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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
- 3
- 4
- 5
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Chapter 4

The Price I Pay

The drive isn't long and instead of heading out of the sprawling city towards her estate, we head straight into its heart. The sleek black car drastically out of place in the crowded street and we slow to a crawl with the horn blaring more frequently the closer we get. Then we're stopping, my door popping open and I don't have to be told or coerced into leaving its false cool air and stepping onto the sidewalk. Three men immediately flank my sides and back, boxing me in as if they expect me to run, which seems just a smack excessive in my opinion.
I did come here on my own did I not?

They're ushering me towards an old square building, its dust blown exterior defiantly standing against the test of time and push of the elements. There's a neat sign announcing its name in a language I haven't been able to master but my eyes are drawn to it non the less - taken in by the curving lines and elegant dips and swirling slashes that seem to be dancing and warring together all at once. My hand appears ghastly pale against the black door as I push it open, my ears suddenly deafened by a thick beat bursting through the rooms from unseen speakers. Blinking in the dim light I follow along the narrow hall, my feet faltering for all but a moment as it spits us out into the main room.

I don't think I've ever been so thankful that it was the middle of the afternoon before, for once the sun starts to dip this room has to be near bursting with people. I can almost feel the press of all the bodies that will cram themselves between these walls in a few hours and just the thought is slightly sickening to me. The ceiling is low, the lights never turned beyond a faint glow, the walls windowless, and the floor is scattered with short tables and cushioned seats that barely reach off the ground. I can nearly smell the sweat and incense from the night before still clinging to the air and I resist a shudder.

I'll just need to make sure to conclude my business before the hour that strikes the arrival of debauchery settles upon us.

There's a movement to my left and I look over to see one of the men from the alley last night, his nose a deep blue and purple and smashed and crooked. I smirk as he glares at me, the remembered crack of his cartilage snapping ringing in my mind. "Good afternoon." I say smoothly. "Might you point me in Madame Safiya's direction?"

His jaw clenches, eyes narrow, and a muscle spasms in his throat but all he does is growl deeply and turn stiffly - waving me to follow him with one erect finger. He leads me past the few early patrons and up a wide winding staircase, motioning for me to wait once we reach the top and he disappears behind a thick red door with deep engravings of water dragons.

How fitting.

Leaning back against the railing I suck in a breath and press a hand into my side, trying to dispel the burning discomfort all this movement has brought upon my stitches. I really should have taken some pain relievers. Or at least a drink to blur the sharper edges of the pain. True to form she leaves me waiting for the better part of an hour while I whittle away the time with breathing excises and emptying my quickly cluttering mind before the door is opening again - the broken nose lackey stepping half way out.

"She'll see you now." He tells me and his voice is scratchy and thick, like he's spent a good deal of time screaming as of late.

Pushing away the possible implications of that, I right myself and carefully run my hands over my shirt and down my thighs - not that there's really anything to straighten but it's a habit I've never really been able to rid myself of. Stepping past the man and through the door my eyes take a moment to adjust to the properly lit room and fix immediately on the woman sitting delicately on a plush ivory couch. I take in as much of my surroundings as I can in my peripheral vision, noting the three bodyguards standing with taunt muscles against two walls, the dark cherry wood table laid out with a complete tea service, and a lean body guard named Samson - standing directly behind Madame Safiya with a look of pure indifference.

And then there's the Madame herself, perfectly elegant in any setting she deems worthy of her presence. Her long raven hair falls in curling tendrils over her shoulders, the snug black dress capping at her crossed knees, her legs long and pale before stopping at a pair of dark red high heels. Her features speak of fine breeding, her deep blue eyes lightly lined with coal and lips plumped red with rouge, hiding so well her cruel constitution.

I incline my head in a quick bow and her lips curve up into a smile that would be beautiful if I didn't know better.

"Mr. Evans do have a seat." She says smoothly, her French accent a light caress. She lifts the teacup she's been cradling and takes a little sip, her eyes flickering briefly up to the man in the corner before settling back on me as I arrange myself on the seat across from her. "Care for some tea?" She asks and I nod, thankful to have something to hold. "Milk and sugar?" I shake my head and she smiles. "I like a man who takes it black."
“Donnie?” I ask, unwilling to go another second without securing his release if he’s still being held.
It’s the rudest I’ve ever been to her but she just blinks her clear eyes and draws in a nonchalant breath. “Not to worry, he’ll be released as soon as we’ve concluded our business.” I know this is the most I will get out of her on his regard so I simply nod my understanding, forcing myself to be content in the small reassurance.
One of the men hands me a delicate teacup and I take a careful sip, delighting in the hot slide down my throat and pooling in my belly. "I assume I'm here to discuss payment." I say abruptly, leaning back against the chair. There's no use beating around the bush, not with a woman like her, a woman who values strength above all else.

She lifts one perfectly shaped eyebrow and tilts her head with a light chuckle. "Right for the punch I see." Her eyes slide over me and I can feel the intensity in her gaze as she takes in every little aspect of my person. She notes the damage to my face, the clothes that don't fit quite right, the shoes that I've never worn and speak against my usual choices, and my hair that’s typically styled in some way or another but is now an air dried mess in my eyes. She calculates it all and files it away, one red polished fingernail scrapping gently down her temple and tucking a curl behind her ear.

"I don't believe that either of us is suited well for pointless chitchat." I sip at my tea and try not to squirm under the penetrating gaze.

"Mhmm." She hums and takes a moment to drink from her own cup. "No I don't suppose we are. To the point then Mr. Evans, you lost me a small fortune last night." She states, a heavy silence falling between us as she waits for my response, giving me an ill-advised chance to deny or try to explain my way out of it. But there's no point in doing so, it would only sink me deeper, so I stay still and quiet. "As such I require compensation. Now if we can't decide together on an alternative then I'll be forced to take full payment from your flesh."

Her words sink like dead weight and my stomach churns as my head throbs. It's medieval to its very core, penniless sods paying off debts with the skin from their backs and it's just the sort of thing she would demand. She probably has even fashioned crude tools to use that hearken back to its origin. But I show her none of my apprehension, instead I school my features into a mask of cool contemplation and hold the teacup lightly in my lap, tracing my finger over the grooves in a swirling pattern. "I assume you already have the alternative in mind?" The tip of my finger digs into the porcelain, seeking control through its texture.

"Indeed I do darling, two in fact." Safiya lets her eyes rake over me once more but this time in an entirely different sort of way and I feel my heart slow maddeningly at the things her look holds. "You are a rare man Mr. Evans, breathtakingly handsome, beautiful even." She pauses and I bite into the inside of my cheek until blood floods my tongue. "You would make a sinfully perfect acquisition for many. A temptation to both women and men I should think."

I resist the urge to shiver as an icy chill seeps through my veins, my mind warring with the rest of my body to run far and fast, snapping any necks that try and get in my way. I breathe evenly and keep my gaze locked on hers, the cup in my hands threatening to shatter as all the tension coursing through me attempts to finds a small outlet in my grip. My insides scream at me to latch onto something, to bring order back to my nerves but I dare not move in fear of what I might do. So I settle for counting the seconds between her blinks. It's barely enough but it's all I can get so I give myself over to it as I settle my whirling thoughts.

I would agree to a beating to an inch of death before ever prostituting my body. Just the suggestion of money exchanging and unknown hands caressing me threatens to make me vomit all over the finely carpeted floor. "And the second?" I ask without a single waver in my commanding tone.

Her lips turn into a wide smile as she sets her empty teacup onto the low table between us, apparently pleased with my reaction. "I must say I was fair impressed with how you were able to escape my men the other night, three against one as it were and while being injured...how ever did you manage it?" I stare right back at her and keep my mouth firmly shut, my eyes flickering with just barely managed annoyance, as if the question in itself is ridiculous. "Rare indeed." She says softly a moment later, seemingly to herself. "The second option is simple. I want you to fight in a match at the end of the month and if you do, this time you will win."

That's it? She just wants me to fight? But that can't be right, it's too lenient, too easy, too...humane. My eyes narrow as I study her, trying to push through her layers and see beneath the falsities and into the truth. What isn't she saying? "Against who?" I ask carefully.

She waves a perfectly manicured hand in the air with a shrug of her dainty shoulder. "That's inconsequential because you'll win, right darling?"

I don't like this and I know that there's a pit somewhere in it that's just out of reason, but I can't puzzle it out, at least not here, not now. But it's really my only option and I run my tongue over my top teeth before nodding slowly. At the very least I'll be back in the ring again, get to feel the rush and wonderful control pumping through me, to have my mind clear and focused once more. "I'll do it." I meet her eyes and she makes a contented little sigh in the back of her throat, sounding as if I've just stepped exactly where she wanted me to.

"You will won't you." She scrunches up her nose in a way that seems much to 'cute' for a woman like her and then she snaps her fingers and rises gracefully from the couch. "One more thing before you go." She moves over to me and leans down, her lips brushing my ear as her long finger hooks in one of my empty belt loops. I tense at her touch and the nearness of her body, her breath too warm against me. "Fail me again and I'll cut your heart out myself." She grips my jaw roughly and presses her mouth to mine in a quick hard kiss before pulling back and smacking my cheek twice like I'm some sort of pet.

I struggle to push down my panic and shove away the feeling of being lacerated over every inch of my body, numbers rising and multiplying at a dangerous rate in my mind as my toes press into the floor. She moves back to her sofa but I can still smell her, can still feel her heat and it's debilitating. My hand finds its own way into my pocket, curling around Potter's coin. There's a clash of equally awful sensations and it pulses over and through me, strangely chasing each other out. I let it fall from my grip as temptation to use its power to break free pricks at me but I can't, to do so would end my chances of fixing things. And I still don't know where Donnie is.

"Mr. Jameson here will take you down." Madame Safiya's voice breaks through me and I blink away the haze, glancing up to see a new man standing beside me, obviously waiting.

"Down?" I ask, feeling suddenly as if a hammer is about to fall.

She smiles sweetly. "You didn't think it'd be that easy did you Mr. Evans?" She says and grasps her newly filled cup as Jameson reaches down and hauls me to my feet.

I jerk my arm back from him and stare down at her. "Where am I going?" I demand.

"To fight." She dips a finger into her tea and swirls it around as I'm ushered backwards towards the door. "Oh and tonight you're to lose."

Then I'm pushed through and the door slams shut, cutting off any further explanation. Not that there is much needed, it makes perfect sense. I'd thought it was all too easy didn't I? And I was right, she wants me to suffer, not enough that I'd be useless to her future plans but enough to show me her strength. Enough to try and bully me into being afraid of her and this is the perfect way, commanding me to fight and to fail. Basically to get the shit kicked out of me while people cheer and watch my second downfall.

It will make her more money in the long run.

Jameson is at my elbow, leading me back down the stairs and into another little hallway before pushing through an unmarked door and descending down another narrower set of stairs. It grows progressively dimmer, the smell of sweat thicker and now laced with sick and blood. This is where unsanctioned fights take place, the basement reeking with the brutality that dwells here. There's a steady swell of noise as we near the bottom and dread seeps through me. Intended to lose or not I'm in no condition to enter the ring. And despite current belief I have never thrown a fight.

We step into the crowded room and realization hits with just what Madame Safiya has managed to take away from me in forcing me into doing this. It's glaringly obvious as we push through the throng and towards the middle of the room where there's a ring drawn in white chalk, slit down the middle with a thin scuffed line. The mash of men and a few women in low slung dresses are standing right up against the outline, cheering and drinking and laughing as they watch me file between their barely parted mass. Several sets of hands push me into the crude ring and I stumble, knowing perfectly well that I'm going to rip my stitches and reopen several wounds before this is over.

There's a man standing across from me, bare fists, bare chest, with sandy blonde hair and a wide toothy grin. There's blood on the ground and on his hands and I wonder how many fights he's already won today. The crowd is chanting his name and egging us on and this is what she has stolen.

She's taken the beauty of the fight. She's stolen the grace, the tradition, the honor, the respect, and the dance. She's completely stripped it down to its filthy core. She has pillaged my heart, making my blood pump weak through me and I give myself a second to grieve. But only a second before setting my face, raising my loose fists, and sucking in a deep breath.

I'll lose like I'm told but I'm going to bloody well make someone pay for it. My foot lands against the edge of the line separating us and everything prying at me and threatening me melts back like watercolor running from the page.

I will make my own damn beauty.

Everything snaps into focus, into place as my opponent meets me at the line and there isn't a bow, a touch of fists, or even a bell before I'm knocking his punch off course with the ridge of my hand and sending my fist into his temple. I can feel the vibrations of the crowds’ insanity run up through my feet as I dodge the next few punches and attempted tackles, quickly realizing that he isn't a Muay Thai fighter. His stance, his stubborn stiffness screams of rigid boxing - of exchanging blow for blow until someone collapses.

I could win easily even with my injuries and I feel anger burn anew. She has to have known that, just as she must have known of my love for tradition. The boxer roars with blood lust and swings towards me again, my feet sliding in a curve out of his way, my fist landing in his kidney, my elbow surging up and slashing across his brow. It could be an easily calculated victory. I can see the steps play out before my eyes as if they’re really happening and in order to keep myself from it I pull back just enough here and there, let him land a jab - suck in the pain, kick him free of breath, and then let myself fall open for another of his hits to land.

It's oddly difficult losing.

But more than that, it's heart breaking.
The fight is my very being and she has purposely chosen a punishment to break me in the cruelest of ways. The crowd swells and spits venom, pressing into the ring and forcing us into a tighter circle, closing in on us as I land another kick against his ribs. He goes for an uppercut and I instinctively fling myself upwards, my knees landing in the middle of his chest as I smash my bent forearm down against the top of his head, effectively knocking him to the ground and slitting the skin. He blinks and gropes on the floor and I could end it right now. Could come out tall, anything else when he's so obviously beaten would be so laughably obvious.

I falter in indecision and that is all the mob needs, they claw at me, their hands twisting in my shirt and hair, yanking me back to be swallowed up. They kick and punch and spit in a such a dizzy frenzy that I can't tell up from down, blackness crawling through my vision, screams ripping through my throat as a fist lands directly against my wounded side. I plummet to the ground only to be dragged back up, my body swinging like a piñata, and then as quickly as it began their tossing me back into the ring, my head cracking painfully against the floor.

I vaguely notice a pool of red gathering about me but I can't pinpoint where it's coming from, my entire body feeling as if it's been ripped apart. There's a distant roar and a flood of different languages as the boxer yanks me to my feet, leering at me before knocking me into welcome blackness.

****

There's a crack and thump, a rush of cool air, a sense of falling, and connecting with coarse pavement, knocking the air from painful lungs.

An engine purrs and tires squeal as I blink through the fog that has seemed to have taken up a permanent place in my brain, obscuring my nerves from making proper connections and latching onto any single thought for longer than a second.
And doesn't this seem familiar, coming to on a dirty sidewalk, body broken anew, the lights from the building next to me hovering in a distant haze.

Prying myself off the ground I rise to unsteady feet, feeling a wave of nausea flip through me as I waver on the spot. At least this time there's no one waiting to try and torture me.

No, Madame Safiya has had her revenge for the night, a fixed fight with an easy opponent but a mental crowd. My head pounds as I press my hand into my profusely bleeding side where the stitches have ripped along with more of my flesh. I take a single step and nearly pitch over, sucking in rapid breaths through the pain as I stumble the last couple steps and fall against the gym door. At least she was considerate enough to drop me back off instead of dumping me outside the club.

It swings open with my weight on a creaky hinge, the harsh noise piercingly loud in the deserted room. It can't be too late in the evening can it? My vision swims a bit as I scan over the abandoned equipment and sink to the ground as the door bangs closed. I just need to make it to the office and then I can call Donnie and make sure he's been released. But god does it seem unreasonably far away at the moment. Slumping back against the door my hand slips into my pocket, pulling out the unassuming coin and turning it over in my hand.

"Lot of good you did." I mutter at it, running my thumb over its face, the pulse of Potter's magic tingling up my arm. There's a resounding thud as the office door jerks open and my eyes snap up and widen as Potter comes stumbling out, Caleb and Donnie at his heals.

"Oh shit." Caleb gasps as they stare at me with shock for a split second before their hurrying towards me. Their expressions could almost be comical, Donnie's face is near plastic with its calm reserve, as if his facial muscles simply refuse to settle on anything until he knows more. Caleb looks one step away from murder and Potter can't seem to decide what he wants to be and keeps flickering rapidly between emotions.

Potter reaches me first and drops to his knees, one hand joining mine to press into my side, leaving me to wonder how much of a puddle I'm making. "Bloody hell Draco." He whispers while using the heel of his other palm to wipe what I can only assume is more blood from my cheekbone. I have a completely useless and unwarranted urge to tell him that I don't tend to make a habit of getting beaten to a bloody pulp, as if that really matters at the moment. I meet his eyes and loll my head against the wood behind me. "What happened?" He asks as I blink away the unconsciousness that wants to reclaim me.

Donnie and Caleb appear on my other side, Donnie's fingers testing the curve of my jaw as his eyes seek out all my injuries. "She had you beaten?" He asks with a calculating tone and I smile tiredly at him as I feel relief flush through me. Because there isn't any visible mark on him, no pain in his voice or gaze which means while he spent a good amount of time being detained she didn't hurt him.

"No." I answer my voice a tad hoarse. "She had me throw a fight." I pause and sink my hand more deeply into my side, the pain starting to spread and burn uncontrollably. "Wouldn't have been so bad if the crowd wasn't so mental and violent."

"The bitch." Caleb mumbles and a light chuckle jostles unpleasantly through me. A crude description perhaps but not inaccurate.

"What else Dray?" Donnie asks, knowing that placing me in a one brutal fight wouldn't be enough to pay off my debt in her eyes.

"There's a match at the end of the month..." I trail off, letting the rest hang between us unsaid because it doesn't need to be voiced.

Donnie nods and rubs a hand tiredly over his face, he looks like he's aged ten years in one night. "Alright, one thing at a time then. First things first let’s get you to a hospital." He moves to stand, grasping onto one of my arms as Potter takes the other and together they drag me to my feet.

I screw my eyes shut and count through my breaths before shaking my head. "No I'm fine." I tell him, knowing I can't go to the hospital, because I have to fight when and where Madame Safiya says - and she will not give a damn about my health. And if I go then the depth of my injuries will be made undeniably clear and I'll be forced into a slow recovery. I catch Potter’s eye and try to silently convey my intentions. "Just take me home."

"I don't think that's a good idea." Donnie says as my body slumps heavy between them and I can feel all three of their gazes boring intensely into me.

"It's fine really." I try to ensure him but his lips are fixed in a tight line, a deep worry shining in his eyes and I know he's not going to cave so easily. "Potter will be with me, he can get me to the hospital if need be." I add a bit reluctantly and I keep my gaze firmly away from the black haired wizard as I feel his arm tighten around me.

That sets off a round of uneasy questions and concerns of my passing out and not waking up but it's getting to hard to follow their string of conversation and I sag into Potter as they debate what to do with me. By the time their helping me out the door, Donnie disappearing to fetch his car, I have no idea where we've landed on the going to the hospital verses home thing. But I don't trust that I won't throw up if I open my mouth so I keep it shut and wait quietly, Potter and Caleb's voices drifting over me, back and forth, and I get the distinct impression even through my haze that their arguing. I can't be sure about what exactly but it seems as if Caleb isn't okay with relinquishing me into Potter's care. And if I wasn't so worried about vomiting and if the ground would just stop spinning I would shout at both of them to shut up because it's not for them to decide damn it.

I will not be turned into a victim ever again.

Then Donnie's pulling up and we're moving again, the door opening and I somehow manage to slip inside without crying out. Potter scoots in beside me in the backseat as I fall sideways like dead weight to lie across the vinyl. I hiss out as he nudges and lifts my legs a bit until their draped across his lap in order for him to actually have room to sit. He eyes me carefully then moves his fingers to curl under the hem of my shirt and I grasp his wrist - stopping him before he can lift it enough to reveal my torn flesh.

Chewing on his bottom lip he glances at the two in the front seat before setting his gaze on my red stained shirt. "How far is your flat?"

"We're almost there." Caleb answers for me as he twists in his seat to look back at us. "Do you have everything you need or should I run to the store?" He asks and I shake my head slowly.

"Won't need anything." I reply quietly, some of the nausea starting to retreat as I've been lying as still as possible.

The rest of the ride takes place in complete silence and I allow my eyes to slip shut and my hand to fall still, giving up some of my need for control and letting Potter keep up the firm pressure against my side to counteract the blood loss in light of my desperate need for rest. All too soon the car slows to a stop and I hear the distant sound of doors opening and shutting and Donnie's rough voice saying something that doesn't seem to have any meaning or structure. It taps at me, trying to convey some message but I just turn my head and curl a bit into myself, wanting nothing more than to achieve mindless sleep.

Then there's a light touch on my cheek and my eyes snap open to be met with concerned green. "We're here." Potter says as he pulls his hand back. "Can you get up?"

"I'm not an invalid." I grumble and run a hand over my face, trying to summon the energy to move.

"Course not." Potter snickers and it's somehow lightening to hear the teasing in his tone. "You just look like it." Cheeky git.

I scowl at him as he smiles and steps out of the car, my legs falling down at an awkward angle. After much inward warring with myself I finally manage to grasp the back of the seat and pull myself up, my head going right down between my knees as a new wave a sickness grips me. Dear god this is the worst bloody night.
Worst two nights actually. I resolve to never, ever find myself in this sort of position again as I scoot to the edge and my feet land on the road, my hands reaching out to cling to the door frame.

"Would you like a hand now?" Potter asks and I look up to see him standing in front of me with a wary smile, his arms crossed over his chest where his shirt has been completely ruined by my blood.

"Snarky doesn't fit you Potter." I retort but grasp his outstretched hand anyway because as much as I would like to exit the vehicle all on my own I don't believe it would have actually been possible. He pulls me out and Caleb is by my side so fast I don't even see him move, his hand catching my elbow to steady me as I sway.

This is all too much touching, too much sickness, too much fog in my mind, too much relying on others - it's everything I can't stand boiled down into one purely horrendous moment. Throwing my arm around Caleb's thick shoulders we make our way towards the apartment building as I count each painful step. But it will all be over soon. Soon my body will be healed enough to sink myself back into my conditioning regime and then maybe I'll be able to think clearly once more.

That is as long as the process doesn't completely end me.

Donnie shouts his goodbye, promising to check up on me and making Potter swear to get me to the hospital if there are any complications before driving off - leaving the three of us to enter the quiet building. Luckily my flat is on the first floor and Caleb leads us down the hall and around two right bends before stopping at my door and pulling my keys from his pocket. I forgot he still had them from before my match against Shen.

My door swings open and there's a long strained pause as I stare into the dark room beyond, my skin crawling at the lack of light and the deepness of the shadows merging together. I always leave a light on...which means something isn't right, someone has been here. Potter seems to sense my unease and sidles past us, slinking into my flat, the darkness engulfing him for a moment before I feel a surge of magic and then the lights are flickering on.

I let out a breath and straighten as much as I can, letting go of Caleb and am grateful when I don't immediately fall over. "Thanks." I say.

He opens his mouth and closes it, his hand twitching through his messy brown hair. "Course...look I..." Caleb falters and shifts his eyes to Potter quickly as he comes back towards us. "Maybe I should stay. Just in case..." Potter adjusts his glasses with a light touch as he leans against the wall, his eyes whispering over Caleb in a strange manner as he stares back at him.

Has Potter seriously already made a new enemy during the few hours I was gone?
I shake my head, my mind much too fuzzy to read the looks their sending each other and I honestly don't even care right now. "Don't worry about it, I'm fine." I tell him, my own gaze pulled back into my room, seeking out anything amiss.
Was it Madame Safiya?

"Okay, I'll come down tomorrow." Caleb tells me and I nod absentmindedly.

What could she gain by breaking into my flat? I'm confident no one’s still here otherwise Potter would have found them with whatever that spell he cast was and it hasn't been ransacked. So that leaves a calculated theft, something specific...but what could I possibly have that would tempt her? Sliding my hand down along the wall to keep my balance I make my way slowly into the single room, my eyes searching over my belongings. The bed is still neatly made, the wardrobe shut tight, the long oak desk still perfectly organized, and the bookcases lining the far wall still stretching their limit with texts – even what I can see of the kitchen from this angle looks untouched.

Nothing to suggest even a phantom, nothing except the absence of light. The side of my head presses into the wall as I stare around, my fingers sliding up and down, up and down the uneven paint.

"What is it?" Potter asks and I can hear the uncertainty in his voice.

"Someone's been here." I say quietly, letting out a long sigh, knowing I'll never feel truly safe here again.

"You're sure?" I know without even looking that his hand is hovering over his wand, ready to wield it at the slightest noise.

Nodding I turn just until my back is pressed against the wall and slip down to the floor, theft or not I need to deal with the gash in my side before I pass out and actually end up in the hospital. Looking up I silently watch him for a moment as he glares around my flat, as if just being angry enough at the empty air will reveal what happened and the dangers it might possess.

"Potter," I begin and he starts, his eyes flicking down to me, clearly unaware of my new position.

"Shit, you okay?" He drops down next to me, dark curls bouncing in his eyes before he shoves them away.

"Stop asking me that." I mutter and try to lift my shirt, cringing at the pain the awkward move causes. "Get this off me will you?" His hands move to replace mine and with much agonizing curses from me and mumbled instructions from him he finally manages to pull the ruined top over my head. Tearing the soaked bandage away before glancing down, my stomach sinks as I realize that the gash is much worse than I imagined and I have to look away quickly as my hand starts trembling and slipping over the bloodied surface. "Remember those healing spells?" I ask with a nervous lilt.

There's a part of me that can't believe I'm asking this of him, the realization that his magic will touch me, course through me, wind itself into the very fabric of my being is almost to much for me to bear. My brain starts to shut down to its simplest of functions, switching off the receptors that are trying to make me scramble away from the situation.
But there isn't a choice anymore, I need to be healed, I need to be ready for anything, and this is the only way.

He gently removes my hand and peers closely at the wound. "Yes, shouldn't be too hard." He tries to smile but it's weak and nervous and does nothing to build any confidence in me.

He pulls his wand out and slides closer on his knees. "Wait," I say, knowing I have to warn him, just in case. "Look I might...there could be..." I let out a shaky breath and rake my fingers through my hair as he cocks his head and stares patiently at me. "I may have an adverse reaction and there's a good chance I'll start begging you to stop. Just...don't, okay? Don't stop until it's done."

"Draco." He says my name in a whisper, imploringly. "Why...?" He probes and the look he's giving me makes me want to slap him. He asks that way to much for my liking, always has.

"Just get it over with." I bang my head back against the wall and close my eyes, my hands clenching in fists at my sides. I can do this, I need to do this, just count and don't stop no matter how bad it gets...

Potter's magic builds at a sudden and steady rate, crackling around me and buzzing in my ears, pulling at my frayed nerves and sinking like hot lead in the pit of my stomach. I know my mouth falls open as he directs it over my side and it plunges in and sears through my skin, the sharp edges ripping at me and demanding it knit back together. All the air rushes out of my lungs on a scream I can't hear but can feel tearing at my throat and I grope blindly through the nightmares swirling around me like a black hole - threatening to suck me in and never spit me out. Long blocked images and voices pierce through my mind and the numbers I've been multiplying fall to the wayside at such a rapid speed I can't keep up with them - can't grasp back a hold and I spin and I fall and I can't breath. I'm being torn apart from the inside out as my body convulses and I think I'm shouting, but I can't comprehend my own words.

Then there's a beat breaking through the all consuming vortex and I fling myself at it, desperate for its consistency. My blood flows towards it, picking up its steady thump and passing it through my body. It lights in my mind and slowly draws back the nightmares and the darkness and inch by inch I find myself again - the solid feel of warm skin under my hand, a pulse driving through my fingers, my breath sucking back into my long abandoned lungs. The magic condenses back to a single point, flaring in heat and intensity for moment and then seeping out in long strings.

The buzz in my ears snaps and I can suddenly hear myself panting, hear Potters soft mummers and my heavy eyelids flutter open. My vision is filled with wild inky black hair and I can feel Potter's breath ghosting down my neck, his free hand holding my palm flat under his shirt and over his heart. My nails dig into his skin as I press further into his heartbeat while it weaves itself in me. Then the last of the strings melts back and his voice stops its incantation. We both stay still and quiet for several long moments, his temple resting against mine.

"Alright?" He asks quietly.

I nod and curl my fingers against his chest, slipping it reluctantly out from under his hand and shirt. "Did it work?" I ask equally as quiet, for the room seems to still, to taunt for anything louder.

He pulls back and looks down, his fingers brushing over where my injury was with a smile on his face. "Nearly as good as new. You'll have a scar though and need to take it easy for awhile." I follow his gaze and find my skin sealed perfectly back together with only a long jagged pink scar shinning under the still bloody surface. I can still feel the tinge of magic but it’s distant and I pull myself as far from it as possible.

"Thank you." I say, staring at my hands and trying to expel the stir of heat and power that isn't his but mine. But I don't want to feel it, it's not mine to have anymore.

Moving to sit against the wall beside me, Potter places a cigarette between his lips and exhales loudly, fiddling with his lighter. "Thought you were going to actually keel over for a bit." He says, finally striking the catch and smoldering the tip. "Scary as hell."

Spreading my fingers wide on my thighs, I force a tight smile. I can't imagine what I must have looked and sounded like, scary as hell doesn't even come close to how it felt to experience it. My index finger twitches rapidly and I cast a sideways glance at him, his eyes are closed, his bloodied hand holding the white stick loose above his knee. "Yeah. How did you know to..." I hesitate not really knowing how to phrase it but needing to know how he knew shoving my hand against his heart would work to bring me back.

"You did it last night." He shrugs one shoulder and pulls a deep drag. "It was a last ditch effort really, glad it worked though."

And surprisingly that's all he says, no questions, no demands to know why I'm being so mental. He just sits silently beside me, smoking and staring at the same empty space of wall I am. It's oddly comforting, his presence solid and warm and so uniquely him in a way that I can't pinpoint it, can't process it into coherent thoughts or words. It's the first time since he's crashed back into my life where I haven't felt him tearing at my soul with just the implication of his very being. It's as if all the time, all the pain, the horror, and the grief has slipped away for a brief respite and all that's left is just this.

Sitting on a floor so very far from home. Together.

I know this contentment will flee as quickly as it's settled around us but for now...for now I allow a small part of myself to savor it before it's gone.
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The Art of Shadow Boxing