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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
- 7
- 8
- 9
A/N: sorry its been such a long time coming, but schools over for about a week now. Depending on how it goes you may see a few chapters quite soon.

They had been trying for several hours to come up with a way to exit the house without going through the door. During the first several attempts Draco was far too distraught to be of much help, and took to apologizing at every chance he got. That was until Hermione accidentally slipped through a tear in the memory. It was because she had whipped around to tell Draco that 'for the last time, it was all right'. Now, he kept very silent and just let Hermione do her thing, which, he suspected was what she had been waiting for anyway. He lay on the phantom bed while Hermione tried all sorts of things to repair the memory, none of which seemed to work. Once or twice she almost fell into a tear trying to check and see whether or not her most recent spell had any effect. But this was happening less and less now, and despite the fact that they both bore bruises from their stumbling about earlier in the day, they were becoming quite adept at navigating without sight.

Draco let himself relax into the soft sheets as he heard the widows fly open with a muffled sound, a sound that was becoming clearer and clearer each time they entered the memory. If he strained just a little he could even hear the rain outside, and the curtains flapping and straining against the iron rods that held them fast to the window sill.

The blond rocketed out of his pseudo relaxation and called out to Hermione in his loudest voice, hoping she would be able to hear him from where she worked in the entrance hall. "Hermione get up here! Fuck the door I've found a better way!" He waited but did not hear her move, straining his ears he heard nothing. He sighed and crossed his arms, laying back down on the bed. Obviously she had fallen through again and he was just going to have to wait it out and rejoin her outside the pensive.

Draco squirmed in anticipation as he felt the white mist carry him upwards, just as his head hit the pillow. He couldn't wait to see the look on her face as his genius washed over Hermione. It was a brilliant plan and why it hadn't occurred to him sooner, Draco hadn't the faintest idea. After all, he had done it countless times as a child when his father had jailed him in his room.

The words that would describe his plan were already on the tip of his tongue as he landed once again in the bedroom, but they died never having left his mouth as the blonde looked around, unable to find Hermione anywhere. A little wave of panic raced up and down his spine, but he shut it down when it reached his brain, telling himself that she must have worked out a way to fix the door, and had gotten a little further into the memory. It was only natural that he should be forced out of the memory sooner.

In the mean time he took to assembling the necessary components for his plan. He jumped a little as the door burst open behind him, and he turned expecting to see kreacher preparing to berate him for tearing up the curtains. Instead he saw Hermione with a great deal of fabric in her hands as well. He was struck dumb for a moment, but quickly got over the shock and said, "Well it seems we've both got the same idea then? I must say I'm a bit disappointed, I thought I had finally one-uped you Granger."

She moved past him and dropped the pile of cloth unceremoniously next to him. "Well, we thought of it at the same time, that's worth something right? And call me Hermione, Draco."

He blushed a little, "Yes, I - uh - I suppose it is, Hermione."

They shared a smile and began trying the sheets together. Once they had a suitably long length of fabric, Hermione transfigured it into a rope with an elegant flick of her wand.

"Better make it two Hermione, can't waste any time." She looked pleasantly surprised at his suggestion, and with another couple of flicks of her wand, they were both holding a neatly coiled rope in their arms.

"Well we've still got a little bit to go until we can get back into the memory, perhaps we should check around outside, see if we can memorize a path through the woods to that clearing that they found you in."

"I think we might want to start with scaling the window first don't you think?"

Hermione raised a palm to her forehead, "Of course, its been ages since I've done this."

"You've done this before then?" He said as they approached the window. Hermione opened the latch and they leaned their heads out.

"Well at least we'll have some bushes to land in if we screw up. And yes, I used to do this all the time in the tree behind my house. Until I knocked one of my teeth out, and that was the end of that." She looked at him and the smile faded from her face. "I'm guessing you don't have pleasant memories of this sort of thing?"

He shook his head and looked out into the forest, trying not to let his frightened eight year old self surge up to the forefront of his memory. "I was always surprised that he never noticed my spare set of sheets was missing when I would get out. He always assumed I'd magicked my way out of it and ended up very proud of my 'primal abilities'. Fat load of shit." He scowled out into the evening air, which was unusually clear and sunny.

She chuckled a bit, but then said, more somberly, "You know, I would understand if you didn't want to tell me these things."

"No, it's all right. It's nice, for once, not having to worry about you using this against me."

"Oh, who's to say that won't happen, Draco?" She raised an eyebrow playfully, and Draco knew that this is what sarcasm was supposed to be used for, and he filed away this realization in 'when Potter gets back.'

"Better find a damn good spot to tie that rope Hermione, you never know what might happen."

"Ladies first, Draco."

About an hour later they emerged from the woods, slightly disheveled and picking hitchhikers out of their socks. Draco was a little dismayed at how dirty and scuffed up his shoes had gotten, but such was the new life of Draco Malfoy. Though he was loathe to admit it, it was rather enjoyable to go traipsing about like some common muggle; they had decided not to use magic to clear their path through the forest, as they wouldn't be able to do that in the memory.

It was not however, enjoyable at all to find one's way through the woods blindfolded, and he held rubbed his wand gingerly over the palms of his hands, which were scrapped and tender from the rough bark of the trees and more than one fall into a sharp rock or broken twig. Next he raised it to his face, feeling a strange tickle as the wand healed a particularly deep gash that ran along his cheek bone. Murmuring a bit, he turned away from Hermione, and licked his finger, then ran it along a cut on his wand arm. He watched the skin mesh together, thinking of the look on Harry's face when he performed this particular bit of blood magic a few weeks ago.

"Well, I suppose we'll just fix the robes at the end of all this then, I don't doubt they will get a bit tore up in the memory."

"I wouldn't be surprised if we come out of that forest bloody naked."

"Well, let's just hope it doesn't come to that." She placed her hands on her hips and gave Malfoy a stern look before her eyes focused on the distance and she looked up, slightly over Malfoy's head. He held up a hand to his hair, checking it for bits of foliage.

"Hermione, what is it? Have I missed something?" Just at that moment Draco felt something whiz by his head, and watched as a startled Hermione only just managed to catch a letter that flew straight at her face.

"Oh of course, its Ginny again."

"Is their owl always so rude?"

"He is a bit old now, take offs and landings aren't exactly his strong suit."

Draco paced about the room in a path that was becoming just a bit too familiar, as he waited for Hermione to respond to Ginny's letter.

"So what does the little redhead want anyway? Your tone sounded a little exasperated earlier, not that I blame you of course, the Weasley's tend to have that affect on people." He pulled up a chair beside the table as she looked up mutinously from her letter.

She sighed, leaned back, and brought her hand up to massage around her eyes. "It's partially my fault, but I'm not sure I should be telling you this."

"Would it help if I just guessed? And maybe if you just unintentionally gave signs that I couldn't help but pick up on, neither of us will have to feel guilty?"

"No, no, if you're going to be part of this… what ever it is, you'll find out eventually. And I don't want you to be able to say you've been a bad influence on me, Draco. No slytherin tactics okay?"

For the next twenty minutes Hermione described how Ginny had always had a crush on Harry, since the very first time she saw him on the platform, and that Hermione had always sort of encouraged this, thinking that she and Harry would be perfect for each other. Draco had positioned himself facing the window so that she could not see his reactions to her words. This seemed to make Hermione more comfortable too, because her voice relaxed a little after a few minutes. She told him of the summers they had all spent together, each of them growing more and more comfortable with each other. Hermione remembered with bitterness the short time that Harry and Cho had been dating, saying that she was fairly sure Harry still had no idea what Hermione had had to deal with. Dealing with a depressed and heartbroken Ginny was apparently almost as hard as feeding a blast-ended skrewt, while trying not to get your face blown off.

"They kissed last year you know. And, I think that was the end of it."

"What makes you say that? I didn't notice anything different between them, when did it happen?" Draco tried not to sound to eager for answers as he said this, but he could almost feel Hermione raising an eyebrow at him.

"Well, we managed to convince Harry that he should get rid of a certain potions book, and Ginny took him up to the room of requirement. Afterwards, she told me it felt like she was kissing her brother. I think they are more like siblings now than anything else."

Draco found himself releasing tension in his pose that had crept up on him unknowingly. For a moment he marveled at how relieved he was that Ginny was no longer after the boy who lived, but then he remembered something, and jumped up to dig in his trunk.

Moments later he emerged from the disaster that was his hastily packed trunk, clutching a very pristine looking copy of Advanced potion making.

"I almost left this behind when we were fleeing the Malfoy manor. Only just managed to dig it out of my closet before father came home." He sat down, pulling his chair to face Hermione once again. "At first I thought most of these little scribbles to be rubbish, but then, then I saw this." And he flipped opened the book very dramatically to a page that seemed very well read, with the words 'spectum sempra, for enemies' scrawled untidily along the side.

Hermione gasped and pulled the book out of Malfoy's hands, flipping through the pages with an astonished look on her face. "Where did you get this Malfoy? Ginny said that she hid it in a place where no one could ever find it, not even her."

Draco looked away suddenly ashamed, He wasn't sure he was ready to discuss Dumbledore's attempted assassination with Hermione quite yet. "Let's just say that if you needed to send anything to Borgin and Burke's, It would be easier than you might think. In any case, are you telling me that this book is how our little Harry has become the prodigal son of potion making?"

He squirmed a bit under the scrutinizing stare that Hermione was giving him, which she kept up relentlessly for the better part of a minute before letting out a sigh and pushing the book back towards him. "Yes, this is how Harry became top of our potions class last year. Though you know I think he is a bit better at potions than most people give him credit for. I'm not saying he is a genius, but when he doesn't have Snape breathing down his neck he gets along pretty well on his own."

"I find it hard to imagine Harry making potions in his spare time, doesn't really seem like his favorite past time if you ask me."

"Let's just say we've had our fair share of extracurricular activities over the years."

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

"Look Draco, if I tell you all our secrets you won't have anything to ask Harry when he gets back."

Hermione bent back over the letter she had been writing, scowling and tapping her wand on the paper to lift off a few words that she no longer approved of. Draco passed the time by idly flipping through the pages of the potions book until he came across a folded up piece of paper that was wedged unceremoniously between two pages on antidotes.

Curious, Draco unfolded the long and narrow pice of parchment to find a list of names. Scanning them quickly he let out a gasp. Written in a rather untidy dark blue ink were the names of every person that Draco had coerced Crabb and Goyle into becoming. Then, scrawled down at the bottom was a word that was underlined many times, Polyjuice.

Of course he had known that Potter had been stalking him from the very moment he had gotten on the train last year, but just how much Potter had been able to deduce was quite incredible. He got up and walked over to the window, opening it and holding the list out for the evening breeze. With a flick of his wand the small parchment turned to cinder on the warm updraft that had carried it away. In a puff of smoke one more relic from his past became but dust in the wind.

He turned back to Hermione who seemed to have finished her letter, and was staring at him quizzically.

"Just something I'd rather never remember, Hermione. That's all."

She pursed her lips and walked over to where Hedwig perched, forlorn atop an armoire. Apparently she had spent the first two weeks of Draco's coma delivering letter's to Harry that never came back with a response. Harry must have ordered her not to accept any more letters because she now stubbornly refused to take anything addressed to him.

Unenthusiastically she held out her talon for Hermione's letter and was off without so much as a hoot.

Hermione had decided to stay for dinner, admitting that she was ravenous after the two hours they had spent trudging through an invisible forest. Where it not for their slightly haggard demeanor, neither of them bore any of the scars that would have told a passer by they'd had a rough day, having magicked away most of their nicks and cuts. Hermione's hair may have been slightly bushier, but that may have also been due to the humidity that had rolled in as the sun set around the four that sat cloistered around the table.

Draco was almost too exhausted to eat the excellent beef stroganoff that his mother had prepared. Though his mouth salivated at the rich meaty smell, coupled so nicely with the fresh scent of herbs, he felt his eyelids growing weary and heavy. He forced down a large helping with his remaining vigor and then sat back in his chair, tired but sated.

He ignored the scathing looks that his mother and Hermione gave him, only barely staying awake to see if Dumbledore had any wise words of wisdom for them all. It was very odd to be sitting around the small table with perhaps the most powerful wizard in the world sipping after dinner coffee with a merry smile on his face.

An unexpected sort of anger rose up within Draco as his eyes fell upon the wrinkly old lips, though it was notably subdued by his lethargy. It was unbelievable to think that anyone should entertain even a modicum of happiness or normalcy when Harry was missing.

A repugnant feeling washed over him as he looked at the old man, his smile becoming sinister and nauseating. Draco felt himself squirming inside, clutching at the arms of his chair to keep himself grounded in reality. He struggled and squinted as he was overcome by a throbbing in his temples; a full blown existential crisis was on its way.

As he raced out of the kitchen he ran his hands along the gold and red cloth that lined the walls of the hallways, feeling its scratchy fibres and letting his face come dangerously close to scraping against the stupid stuff as he swung wildly about on his way to the room.

And it was all so fucking stupid and nothing mattered because Harry was gone and they were all probably going to die, and Dumbledore was just going to sit there and drink his coffee. The old git better like it black, because darkness was going to swallow them all, heart and soul, and no mamby pamby sitting around eating mother fucking beef stroganoff and making pretend friendships with a bushy haired bitch of a witch was going to stop that.

He pushed open the door roughly, tearing at the robes that were clinging far too closely about him. He clawed open his shirt and nearly fell out of his pants as he stumbled into the bathroom. His face hit the cold tiles and he rubbed up against it, feeling the hot tingle on his skin where his nails had dug into the soft flesh and he had lain here last night feeling the loneliness grow dark within him but what did that matter and that his skin hurt because his body was just a lump of fleshy insides waiting to spill upon the rocky shore that was the future of this world and he was going to die as the high pitched voice of a snake hissed in his ears.

Somehow Draco managed to crawl through the dense air that was crowding about him, rolling into the tub and hitting several parts of his lithe body on the cruel ceramic. Water began to gush out of the taps with no help from him and he lay there with the horrid smells clouding his mind and maybe they would drown him.

But no, that would be too easy, thought Draco, as he floated up with the rising water and why had this come about so suddenly? Maybe it was because he was tired and Dumbledore has smiled just a bit too much or maybe he had just been a bit too happy that day and a small but fierce part of him was doing its best to punish him and he didn't deserve to have friends and all he was going to get was darkness.

But what did that matter anyway, being alone? Because in the end the massive grinding machine that is the passage of time was eventually going to rip him asunder with his last breath. And he would take it alone as all did, once the delusions of meaning and love that he distracted himself with blew apart with sickening fury upon the blades of fate.

And maybe if he rolled over the water would take him there sooner and he wouldn't have to make pretend anymore. He could just be a nameless entity and pass out of existence a little sooner than everyone else. And it bothered him that his particles would continue to exist for all eternity, even after all the stars burnt out and the last remnants of intelligent life faded from all time and space. Those little motes of dust floating in the cosmic void that had once been him, mocking his trite attempts at existence and meaning.

And it would be worse if he grew attached to people. And the sting would be so much deeper as he lay naked before the endless expanse of meaninglessness that was death, he would feel each and every bond as it ripped from his heart. He came into this world a small flame of magic, a spark cast out by some greater flame. And though he had grown into a fine, roaring fire, he would pass on and his smoldering flame would snuff it as the embers grew cold about him. He would go out of this world the same as he came in, and all the wisdom and friendship in the world would burn in the embers of his death. He felt it now as he lay face down in the hot water, the little flickers deep down within him.

All these thoughts kneeled suddenly before the greatest urge to breathe and his lungs were filled with flame and curse this body that would not let his mind pass on so easily. He raged against the machine that commanded him to roll over, a millennia of evolutionary conditioning butting heads with the fragile will of a bruised and broken boy.

The torrent of need that was coursing through everything that contained him finally overcame and he felt himself growing dark, his mind a lamp that was slowly going out as his body became limp in the scented waters that pushed gently against his lips. He rolled over and a great Arctic blast rushed in to quell the burning inferno that had grown within his chest, spreading its numbing tingle throughout his body as he breathed a sigh of defeat. He felt the heat of his breath go out of him, cursing this warmth that meant he was not soon to be extinguished.

And maybe if he just rolled over again he wouldn't have to stare at that bloody ceiling. That ceiling, and why did they even bother coming up with names for things because it would never actually stick to the thing no matter how many times you said it and they were all just going to be dust in the cosmic wind that would flow ceaselessly through the empty space when they were all dead, and there were no more ceilings. And maybe a great snowy owl would fly through it as the sun set and Hermione came to stand next to him and deliver a message to a girl h]who was no longer in love with a boy long gone. Harry Potter.

And then he was there in the tub with Draco, a ghostly image that Draco's befuddled mind conjured before his glazed and bleary eyes. And Draco could see the blood coursing through the veins on Potter's neck giving life to his body and his lips quivering with need as his mind reached out tendrils of half meaning hoping and scraping against reality for another thread of desire and companionship. But Draco had none left, he was empty and his soul was dead and Harry Potter could never want him because his nipples were starting to get cold as he lay floating on his back in the water, and because of everything that Draco had ever done. And he didn't want any bonds or connections, if he could just be a lone spark at the edge of the bonfire that was humanity, he could just grow cold alone in the darkness. He wouldn't have to feel that sickening contrast when the wind blew him from the coup, as death took his heat and dug its icy tendrils into his flesh. But what did that matter they were all going to die and why couldn't Potter see that, if only Potter could see that, what if he could see it? And maybe the reason why Harry's wild hair stirred a primal beast within and set fire to Malfoy's soul was because the prat could take all this meaninglessness and stare it in the face, rejecting it as only humans can. Harry turned to him with those piercing emerald portals and drew Draco bodily into a dream of vivid green and earthy hope.

And so maybe they were all going to die, no matter what happened, but an electric energy that now ran through him pushed away these thoughts and he could feel the delusion of love and friendship enveloping him once again because if they could live their life and be happy it would forever stain the fabric of time and I DRACO MALFOY DID ONCE EXIST AND HERE IT IS THE RECORD OF MY WILL. And he would burn for all eternity until his flame bore such a mark into the fabric of time and space that he would never be forgotten.

Draco breathed out and the water became still and quiet around him. He watched the dust motes fall gracefully in a shaft of moonlight and breathed them in greedily, knowing maybe they would give him cancer, but what did it matter? He was Draco Malfoy and it was up to him what to do with the time that is given to him.

He floated for a time, feeling the water gently caress his from and praising this vessel that had known better than he had. He ran his hands over his soft skin, reveling in the feeling that set his raw nerves on fire, knowing that someday another's hands would hold him in this way and ghost softly about him. Be it Harry or no, love would find a way to shield him with its most powerful magic against the black void that was the future. And all he had to do was let it in and he would be forever surrounded by a blinding white light hurtling restlessly through time immemorial and that was why Dumbledore could smile and sip his coffee.

He had the faintest feeling that he had already known this, and he felt rain beat softly against his face and he knew that somewhere in his lost memory he had realized the meaning that is created in the love between two people, and resolved never again to forget it.

Draco was the spitting image of a human prune by the time he dragged himself out of the tepid and mismatched smelling water. He walked slowly and determinately into the room, having decided on his next course of action only moments before.

It had come to him when he thought again of the note that Harry had left in the book; he would take advantage of the insatiable curiosity that was sure to endure despite the desolate void that Harry now felt he must be facing.

He stood naked before the window and put his wand to his temple, summoning forth the memory of the past hour and placing the elegant and fragile wisp into a glass container with the greatest of care. He watched the silver thread swirling gracefully and it felt odd that such raw, powerful and dark emotions could be distilled into something so beautiful.

He set it down on the table and took up his cello, waiting for Hedwig to return. When finally he heard the flap of wings that told him she had arrived, he did not stop playing. He let the deep vibrations soothe the tenderness within his soul, playing in synchronicity with the beat of his heart.

Minutes later he open his eyes to find Hedwig very close to him, eyeing him with an uncharacteristic amount of emotion in her owl eyes. She seemed to say that she understood and bent to pick up the small shinning package, looking back for one last profound glance into Draco's steel eyes before she took off into the night.

Her white plumage glinted in the moonlight; and love was truly a powerful thing.

Harry shifted over on the rough cot that he had been sleeping on, moving his eye out of a shaft of light that penetrated a crack in the steel walls that surrounded him. He shook his head and looked out onto the dark floor of the abandoned warehouse in which he now lived. Having successfully put on his glasses he realized that he had once again crushed them in the vice grip that clutched them close to his chest in the night.

He muttered a groggy spell and began to see clearly. Sitting up and rubbing a tired hand through his hair he waved his wand about in front of him, checking to make sure the wards he had set up were still in place. Each of them glowed for a few seconds before fading away into obscurity once more.

Harry lay back down on the rough sacks of cotton that he had transfigured into a loose interpretation of a cot. He breathed in the musty scent of human industry that still permeated the raunchy palace long after the muggles had left it to time. And why should it bother him? All this waste and loneliness?

He took a galleon out of his pocket and flipped it into the air, wincing a bit as it landed heavily on the hard concrete with a thud louder than its weight. He peered lazily through the locks of hair that hung about his face, and reached out to the coin.

Heads.

With a sigh he fell back onto the grimy bed and waved his wand. With a flourish the wards swelled and began to unravel in glowing strings about him. From a shinning cocoon they fell away in fluid strokes to lay about him in the darkness. Tiny tinkling sounds came from the clash of the lithe white strands where ever they met on their way to the floor. Harry felt his chest heave and a dull pleasure from as he watched his barriers drop. Their noise did not betray the fact the he had just exposed himself to the dangers of the world. It was too beautiful for such a reckless thing, so he could not bring himself to worry.

Harry fingered the galleon, wondering if he would ever again have need of it. They would come now. He was sure of it. Darkness in corporeal from gilded in silver masks. He knew not how long it might take, and maybe he could outrun them for a time, but he would not be able to keep the pressure of his magic from the prying mind of a dark wizard.

There was a soft rustle outside. The sound came hurtling across the darkness to freeze the blood in Harry's veins. He winced as a strong thud clenched in his chest, and the tingle of adrenaline and pure fear overtook him.

His eyes were shut and he felt a hot prickling sensation in his mouth; an eternity he waited in the large darkness that filled the abandoned warehouse. Harry's mind was in his ears as he strained to the hear the next sound that meant they were closing in.

His wand hand tensed around the slender sprig, and he ground his thumb into its hilt, silently cursing himself. Of course they were going to know where he was. He should have known those two weren't working alone. They were probably just pawns. Juicy bait to lure him out while the real darkness watched from the shadows.

All his existential pretense lay waste against the fear that wound up inside him. Sure he was going to die, but every fibre of his being was now coiling to strike out against the end of his life. It was his choice no longer, his depressed and imbecilic mind was just along for the ride.

Harry held his breath and heard the loud fast beat of his heart. It seemed to swell the air about him, and he could practically feel it brushing in and out across his skin. In the next moment he was overcome with a sharp pain that began to grow behind his knee. He sat with it pressed against his chest, and his heel felt the pressure of his leg wanting to move, and his muscles ached to be allowed to uncoil. It dug at his mind like an itch that he could not scratch lest the sound make him miss their coming in to kill him.

The agony of this moment condensed at the nape of his neck, and he leaned his head back, bitting his bottom lip to keep from making noise. And then it snapped and his leg shot out and scuffed against the floor noisily. He cussed under his breath and sprang to hide behind a pile of crates, listening to see if they had heard him. He though that just as his foot slipped he heard the door creak open, and he cursed the limb that now tingled as he put weight on it, and whose sound may have condemned him to death.

The blood slowly trickled back into the starved flesh and a cool night breeze ruffled his hair. He inhaled the sharp smell of fish and rot, and quickly spelled his cot back into its original from, and summoned the small backpack that he had stolen from Dudley.

Harry felt the chilly tingle of his disillusionment charm as it ran its icy tendrils down his back, and hoped that none of them would be competent enough to be able to detect spell casting. In wizard areas, spell signatures commingled with the abundance of magic in the air and it usually took an experienced

Auror to sort them all out, but here, in this abandoned muggle area, Harry's magic would shine out like a beacon to gathering darkness.

He let out a breath that he hadn't known he was holding, and at that very moment, could have sword he heard a small hoot. He turned frantically to survey the rafters, but could not see anything to confirm what he had heard.

Thinking back, he played the memory of the first sound over and over in his head, and came to conclusion that it sounded an awful lot like the muffled flap of an owls wing. And there it was again, the soft hooting, the sweet, doleful, melodic note that he new only all too well.

Peering his head around the side of the crates he saw the majestic white owl sitting proudly in a shaft of moonlight. His instinct was to run out too her, but something held him back. And he was glad that all his years of sneaking and being afraid had made him paranoid to the very core. Seconds later the double rail doors of warehouse slowly creaked open and he saw the shadow of a tall figure move into the moonlight.

Every second of the screeching sound and rolling metal was pure agony to Harry as he realized the battle was real, he was about to face certain death. As the door clinked to a halt, he felt something snap within him. A great coil unwound within body, and he felt a rush of pain and pleasure slice up his spine and seem to glow behind his eyes, clouding his vision with a magical aura. He let out a husky breath as he felt heat rolling off of him in waves. Every move of even the tiniest muscle in his body was followed by a cascade of pure power being released in a chain reaction that was ravenously blowing through his body, that felt a hollow vessel for the raw magic. The rickety metal of the building creaked and scrapped against itself, groaning under Harry's spiritual pressure. A sharp wind blew up around him, the howling in his ears now matching the howling within him.

Harry was beyond all conscious thought when he stepped out from behind the crates to face whoever was stupid enough to stick around and witness the raw torrent of power that was now flowing out of him in great dense waves.

He did not see who it was, only the dark cloud of ruble that sprung up in the wake of his primal magic. Harry uttered no incantations, merely felt the need for destruction and let it happen.

The air had torn apart and collapsed in on itself, cracking with an explosive force as prismatic energy whipped at the earth from whence a great cloud of ash and dust rose to obscure his assailant.

Hedwig had flown screeching into the rafters, but Harry paid her no mind, focusing instead on the clearing cloud of dust. A dark shape could be seen, and soon Harry saw the slight from of a raised wand, and felt the destruction welling up again.

Five times the air exploded, each concussive blast blew back towards Harry, and he reveled in the rubble and dust that separated before his outstretched hand. He could still feel his magic coursing steadily around inside him, but for the moment he felt satisfied with the amount of destruction he had unleashed. Let the ministry come and try to arrest him for underage wizardry, he would blow them up too.

The air smelled sweet and magical, and he let himself become intoxicated with the scent of his victory. The primal feeling reverberated through the air and he let it pass through him, taking pleasure in the magical sparks that ran across his skin.

Never before had he experienced such power, save for the night on the clock tower as he stood above Malfoy, preparing to end it. But he had not let it out then, and the memory of Malfoy's tears came to him and he felt a little of his bliss slipping away. He wondered if the poor sod that had come to kill him had cried as his body was ripped to pieces, but he pushed the thought away, lest it spoil his mood.

His eyes were closed and he let out a great sigh, feeling the magic slowly slipping back to its normal, rational level. There was a distinct euphoric lightness in his head, such was his state that he barely even noticed when his arms became bound to his side, and his wand fell silently to the ground.

Only when the grizzled hand of Albus Dumbledore pressed itself against his chest did he notice something was amiss. From atop the mountain of power that he had been blissfully resting his mind, he saw the piercing blue eyes. They came to him as if from a great distance, and suddenly he felt himself sliding roughly down the stone sides to slump at the feet of the elder wizard.

Staring down at the incredibly flamboyant boots, Harry tried to lose himself in the intricate embroidery that wound its way across the deep purple fabric. His body bind had been released, but still he felt paralyzed.

"Harry Potter."

The tone was stern as Dumbledore had ever been, and though he wished desperately to look anywhere but at those piercing blue eyes, he could not resist. Instead of the anger that he had been expecting, Dumbledore wore a proud smile on his face and the familiar knowing twinkle in his eye.

"It is not very often that one as old as myself is surprised by a show such as that." He gestured around the ruined warehouse entrance, and smiled as he picked Harry's wand up off the floor.

Harry took the wand in stunned, wordless silence. He had thrown his most powerful magic at the old man, and he didn't even have one silver lock of hair out of place. It would have been infuriating if Harry wasn't in such complete awe.

Dumbledore extended his hand yet again, producing from his robes a single glass vile. Within Harry could see the familiar glow of a memory. He took it with yet more mute silence, and became even more confused as Dumbledore winked, and vanished into fog that gathered about the blown out doors.

As per usual, their encounter left him with more questions than answers, though Harry thought a record may have been set. Never had so few words left him in such a complete state of turmoil and confusion. He gripped the glass vile and held it to the paltry moonlight, now muted as it diffused through the fog.

About an hour later he sat slumped against a few boxes, staring listlessly at the swirling memory. He was lost in thought, trying to work out just how his life had lead to this point and wondering how he was ever going to live down the shame. And he would have to apologize to bloody Malfoy again.

He also did as much as humanly possible not to look at the crater that remained of his explosive outburst. It had felt good, and as much as he wanted to accept Dumbledore's light hearted perspective on the thing, as much as he wanted to believe he had only enjoyed the power, deep down he knew that there was a dark part of him that had taken control. He had not only enjoyed the unbridled release of his pent up fear and anger, but when he thought of the death eater, being mangled and torn into unrecognizable fleshy pulp before his very eyes, he had felt such sadistic pleasure.

Of course it had not actually happened, anywhere save his sick and twisted mind. He had spent the last two years pretending he wasn't a murderer, and that killing Voldemort would be hard. But now he was not so sure. He was not so sure that he wouldn't enjoy ripping the heart out of the man who had wrought such havoc upon his life.

A single tear fell from his eye as he thought of the innocence that had been forcibly squeezed from his childhood. As if being locked in a cupboard for eleven years wasn't enough to fuck someone up.

With a sigh he gave into his curiosity, as Dumbledore now doubt knew he would eventually. He would find out what memory of Dumbledore the old man thought he should see. Hedwig flew to his shoulder, and Harry leaned his cheek against hers, reaching a hand up to stroke her downy feathers.

She hooted dolefully and flew off into the night.

"Race you home then." And with a small pop, no trace was left that Harry Potter had even been hiding out in this old abandoned warehouse. Unless you were to somehow notice the gaping chunk of concrete that had been taken out of the floor, but honestly, when did muggles ever notice things like that?

Draco had quite a time finding the pajamas he had buried in the back of his trunk. It had gone out of vogue to wear pajamas in the Slytherin dorms around his fourth year. Naturally, if you were too much of a prude to risk flashing your junk around, you obviously didn't have anything to be proud of. Fortunately Draco had quite a bit to throw around in that department, and was never afraid to show off his serpentine mass. But if he and Harry were going to be friends, which is all that Draco wanted, he was going to have to sleep without sheets. A certain house elf seemed to be slipping in his old age, and though Kreacher seemed utterly bewildered at the whole affair, Malfoy was not stupid.

In any case, if Harry was going to come home tonight as Draco desperately hoped, he would need clothes to wear to bed as he slept on the bare mattress. He had searched in vain for another pair, but it seemed all the sheets in the house had been bewitched for their particular mattresses. Most clung desperately to their charges, and the one that he managed to wrestle free had shrunk to the size of a sock by the time he got back to the room. He found it quite odd, but put it down as a Black family quirk and thought nothing more of it.

As he pulled on the green silk bedrobes he felt them grow and tailor themselves to his larger body. It had been quite awhile since he'd worn them, and their seems protested at his new from. He then turned to organize his trunk. It was a momentous task, given that it had several expansive charms placed upon it, and given that he had managed to pack nearly all of his worldly possessions into it as they fled the manor. The project was soon halted as the sentimentality of it overwhelmed him. He shut the thing hastily, clutching a shiny medallion to his chest as he went to lay on the bed. His father had given it to him after throwing the mangled body of his owl to the family dogs, as a reminder of his failure.

It was an odd sort of coincidence that he should find this now. He considered the fact that he may actually bridge the gap of friendship with Potter in the near future, and that it was his failure to do so, so many years ago, that lead to this point. If that one event had happened differently, if they had become friends, and Harry had become a Slytherin, what then? Would he have remained friends once he learned of the Dark Lords plan? Or would he betray his family and stand by Potter? Would they both have perished together under the cursing hand of Lord Voldemort?

Malfoy fell into a light, and uneasy sleep, pondering these questions until his mind ran itself into exhaustion. He only faintly heard the soft pop that signaled Harry's return. It probably should have been an epic moment, but they were tired and much too frosty for that. Draco merely mumbled unintelligibly, and watched as Harry went over to the pensive.

He was asleep by the time Harry emerged, and didn't see him clutching the edge of the table, nor did he hear him walk into the bathroom. He rose vaguely to the smell of the bathwater, but only came to lucidity again when Potter emerged. He felt rather than saw Harry standing by the beds, he kept his eyes closed and tried to relax his pose, lest Potter think he was cold. He heard the gentle breathing, and the subtle shifting of weight as Potter picked up the covers on the bed.

Draco almost dropped the charade of feigned sleep when an unexpected weight fell upon him, and he felt Potter draping the comforter over top of him. He felt the soft cotton, and a whiff of scented air passed under his nose. He could smell the vanilla bathwater, but underneath that was that smell that was unequivocally Potter's.

It was so tempting to give into the soft sheets and float away into his dreams, but he clung to the edge of his lucidity, and waited until Harry had crawled onto his bed. He let Potter lay there for several minutes before he could be sure that the rising and falling of his sleeping chest was confirmed.

He lay the quilt on top of Potter's nearly naked from, focusing his attention on the window, and resisting the temptation to tuck him in. He crept back to his barren bed with the quiet of a ghost, and though he heard Harry stir a bit as the covers fell over him, soon his chest was back to the gentle rise and fall.

Draco rolled over, and though he had no goose down to cover his from, he was warmed by the gentle sounds of Potter sleeping and knowing that he had accepted Draco's kindness. And he was about to roll over and tell Potter to shove it when he lay the blanket back over him, but gasped as he felt another body slide onto the bed beside him.

Under the covers he felt the heat of Harry's exposed back suffuse the dark space between them. He had thought he felt warmth only a few moments ago, but this did not compare to the comfort that penetrated to his core as his heart beat great blissful beats in his chest. Still, despite the closeness, he could feel Potter's tension, which matched his own as they lay chaste, back to back, neither touching but both feeling the tingly space between their bodies like a screeching siren. It called out to Draco and kept him from even thinking about falling off to sleep.

He took to chewing his lip to distract himself from the awkwardness of the situation, and nearly died when he felt Harry's shoulder blade just barely graze against him. His heart leapt to his chest, and then he spent the obligatory five minutes racking his brain to decide if it was on purpose or accidental. Letting out a calming breath, he leaned over to brush just ever so slightly against Harry's back in an agonizingly slow motion. He felt every miniscule movement of his muscles, and his nerves screamed out, standing ready for the exact instant he made contact with the other body. As he drew closer to Potter, he came up against a weird tingly barrier that seemed to press back against him. And then, as he drew even closer it seemed to fall away and pulled him the last few centimeters until they met and warm soothing wave of energy passed between them.

He gasped again as the moment they touched, Potter leaned back into it and the world fell still and Malfoy melted into the mattress. He would still have to resist the urge to scratch every itch, and squirm about as he usually did while falling asleep, but at least he needn't be on pins and needles all night.

Both boys soon drifted off to sleep and neither heard the soft click of the door closing, and the quiet chuckle of an old scheming man as he walked away into the darkness of number 12 Grimmauld place.
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Harry Potter and The Sanguine Brother's Bond