gotten along with Scrimgeour, if it weren't for the circumstance. He tried to send a sort of apology across the space between them when their eyes met, for the stubborn evasiveness the minister was about to receive.

The minister, who was gently cradling his hands in front of his face, wrung them a bit, and a tired look came across his eyes. He sighed, seeming to understand that he wasn't going to get anything out of Harry.

It is said that two warriors can ascertain the thoughts of one another, with merely an exchange of blows. Harry wondered if wizards could do the same… with an exchange of looks. The minister sat back in his chair, resigned to the affair just as much as Harry was.

"I hope your summer has been well?"

"As good as any other I suppose."

"Well, you haven't been put on trial for anything, as far as I know."

"I'm sure Umbridge could find something if you asked, does she still have a job?"

"Umbridge? Yes, I do think so. I understand you two have a regrettable history."

"Yes."

"You no doubt remember then, the regrettable history of our last… meeting?"

Probably because he was so used to political maneuvering, and despite himself, Scrimgeour was leaning a little forward now, one eyebrow raised on his harsh face.

Harry sighed, and leaned onto his fist, his hope that this would be short and swift floating away like the steam that was gently rising out of the tea; the minister passed it across the desk along with sugar.

Harry, because he was feeling dark, and therefore a bit cheeky, took all but one of the sugar cubes and mixed them into his tea, looking the minister in the eye as he did so. The first sip was hot, and sugary, like drinking syrup right out of the plastic black lady, which Harry had of course only done once or twice when he'd snuck out of the cupboard late at night.

As he felt it travel down his throat, the minister sat back, deciding not to have a cup himself. Harry was delighted.

"Hmm, well. I see that you do. The reason that I have called you here mister Potter," He straightened his tie, "concerns he-who-must-not-be-named."

"I wouldn't have it any other way, minister."

"You must be aware then, that we recently found two death eaters. Right on our doorstep no less."

"Working hard as ever then?" He felt a little guilty, being harsh to a man in the harshest of situations. But no one could begin to understand what he himself was going through.

"Tell me. How did your spell signature get there?"

It was going to be blunt then.

"Tell me. How did those two get there?" Countered Harry.

"That. Is what I find myself wondering."

"Probably best not to worry about it. I'm sure someone here at the ministry could use the promotion for a job well done. Not to mention the media blitz."

The minister merely grunted, and looked sideways to a portrait of the previous minister, who was smiling stupidly while twirling his green bowler.

"Careful, or I might be forced to have a trial arranged with the department of underage wizardry."

"That sounds like a good use of both of our time. Once again, I'm sure Umbridge would go out of her mind with excitement. If she hasn't already gone out of it, that is." Harry was still leaning nonchalantly against his fist, but on the inside he was beginning to boil. He was well and truly through with being polite to anyone at this point, and how fucking dare the minister threaten him, when he had so much more to worry about than a petty fucking case of underage magic.

Harry took a sip of tea.

"No need to be difficult. I'm just looking out for the safety of my country."

Harry merely stared back at him, making every effort to look deadpan, hoping maybe the man's tie would catch aflame or something. He took a sip of tea.

"Well, I can see we are losing focus, so let me get right to it. I need you to tell me if you know anything about the activities of the death eaters. No, I demand it of you, Harry, for us, and for Britain. We know you and that Malfoy boy have been spending time together. The nurses say you were at the hospital all night. What has he told you?" Scrimgeour was leaning quite forward now, but seemed to catch himself, and leaned back into his chair, running a hand through his hair as he did so.

It was another one of those moments where Harry was nearly overwhelmed by his inner roilings. He took a deep breath, to keep from exploding. At least he was awake now.

"This is what I know. I know that somewhere, out there, in the receding mist of this morning, the world holds witness to the tail end of the worst kind of black magic. Every night they gather in the darkness of this country to scheme and plan not just my demise, but your own. I can't tell you what he is doing, right now, at this very moment. What I can tell you is this. And this I know for certain. He isn't sitting, having tea with a young wizard who has battled darkness more times than most could ever dream of. A young wizard who must face the most grueling task that can befall any man, knowing he must take the life of another to save his own. A young wizard who instead of preparing himself for this, must sit and receive petty threats from a man at the end of his wits. Do not take out your frustrations on me minister, and do not think that Draco has anything to do with his father."

There was a long silence after Harry was done speaking, wherein they both looked deep into each other's eyes, and the fear and insecurity that was written plain as day across the minister's face did nothing to calm the storm that was brewing in Harry's chest.

"Do not make me your enemy, Potter. I just need information."

"Before that happens then, perhaps consider that it is you who should be helping me. I am the one who is going to save us." To be honest he had no idea if he would really be able to save the world when the time came, but all this shit certainly wasn't going to help, so it was best have every one believe he knew what he was doing. "But I cannot do that alone."

Scrimgeour seemed to bristle for a moment, his tawny mane of hair ruffled slightly.

"I hope, Harry James Potter, that the next time we meet, you will have remembered your allegiance." He sat, his hands templed in front of his face, no longer eager to hear what Harry Potter said, but regretting this encounter all together. The minister waived his hand, indicating that Harry should leave.

Harry would have given anything to have been able to apparate out of the office immediately, leaving the desperate man to weep over the forsaken bond between the chosen one and the ministry. Instead he turned to leave silently, and was out of the office in a flurry of robes.

He passed by Daphne on his way out, and firmly resisted the temptation to scream at her. She smiled at him, and so to pass the time in the elevator, he imagined what she might have done if he'd thrown up in her hair.

He was getting darker by the minute, and he wasn't sure why. Hermione would probably say it had something to do with Draco. With Malfoy, rather.

And there she was, speak of throw up, and hair, and ugly, and she shall appear. As he stepped out of the sauna that was now the elevator, it was almost as if she was waiting for him. Her outfit was nauseatingly pink as usual, and she smelled like cats, also usual.

"Ahem, what a delight, mister Potter."

"Ah yes, quite. I'm feeling rather rude today, I should warn you."

"Then its not different from any other day is it then, dear? I do hope we've gotten over your habit of lying at the very least?"

"I see you haven't. I wonder, if you were to look in the mirror, which one of you is better at lying? The person you think you are, or your actual self?"

"Why I never- you best watch yourself. I may no longer be the high inquisitor, but I will be watching you most closely. I've already noticed your choice of friends seems to be getting rather... desperate... of late." She had begun to play with the necklace around her neck, and Harry watched with pure contempt as she twirled it sinisterly between her fat sausages.

"I seem to remember that most people at the ministry have actual jobs to do, or have they demoted you so severely since your little trip with the centaurs, that you have nothing better to do than stalk me and collect copious amounts of wittle kitty plates with the spare change that they pay you in?"

A look of pity crossed Umbridge's face, and she reached out a hand, as if you pat him on the shoulder. "I'm sorry dear, that you had to turn out like this. Having no parents, and being raised by muggles. Its no wonder you're a raving lunatic."

Harry was laughing now, his rage turning to crazed amusement, once again laughing at the absurdity of his life. He turned and walked away from her, down the stuffy hallway towards Arthur's office, laughing even more as he heard her trademark 'tut tut' entering the elevator. The pink besotted queefer.

"My, my, Harry. We are getting quite the sharp tongue aren't we? Best be careful, lest people think you are… becoming… your own breed… of darkness."

The intrusion was followed by a high mirthless laughter, and the familiar and terrible pain from the scar on his forehead. Harry clutched at it uselessly with his hand, leaning against the wall as he swung dangerously near to falling on the floor.

He was vaguely aware of himself sliding down the old canvas covered wall, the only real sensation was the fact of the carpet getting steadily closer to his face. And he began to see the slight variations in its neutral tones, just about the time everything grew dark, including the fibres of the carpet, just as the fibres of his soul?

Everything was, as usual, fading to black in his life, though as he fell he began to feel battered and hassled by something. Just as he was about to fade into the infinite darkness, something would tug at him, jostle him a bit so that he floated just above the precipice.

"Harry! Harry don't you fall asleep. Stay with me!"

How terribly cliché. At least it wasn't absurd to be in a movie, lots of normal things were in movies. Harry could almost see Arthur patting his cheek, trying to wake him. What a bother, darkness seemed so much quieter, and less staged. Less melodrama.

Mr. Weasely must have made him drink something, because he awoke suddenly, very alert and buzzing. All of it, everything, was so very intense for a few moments. Like walking out of a dark room into the sunlight. Even the fibres of the carpet were far too much for his frazzled and throbbing mind.

"Come on Harry, stay with me until we can get away from here. Just keep your eyes open until we get to the emergency apparition room."

He was dragged along the hallway, back towards the elevator, all the time everything swirling about him in delirious noisy retardation. A door flashed into his conciousness, and Harry vaguely felt himself slam against it for a moment, as Arthur opened it.

"Sorry about that Harry."

Harry wasn't sure if he grunted in reply, because the next thing he knew was his mind exploding with a final throb as his stomach was blown out all around him and then sucked back up his spine and they were off.

-ooo-

They landed harshly, and like the cacophonous beat of a disfunctional drum, St. Mungo's hospital for the magically fucked up came blasting into Harry's peeled open brain.

It was too much, to fucking much. There was so much walls, so much floors, so much smells, so much much much much. Much much much much. Much muchness much muchy mutch mutchierfuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

He must have thrown up. He felt a little better now, like his head had only been partially smashed up and chewed out through someone's asshole. And his nose was filled with a most acrid smell. It was the only logical answer.

But since up was down lately, maybe he was secretly just a lonely mountain that had taken a stumble and tasted the sweetness of the ocean and a lips named Draco, and was being dragged into a hospital gown now, and laid on the bed to stew in the darkness that was laying at the bottom of that ocean, and drowning in the prospect of being a lonely mountain forever. Because really even the highest peaks were dredged up from the bottom.

"You should be fine now, Harry, get some rest."

That was Dumbledore's voice. Something wooden prodded his scar and warm tingles suffused his body from the feet up, until he was positively giddy with delight and faded waif like into a dreamless sleep.

-ooo-

When Harry had left in the morning, Malfoy was not sure. He had slipped into a state of mental blankness after waking up and realizing that he wasn't dead. He looked around the room, noting the subtle relief on the floral print wall paper that lined the room. Ordinarily he would have been disgusted, but still all he could really feel was neutral. Except with Potter. All it took was one wild lock of that boy's hair to set him off on an emotionally taxing ride of positive and negative mind fucks. But they kept him awake, and lucid. For the most part

His mind was wandering. He thought vaguely about having not seen his mother. But then his eyes fell again upon the floral printed walls, and he wondered what it might be like to run his hand across it. To get his eyes so close that only he and that wall were in focus. Only he and that wall existed and he could touch it, and feel the tiny rise and fall of the texture beneath the skin of his hand running up and down it.

But alas he was melting, that's what his body told his mind when he though about getting out of bed. Its too hard, your butt is all fused to the sheets and you'd probably just bleed everywhere. Besides you'd just be disappointed by the feel.

He was trying to convince himself this so that his crippling condition didn't seem so bad. At least he was alive even if he couldn't do so much as grope the wall paper.

He felt bad and good about that, so to keep himself from slipping under into the large tired space of mental silence that was terrifying in its expansiveness. To keep himself from slipping.

Slipping… he had to keep himself from slipping. Oh. Lookat that… the wall paper. Has. Flowers. Are they moving, or am I slipping…. What was I doing to keep myself from slipping. Slipping. Slippang. Slippanguhwa. Sulipanugunwala. Spoolermuhgruner ing. Spluuuuhuh. Sploohuh.

And he was shaking his head back and forth, getting dizzy and nauseous but keeping above the slippering. All the while mumbling these nonsense things. And if he crapped himself, he wouldn't be surprised. It would probably be a little funny. Just like the face of that nurse who just passed, and caught him drooling a little bit.

He tried to imagine what it might've been like for her, to see him this way. He tired for quite a few minutes, before he decided it was impossible. He didn't remember what sanity tasted like. So how was he supposed to reconstruct her mind if he didn't care about shitting the bed. She probably did.

She would probably die and fall to pieces and poop herself again in death. Didn't people do that. Wouldn't it be funny if he had actually died and they just left him here sitting in his bed. Poop. Pewp. Poonpte- AH. Stop that. The indignity.

Draco blinked, and smiled, and laughed and his head felt light. Finally he'd had a strong thought. His will was returning. But still his smile was rather weak despite his internal vibrancy. And he thought he might have drooled on himself again. Shouldn't there be someone to wipe this up? YES! The indignity. Keep it up and you'll be drooling over by the wall in no time, thought Draco to himself.

He crossed his arms in triumph and finally managed to close his mouth, the blonde nurse walked by again, and Draco winked at her. The look of self satisfaction on his face must have been quite the spectacle, because she walked by again, this time with a friend and they both giggled just as they passed.

This amused him for awhile, and he explored the limits of his motor skills as they slowly returned, and only had a a few brief moments of panic when he thought he might slip back under into boredom. Which was really death. Even if it wasn't death, it had to be worse.

Existing, but being denied all the things that went along with being human, but still yearning to be so. That was the truest suffering. And he had suffered it. Both insanity and in sanity. Under the ice, and floundering above it like a normal person. Though, normal people didn't feel up the wall paper. Or want to.

The nurses walked by again, and Malfoy wondered for a time if they had ever even felt the slightest echo of a crack running spider like across the lake, brought back to them on the howling wind. Could they even feel the wind... was it a privilege to be cold?

The wizards in the painting, the ones that he (and probably Harry) had watched for awhile had given up on the game entirely, and they were now staring at each others beards with great ferocity.

They probably knew a lot about being cold. People who played chess regularly usually knew a lot about being cold. Draco supposed one of the benefits was knowing how to button up your coat really well, when you finally found something to shelter you from the cold.

Draco sat, stewing on how every great and terrible thing in life was at once a burden and a privilege and people, most of the time, just existed on the fine line of not being aware of either. Like the middle of the coin that no one ever cares about, but in this case most people spend their time finding the meaning there.

He must have dozed off and started drooling again, because when he awoke to commotion in the hallway, the two wizards in the painting were trying very hard to look like they were doing something other than staring at him. It was like a bunch of people were using their voices to slap him, because all the sudden a bunch of people were slapping him with their voices. Slapping him so hard that he wished he could slip under.

Because as much as he had been sort of halfway yearning for the company of other people, no one enjoyed getting slapped in the face.

They were still slapping him.

He shut his eyes.

Opened them.

They were still slapping him.

He drooled a little bit.

Shut his eyes.

They were slapping him from closer now, and in came a bleary eyed looking Harry Potter, with vomit running all down his front and drooling just as much (encouraging!). His eyes were all bleary, and no matter how much Malfoy tried to jiggle his still rather unresponsive body, Potter wouldn't look at him.

Draco wasn't sure what he wanted with Potter, perhaps to ask him about the weather. If he thought it was cold. Just typical things like that. That normal people ask. Worrying if he needed a sweater. Did he feel the wallpaper?

He shut his eyes again. They were peeling Harry out of his clothes, and Draco thought he'd seen Harry's naked form. But no matter how many times he replayed the memory of the last time he'd opened his eyes to drool on himself, all he could see was green. Green eyes set aflame around the edges. Crying a little bit, and if they'd been focused on him, he probably would have melted again. Or melted more, because he was still melted from before.

He'd gotten so used to the cold that room temperature was unbearable, and he melted. In a neutral way. They made straight jackets for this type of thing. Where had the lucidity from this morning gone? He was sure if he could just ask Harry about the wall paper, or the wizards who were secretly interested in each other while they played chess, it would come back.

He rolled his head over, towards Harry's bed, which hadn't been there before, but replaced a bunch of nasty sitting things that people had been using. Oh no, those were just in the corner now. Chairs. They were called. At least, people who slapped each other said things like that to get their pain across.

Draco tried to lift his arm, wondering if he would ever be able to slap anyone again when he realized that people were actually slapping in his direction this time, and he tried very hard to focus on making out the actual words of what they were saying.

It was Dumbledore, he leaned in close and slapped him softly, "Don't worry they will all be quiet in a moment, and then we can go back to having our chat."

Confusion, in its plainest from, must have been written all over his face in giant glowing letters, because Dumbledore was chuckling. Had he been talking out loud this entire time?

"No Draco, only occasionally. Though I must say I am quite adept at non verbal communication."

Draco drooled a little bit, and he looked down to note that there wasn't any drool on his gown. But. He'd been sure of it. Reality was fucking insane. He looked over to Dumbledore, who winked and waggled his arm a little bit, flashing Draco his wand.

"I'm sorry Draco, I figured you might worry about the indignity of the situation, later, when you are fully aware again."

Draco made a low grumbling noise. (Thank you. You're being awfully direct. Hardly cryptic at all.)

"It's my pleasure Draco, and I figured now is not the time to make life lessons out of putting on your jacket."

Draco gurgled a little bit. (I almost didn't catch that. Good thing I know what wearing winter robes is like. What's wrong with him…. ?)

"He's been a bit irregular today. Had a bit of an episode."

"Hunh" it was the closest to speech he'd had since the morning. (it always comes back to shit in the end.)

"Not that kind of irregular Draco."

"Oh" on the inside, Draco's mind did a little back flip. He could almost feel the little men inside his brain congratulating themselves on a job well done. Settle down you little fuckers, lets work on touching that wall paper.

He must have said it out loud, because the hallway walking nurse looked over from where she was attending to Harry. Though this time, behind the smile, there was a flash of something else. But, like a feet seen only at the bottom of the curtain, Draco could not identify the men inside her mind. They seemed familiar though, nice aristocratic shoes.

"Alright Draco, I think you've had enough excitement for a little while, don't you think? We'll all have a little chat when your mother gets back."

Someone was taking off his toes and getting his insides all warm. And people kept missing when they tried to slap him, and Draco laughed as he floated away.
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Harry Potter and The Sanguine Brother's Bond