#classic stuff

The spell briefly split his sternum, in the same-second-span stitching him closed & searing through his spine.

Cicely missed seeing the second strike, but did not miss its measure. M’s eyes flew open before wincing shut, his hand rising to clutch at Auror Potter’s shoulder, the red robes, golden epaulet, crushed beneath his grasp.

Cicely grinned broadly, twisting the end of her wand, the shape of the knot drawn taut, tethering.

“Oh, dear,” she called, as the men staggered against one another. “No sense of self-preservation with the two of you. I’ll tell you, though, the spell’s going to love that.”

She tugged sharply at her wand and watched as, instead of reaching for their own wounds, each man turned to the other.

“So terribly sad,” she crooned, dodging a furious Bombarda, casting aside a sharp Incarcerous.

“You see,” she said, tossing up a shield and scrabbling over the rubble toward the exit, “love only gives the pain more power. A bit sick, isn’t it?”

She felt it then, the barrage of feeling that tremored through the bond, her wand still tracing the edges of it by mere proximity. The flutter of panic-recognition-secrecy-embarrassment-shock-horror-delight that tore through them.

“Oh,” she said, then cackled against the sheer idiocy. “You didn’t know? Well. Hate to be the bearer of bad news.”

She stepped through the doorway, felt the bounds of the anti-Apparition wards loose at last.

“Confringo!” Mr. M called, form precise in spite of the stagger to his step. Auror Potter caught him at the elbow as he stumbled.

Merlin, what she’d give to stay and see them struggle. Alas.

“Careful, boys! The spell’s a bit touchy, if you catch my drift. Do keep it happy.”

This line of work didn’t lend itself to play too terribly often. What a pity it would be to waste the opportunity.

“Proximity should be sufficient, you know, casual touch. Though it can get a little greedy.”

She knew monologuing was gauche, and yet they made it so easy. She grinned, sharp.

“All else failing, nothing a decent fuck won’t fix.”

Even at this distance, Potter’s ears went scarlet. M’s— Malfoy, that was it, Circe’s tits, finally— Malfoy’s fingers went sheet white around his wand.

It wouldn’t help, of course— fucking. But such a red herring was the least of her crimes. The pocket watch hanging from her belt pulsed, once, twice, thrice, a warning, a reminder.

She took it in hand, quickly recasting her Protego.

Potter remained cleverer than he looked, seeming to divine that the curse was somehow still yoked to the length of aspen caught in the curl of her fingers.

“Expelliarmus!” he shouted through gritted teeth, and what a thrill, to have that particular spell directed her way.

But he was too late, and too weak now, besides. The pocket watch gave one final, violent shake against her palm, and then she vanished, cataclysmic. Debris went crashing in her wake, the doorframe folding— fractured, buckled.

The seconds stammered.

Quiet fell.

Dust did its level best to settle.

“Potter,” Draco breathed, the tense composure of him gone tremulous.

Harry turned toward him, then startled at the raw line of red between them, tracing from one ribcage to the other, the light of it emanant and pulsing, venous. He stumbled a half-step back, and Draco coughed, one hand sweeping sharply towards his heart, the other scrabbling at Harry’s shoulder, drawing him closer.

“Don’t—” he said, choking around the word, whatever after it dying in his throat.

The pang seemed to hit Harry on some sort of delay— he winced, teeth clenched, palm grasping harsh and heavy at Draco’s arm where it linked them. The sound that rose was equal part pain and fury.

“What the fuck kind of curse—?” he murmured beneath labored breath.

Draco bowed toward him, forehead dipping forward, leaving the barest room between the imminent press of their skin.

Harry closed the distance, the relief immediate and unkind.

“The kind that kills slowly,” Draco whispered, fingers trailing the seam of Harry’s uniform to the collar, the exposed side of his neck.

“She can track us. And they’ll try to separate us,” he said, hand curling over Harry’s nape.

Harry sighed into it, dropping his face to the crook beneath Draco’s jaw, nosing along the column of his throat.

Draco hummed, barely conscious of the sound, but Harry felt it go through him like lightning. Every feeling had gone frenetic, fundamental.

Draco exhaled heavily, turning his face into the impulse, pressing his cheek to Harry’s curls.

“They’ll separate us,” he went on, desperately reaching for reason, the sunken semblance of rationality. (Harry’s hand sliding up his spine made thinking very hard.) But vital, and thus vehement:

“And then we’ll die.”