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Chapter Text

Draco opens his eyes with a gasp and sends a hand flying to his chest before he realizes it. He remembers it—the blood, the pain—

But when he draws his shirt up, there’s nothing on his chest but a faint, silvery line that looks almost like a figure eight in shape. Draco traces it, then looks up when he hears the matron bustling in. He drops his shirt back over the scar before she can see anything.

“Be careful about sitting up, Mr. Malfoy,” Madam Pomfrey tells him, setting out a series of potions that Draco watches warily. Has she seen the Dark Mark? “You lost so much blood that I wasn’t sure you would make it at first.” She gives him a worried look.

At least she isn’t talking about kicking him out of the hospital wing or calling the Headmaster. For now, Draco will take it. He adopts a carefully blank expression. “What happened? I just remember—a lot of noise, mostly.”

Madam Pomfrey sighs and takes out her wand to cast a diagnostic spell on his chest. It makes a small purple glow pulse from the region where Draco thinks the scar is located, but nothing else happens or hurts. “Mr. Potter admitted that the two of you got into a duel in that bathroom that’s always being flooded. Teenage boy nonsense. He also admitted that it was his hex that broke the mirror and cut your chest with the broken glass. He’d been studying healing spells with Miss Granger. I would say that you owe him a life debt, but since he was the one who admitted cutting you in the first place…”

Draco wants to snort. He knows it wasn’t a fucking broken mirror that caused this. He remembers the spell flying from Potter’s wand like a burning rope, he remembers the despairing look on Potter’s face, and he remembers the pain.

But it’s also true that he’s been healed, and Potter might well have got his mysterious healing spell from the same place that he got that nasty curse. So he lies back and lets Madam Pomfrey work on him, his mind drifting.

Fine, Potter. We don’t owe each other anything, and we don’t have to talk about this ever again.

*

“I’m sorry, I what?”

Draco stares at Healer Hiddons, who doesn’t seem to want to look him in the eye. Which might be attributable to the results of the diagnostic charms he just cast, but those results are also ridiculous and Draco is disinclined to believe in them, so.

“You have a bond in place,” the Healer finally says, his attention on his wand and the legs of Draco’s bed instead of Draco’s face. “It appears to be a healing bond, and what we would call a level-one chain—that is, it doesn’t bind you at all, although it might constrain the other party to certain actions. By the look of it, I would say that it’s at least a few years old.” He raises his wand and taps it against the center of Draco’s chest. “And it emanates from here.”

Draco knows without looking that the Healer is touching that strange scar that Potter’s healing of the Sectumsempra curse left on him. He did talk to Professor Snape about that curse before the end of his sixth year, and Snape admitted he had created it, but also that Potter shouldn’t have been able to heal it the way he did. Draco let it go when he realized he would probably never see Potter at close quarters again and would get no information out of him.

Now, though…

“Would this bond ever become heavier than it is in the future?” he demands. “More of a chain?”

“No.” The Healer blinks at him. “All of the energy that healed you in the first place and is holding the wound closed is coming from the other party. I assume you don’t know who that is, Mr. Malfoy?”

“Oh,” Draco says grimly as he reaches for his shirt, “I think I might have some idea.”

It seems as if he’ll be seeing Potter at close quarters again, after all.

*

Potter works at St. Mungo’s now, after having refused ridiculous attempts by the Aurors to try and recruit him. Draco strides through the corridors with his head burning with anger. How dare Potter cast a spell that draws fuel from him and places a bond on Draco, and not explain? It probably means that Draco owes the bastard a life-debt after all. Professor Snape said nothing should have been able to close the wound.

But a bond that draws power from Potter for years on end? That would do it.

Draco feels his mouth twist into a snarl as he jerks to a stop before Potter’s powder-blue door (a ridiculous color) and pounds on it with one fist. He hates owing debts. He should be given the chance to take care of them fairly.

The door jerks open before his fist lands for the third time, and Potter yanks his head back out of Draco’s reach. “Jesus, Malfoy!”

Draco doesn’t know who Jesus is, and at the moment, he thinks he can sod off, too. Draco marches into Potter’s office, blows the door closed with a wave of his wand, and lifts his shirt. “What is this, Potter?”

“Oh,” Potter says, pushing his glasses up his nose.

“Bloody oh is all you can say?”

“Well, I didn’t think you would find out about it after so long.” Potter shrugs and leans back on the wall. “Anyway, I don’t know what you want me to do about it. The bond costs you nothing. It’ll always remain a scar, and it won’t demand anything of you. So why storm in here shouting and waving your arms around?”

“I was not—” Draco cuts himself off. Arguing with Potter is just a distraction, which might even be what Potter has planned. “Listen to me. I don’t want to owe you debts. You’ll take off the bond. Now.”

“Then what, Malfoy? You’ll bleed to death? That’s your brilliant plan?”

“What?”

“There’s a reason that the bond has to be permanent, Malfoy. The curse I used was too powerful. It could only be countered by something else equally powerful—but the initial spell wasn’t all that strong, or I probably wouldn’t have been able to cast it at all. It’s only small amounts of weak magic played out over years that make up for it. You’ll bear the scar and the bond forever, because otherwise you would go back to bleeding the way you were the moment I cut you open.”

Draco clenches his hands slowly. Part of him suspected that, but it’s still nearly as cutting as the curse to hear the evidence from Potter’s mouth.

“All right. All right.” Draco’s breath huffs out, and he finally manages to calm down and say, “Fine. But then we have to change the nature of the bond itself. Make it two-way.”

“No.”

Draco flinches. He didn’t miss that tone. It’s the tone Potter used to use in Quidditch, shouting orders at his team or taunting Draco. It’s the voice that defied Umbridge and told Draco he was a git too many times to count. He knows that Potter has just dropped an iron gate across the possibility that Draco can actually repay him.

“Why, for fuck’s sake?” Draco snaps.

Potter studies him, then sighs and flicks his wand. Draco tries not to jump as two cups and an already-singing kettle zoom into the room, but doesn’t succeed. Potter only shrugs and hands him a cup, then gestures him towards the tray that floats right behind the kettle with lemon, milk, and sugar on it.

“Because the bond demands a certain price,” Potter says, sitting down in a plush chair that Draco didn’t really notice before and crossing his legs. The tray lands on a table next to the chair, and Draco takes the one across from it. Potter’s office is large and airy, except for one cramped corner across from them, crowded with bookshelves. “I was willing to pay that price because I was young and stupid and thought I might not live through the war anyway. But here we are, both alive. You shouldn’t have to pay it.”

“Tell me what it is.”

“The bond runs on the strength of my remorse for casting that curse at you.” Potter pushes his glasses up his nose and pours milk into his cup. “It establishes a kind of empathy that would make me aware if you were in danger—strong emotions like fear and rage, the kind you were feeling when I cut you open. But…”

“Will you stop making me drag this information out of you?”

“Fine, Malfoy! I found the spell in Snape’s book. God knows what he was going to use it for, but it creates a bond that is supposed to tie two people together in something like marriage, okay? Except it makes only one person vulnerable to that.” Potter looks away from him, and his skin is as brilliant as the roses that Mother grew in the Manor gardens this year. “I can’t have sex with anyone.”

Draco opens his mouth, but he can’t get anything out.

“I knew the price. Like I said, I thought it was okay because I could barely imagine a future for myself at that point.” Potter sighs. “And now I’m stuck like this. But that doesn’t mean you need to be.”

Draco drinks his tea and listens to Potter talking of the other costs of the bond—a drain on his magic, not that it matters much to someone of Potter’s strength; a general awareness of Draco’s direction that would mean he could Apparate to him if he was in danger—without saying anything else. As he’s getting ready to leave, Potter nods to him, nibbling his lip.

“I should have told you about this before. I’m sorry. I also shouldn’t have used that curse on you. I’m—sorry for that, too.”

Draco leaves, fuming so steadily that it feels as if he’s one of those Muggle machines he once read about, guided by steam. He marches down the corridors, glaring Healer trainees out of his way, and goes back home, and flings himself down on the rich turquoise-colored sofa in his bedroom, and stares at the ceiling.

He should be happy. The bond doesn’t demand anything of him. Potter made that clear. Draco can sleep with who he wants, go about his day, and cast whatever spells he wants without feeling a drain.

But the sense of a debt unpaid remains anyway, going from niggling at his brain to clawing at it as the hours pass.

*

Draco rises when he sees Potter come into the Leaky Cauldron. It took eight evenings, lingering here, to be sure of what time Potter would come in and when he wouldn’t have his red-haired parasites with him, but now he knows. He strides up to Potter and cocks his head at the table he’s been sitting at, a private one near the back of the pub.

“Join me for a drink, Potter.” His own tone can imitate an iron gate when he wants it to, as well.

Potter eyes him, but seems to realize he’s not getting out of it, and follows Draco to his table. He does get some butterbeer and a sandwich thick with cheese and mustard that he all but eats like a werewolf. Draco frowns at him. “Do you not eat on shift?”

“I’m not actually healing people yet,” Potter says, and licks his lips to remove a speck of mustard before he reaches for the butterbeer. “Only training. I need to spend almost all my time reading and practicing spells. I’m behind because they usually expect you to have more private training between now and your NEWT’s.”

“Make the bond two-way.”

Potter sighs and finishes the gulp of butterbeer in his mouth before he puts the bottle down again. “No.”

“Why not?” Draco is proud of those words. He planned them; he makes them as thick and dark as he can, and sees the way that Potter pauses with his hand in the air.

Then Potter completes his motion and shakes his head. “No reason you should have to suffer. The same reason I gave you before.”

“What was your brilliant plan if you died during the war, Potter? Since that would have the same effect as canceling the bond?”

“It wouldn’t have,” Potter says, with the annoying certainty that Draco wishes he hadn’t had time to acquire since the war. “That’s different from canceling the bond. The strength needed to maintain it would just all snap back to you at once as my magic fled my body, and you would have been completely healed without the bond existing anymore.” He hesitates, then adds quietly, “I don’t blame you if you want me dead now.”

Draco does clench his hands, but says curtly, “Don’t be ridiculous, Potter.”

Potter watches him, and says nothing.

“Make the bond two-way. Or can’t it be done?”

“It can be done. But why should you be dragged into this trap with me, Malfoy? Believe me, it’s not worth the sense of a debt repaid.”

“Oh, so you know that for sure, do you?” Draco leans back in his chair and lets his voice rise again. “Making decisions for me again, the way you did when you decided not to tell me about the bond?”

A few people turn to look at them. Potter winces. “Calm down, Malfoy. You don’t want everyone to know about the bond, do you?”

“I might want them to know that you’re a selfish prick, Potter.”

“Yes, so selfish to carry the burdens of the bond instead of trying to spare you from them,” Potter spits at him.

“Yes, poor pitiful Potter, the martyr for so many things. Taking people’s free will away from them and parading around with it. It must be so heavy.”

“There’s no reason for you to—”

“Be what, Potter? Capable of making my own decisions? Free of the debt?”

“Be a virgin for the rest of your life!” Potter’s red ears are more impressive than a Weasley’s hair. “Or just have the memories of the sexual experiences you’ve already had, whatever. I was stupid, Malfoy, but I can bear it, okay? I’ve been bearing it for more than a year.”

Draco stares at him. He’s so desperate to make a dent in Potter’s stubborn head that he actually says something he would never say otherwise. “Why would I have to remain a virgin for the rest of my life?”

“Haven’t you been listening to me when I talked about the costs, Malfoy? Always making sure that you can’t—”

“But,” Draco says, and he leans forwards, and he lowers his voice, and he angles himself so that Potter can look down his shirt, “I can have sex with you.”

And Potter does look down Draco’s shirt, Draco’s certain of it, before he snaps his eyes back to Draco’s face. He’s breathing heavily, and the red flush has spread down his cheeks from his ears. “Don’t be ridiculous, Malfoy. You’re not attracted to me.”

“Really?” Draco doesn’t have to feign his surprise. “Don’t spend much time around mirrors, do you?”

“I’m a boy.”

“You’re a man.”

Potter does look as if he might have a stroke from the redness of his face, and Draco decides to cut this meeting short. Let Potter get used to someone else making the choices for him. He sighs and stands. Then he bends down and gives a quick stroke to the nape of Potter’s neck, a sensitive place he won’t have thought about protecting.

Potter gives a full-body shiver that makes Draco smile. Potter might not be attracted to him in a way that would ever have resulted in anything if they were free and unbonded, but he’s also never had sex. That makes him susceptible. “See you tomorrow, Potter,” Draco says, in the same low tone but this time loud enough to be heard, and strolls to the door, rolling his hips.

He hears the outbreak of voices behind him and grins. Potter can deal with that curiosity until tomorrow.

*

Draco anticipated the fist that hits his door the next morning, although admittedly not so early. He stands and stretches, already awake, and works the last of the languor out of his limbs before he goes to open the door and reveal Potter.

Potter spins into the entrance hall and whips around. Draco catches his breath. Potter has been either calm or embarrassed the last few times Draco saw him. This is the way he was meant to look, burning like a brand.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Oh, nothing that someone listening to me won’t fix.”

“You—you made everyone think we’re dating!”

“I know. Isn’t it fun to make someone else have to deal with lies?”

Potter stalks up to him and strikes him in the middle of the chest with one finger. “I was trying to save your life, you great bloody git! I thought you would be upset if you knew about the bond. That was why I kept it quiet!”

“And instead, I’m upset because you lied. I’m afraid that you have to deal with your idiocy either way, Potter.”

Potter spins away from him and paces back and forth in the drawing room. Draco watches hopefully for the minute when he’ll notice how nice the drawing room is; this isn’t Malfoy Manor, which Draco will need a few more years before he can live comfortably in, but it’s a nice house in Hogsmeade. There are crystal vases on the tables courtesy of Mother and mirrors on the walls courtesy of Father and fresh flowers floating in water in large glass bowls courtesy of the house-elves.

To his disappointment, Potter doesn’t look as if he gives a fuck. Instead, he turns around after some stalking and muttering and asks, “What if I tell you everything about the bond? What if I tell the public? Is that enough humiliation for you?”

“It’s not about humiliating you, Potter. It’s about giving me a real choice.”

“I did! I gave you your freedom!”

“Freedom that I don’t want if it comes with a debt! A debt I can never repay!”

“You don’t owe me a debt!”

Draco folds his arms and tilts his chin back, so that Potter can see Draco’s best looking-down-his-nose-at-people impersonation of Father. “You don’t command my feelings, Potter.”

Potter stops and puts his hands over his face. Draco listens closely, because his voice is muffled this way, and hears, “Maybe this is all a nightmare and I’ll wake up in a few seconds. Come on, wake up!” Then he pinches the back of his own hand sharply, and yelps.

“Look,” Draco says, getting tired of this display, “you ought to think about all the advantages this arrangement offers you.”

“What bloody advantages, Malfoy?”

“Well, for instance, you don’t have to carry the secret of the bond on your own anymore. You have someone who can share it with you. And there’s the fact that I might donate some money for your Healing research if I thought it was interesting and applicable enough. I’m still richer than you are, even with the fines the Ministry imposed.”

“Oh, come on, Malfoy, do you think—”

“And,” Draco says, dramatically lowering his voice to save the best for last, “you’d get someone to have sex with. I know that you told me you came up with the bond because you made a stupid mistake and you were young, but you’re not as young now. What if you did have a partner you could spend time with?”

Draco’s voice seems to have its effect. Potter stands there, staring at him, tongue apparently stuck to the roof of his mouth, as Draco slinks to his feet. Draco makes his way forwards, and slides a gentle hand from Potter’s forehead and the scar that marks him even now down the side of his cheek and towards his throat. Potter’s pulse is jumping. He looks deliciously vulnerable.

Draco tilts his head to let his warm breath follow the same path. He doesn’t kiss Potter, not yet. He’s determined Potter’s going to beg for that.

“Come on,” he whispers. “You know that this is the best solution. You’re lonely, you’re grieving for the loss of something you thought you would have, and you’re all tangled up in resentment towards me, right? Sometimes you wish you’d saved me some other way. Come on, Potter. It’s the obvious solution.”

Potter abruptly jumps away from him and says rapidly, without looking at him, “I need to talk to Ron and Hermione.” And then he races out the door, before Draco can even get an elf to open it for him.

Draco sighs and retreats to his couch to contemplate his flowers. He supposes that it was inevitable Potter’s friends were going to get involved, but he can’t say he’s at all looking forward to seeing them again.

Chapter Text

“Hi, Malfoy. Can I talk to you?”

Draco raises more than his eyebrows at the polite tone Granger is using to address him, but he nods and opens his door to her. She steps inside and looks around with an equally polite smile that almost immediately becomes warmer. “This is lovely.”

Draco smiles back and decides not to tell her that it was mainly a house-elven effort. Granger smoothes her robes over her legs as she sits down on one of the couches. “All right. Harry told us about the bond last night, and after Ron and I stopped asking him questions and accusing him of being stupid, he told us that you wanted to share the bond.” Granger considerd him for a second.

That’s a new development as well, wanting to take his word instead of simply trust that Potter is telling the truth. Draco nods. “It’s true. I think that he made a decision I should have shared in. If not then, because I was bleeding to death, then later. That kind of bond—no one usually invokes it even to save someone’s life, Granger. He made the kind of sacrifice for me that I’d expect a blood relative to make.”

He thinks he might have to explain that, but Granger only shoots him a keen, thoughtful look. “And it really matters to you, doesn’t it? Your family?”

“Yes,” Draco says softly. There were times in his life when someone else admired him or wanted to date him or get close to his money, but Mother and Father are the only people that he knows for certain love him. And to have someone else in the world willing to do that—it’s not like Draco’s foolish enough to assume Potter is in love with him, but that level of devotion needs to be rewarded. Encouraged.

If only because Draco sometimes wakes in a cold sweat at night after dreaming that he’ll be alone completely when Mother and Father die.

Granger sits quietly for a few minutes, and Draco doesn’t interrupt her contemplation, even to offer her something to eat or drink. The elves would bring it, anyway, which would be an unnecessary distraction.

“All right,” Granger says finally. “Harry did raise another objection last night that he said he hadn’t told you. He was worried about the impact on you. People could think that you fed him some love potion. And he’s worried that your parents won’t want you bonding with someone who can’t bear your children. Especially someone who is the only person you’ll ever be able to have sex with.”

Draco smiles a little. “Surely even Muggles have sufficient magic—er, I mean, machines, to give a man’s sperm to a woman and have her have his children with no sex involved.”

A startled blush works its way across Granger’s face, where she’s been looking remarkably calm and collected. “I never thought of that as a possibility. I suppose that Harry hasn’t, either. Or he thinks your parents would never accept it.”

Draco shrugs. He’s not about to reveal his parents’ inner thoughts to Granger of all people, but honestly, he knows that they’re as changed by the war as he is. Things that they once would have hated are now permissible; the unthinkable can now be thought. “Well, they won’t mind.”

Granger nods, determined now, and sits up. “I think it was wrong for Harry not to tell you about this the minute he could. Maybe there could even have been a solution other than you bonding with him if he’d done it close enough to the wounds being inflicted. But now there isn’t.” She hesitates. “Do you think you can make him happy, Malfoy?”

“Yes.” Draco is determined to do so, and that’s the same thing.

Granger drums her fingers on her arm for a second, and then says, “Well, I wouldn’t ever agree to this if Harry had a choice. But that damn bond doesn’t leave him one. It’s you or no one. And I don’t think he can live without sex even if he thinks he can.” She manages to speak those words without a further blush. “Thanks, Malfoy.”

Draco watches her leave, hoping, for the first time, that Potter will listen to her. He’s deprecated her influence over her friends in the past; she’s loud and bossy, frankly, and not someone Draco would want to listen to. But she’s a better option for Potter to speak to than Draco can be for a long time.

If ever, says the doubt in the back of his head, but Draco ignores it. He’s determined. That will be enough.

Because I say so.

*

“Er, thanks for coming, Malfoy.”

Potter has his face averted, his ears burning. Draco pauses in the doorway of his home. “I thought the procedure to make the bond two-way was simple? And didn’t involve us having to take off our clothes?”

“Of course it is! Of course it doesn’t!”

Draco nods. “Then why are you blushing like that?”

Potter manages a smirk, although it’s an uncomfortable one that makes Draco want to tell him not to give up on smiling. “You’ll see when the bond is reinstated so that it flows between both our minds.”

In the end, Draco shrugs and comes to stand next to Potter. Potter’s moved everything out of the room except for a small round table with silver inlay. Draco, who doesn’t trust Potter’s taste, diagnoses it as something Granger probably sent. On it is a vial of what Draco knows is Potter’s blood and a handful of crushed rose petals.

“We needed something that represented romance,” Potter says, seeing Draco’s gaze fall on the petals. “If we hope to achieve a romantic side to this bond. And I thought rose petals would taste better than crushed dove feathers.”

Draco makes a face of agreement, and picks up the vial of blood. “You don’t need to drink mine?”

Potter shakes his head and produces a porcelain cup that he extends so Draco can see the clear water in it. “As far as the bond is concerned, I already drank deeply enough of your blood when I cast that curse at you.”

Suddenly reminded of it, Draco winces a little and watches Potter count out the rose petals. There are sixteen, so each of them receive eight. Draco drops the petals into the blood and watches them float for an instant before they sink. Then the blood sparks and fizzes.

Potter’s water, where he added his own share of the rose petals, is doing the same. He makes an uncertain face. “Well, it reacted the way it was supposed to if both parties had pure intentions. Bottoms up, Malfoy.” He lifts the cup and drinks. Draco swallows at the same time, although he thinks his must be considerably worse than Potter’s dose, since his is soft and slimy with the taste of blood.

Draco swallows, and swallows, and swallows. It seems as if he’ll never get rid of all the clinging threads in his throat. He coughs, and brings his hand up to prevent himself from vomiting it back up. He’ll never hear the end of it from Potter if he does that.

Potter sways on his feet, his eyes wide. Draco reaches out towards him, thinking he’s going to fall, and then Potter gives him a vague smile and the bond slams into Draco like a Hogwarts Express made of fluff.

The room is large and spinning slowly, and then it focuses, so that Potter is the center of his attention. Vaguely, Draco remembers that Potter said it was like this for him, that he knew Draco’s strong emotions and his direction—

Well, Draco knows the same thing, even though he doesn’t think the direction thing is as strong because Potter is right here in front of him. He knows Potter is the most important person in the universe. He knows that he could walk out into a rainy night with his eyes closed and still turn straight towards him, or lead someone across miles and miles of bare ground. The blood hammers in his veins now, singing instead of objecting, and Draco reaches out.

Potter moves to meet him, his breath unsteady. Draco isn’t sure what he’s experiencing, but he can feel the emotions swinging up and down from Potter, a steady pendulum. Wonder must be the strongest one, and worry the next.

Draco wants to roll his eyes. Of course Potter would worry. That seems to be pretty much all he does.

But the thought is fond, and Draco doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to think of Potter with as much bitterness after this. Well, that’s all right. Draco doesn’t need to. He wraps his arms around Potter and kisses him with as much fervor as he can manage. And Potter’s mouth is right there, kissing him back, and suddenly Potter pulls back for some reason, which interrupts the kiss and makes Draco almost whine, and whispers, “My name is Harry.”

“Wasn’t I thinking of you that way?” Draco asks dazedly. He was sure he was.

“No. You muttered Potter just now. I’ve had a hard time calling you Malfoy the last few times I saw you. I can’t—Draco—”

It’s really the name and not the stupid magic of the bond that compels Draco to wrap his arms around Harry and give him another long, slow kiss. He’s sure of it. Harry’s arms are trembling beneath his hands, and he seems caught between leaning in even harder and leaning back, as if he thinks that he might overwhelm Draco if he stays too close. Draco just keeps yanking him in.

And he’s there, he’s beautiful, he’s brilliant, and even the softness of his hair is brilliant, and Draco knows what he wants, and if Harry is smart, then he’s going to give it to Draco.

“Yes, yes, all right,” Harry is gasping, shaking his head as if he wants to remove flecks of foam from the corners of his mouth. Then his gaze falls on Draco, and softens. He lifts his hand and kisses the back of it. “Come on. My bedroom is over here.”

Draco follows him, stumbling, because it seems that he started to take off his belt with one hand and his shirt with the other, but at the same time he also seems to be hanging onto Harry, and sometimes a couch as they pass it. Harry has a lot of furniture. They halt in the door of the bedroom, and Harry gives him a radiant smile and leans in to kiss him again.

“It’s okay,” he says. “I want this—so much.”

Those are the words that Draco has been waiting to hear without realizing he was waiting. He reaches out and draws most of Harry’s shirt off before Harry can warn him to be careful of his glasses. Draco is shaking. When he thinks about it, that doesn’t make much sense—Harry is the one who’s been a virgin this long, the one who thought he would never have sex, he should be the one who’s gagging for it—but then Harry’s hand lands on the back of his neck, and he doesn’t have to think about it.

Harry is shining wonder like sunlight down the bond now. Draco kisses him again when his shirt is out of the way, and Harry starts unbuckling his belt. Draco watches for a second, then gets started, or restarted, on his own clothes.

In the end, they’d both naked and staring at each other. Draco knows a second’s shame that Harry is going to see the silver scars that the Sectumsempra curse put there, but then he loses it in his awe at how many muscles were hiding beneath Harry’s shaggy clothes. And the shine of his eyes, and how big and vulnerable they are without his glasses, and the length of his hard cock, and how happy Harry feels.

“Is this just the bond?” Draco whispers.

“Maybe some of it,” Harry says. “But most of it is because I—you want to have sex with me. And I get to have sex.”

Draco finds himself grinning before he thinks about it. “Of course I do,” he says, and steps forwards so that he can skim his fingers down Harry’s chest and up around his throat and make him shiver. “I told you before that you need to spend more time with mirrors.”

Harry knocks him back on the bed then, which isn’t as luxuriously soft as Draco’s at home but will do for the moment, and straddles him, looking down with a self-satisfied expression on his face. Draco reaches up and draws him down into a kiss.

Their mouths meet, tongues twirling around each other and Draco’s body full of heat and marveling, until Harry shifts a little and their groins touch. Draco groans. He’s had sex before, unlike Harry, but he already knows that he’s not going to last very long. His hips are hammering up, and Harry is grabbing him around the neck and breathing heavily.

It’s wonderful.

Draco manages to kiss Harry again as they rock against each other, but Harry’s the one who finds the most brilliant position, their cocks thrusting against each other, slippery, so warm and tight in between the clutch of their skin and thighs that Draco’s eyes roll back in his head and he loses hold of the kiss. “God,” he groans.

“Yeah,” Harry says, and thrusts against Draco. Draco thinks about what it’s going to be like when they have sex where someone’s inside the other one, and his head spins with a sweet dizziness.

“Can’t believe I was—going to give this up,” Harry pants, and Draco manages to force his eyes open to see Harry tipped back atop him, his mouth open, his eyes so wide that they look as if they’re going to pop out of his head.

“Can’t believe it, either,” Draco said. “But you’re here now.” And he thrusts back against Harry and leans up to hook an arm around his shoulders and kiss him like that.

That’s the moment that the white thunder comes down on Draco, and from the way that his tongue is standing out of his mouth and his hair is practically standing up off his head, for Harry, too. “Oh, fuck,” he blurts, and as he shudders in Draco’s arms, Draco shakes with the same hot pleasure, and feels them spilling together, between their bellies.

Harry shivers for a minute afterwards, then kisses him hungrily, cradling the back of Draco’s skull in one palm. It’s an incredibly tender gesture, and Draco finds himself blinking away stupid wetness when Harry draws back and smiles at him. “You were right. I didn’t know what I was missing.”

Right at this second, Draco doesn’t remember saying that, but he thinks he’s wise. He nods vaguely, and Harry laughs and reaches for his wand. He cleans them so thoroughly that Draco feels he was scrubbed, and then Harry blinks and stares. “Wow.”

“What?” Draco mutters crossly. Harry is keeping him from sleep that will probably end up in a tangle of warm limbs as Draco curls up with his bondmate, and at the moment, it seems extraordinarily cruel of him.

“The bond isn’t a drain on my magic anymore, since we share it,” Harry explains, curling himself up and getting a good start on that warmth that Draco thought would be there. “I didn’t realize it until it was gone. I got used to the bond being one-way.”

“Then you’ll get used to it going two ways, too. And you’ll get used to shutting up and letting me sleep.”

Harry laughs into his ear. Even that has a wonderful heat to it. Draco sighs, and goes to sleep.

*

They wake to sharp knocking on Harry’s door. Draco lies there and blinks idiotically at the ceiling while Harry lurches up out of sleep and aims his wand at the door. After a minute, he snorts and shakes his head.

“It’s Ron, and your parents,” he mutters, putting away his wand. “Do you want me to go out and tell them to come back later? That would give you a chance to clean up and put some clothes on.” He runs his eyes up and down Draco’s chest, this time without a shirt to get in the way, and leers at him. “Not that you don’t look perfectly good like this.”

“My parents and your Weasley would disagree,” Draco says dryly. He reaches for his own wand to straighten and clean his hair, and clean up the odd bits of dried—stuff—that have found their way into it. “Let me find my pants and trousers. You, the same. We’ll meet them in such a way that they can’t be scandalized and yet they can’t ignore what we’ve been doing.”

Harry grins at him and bounces out of bed. “I like that idea.” Draco watches him as he gets dressed, only turning away when he absolutely has to to watch how his belt threads through the buckle. God, Harry’s magnificent. And so much more relaxed than he was yesterday…

Then Draco remembers what Harry said about the bond not draining his magic in an effort to close Draco’s wounds anymore, and snorts. Of course. Someone can get used to that drain, but it would probably make you prone to drama and repression.

This new Harry looks like he’s going to be much more fun. Draco prefers him.

Harry cleans everything off his bare chest except sweat, wraps an arm around Draco’s waist when they’re both ready, and pulls them over to the door just in time for another thunderous knock to sound. Harry snorts and throws the door open. “Do you mind? We were just about to shag.”

Weasley stares with his mouth open, which Draco thinks he’s funny until he sees down his throat to something that’s probably the remains of his last meal. Draco flinches and looks at his father instead. Father is leaning on his cane as if he needs it, staring at him. Mother is the one who glides forwards to kiss his cheek.

“Congratulations, Draco,” she murmurs. “Of course you would manage to capture an absolutely stunning prize.”

“Thank you, Mother,” Draco says humbly, which seems to be the cue for both Weasley and Father to start yelling.

“Harry, mate, when Hermione told me you were going to go through with the bond, I didn’t think she was serious—”

“Draco, you will be very lucky if you do not find yourself permanently disowned—”

“Then you would not be at all lucky, Lucius, for you would find yourself very permanently divorced the same day,” Mother cuts in, and her voice is cold enough that it makes everyone shut up. Draco is frankly a little surprised that it doesn’t also cause some people’s breath to become visible.

Harry looks at his friend for a second, says, “You ought to have known I was serious, Ron,” and then glances at Draco. “You didn’t tell your parents at all? You told me you had!”

“He sent an owl,” Father says, but his voice just can’t compare in frigidity to Mother’s.

Harry frowns at Draco. “Draco.”

Draco throws his hands up. “They would have kept me from bonding with you. Or, Father would have,” he adds hastily, as he catches Mother’s warning glance. “I didn’t want to argue about it. I wanted to bond with you.”

“You were still free,” Harry says softly, and the other people on the scene might as well not exist. “Why did you choose to do this?”

“So many reasons,” Draco tells him, and tilts his head a little so that he can make sure he’s looking directly into Harry’s eyes. “Because of the debt I felt I owed, and because you’re gorgeous, and because I’m glad that you saved my life, and because I’m flattered you saved my life, and because Mother’s right and you’re a brilliant catch, and because I thought a bond like the one you described sounded nice. No one has ever cared about me like that before, Harry. Not the same way,” he adds, as he sees his parents tense. “And I wanted to make sure that you wouldn’t change your mind someday, too.”

“Draco. I wouldn’t do that.”

“You never know,” Draco murmurs, and runs a hand down Harry’s stomach, watching in interest as he tenses and twitches. “I’ve heard that involuntary celibacy can do strange things to the brain.”

“It was voluntary celibacy,” Harry begins.

Weasley interrupts. “Are you really bonded to this git, mate?”

Harry turns to him. “Don’t call him a git, Ron. And I’ve been bonded to him for years. It’s just mutual, now.” The smile of dazzling sweetness he shows Draco would make up for a thousand of Weasley’s remarks.

“What about children—”

“Father, I didn’t take you for so ignorant,” Draco says, and rolls his eyes at his father. “There are so many witches who would do a great deal for Malfoy gold, and all I need to do is present the appropriate—liquids—to one.”

“Okay, I am going home now,” Weasley announces loudly, backing away with his hands over his ears as if that could somehow change the past. “Harry, congratulations. Malfoy, whatever.” And he Apparates with a crack that makes Draco snicker. He’s heard quieter departures from drunk patrons leaving the Leaky Cauldron at midnight.

“I don’t like this, Draco,” Father says, his lips pinched.

Draco meets his gaze and says simply, “You don’t have to like it. You just have to support me.”

Father stares at him, then sighs and glances at Mother. She pats his arm and smiles at Draco. “We both do. You know that.”

Draco turns to Father.

“All of us who know what’s good for them support it equally,” Mother says, and she nods to Harry. “I know that you’ll take care of my son, Mr. Potter. Your bravery and goodness showed that beyond all doubt when you bonded yourself to him, never thinking it would be returned. See to it that your devotion is equal now that you have him with you.”

Harry’s smile softens a little. “I will, Mrs. Malfoy. I promise.”

Then Harry turns to Father and holds out his hand. Father stares at it long enough to make Draco wince and Mother turn slowly towards him. Then Father sticks his hand out, shakes Harry’s, and drops it. “Let’s leave the young people to their entertainments,” he says, and stalks to the edge of Harry’s front steps.

“He thought you would marry Astoria Greengrass for some reason,” Mother says, shaking her head. “Well, I am glad that you found happiness, Draco. Glad for both of you.” She smiles at Harry again, touches his shoulder, and kisses Draco’s cheek. Then she goes over and takes Father’s arm, and if he says anything else before they Apparate, Draco can’t hear it.

Harry sighs out, hard, and shuts the door. “Damn. That was more difficult than I thought it’d be. Draco, you should have visited them—”

Draco can think of a lot more interesting things than a lecture on family responsibility, so he reaches down and takes hold of one of them, stroking slowly until Harry’s head is back against the door and his hips are pumping steadily into Draco’s fingers.

“Come back to bed,” Draco breathes.

And Harry joins him there, and doesn’t say a word about Weasleys or Draco’s parents for the rest of the day. And it’s an improvement, and Draco curls up around him in the warmth when they’re done, and sleeps for hours.

It’s the sleep of the self-satisfied, if not the just. And the sleep of the happy. And the bonded.

The End.