Chapter Text
It’s nothing to write home about when it happens. Draco’s had his fair share of hexes during his time at Hogwarts, especially since Headmistress Umbridge was dismissed. The idiots who were dumb enough to get in trouble under her reign have since decided to take their anger out on everyone from the Inquisitorial Squad. A bat bogey hex here. A tripping hex there. It’s all very commonplace. Not to mention the nonstop bickering his house and those blockheaded Gryffindor’s have engaged in for years. Yes, he’s very familiar with hexes and heckles.
So, he can’t be bothered when a stinging hex hits him in the back at dinner. Sure, he flinches and nearly drops his buttered bit of baguette, but it surprised him. His thoughts were far from the Great Hall and deep in that blasted cabinet, he has no idea how to fix. He was thinking of his mother, left alone in the Manor with that madman when his back flares with the short-lived pain of the hex.
“What are you whimpering about?” Blaise asks after Draco knocks their elbows together.
Yes, not-in-the-slightest-bit big deals can hurt. Draco’s not senseless—while Pansy loves to argue otherwise. He’s a highborn, well-raised, and lovingly nurtured young man. Meaning he’s not so much scraped a knee without a servant, house-elf, or relative fixing it up for him immediately. He doesn’t have much tolerance for pain and prefers to avoid it as much as he can. Why else would he spend the majority of his time at this bloody school surrounded by meatheads like Crabbe and Goyle? Living shields, obviously.
But that’s beside the point. He doesn’t like to be hexed, but it’s not the end of the world when he is. He can think of worse spells to have thrown his way.
“Bloody stinging hex,” Draco says, sticking his nose in the air to keep some of his dignity. “Some Gryffindor brat, no doubt.”
He turns in the direction of the rowdiest table in the room—he tries to sit with his back to them as much as possible so he won’t be disturbed—and sneers over his shoulder. They’re all absorbed in some loud conversation about Weasley’s favourite shit Quidditch team and shoving each other about. No one appears to be looking in his direction nor are any wands out in a suspicious manner. However, that does not prove innocence.
Blaise rolls his eyes and snickers into his soup. Draco, offended, blatantly ignores him. How dare one of his nearest and dearest friends not show him even an ounce of sympathy. He angles his body away from his so-called friend to focus on tearing himself more bread and buttering it. The peace only lasts a few minutes before pain blooms on his shoulder. It’s quick. A shock more than a sting. Barely a pinch. He ignores it.
They always say ignoring someone is the best way to get them to bugger off. He doesn’t know who they are, but he knows from personal experience that it works. He hates when he’s trying to get a rise out of someone and they don’t show any reaction.
But the person doesn’t stop. The hexes keep coming. They hit him behind his ear, on his ankles, his arms. Again. Again. Again.
Draco slams his butter knife and bit of baguette down and stands as dramatically as he can. He wishes the tables in the Great Hall had individual chairs rather than benches so he could screech his chair back too, but alas. The extra bit of flair doesn’t seem necessary as everyone who can see him from their seats turns to look.
“I do hope whoever is hexing me finds a different form of entertainment soon,” he says, projecting as his mother taught him to. This catches more eyes and ears. A few first years at the Ravenclaw table duck away from his glare. “Because I’m growing bored of it.”
Just like he wanted, McGonagall stands. “Leave Mr. Malfoy be,” she says. “Twenty points from whoever I see with their wand pointed at him. Or anyone else for that matter.”
Draco smirks and primly sits back down. His eyes flick over to the Gryffindor table—as they always do though he’s loathe to admit it—and yes, good. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived himself, is looking at him.
He’s looking, but he’s not watching. His face is blank, indifferent, staring through Draco like he doesn’t exist. And that just won’t do.
Draco turns his smirk into a sneer and Potter’s face pulls into an ugly, irritated expression before he turns away. It makes Draco giddy. It fills a balloon in his stomach and inflates past his ribs until it’s pushing against his heart and he feels like he’s going to pop. Nothing brings him joy in the same way as getting a reaction out of Potter does. Clearly, no one’s ever told Potter about the ignoring people bit, or if they have, it hasn’t gone through his thick skull. And for that, Draco is grateful.
McGonagall’s threat seems to work for the most part. Draco finishes his meal without any more discomfort. He lets himself sneak a few glances toward Potter as a reward. He’s caught a few times but that’s okay. All Draco needs to do is screw up his face or mouth an insult and Potter will seize with anger and look away.
He always turns away first.
Draco doesn’t know if that’s disappointing, or if it makes the game all the more fun.
“Draco, darling,” Pansy says, waving her magazine in front of his nose. Draco catches the words ‘Seduce Any Man’ at the top of the article she has open, and immediately decides he doesn’t want to know and looks away.
“Yes, Pansy, dearest?”
She smiles at him the way she does that always leaving him dreading her next words. She taps her manicured, black nails on the tabletop and when she’s sure she has his attention, slides a piece of parchment toward him.
“What is this?”
“My remedial Potions essay,” she says simply. “Slughorn assigned it to me this morning after I royally screwed up my regerminating potion. It’s on the varying effects of mollusks in water-proofing potions.”
Draco raises a brow. “And that has to do with me, how? If I didn’t know you, I’d say you were asking me to look over it for you, but I do know you and that means there is no way you’ve finished it already.”
“I was supposed to be your partner in Potions today.”
“Yes, but then that silly little Gryffindor that’s in love with you stole my seat.”
“And you didn’t come to rescue me!”
“I’m dreadfully sorry,” Draco says which is true to an extent. He did feel a bit bad when that tiny, mousey Gryffindor with the too-big shoes sat next to Pansy before either of them knew what was going on, but it was also very funny to watch her try out all her most intimidating looks on the kid only for none to work. “But Merlin and Morgana, Pansy please spit it out.”
Pansy drops her hands to the table with a thud, her fingers spread out and nails digging into the wood like talons. Draco leans back just ever so slightly.
“Because of this, I was simply too disturbed to focus on the material, which I was already struggling with as you know, and I failed. I blame you, and therefore I’m calling in a favor.”
“Pansy, no—"
“Pansy, yes!” She nudges the parchment ever closer until it flops over Draco’s nearly empty dinner plate and into his lap. Draco stares down at it like it’s a particularly disgusting creature. “You owe me, Malfoy.”
“What did you possibly do for me that I would willingly write two feet about mollusks for you?”
Pansy smiles that horrible smile again. “This past summer, remember when I was over for tea in the garden and your mother asked about your booming love life—”
“Really, Draco? Booming?” Blaise says blandly. Draco feels his cheeks flush, he’s always flushed easily and it makes him look like a sick child.
“—And then I proceeded to weave a most beautiful and intricate story describing all the ladies throwing themselves at your feet? Because I have to be straight with you—”
“Interesting choice of words…”
“Oh, shut up, Blaise!” Draco snaps. Everything word out of Pansy’s mouth is making him want to hide away in his room and never leave, but that means he’d still have to see Blaise and that’s not any better.
“—Draco, that was exhausting and as I’ve never lied under pressure better, you owe me for that.”
Without another word, Draco stands, feeling very hot in the face, and marches out of the Great Hall with Pansy’s remedial parchment clutched in his hand. He might as well get this over with now. He’s not sure he’ll be able to stomach any more food anyways.
“Cheers!” Pansy calls after him, cackling like the wretched witch she is.
Luckily for him, the hallways are blissfully empty.
He knows what people might think, especially Potter and his ilk, but Draco does actually enjoy being alone. It’s nice to be able to be with himself and focus on his own thoughts without the disruption of others. Salazar knows he can’t truly trust anyone else with those.
He rounds the corner, and the staircase to the library rises into view. Literally. Draco hops onto the bottom step as it meets the landing and holds on as it keeps going. His hand stings, and he must’ve slapped it too hard onto the banister. With a shake of his hand, he wipes it on his trousers as if to wipe the unpleasant tingling away.
But the feeling doesn’t leave. It grows worse. Pain settles in his palm and shoots up his wrist and all the way to his elbow.
“Fuck,” he says, and then it’s burning. Tears fill his eyes and he can do nothing more than gingerly cradle his hand to his chest and stumble off the stairs as they miraculously stop near the Medical Wing. It’s like someone dropped a hot coal in his hand then secured it with a sticking spell.
His vision blurs as he bursts into the room. Madam Pomfrey jumps and drops a tray of swabs.
“Mr. Malfoy, what in the world is the matter?”
“My hand,” he croaks. She bustles over and takes his arm gently. She spreads his fingers from where they’re stiff and curled over his palm. The skin there is angry and red like he grabbed a hot poker from the wrong end.
“Oh, my,” she says and quickly casts a spell to soothe the burning. A thick, cold gel applies itself to Draco’s skin. It smells distinctly of cucumber, lavender, and aloe. But it doesn’t help. Through the cooling effect of the spell, Draco’s hand still burns. Now it’s simply icy as well. A peculiar feeling and not pleasant.
“Shit, bloody fuck, that’s—” Draco sucks in a sharp breath. “Take it off! Take it off!”
Madam Pomfrey vanishes the concoction and after a delayed moment, the burning stops as well. Completely. There’s no tingling or soreness, no ache or heat. Draco could convince himself he imagined it all if not for the red mark still on his palm like a sunburn.
“It stopped,” he says, interrupting Madam Pomfrey’s fussing.
“Are you sure, dear?”
Draco looks up and meets her eyes. Her face is pinched with confusion and worry. He nods once, sharply. “It just stopped. I don’t feel anything at all.”
“Hmm, tell me what happened.”
Draco tells her everything, from the stinging hexes in the Great Hall to the moment he arrived in the Medical Wing. She nods along placatingly and he preens. He’d say he forgets how wonderful it feels to be paid attention, but that’s a lie—he never forgets. Madam Pomfrey casts a diagnostic spell on his hand; it’s an intricate spell that makes Draco itch to learn it. Her forehead wrinkles.
“How bad is it?” Draco, ever the pessimist, asks.
“That’s just it,” Madam Pomfrey says. “It’s not bad at all. I only see the leftover signature of those stinging hexes. There’s no sign of skin irritation nor nerve damage. Which is wonderful, but that means I have no idea what’s gone wrong. It’s especially worrying that I see no sign of a burn injury either.”
“So, the bad news is that there is nothing wrong?”
“More or less.”
“Brilliant,” Draco says dryly. “You’ve been a massive help.”
“None of that attitude with me, Mr. Malfoy.” Madam Pomfrey tightens her grip slightly on Draco’s hand before she turns it over and pats the back of it. “Now, come back to me immediately if it starts up again.”
“Yes, Madam.”
Draco heads to the library feeling slightly ashamed. He’s glad no one was around to see that mess. Draco likes to cause fusses, but only when he has full control of the situation. Feeling like his hand was being held in a vat of boiling water is not his idea of control. He rubs his thumb over his palm and clenches his teeth.
He can’t be bothered with this—whatever this is. He has two feet on mollusks to write. And they’re not even studying water-proofing potions until next year! Draco ignores the slimy voice in his head that says he might not have another year at Hogwarts.
Harry doesn’t know why he bothers to study. He’s going to barely pass regardless of how long he stares at his books and incomprehensible notes. He shouldn’t take notes either, to be honest, nothing he’s written down for Charms in the past week is legible. Or if it is, it’s completely out of order and he’s not sure what it relates to.
Hermione’s muttering under her breath next to him whilst Ron twirls his wand around his finger. At least Ron is reading, Harry thinks. He’s been staring at this diagram for how to hold a wand for a proper Aguamenti so long that he’s forgotten why he needed to look at it in the first place.
So, it’s for no reason other than to rest his eyes that Harry looks up toward the front of the library. He didn’t plan to spot Draco Malfoy slithering his way into the room, but he does. The blond git is clutching a roll of parchment to his chest so tightly that it’s beginning to wrinkle and he keeps his head down as he dodges the table to disappear behind a nearby shelf. Harry knows there’s a table behind that shelf; it’s one he uses on the rare times he comes to the library alone and wants to hide. Harry can see the back of Malfoy’s chair as he hangs his bag across the back, but it disappears as soon as he scoots forward.
Harry narrows his eyes. “Did you guys see that?”
“See what, Harry?” Hermione asks, not looking up from the scratch of her quill.
“Malfoy just stormed in looking bothered—
“Mate,” Ron interrupts. “I know you’ve got it bad for Malfoy this year, but I’m sure whatever’s bothering him right now can’t be worth the time or the headache.”
Harry slumps in his seat and crosses his arms. "Don't say it like that, you make it sound like I'm obsessed with him."
"You're acting like it."
"He's up to something!"
Ron shrugs and twirls his wand again.
“I’d rather manage that headache than study for this practical,” Harry mutters. He lets his head fall forward and thump against the table. “It’s not even Halloween yet, why are we doing practicals already?”
“It’s Charms, Harry,” Hermione says. “The entire subject is very practical.”
Harry mutters incomprehensibly to himself, but Hermione must take pity as she lays a gentle hand on the back of his neck. She’s a bit staticky and her fingers shock him, but it doesn’t bother him. With hair like hers and her perpetual habit of magicking her clothes clean instead of giving them to the house-elves, she’s always a bit staticky. Hermione rubs her thumb along his hairline, catching a few of the shorter curls there as she does, and Harry closes his eyes.
He’s never been big on touch—or more like he wasn’t raised with any positive forms of touch and he’s still not used to people touching him—but he loves when she does this. Hermione’s always been a steady force in the whirlwind of his life and her touch grounds him. She likes to respect his boundaries as much as possible, but with the summer they had after everything that happened at the Ministry of Magic and then being forced into not seeing or hearing from each other, he thinks they both need it. It reminds him of what’s real and why everything he’s suffered through has been worth it.
Harry swallows against the emotion that gathers in his throat. He’s been doing that a lot since he lost his godfather. Swallow his loneliness. Swallow his grief. Swallow his anger. But he’s been choking it down for months so he wouldn’t snap at the Dursleys and end up with less food than usual. Everything he hasn’t said out of fear or kindness is like lead in his stomach and he’s ready to be sick.
Her hand is warm and soft and Harry could fall asleep like this. She’s been warm all day when she’s usually so cold. Harry noticed it when she dragged him from the Great Hall to the library by the hand. She’s so warm it’s just on the edge of unbearable like Aunt Petunia’s hot pads that she insisted helped her aching shoulder, but would always burn Harry’s fingers when they came out of the microwave.
Except…
Harry blinks his eyes open groggily. Except her hand really is burning him. And he wonders distantly if she’s feverish. Hermione doesn’t like when others risk their health, but she would willingly (and has) let herself burn up with the flu to pass a class.
“’Mione, your hand is really hot—”
Someone yells, “Agh!” and Harry sits up in time to see Malfoy fall out of his chair, his books falling after him in a series of loud thuds. His eyes are wide as he holds the back of his neck. His pale face is flushed.
“What the hell?” Harry asks. He must say it too loudly because Malfoy looks at him only to flush more and turn away.
“Slimy git probably had a stinging hex sent his way like he was complaining about at dinner. Serves him right,” Ron says as he watches Malfoy gather his books with disinterest.
Harry narrows his eyes. He has a bad feeling about this.
“Alright, Harry, I’m done with my Transfiguration essay,” Hermione says, effectively pulling most of Harry’s attention away from Malfoy. “What are you struggling with?”
Harry gestures vaguely to the entire section on Aguamenti and Hermione leans in to look. She braces herself with a hand on his forearm as she launches into an explanation of how the wand movement and positioning are very important for this spell to control the flow of water. But Harry only catches half of it before his focus is stolen by how warm her hand is. He didn’t notice it at first like he didn’t notice at first when she was touching his neck.
Behind him, he registers that Malfoy yelps again. Probably from another hex. He’s been getting those a lot recently—Harry knows he’s sent a fair share at the ferret himself. Madam Pince hushes him loudly.
He watches her face as the heat on his arm grows more and more intense with each passing moment. She doesn’t seem to notice at all.
“And those are the basics,” Hermione finishes. Harry feels slightly bad that he’ll have to ask her to repeat herself, but right now he’s focusing on how the heat from her hand is well past the pleasant burning warmth stage. “Do you understand a bit better now?”
“Your hand is burning me.”
Hermione blinks at him in shock. “I’m sorry?”
“Your hand is burning me,” Harry says, pointing to her arm. “Are you alright?”
“Me? Yes, I’m feeling alright. What do you mean ‘burning’?”
“I mean your hand is very, very hot and it slightly feels like I’m resting my arm on a hob.”
“What?!” Hermione snatches her hand away.
“Ms. Granger,” Madam Pince says over Harry’s shoulder. “I would appreciate it if you could use your indoor voice. This is a place of learning.”
“Technically, this whole building is a place of learning,” Harry says without thinking. Madam Pince glowers at him but doesn’t deem him worth her time as she spins on her heel and heads to Malfoy’s hidden table.
“Mr. Malfoy, I will ask you to leave if you do not—Mr. Malfoy? What’s the matter?” she asks. Harry can see Malfoy has slid his chair back from the table in order to lean over his knees as though he’s in pain or going to be sick. Before Malfoy can respond, Hermione grabs Harry by the sleeve.
Hermione and Ron are staring at him with slowly growing worry and exasperation. Harry scratches at his jaw and holds his hand out to Hermione.
“I noticed it after dinner and when you had your hand on my neck earlier,” he explains. “Then, it was just really warm like you had cast a warming charm on yourself, but I guess you had your hand on my arm for longer and it just, erm, started to burn a bit.”
“You said it felt like you were leaning on a hob, mate,” Ron says. “That’s not just a bit of a burn.”
Harry shrugs. “It’s fine. Hermione, you didn’t feel anything?”
“No, just your normal body temperature. Actually, I’m a little cold.”
“Really?” Harry leans forward and presses his forehead to hers to check her temperature. It’s how Molly Weasley checked his temperature this summer when he came down with a fever. Static shocks him when their skin touches, but other than that she feels normal. He pulls away and grabs her hand in both of his. “You feel normal at first, but the longer I hold your hands the hotter they get.”
Ron reaches over the table for Hermione’s other hand and holds it like Harry. Ron doesn’t react as Hermione’s hands start to warm up unnaturally.
“Ron, you don’t feel that?”
“Not in the slightest. She’s cold like she said, and a little clammy.”
Hermione slaps Ron’s hands away. “Ronald!”
“What? It’s true! Nothing wrong with that.”
“It’s embarrassing,” Hermione hisses between her teeth.
Harry ignores their bickering—it’s nothing new—and focuses on how her hand heats up. It’s slow at first and now that he’s paying attention there’s a prickling feeling where their skin meets. Like a bunch of tiny stinging hexes are bouncing around between their clasped palms.
“It hurts,” Malfoy says in a pained whisper to Madam Pince. There’s a gasp as paper rustles then Madam Pince is shooing him off to the Medical Wing. Harry resists the urge to watch him go.
The burning reaches hob levels and Harry holds on a little more until he lets go. The sensation stops immediately. Hermione looks at him curiously, pausing in her bickering with Ron.
“Yeah, your hand is burning me,” he says. “It starts off normal as I said then gets worse. It even stings like I’m holding a sparkler in my hand.”
“A what?”
“A sparkler,” Hermione repeats. “It’s a Muggle firework, they’re tiny sticks that you light at the tip and they make sparks.”
Ron mutters something about wanting to try some of those and how Fred, George, and Dad would love them.
“But as soon as I let go, it stops. I don’t know what’s going on.”
Hermione’s frown deepens and she begins to pack away her things. “We’re going to the Medical Wing,” she says, leaving no room for argument.
Ron shrugs and packs up too. And by pack up, Harry means he shovels all of his things into his bag by sliding one outstretched arm across and over the edge of the table. Harry grabs his Charms book and shoves his parchment, quill, and inkwell into his robe pockets. He didn’t bring his bag.
“Maybe you’re just allergic to Hermione’s new lotion,” Ron says in the hallway. Hermione and Harry shoot him an odd look and he turns as red as his hair. “C’mon, don’t look at me like that! I’m not completely ignorant and how could I not notice with the way it smells.”
Hermione sniffs her hands. “Does it stink?”
“I-I, I didn’t say stink. I just said smells! It smells good, just, y’know, sweet and strong and you normally, uhm, don’t smell that sweet and strong and usually, you smell like vanilla so, so, so of course, I was going to notice that you changed something! Then, uh, then I saw the bottle which was very obviously Muggle—not that there’s anything wrong with that!—and I put two-and-two together, that’s all. That’s all.”
Harry snorts at Ron’s fumbling but keeps quiet about how he didn’t notice Hermione changed lotions or that she ever smelt like vanilla.
“Thank you, Ronald,” Hermione says quietly. “It’s caramel scented.”
“See! I told you, sweet.”
Harry rolls his eyes and steps into the Medical Wing. Madam Pomfrey is fussing over Malfoy who’s sitting on a cot looking perfectly healthy. There’s an ice pack nestled on top of his forearm.
“Ah, Harry,” Madam Pomfrey says as she notices them. “You’ve better not come here with a broken bone or I’m writing you a prescription to wear padded clothing from now on.”
Harry would’ve laughed, but Malfoy fouls Harry’s mood by snickering first. Malfoy meets his glower and holds it while Hermione explains why they’re there to Madam Pomfrey.
“A skin allergy?” Madam Pomfrey asks, looking at Harry oddly. He shrugs sheepishly.
“I’m not sure, ma’am,” he says. “But it’s the only thing we could think of.”
“Hmm.” She waves her wand over Harry’s arm where the burning had been. There are no obvious signs of irritation, but it’s harder to spot that on Harry’s dark skin. Madam Pomfrey’s frown deepens as she reads through the flickering teal letters that encircle the tip of her wand. “It’s not a skin allergy,” she says distantly.
She glances over her shoulder at Malfoy with the same odd look she’s been looking at Harry with.
Oh, Harry thinks, there’s that bad feeling again.
Hermione gasps and Harry sees she’s looking at Malfoy too.
“What is it?” he asks. Ron leans over their shoulders so his head is in between Hermione’s and Harry’s.
“Look at his arm,” she says, pointing. “It’s red in the same spot where I was touching Harry.”
“It looks like a handprint,” Ron adds. “And the back of his neck is red too. Didn’t Hermione touch you there first?”
Harry’s so confused. What does that mean? Is Malfoy allergic to lotion too? Wait, no, Madam Pomfrey says it wasn’t a skin allergy. Maybe whoever was hexing Malfoy, hexed Harry too. But he’s never heard of a hex like this before and that doesn’t make sense. Harry was the one who was touched, not Malfoy.
“I must fetch your heads of houses immediately,” Madam Pomfrey says and flees, leaving Harry and his friends alone with Malfoy.
They stand awkwardly in silence as Malfoy plucks a few invisible specks off of his trousers. Harry tries not to look as angry as he feels. Ron taps his foot impatiently, but it’s Hermione who breaks the silence.
“Draco,” she says, almost like a greeting.
Malfoy sneers. “Oh, wow, if it isn’t Granger and her morons. I didn’t notice you at first, but that Mudblood stench is overwhelming.”
Hermione flinches but doesn’t let it show on her face how much that name bothers her. Harry sees red and doesn’t realize he’s advancing on Malfoy until Hermione grabs onto the back of his uniform and tugs him back.
“Harry, don’t,” she says, her head held high. “Draco, does your skin burn if someone else touches you?”
Malfoy makes an ugly face. “What? No.”
Hermione taps her chin then asks, “Have your hands, the back of your neck, and your forearm feel as though they were burning today?”
Malfoy looks like he’s about to snap another denial at her, but his jaw stutters closed before he can. He blinks in a dazed shock—it’s not an expression Harry’s used to seeing on him—and nods.
“When did it start?”
Malfoy doesn’t answer for a long while, but finally, he relents. “I first felt the burning when I was on my way to the library after dinner, then again in the library on two separate occasions.”
Hermione nods like she knew this is what he would say. “And you said in the Great Hall that someone had been shooting stinging hexes at you?”
“…yes.”
“Did it feel like this?” Hermione taps Harry on the shoulder, then again on his chest and jaw. Malfoy flinches in time with her touches.
“Yes, yes, quit it!” Malfoy is breathing heavily and he covers his jaw in the spot mirroring where Hermione touched Harry. “How is that happening?”
“Harry, how did those feel to you?”
Harry’s brows knit together. He hadn’t really noticed, to be honest. “Like static.”
Hermione nods and, without any hesitancy, goes to stand next to Malfoy’s cot. Ron and Harry both take steps forward. She waves them off.
“How does this feel?” she asks and grabs Malfoy by his left wrist. Malfoy twitches back and Harry feels a static shock on his own left wrist. Slowly, the phantom touch warms until Malfoy wrenches his arm away from Hermione and it stops.
“Why is your hand so hot? Are you the one that’s been burning me?” Malfoy asks accusingly.
“No.” Hermione shakes her head, then nods. “Well, yes, but not on purpose. I believe you and Harry are linked.”
“Linked?!” Harry and Malfoy shout in unison, shooting each other looks of disgust.
“Yes, I don’t know how, but it seems when someone touches you, it hurts to varying degrees and the other feels it as well.”
Harry frowns deeply and thinks back to the Great Hall. He remembers feeling very claustrophobic amongst the rowdy teasing of his housemates. They were roughhousing and arguing about Quidditch teams, which usually doesn’t bother Harry too much, but they kept touching him and everyone was shocking him like they’d danced in an electric storm. It was irritating so he told them to fuck off and not long after that, he left with Hermione and Ron to the library.
All this time, while Hermione’s touch was uncomfortably warm to Harry, Malfoy had been near tears with pain. He’d been so bothered by the stings in the Great Hall that he had to stand up and get the attention of the teachers. Harry barely felt those stings. A nasty idea pops into Harry’s head, and he can’t help but consider it.
“Bugger all,” Ron says so Harry doesn’t have to.
Just then, the doors to the Medical Wing swing open, and in marches McGonagall and Snape. Harry looks down at his feet so he doesn’t have to meet anyone’s eye. He can't help the guilt in his chest at the relief he feels that the headmaster isn't with them. He’s been ignoring Dumbledore’s requests to join him in his office. He wants Harry’s help in finding the rest of the Horcruxes and Harry will. He just needs some time. He’d like to pretend that this year is finally going to be a normal one for just a few more weeks.
But he guesses that's already been ruined.
“Madam Pomfrey,” Hermione says. “They’re linked.”
The Medi-witch sighs through her nose. “That’s what I was afraid of. Minerva, if you please.” She gestures with her hand and McGonagall steps forward with her wand out.
“Mr. Potter, if you please, join Mr. Malfoy.”
“I do not please,” Harry mutters, but he sits on the cot a foot from Malfoy. Malfoy scoots further up towards the head of the bed. Hermione steps back and joins Ron.
“Thank you,” McGonagall says. She flicks her wand with an incantation Harry doesn’t recognize and a flurry of purple and yellow lights spark from its tip. The lights form small circles of light that float around Harry and Malfoy’s heads, working their way down their bodies, until they bounce back and forth between them. McGonagall dismisses them with a swish and sighs as heavily as Madam Pomfrey had.
“You were right, Poppy. It’s Southwick.”
“Wonderful,” Snape says blandly.
“Wait, Southwick, as in the Southwick Curse?” Hermione asks because of course she knows what that is.
“Curse?” Malfoy asks, sounding like he’s being choked.
“Unfortunately, yes,” McGonagall says. She wipes down her dark skirts as she gathers her thoughts. “It’s a curse that turns touch into pain. It’s very complex and many years ago it was considered a hex. But because of the level of pain it inflicts, it’s been re-classified as a curse.”
“So, what, anytime someone touches me or Potter, it will burn both of us?”
“That’s the issue, Mr. Malfoy. There’s never been an instance of a linked Southwick Curse before. It’s usually cast on an individual.”
“Whoever decided to hex you in the Great Hall—I presume a younger student—at dinner was incredibly stupid and inexperienced,” Snape says. “They’ve entangled you and Mr. Potter.”
“Great Salazar Slytherin,” Malfoy says. He drops his face into his hands.
“But not to worry,” Madam Pomfrey adds in a light voice. “It only lasts a week! Just avoid touching other people and you’ll be right as rain come this time next week.”
“Other people?” Hermione looks between Harry and Malfoy as her mouth slowly forms an ‘o’. “Will they be able to touch each other without causing pain?”
“Of course,” McGonagall says.
“I’d rather drink a vat of mollusks,” Malfoy says.
Harry nods in disgust. He’s never had a mollusk but he’s sure he’d rather drink a vat of them than ever touch Malfoy outside of coming to blows.
“No one will be drinking vats of mollusks,” McGonagall says sternly. “It’s simply a fact that you two are able to touch each other without the ill effects, but it doesn’t mean you need to. Don’t cause a fuss. Wait the week out and avoid unnecessary touching.”
“I must warn you,” Madam Pomfrey says. “With this curse, kind touches will burn, but hurtful touches will be ten times more painful. Watch yourselves and come to me if you need anything.”
“Now, you’re dismissed." Harry casts a look at Malfoy and McGonagall seems to catch it as she levels him with a stern look.
With that, Malfoy storms out of the room. Harry follows hot on his heels with something dark brewing in his chest. But he’s fully intent on not acting on that. No, he’s following to talk to Malfoy about the curse they share and how he’ll be doing his best to make sure he doesn’t touch anyone and he hopes Malfoy will offer him the same courtesy.
“Malfoy. Malfoy!”
Malfoy ignores him and speeds up. Usually, Harry would give up trying to catch him, but he’s oddly determined now. Malfoy turns corners quickly and takes random passageways that Harry wouldn’t know existed if it weren’t for the Marauder’s Map. Ron and Hermione keep a steady pace behind them and finally, Malfoy takes a wrong turn and Harry corners him at a dead-end.
Malfoy whirls, his cheeks red and his eyes a steely, stormy grey. “What, Potter? I have an essay to write. All this nonsense has already taken enough time away from my studies.”
“We’re not anywhere near the library, Malfoy! You’re just out running me!”
Malfoy huffs as a lock of hair falls free from its gel and in front of his eyes. “Fine, you’ve caught me. I’m running away, are you going to tease me? Call me a coward? Call me a slimy snake?”
Harry’s anger bubbles to the surface as he growls through his teeth. “No, I just wanted to talk.”
“Oh? Well, then talk. I’ll spare you one of my precious moments,” Malfoy says, leaning against the wall of the alcove like he isn’t cornered by three Gryffindors. One of which has punched him in the face before.
“You’ve been a thorn in my side for years. Picking on me and my friends. Getting us in trouble. Acting like a complete and utter prat since the day we met. Not only have I had to save this entire school, including you, multiple times, but you’ve made every class I’ve shared with you and mealtime miserable,” Harry says. “But—”
But he’s willing to put that aside for a truce. Just while they’re cursed. They can be civil until they can’t hurt each other so easily.
“Awe, poor ickle Potter,” Malfoy interrupts. “The Boy Who Lived has had a bit of schoolyard teasing! However, will he live?” Malfoy sneers down his nose at Harry, fully taking advantage of being slightly taller. “Don’t try and act the tortured hero, Potter. It doesn’t suit you, no matter what all those star-struck dullards seem to think. You’ve always had the Wizarding World on their knees for you, I’m just here to remind you that you’re not as special as you think. Truly, you should be thanking me.”
Harry can feel his pulse thrumming in his throat. All those emotions he’s been stamping down for weeks come flooding up from his guts and he realizes he’s not going to be sick from them. No, they heave out of him with each breath like a dragon preparing to blow flames. Harry's vision turns red as he looks at Malfoy, and he wants to take it all out on him.
The pain he felt when Sirius was pushed into the Veil by Bellatrix. He doesn’t know how long he’s going to grieve all that was taken away from him at that moment; a chance for a family that is his, not Ron’s, and loves him; a chance to get away from the Dursleys over the summer; a chance to learn more about his parents.
The loneliness he’s been stewing in since he can remember with only brief reprieves while at Hogwarts or the Burrow. Now even that’s been royally screwed up. He can’t touch his friends, the only ones he really wants to let that close, without it slowly starting to hurt.
The anger that he has been fighting an invisible monster since he was a child, that Wizards think that’s okay, and the Ministry hadn’t lifted a hand to help or believe him until the monster attacked them at their core. He shakes with the force of it.
He wants Malfoy to hurt in place of everyone who’s hurt Harry. The people he’s never lifted a finger to harm because he figured his parents would expect more from him, despite never knowing them.
But Harry’s tired of it.
He’s tired of the expectations. For once, he doesn’t want to be a saviour. Harry knows then that he made up his mind as soon as he understood what it meant to be linked with Malfoy under this curse.
Hermione’s Mary Janes clack on the floor until she’s right next to Harry. She’s breathing hard from running and Harry can finally smell that sweet, caramel scent Ron was on about. Harry reaches down and grabs Hermione’s hand, threading their fingers together.
Malfoy looks at him with wide eyes. “What the fuck are you doing, Potter?”
Harry feels the heat blooming against his palm, along the side of his fingers to the tips, and slowly it starts to burn. Malfoy lets out a strangled gasp and cradles his hand to his chest. Hermione tugs against Harry’s grip, her eyes wide with shock. Harry doesn’t let go.
“You know, Malfoy, when I was fourteen, I was put under the Cruciatus Curse for the first time.” Harry's very used to hexes and curses. He wonders how familiar Malfoy is with them. “It does wonders for your pain tolerance.”
He watches Malfoy's legs give out underneath him until Malfoy has fallen to the floor, his hands clawing at the stone as he yells out in pain. Harry holds on for a few more moments and releases his hold on Hermione. She steps aside in a daze. He walks over and crouches in front of Malfoy. There are tears in his eyes and his jaw is tense.
“Shall we spend the week seeing how yours compares?”