Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

The Art of Shadow Boxing	By : Tommy-Lane Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 11212 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any charactors from the books and I am not making any money off of this

Chapter List
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                                                                                                                            Chapter 2
                                                                                                                     Eyes That Know Me

The passing of seven years hasn't seemed to touch him at all. He's still short and a tad gangly, his ebony hair still a complete curling disaster. Even the horrid round classes framing his bright green eyes are the same. And he's staring at me with such a familiar mix of emotions that play themselves so clearly across his face that I can almost forget for a moment all the time that's gone by since I last saw him.

It could still be that cold winter day, when blood was spilled and lives ended, where it all turned to hell.

He fidgets nervously, his wand tapping into his leg as he glances over his shoulder, seeking out monsters in the darkness. "We should go." Potter says as his head whips back, his feet moving towards me with quick light steps that he could only ever manage while in the heat of battle.

"We?" I narrow my eyes as he reaches me, trying my best to ignore the blurry thoughts coursing through my head in a stampede of unnamed emotions. Not to mention the actual pain from my injuries that are starting to come screaming to my attention and looking down I see a steady stream of blood flowing down my side. Timothy must have gotten a cut in before I flattened him. It's strange how adrenaline can make such searing pain unnoticeable.

His gaze follows mine and I feel myself sway with the sudden force of my battered body, everything smashing into me so quickly and intensely it's all I can do to remain standing. Then his shoulder is pressing up and under my arm, his hand grasping mine and swinging it around his neck.
"Let go." I gasp out even though I think I might actually fall over if he does.

Because this night is all too much. I lost the most important fight of my career all because Saint Potter decided to pop up in a sketchy dive club in the heart of Thailand and fuck with my head. And for the love of god what the hell is he doing here anyway?! When you walk a tight rope to the end of civilized life you shouldn't have to worry about running into your past.

"This way." He drags me forward, ignoring my command as he maneuvers us through the dark street, his head turning to catch every little noise that rises from the shadows.

My body leans heavily into his warm solid form despite my desperate desire to get as far away from him as I can. My head is thick and swimming and his smell is circling through me in an upending way, all the while the nausea in the pit of my stomach is threatening to make me vomit as we slip through the back allies with my blood smearing its trail behind me.

I keep my mouth firmly clenched shut as I focus all my thoughts and energy on placing one foot in front of the other. I have no idea where he's taking me but at the moment anything is better than passing out again in the middle of the alley waiting for Madame Safiya's men to find me. And getting to safety has to be my number one priority, I'll deal with Harry bloody Potter's sudden re-entrance back into my life after that.

"Through here." His quiet voice breaks through my ragged breathing and I pry my gaze from my feet, glancing quickly around the unfamiliar neighborhood. How far have we gone exactly? I probably should have been paying more attention. Then again it's a bit of a miracle I haven't blacked out yet, the human body can only take so much before snapping.

I don't have any longer to think on it though because he's helping me hop up the three jagged steps leading into a dingy hotel with a blinking red sign that lights its name across the deserted street. He leads me down a disgusting carpeted hallway before propping his hip against the wall while he simultaneously tries to hold me up and rifle around in his trousers pocket.

"Just one second..." He mutters under his breath and I reach out and press my palm into the wall before me, using it as leverage to drag my body out of the distorted slump I'd fallen into.

I breathe heavily through my nose as I press my forehead into the back of my splayed hand. I can't black out now, I need to hold on until I can at least fit a few pieces of the puzzle together. I count my breaths, in one, out one, in two, out two, in three, out three...the numbers building in the forefront of my mind as they push away the deepest spikes of pain and sickness.

Control, it's all about control and rhythm.

"Draco." Potter touches my back and I manage to cling to the rhythm of the air flowing through my lungs and out again, effectively keeping myself from flinching away. "Alright there?" He asks.

I snort because anyone with a set of eyes can see that I am clearly not and yet here he is asking if I'm okay like we're kids again. "Yes Potter just peachy." I sneer, bringing my other hand against the wall to further brace myself as the floor jerks violently beneath my feet.

I hear him sigh as he fits a key into the lock and with a soft click the door swings open, his shoulder nudging up under my arm again as he pulls me into the room with him. My hand automatically presses back into the long cut across my side in hopes to stem some of the blood flow as I glance around his room. It's small, only one front room with a hard bed, a tiny table with two wooden chairs, and a low wardrobe with a small squat telly resting atop it. There's a door off to the side that I can only assume leads to the bathroom and from the looks of it Potter's been here for a while. There are clothes everywhere as if he never picks up after himself and the little table is scattered with empty takeout containers.

Apparently he is still as much a slob as ever.

I bite my tongue against commenting on the unsanitary conditions and allow him to help me sit on the edge of the bed instead. He mutters something under his breath and disappears behind me, leaving me alone for a few brief seconds which are immediately seized up with a whirlwind of questions now that I've sidestepped the immediate danger. But there isn't time to sort through them, to figure out from which angle I want to attack from before he's back, two tumbler glasses in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other. He places them on the table and soaks the glasses half full, handing one to me before dragging a chair forward and sinking down into it.

I hold the smooth glass in my hand, staring down into the light amber liquid - Potter's knees just at the edge of my vision, demanding my attention. I take a drink, savoring the steady burn for a moment before looking up and meeting his gaze. "What are you doing here?"

He's leaning far back in his chair, his legs stretched out in front of him as he sips on his drink, a curious glint in his eyes. "Well I heard there was supposed to be quite a fight tonight so I thought I'd go." He shrugs, a smile at the corner of his mouth as his eyes stray to my hands and I realize I'm still wearing my cotton wraps. "Never thought I'd see you in the ring."

But that explanation doesn't completely add up, if only for the fact that it doesn't address the most pressing question. "No Potter, why are you here in Thailand?"

He cocks his head with a thoughtful expression, one I can't completely read which means he's either actually figured out how not to let his every emotion shine across his face or I'm more close to slipping away than I thought. He places his glass carefully back down and draws his wand from his pocket, every muscle in my body freezing up in an instant.
"Let’s get you fixed up before you give me the third degree, your bleeding all over the bed." He rises to his feet and I involuntarily jerk back, his steps faltering. "Don't worry, I've gotten better at healing spells."

My eyes fix on his wand and maybe I'm being idiotic but I can't stand the thought of his magic pulsing through me. I've lived so long without any sort of magic that I'm not sure I can take it in the state I'm in, for it would surely ruin me, completely rip apart everything I've spent all these years building up. "Don't, no magic." I finally tell him.

Confusion settles in his eyes as he rakes a hand through his unruly hair. "You need help Draco, would you really rather drive for a few hours to find a hospital?"

I tip my drink back, taking a long swallow before shaking my head. "I can do it. Do you have some ice and a sewing kit?"

"A sewing kit?"

I shift myself on the bed with as little movement as possible, removing my hand for a moment to glance at the gash beneath. Bloody hell I hate getting stitches. "Yes a sewing kit and some matches if you've got them." When he doesn't answer I shift my gaze up to find him staring at me silently with an incredulous look. "What?" I demand, feeling my stomach churn at the thought of what I'm going to have to do and the lightness in my head is starting to get the best of me.

"Nothing." He looks down at his feet for a moment before giving me an almost sad smile. "You're just so different since I..." He trails off and shrugs again.

I look down as I feel a muscle twitch in my jaw. "Time will do that Potter."

He nods and disappears into the bathroom, emerging moments later with two towels under his arm, a wet washcloth in one hand and what looks like a small shaving kit in the other. He dumps them onto the bed and pulling his wand again quickly transfigures the kit into a travel size sewing box - complete with my choice of thread color. I do my best to ignore the tugging sensation that simple spell causes to spark through me and watch him quietly as he moves over to the mini fridge in the corner and begins filling a hand towel with ice cubes.

He sits down next to me and looks over his gathered supplies before biting his lip and crinkling his nose, his glasses bobbing up on his face. "Right so where do we start?"

I pick up the sewing kit, flip it open with one hand and balance it on my knee before grasping the needle and a spool of black thread. "Matches?" I ask.

"Er yeah." He leans back and shoves his hand into his pocket, pulling out a dark green lighter.

I hand him the needle and thread, his eyes wide with uncertainty. "Use the lighter on the needle." I instruct him, catching the flicker of a flame before I lean forward and swipe the whiskey bottle off the table. Pouring the alcohol over my fingers, I watch as it gathers the blood and dirt to flow in a dark red wave onto my knees and bare feet. Taking a deep breath and holding it in, I lean over a bit and splash some on the knife wound, a deep growl of pain forcing itself through my throat at the searing burn it causes.
"Shit." I grind out, my eyes squeezed shut.

"How'd you get that?" Potter asks as soon as my breathing evens back out.

"Knife." I say simply, taking the sterilized and threaded needle from him as I command my hands to stop shaking.

His hand suddenly covers mine, stopping its descent towards my side. "Are you sure Draco? I could...it's a simple spell, it would only take a second."
I shake my head and jerk my hand from his, fixing my eyes on the deep cut running across my side and pressing the needle quickly through my damaged skin. I hiss and pull the thread through, the tremor in my hand returning without my consent.
"Here, I'll do it. Lay back." Potter says, pushing me gently against the bed and carefully taking the needle from me.

One of his warm hands stays pressed against my abdomen as he crouches on his knees over me, his eyes narrowed as he works on sewing my flesh back together. I stare at the crease in his forehead and go back to counting my breaths, doing my best to ignore the tugging with every stitch and the way his fingers twitch slightly against me with each of my minute flinches.

"So Muay Thai huh?" He glances quickly at me as he pauses to push his glasses back up his nose. "How did that happen?"

"Needed something to do didn't I?" I shift my gaze to the ceiling and trace the peeling stucco patterns. It dips up and down, round in a curving semi-circle, and up and down...

He chuckles so very lightly I almost miss it. "Yes but Martial Arts? Really Draco you have to admit how crazy that sounds."

"I don't see the humor in it." I retort even though I actually do, but he doesn't need to know that.

He tugs hard on the thread and I feel the gash burn and press together. "Sorry." He mutters at my long hiss. "And I seriously doubt that, I mean no one would believe me if I told them you were a fighter."

"Well the point is moot since you're not going to tell anyone." I say harshly, letting him know in no uncertain terms that he is not to mention seeing me to anyone.

He doesn't meet my eye as he mutters a quiet, "I won't." He leans over me and plucks the pair of miniature scissors from the sewing box, snipping the thread and securing it closed. I notice his fingers are stained with my blood as he grabs the wet washcloth but he doesn't clean himself. Instead he scoots up the bed and grazes it over my jaw with a look of deep concentration - his lip caught between his teeth.

I recoil from the touch of the soft fabric and see to my surprise the cloth tinged red when he pulls back slightly. "I can do it myself." Pushing his hand away I struggle until I'm sitting up once more, unable to take lying vulnerable on my back anymore. Snatching the towel from him I press the cool end against my lip where I can feel that the skin is cracked open. "Now that I'm not bleeding all over your precious bed anymore you can start explaining what you’re doing here."

He gives me a look and grabs the make shift ice pack, touching it lightly to my split cheek. "Stay still." He orders as I try to move away again, his free hand curling around the back of my head to keep me where I am.

"I said I can do it." I snap, annoyed that all my injuries have finally sapped the last of my strength leaving myself trapped in his touch.

"Yes I know you can." He says evenly. "Doesn't mean you shouldn't accept help though." He smiles softly, his gaze moving up to fix into mine and I feel my breath get lost in my throat.

He's too close and the swirling shadows in his eyes keep sucking me in and severing my ability to keep count of anything, no matter how much I try and it's starting to make my head split in an entirely horrific way. A convulsing panic storms through me and I feel myself being sucked down, spiraling towards where I cannot go.

"...Draco?" His voice sweeps through my ears but it's not enough, there's no repeat in it and I sway slightly, my hand reaching up and pressing against his chest to steady myself. My fingers find his heartbeat, fast and sure, and I focus all of myself on it. The thump, thump, thump eases through my palm and into me, slowly leeching out the rising insanity. His mouth is moving but his words don't penetrate through the fog in my brain and all I can do is shake my head and press my hand more firmly into his chest. The beat increases in its count as I stare into his darkening eyes and I match each breath to every thump, sinking into Potter's own internal rhythm.

After several aching minutes my head drops forward, his hand sliding down to grasp my neck as the world around me begins to reform out of delusion and back into reality. I stay perfectly still as I wait for his beat to completely set itself in me before carefully dropping my hand uselessly to the bed between us. I draw in a shaky breath and try not to think about how close I had just come to losing it. I haven't had an episode this bad for a few years now and its left me feeling stretched beyond possibility and exhausted.

"Are you okay? Maybe you should go to the hospital..." He says softly.

I shake my head, more than happy that I can play my slip of sanity on my injuries for the time being. "No it's fine, just need to sleep."

He doesn't look like he believes me but thankfully doesn't press the matter. He simply nods and quietly removes everything off the bed as I stand stiffly, intent on scrubbing the blood and sweat from my body before trying to fall asleep. But before I'm even a step away he's muttering a quick cleaning spell at the bed and my hand shoots out, latching onto his forearm as his magic washes sickeningly over me again.

I have got to get away from him.

When I finally manage to open my eyes it's to find him staring at me with wide worried eyes, his mouth slightly open on a silent question. I don't give him a chance to voice it though and with a forced little smile I pry my fingers off his arm and move as quick as I can into the bathroom. Sinking down onto the cold tile floor I have a completely foreign urge to cry that is no doubt stemming from the insanity that has been today. Instead of letting the torrents fall I drop my fingers and trace over the little grooves in the floor as my head leans back against the wall.

This morning everything was as good as it ever could be, I had something I loved, I had everything I needed. I was safe. And then Harry Potter had to show up after seven bloody years and send me careening into disaster. And now I have no idea what to do, where do I go from here? I slip down the wall as my broken body and mind slowly give into my pure exhaustion and it's only a matter of minutes before I'm passing into unconsciousness - Potter's heartbeat still pulsing through my fingers.

****

I awake to my body heavy and stiff and throbbing in an all-encompassing pain. With an inaudible groan I press my face into the pillow beneath me, trying to shut out the stream of sunlight I can see filtering in through behind my eyelids. The blanket resting over me feels thick and irritating against my sore muscles and I shift restlessly before everything comes flooding back and I freeze.

Oh fuck.

Cracking one eye open reluctantly, hoping against hope that it had all been a truly horrible nightmare, the room comes slowly into focus and there's no such luck. Because I'm not at home, in my own little flat, in my own bed. Oh no, I'm in Potter's crappy hotel room, in his bed, with said man sitting next to me in the rickety chair with his feet stretched out and resting on the table - a thick leather bound book propped up on his legs, head bent, pen poised in the air before dipping to scratch across the open page.

His hair is wet and sitting atop his head in an almost bizarre slicked back manner as if he hasn't been able to stop running his hand through it. He's wearing a simple charcoal gray button up shirt, the sleeves rolled up past his elbows, the dark jeans slightly too long and hanging bunched up about his bare feet. He lodges the end of the pen between his teeth and pushes his hand through his hair as he flips back a couple of pages, a small smile tugging up around the slim intrusion as his fingers pause to run over something on the page he's stopped on.

I swallow around my throbbing throat, trying to figure out a way to extract myself from the situation as simply and quickly as possible when I remember that this is not where I fell asleep. I shoot upright and immediately regret it with a loud curse, one hand going to grip my pounding head and the other to clasp over the painful stitches in my side.

"You probably shouldn't do that." Potter states so very helpfully and I glare at him through my messy hair as I pull in a sharp breath, trying to ignore the purely amused look he's giving me.

"What am I doing here?" I demand.

He cocks his head and squints his eyes, his hands snapping shut the bulging book with a muted thud. "You don't remember?"

Oh I bloody remember. "No, what am I doing here?" I poke the bed violently to emphasis my point. His confusion just grows as he stares at me which only serves to infuriate me more. Is it really so mental that I should expect to wake up where I fell asleep? Maybe I'm overreacting but the little slip in my memory is something that terrifies me. I need predictable, I need what I remember to be all there is, I can't cope with anything else.

"You passed out in the bathroom." He says slowly, looking behind himself as if there's some ax murderer standing there making me spout nonsense.

Oh if only he knew.

"Yes I know, so why am here?"

"I...I moved you." He flushes lightly and his hand is back in his hair. "Thought you'd be more comfortable."
My eyes catch sight of my black warps folded neatly on the table beside the half empty whiskey bottle and I glance quickly down at my naked hands. I don't remember taking them off. My heart rate picks up and my fingers start frantically tapping out a repeating pattern on my thigh.
He's going to kill me. He's going to bloody kill me with all this 'helping'!
"Do you have a concussion?" He asks suddenly, his feet dropping to the floor as he leans towards me.

"No." My heart slows and I carefully curl my fingers into my palm.

"You're just acting...odd..."

"Odd? I can't imagine why Potter." I say sarcastically. "It isn't as if you’ve just popped up in the middle of nowhere to ruin everything singlehandedly."

"Me? What did I do?" He sputters and he looks so thoroughly confused that I almost feel bad about lashing out at him. Almost.

I sigh and push my hair off my forehead. "Look Potter I appreciate you helping last night but I'm just having a hard time comprehending all this." Which is a gigantic understatement but I can't very well get into everything with him now. Or ever.

"Yeah I get that." He looks down at his book and wraps his fingers tightly around it in a gesture that seems as if he's trying to draw strength from it. "I've been...traveling." He stops again and chews on his lip for a moment, his thumb running absentmindedly over the worn cover. "It's been...awhile."

"How long?" I ask and his fingers start to tremble subtly but there's no pattern, no rhythm to it. It’s just a reaction overtaking him and for some reason it strikes me as utterly odd. Then to my complete shock he pulls out a packet of cigarettes, jiggles one free and places it between his lips. The sharp thrust of the lighter flicking to life sparks in the quiet room and he brings the flame to the white stick with a shaking hand.

He inhales deeply, the tip catching and smoldering red. "Few years now." He says on an exhale, a gray stream of smoke accompanying his words.

"You smoke?" I try to leave the disgust out of my voice but it's there anyway. He shrugs and takes another long pull from it. I shake my head and try to banish all thoughts about how ridiculous it seems for Perfect Potter to be a nicotine addict. I definitely can't be one to judge, not with all my obsessive counting and pattern seeking - smoking being a much more widely run vice. "Why have you been traveling for so long?" I ask after clearing my throat, my eyes glued to the cloud drifting through his slightly parted lips.

He scratches his head and I realize that his tremor has stopped. Was it just a slight withdrawal reaction? "Needed to get away." He doesn't meet my eye and it feels like that's not all, like there's another piece to the puzzle that he's holding back from me.

But I don't press it, who I am to demand he spill his secrets? Besides as soon as I figure out how the hell I'm going to get out of this mess with Madame Safiya alive I'll be back to Dray Evans and Harry Potter will sink once more into the deepest corner of my mind. Locked away where I don't have think about him or see him or feel him and his magic.

"Golden Trio all broken up then?" I bite out and I know I'm starting to take out all of my trauma from the last day on him but I can't seem to help it. He just looks must to relaxed, too at home in this little infested hole, everything about the way he's lounging in front of me is just...off...

I mean he's bloody smoking!

He laughs a little and the sound shoots straight through me in an odd sort of way that makes me a tad uncomfortable. "Still calling us that huh? Bit inaccurate though don't you think?"

"No I don't think so. I think it's a perfect description."

He tilts his head and plucks the cigarette from his mouth, placing his elbows on his knees and leaning into them. "Really? Even after all that time...suppose you were always stubborn when it came to them though."

"I am not stubborn Potter." I shoot back, swinging myself off the bed with as much grace as I can manage. It's painful settling my weight on my feet but he's starting to go where I simply cannot tread so this is my signal to leave. I push back the memories that try to ram out of their carefully locked box as I hobble past him and towards the bathroom. "I am simply logical."

"Sure Draco." Potter laughs again and I slam the door shut between us to drown out the infuriating noise.

I had forgotten how easily he could get under my skin and I lean heavily back against the door, sucking my breaths in and out slowly and evenly. When the buzzing in my nerves finally dissipates I move to the sink and stare at myself in the mirror.
Holy hell, I look like I've been run over by a truck.
My left eye is colored black and blue, my cheek split open and swollen, and the corner of my bottom lip is busted. I suppose I'm lucky to be alive though, considering the damage Shen's bare punch could do at full swing and add the knotted rope wraps to that and well...yes definitely lucking to be breathing.

My gaze travels down my body to take in the light bruising around my abdomen and the angry red gash slashed through with black thread. Thankfully it doesn't look infected but it's going to be a pain to heal and I'm going to have to be very careful with it. Stripping the dirty shorts off my body, I turn the shower on and step under the scorching flow, gasping aloud as it pelts into me. Steam rises quickly throughout the room and I breathe my first easy breath since this all started, wrapping the security of the hot fog and steady flow of water around me.

Its beautiful white noise, dripping with perfect silence.

Tipping my face up into the spray I brace my hands against the wall as I set about trying to form a plan and the next few immediate steps. The real dilemma is whether I should go face Madame Safiya and her vengeful wrath and try to work something to my advantage or do I run, never to look back.
My stomach sinks at the thought of starting all over...again. I can't imagine giving up the fight, can't imagine slipping from country to country again, seeking something to capture my senses. Even the thought of never seeing Donnie and Caleb again is making me feel rather distressed, which I wasn't expecting. Maybe I had let them in more than I thought.

My forehead smacks into the shower wall with a groan of frustration. And just what the hell I am going to do about Potter? There's still a part of me that wants to know what he's doing here, why he was at the club last night - I want more of an explanation than 'traveling'. And then there's the part that just wants him to leave and fast, and I know I need to heed at least some of that desire because I've haven't felt this vulnerable and near breaking this much - this intensely - in a very very long time. But of course that's not all, no nothing is ever simple when it comes to the boy wonder, because warring for its own voice to be heard is a third part of me that's trying to pull me towards him. Trying to get me to unleash my carefully guarded locked box and step back into the mayhem.

Then there's the question of just what Potter is expecting. Will he be perfectly happy to just let me walk out the door never to see him again? Or will he demand something more? Will his need to always be the savior overtake him and make him stick to my side until he knows I'm 'safe'?
All these thoughts swim around my head in an endless circle and I'm no closer to a solid decision when the water starts to turn cold and I reluctantly turn it off. Stepping out of the stall I grab the soft towel and as gently as possible dry off, realizing that I really need a bandage to cover the stitches, actually should have put one on last night.

Flipping the towel back onto the bar, my eyes catch sight of the little neatly folded pile of clothes resting on the floor just inside the door. I glare at the offending stack, knowing Potter had to have placed them there while I was showering but I didn't see him, didn't even hear him open the door a crack to push them through - which I'm near positive that is what he did.
I tell myself that it's fine, that it's a nice gesture since all I'd had to put back on would be my shorts again, but it doesn't work. Instead my vision surges out and I squeeze my eyes shut, reaching my hand out reflexively, letting it run into the first thing it comes in contact with. Which happens to be the counter, with a sharp edge of long ago faded tiling and I run my fingers over it quickly - up one two three four, down one two three four...

Everything rights itself in a few moments and I set my jaw as I reach down and grasp the waiting clothing. I pull on the black jeans that are too big around the waist but somehow are just long enough - does he seriously still not buy his right size? Then with slow and careful movements I manage to get the simple white tee-shirt on. Glancing once more into the mirror I start fiddling with my hair, combing my fingers through it and trying to make it lie just right before I suddenly realize what I'm doing and who I'm doing it for.

"Bloody hell." I mutter under my breath, forcing my hand away from my silver locks and going to find Potter. Which of course isn't hard, seeing as he's still sitting in the same chair, with the same book in his lap, just outside the bathroom door.

He looks up as I enter and his eyes shift down my body for a flash before he's grinning at me and rising from his seat. "Sit down." He points at the other chair as he starts emptying the contents of a bag that I'm sure wasn't there before. "You look better."

I sit rigidly, starting a bit at his cheery tone and strange words. Better? Seriously is he blind? I look like someone tried to make scrambled eggs out of my face. I glance quickly at the whiskey bottle but no, he hasn't been getting drunk while I was occupied.
"You must have a different definition of that word than." I drawl and am forever grateful that it comes out in just the tone I was shooting for. No more nervous or breathy or angry or shaking with insanity, yes it's good to be able to speak to him like myself. His arm pauses halfway out of the bag, a smile twitching on his lips and I look away.

On second thought best continue to stay away from familiarity.

"I mean you still look like hell but better." I raise both my eyebrows at him in an incredulous look as he drags the chair towards me and plops down into it, sitting so close his knees are nearly pressed into mine. He shifts the things he's holding to lay across his lap and I look down to see that it's a small pile of gauze and medical tape. "Oh you know what I mean." He mutters.

"Do I now?" Although I think I do know what he means.

"Just shut up and lift your shirt." He stacks several long rectangles of gauze atop each other before picking it up as one. I open my mouth and he rolls his eyes. "And yes I know you can do it perfectly fine by yourself but seriously Draco just keep that mouth of your shut and do it before you get my shirt all bloody."

"Granger finally rub off on you?" I ask but grudgingly do as he says, holding the material away from the wound that has started seeping a little.
His hands feel cold against my still scorched skin and I hold my breath as he presses the bandage tightly to me. He snorts at my comment as he holds it there with one hand and grabs the roll of tape with the other, fumbling for a bit before he manages to tear off a long piece.

"Are you incapable of using first names?" He asks, carefully taping the bandage securely to my skin.

I drop my shirt with a shrug as he shoves the leftovers back into the bag. "Potter -"

"Harry," He interjects.

"Potter why-" He shakes his head with a wide smile and I narrow my eyes. "Seriously Po-" This time he goes so far as to actually slap his hand over my mouth, cutting off anything else I might have said. I huff indignantly at the violation and glare vehemently at him, doing my best not show how much his touch is lurching though me.
I don't do touch! Why can't people get that?? Yet strangely enough the pit doesn't open beneath my feet, the world stays perfectly still, my mind clear and unhindered.

That in itself is utterly disconcerting.

"Harry." he corrects again and it's my turn to shake my head, given the fact I can't actually say anything, the git. "You used to call me Harry." His voice drops and his eyes flicker with something and here it comes, the slipping, the tilting, the internal destruction that he keeps bloody triggering in me without even knowing it.

I feel my breath pick up in heavy drags through my nose and I grasp his wrist, prying his hand off my face and pushing him back from me. My foot taps furiously against the floor as Potter stares at me with wide, startled eyes. "That was a long time ago." I tell him, running my hand over my face, seeking the pain that it sends jolting through me as my fingers scrape some of the cuts back open.

"What's wrong?" He asks, wrenching my hand away.

"Nothing I just don't like being forcibly silenced." He's holding my wrist in his grasp, his gaze flickering from my eyes to the little smears of blood on my fingers and back.

"Not that Draco. What's going on with you?" He seeks the answer behind my eyes and I can feel him searching me as if he can read me like an open book. The only thing keeping me from getting up and fleeing is the fact that I know he can't. He can only see what I let him.

"I don't know what you’re talking about." I say evenly, my tone almost bored sounding.

"Then stop tapping your foot."

I look down, my attention drawn to my still rapidly tapping toes in perfect rhythm. I hadn't really realized I was doing it still. I silently command them to stop but it doesn't work and maybe it's because I know that if I do I'll slip away. Bloody hell.
"I don't see what that has to do with anything." I clear my throat trying to look nonchalant and unbothered by his accusations.

"You keep doing it." He says quietly, his fingers starting to dig relentlessly into my tender joint. "Either with your fingers or your feet or even your breathing. Why?" So maybe he has more perspective than I thought.
I don't say anything, my mind turning with plausible sounding explanations, none of them making it out past my lips. The sound of my tapping rings horribly loud in the silence taut between us and then without warning he's pressing his foot over mine, forcing it still, and I jerk with a cry that leaves me so fast I can't hold it back.

"Stop." I gasp, as I cling desperately to my last thread of strength, blinking quickly to try and keep the rising storm at bay. Just what the hell does he think he's doing anyway? My hand reaches out and grasps his shoulder as I slump forward. He's releasing all the gates and it's going to drown me.

Should have known he'd be the death of me.

"Oh shit Draco!" His voice is disjointed and fuzzy and then...nothing...
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The Art of Shadow Boxing