Chapter Text
The dungeons were always miserable. Cold and damp, the air thick with the acrid scent of burnt ingredients, the flickering torchlight barely doing anything to cut through the gloom. Harry hated it down here. The walls seemed to press in tighter with every lesson, trapping them in the stifling, frigid air.
He shuffled into the classroom, already bracing for an hour of suffering. Snape’s lessons were bad enough on their own, but today, the weight of exhaustion made everything worse. His robes still felt damp from the morning rain, and his head ached dully from lack of sleep.
Beside him, Ron groaned. “I swear Snape makes it colder in here on purpose.”
“Wouldn't put it past him.” Harry muttered, rubbing his arms as they made their way to their usual table.
The low murmur of conversation drifted around them, a few cauldrons already clanging as students settled in. He let his gaze flick lazily across the room watching the slow, familiar chaos of everyone settling.
A haughty tone cut through the noise, and Harry’s jaw clenched instinctively.
Malfoy.
He was exactly where he always was, slouched in his chair like he’d rather be anywhere else, twirling his quill between his fingers as he spoke to Zabini. The faintest smirk played on his lips, his posture casual in that infuriating way that made it look like he’d never once had to try for anything in his life.
Before Harry could look away, Malfoy’s gaze flicked over to him—as if he’d been expecting it.
Malfoy’s smirk widened.
Bastard.
Harry turned away immediately, muttering under his breath as he took his seat next to Ron.
“I swear to God,” he said, yanking his bag onto the table, “if Malfoy breathes in my direction today, I’m hexing him.”
Ron let out a quiet laugh. “Might be a bit extreme, mate.”
Harry huffed, already annoyed.
The door creaked open and Snape swept in, robes billowing.
He was barely halfway into the room when he snapped, “Settle down.”
Snape’s voice cut through the room, demanding and clipped.
Merlin forbid he make it to his desk before barking orders.
"Today," Snape began, his black eyes scanning the class, "you will attempt the Amplifica Sentia Potion."
“What it does,” he continued, “is heighten the body’s receptivity to external stimuli—touch, temperature, surface detail. Healers use it for diagnostic work, and curse-breakers rely on it to map lingering magical residues. It’s even employed by the Department of Mysteries in sensory isolation trials.”
He started noting down a list of ingredients. “The base consists of powdered moondew thistle and ground scarab shell, simmered until it all stabilises. The catalyst—dragon nerve extract—stimulates the somatosensory system. This is what enhances tactile reception.”
Snape turned back to the class, expression cold.
“A standard dose lasts no more than twenty minutes. Miscalculate the quantity, it leads to overstimulation, nausea, and—should you be truly foolish—permanent tactile echo. A condition where every sensation you feel repeats itself for days."
He flicked his wand at the board behind him. The ingredient list lengthened, followed by a precise brewing sequence, each step numbered and underlined.
“You will note that Amplifica Sentia is not included in your standard text,” Snape said. “That is because it is considered an intermediate application tonic—technically experimental, due to the... volatile interactions between its ingredients.”
“Some Healers have raised ethical concerns, given the way it manipulates the somatosensory pathways. Fortunately for you, Hogwarts maintains a more… flexible approach to curriculum boundaries.”
A glint flickered in his eye as he turned toward the board.
“You will be working from my notes only. I suggest you copy them accurately."
Beside him, Ron muttered, "Hope you’re ready to lose your eyebrows mate", making Harry chuckle.
Snape started pacing then, slowly, between the rows of desks.
“You will not be working with your usual partners,” he said blandly. “Today, I will be assigning them.”
Brilliant.
He watched Snape with narrowed eyes.
Should’ve dropped this class when I had the chance, Harry thought. But no—Hermione had to rattle on about how N.E.W.T. Potions would “open doors.” Yeah. Straight into hell, apparently.
Snape conjured a length of parchment from thin air with a lazy flick of his wand and began unfolding it with unnecessary care.
“Finch-Fletchley and Macmillan,” Snape read off, tone flat.
Ernie gave a visible jolt. Justin blinked at him like he’d just been asked to share a bed.
“Brown and Weasley.”
Ron choked on air. “What—?”
“Is there a problem, Mr Weasley?” Snape asked, without looking up.
Ron shook his head quickly, clearly biting back something colourful. Across the room, Pansy raised a single, viciously amused brow.
“Thomas and Corner. Parkinson and Granger.”
Harry watched the names pile up, each pairing stranger than the last. None of them made sense. Snape was going out of his way to mismatch people—Gryffindor with Slytherin, people that didn’t get along, even exes. Though how he knew about the exes, Godric only knows.
He must be bored, Harry thought darkly. Or he wants to give out detentions when half the class starts brawling.
He glanced ahead, half hoping his name would be skipped altogether.
He had no such luck unfortunately.
“Potter and Malfoy.”
For fuck's sake.
Harry exhaled slowly, shoulders slumping as he stared blankly at the board.
Behind him, Malfoy let out a dry, unimpressed, “Oh, joy.”
Harry didn’t want to turn around. He didn’t need to either. He could already picture the look on the posh twat's face—irritated, faintly smug. Probably victimising himself, as if it was all Harry's fault.
He’s going to be insufferable, Harry thought bitterly, gathering his things.
He turned, finally, and made his way over.
Malfoy glanced up as he approached, already wearing that familiar, obnoxious sneer.
“Try not to blow anything up,” he said. “Though I suppose that’s asking a bit much.”
“Could you give it a rest, just for today?”
Feeling like he was walking towards the gallows, Harry dropped his things onto the table and sat down.
The ingredients were already laid out at their station, neatly arranged in small glass dishes. Harry reached for one, began grinding it with steady pressure, pretending the pointy bastard wasn’t there.
Malfoy let out a quiet, pointed exhale—like Harry’s existence was offence enough.
“Merlin, no wonder you nearly failed last term. Can’t even grind moondew thistle without cocking it up.”
He didn’t look up. “Do you ever shut up?”
“Not when you’re about to ruin my potion.”
Harry ground down harder than he needed to. The texture turned uneven.
“Brilliant,” he said flatly. “That’s unusable now.”
“Then do it yourself,” Harry snapped.
“Gladly.” Malfoy pulled the bowl toward him without hesitation.
Harry took the scarab shell instead, resisting the urge to chuck it at his head.
Around them, the steady sounds of brewing filled the room—cauldrons bubbling softly, pestles grinding against stone, the occasional low mutter of incantations. Snape stalked between tables like a vindictive shadow.
At their station, Harry and Malfoy worked in tense back and forth, trading snipes under their breath—barely tolerating each other.
Now and again, Harry caught Malfoy looking at him. And every time Harry looked up, halfway to snapping, Malfoy looked away.
Weird. Then again, when was anything with Malfoy not weird?
As they kept working, Harry found himself shifting slightly closer—his side of the counter cluttered with crushed ingredients and empty dishes. There wasn’t much room left, and they were elbow to elbow before he even realised.
Their arms brushed just once, barely anything, but it made his skin prickle and his breath hitch, and suddenly he became aware.
Aware of the way Malfoy moved. Of when his arm reached forward, when their sleeves nearly brushed, when Harry’s hand hovered just a breath from touching his.
His hair stood on end more than once, like he’d walked into a static charge.
He didn’t like it.
They worked like that for some time, though, locked in silence.
Once or twice, Malfoy brushed up against him—an elbow grazing his arm, a shoulder bumping his just slightly too long to be nothing.
Harry’s jaw clenched.
What the fuck is he trying to do?
Fucking wanker.
Their movements settled into a rhythm—still tense but somehow they kept up their pace. Step by step.
Until only one remained.
Malfoy was stirring—clockwise, slow and steady—while Harry uncorked the vial of Aethermute, a thin, purple liquid that shimmered faintly in the light.
“Three drops,” Malfoy said without looking at him.
Harry rolled his eyes and leaned in with the dropper, aiming carefully. The cauldron was sat further back than he’d thought, forcing him to shift forward in his seat.
As he did, his knee bumped into something—Malfoy’s fucking thigh, planted wide beneath the table like he owned the place. Like it was his bloody house.
Malfoy gasped and jolted hard, like a stinging hex had hit him. Dramatic, Harry thought, watching as the tosser's hand twitched and faltered around the stirring rod, tipping the cauldron.
The sudden movement threw Harry off. The vial in his other hand slipped, and before he could catch it, the Aethermute splashed straight into the centre of the cauldron in one violent splash, glass and all.
The potion hissed sharply, then fell unnaturally still.
Harry barely had time to exchange a glance with Malfoy before it gave a sudden, violent shudder. Bubbles erupted to the surface, thick and fast, the metal base rattling against the tabletop.
“Shit—” Harry started.
And then it exploded upward—not in fire or smoke, but in a full, searing wave of potion, making the cauldron upturn with a loud clatter, spilling the contents straight onto both of them.
“Fuck—!”
“Bloody—!”
The potion was hot, soaking through their robes almost instantly. Harry scrambled back in his seat, the fabric clinging to him as the liquid seeped through, scalding against his skin.
It burned—not quite like fire, but like pins pressed into his arms, his chest, his legs.
“What the fuck did you do, Potter?!” Malfoy snapped, flinging back his soaked sleeve like it might save him from the burn.
“Me?" Harry shot back, wiping furiously at his chest. “You’re the one who twitched like you’d been hexed!”
“You kneed me in the leg!”
“Because you were sitting like it was your bloody chaise lounge—”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Malfoy snarled, “should’ve known I had to accommodate the Chosen One’s big fucking ego.”
“Should’ve known you’d flinch like a scared cat!”
Malfoy stood abruptly, pushing his stool back with a screech. His robes were plastered to him, hair stuck to his temples, potion dripping from his sleeves.
That’s when Harry noticed the silence.
The whole class was staring—some with wide, concerned eyes, others clearly trying not to laugh.
Malfoy was still glowering, muttering under his breath as he tried to spell the potion off his robes, but it wasn’t budging.
“Do you have any idea what this fabric costs?” He hissed, flicking his wand with increasing irritation.
A sound broke through the commotion.
The sharp sound of Snape’s boots cut across the stone floor as he strode over, looking like he’d been waiting years for this exact opportunity to unleash hell.
He didn’t say anything right away. Just looked between them. At the mess. At the ruined cauldron. At the potion rapidly spreading across the floor tiles.
Harry stared back, soaked and still fuming.
Perfect. Just perfect.
Because, of course the lesson had to go to shit. Of course Snape had to be the one breathing down his neck. And of fucking course Malfoy had to react like he’d been kicked in the bollocks over barely a brush.
Harry should’ve probably felt scared—Snape looked murderous—anyone else would be shitting their pants. But honestly? He didn’t care. Not about Snape’s idiotic rules or his sodding temper. Let him give detention. Let him assign them a ten-foot scroll. Harry didn’t care.
“Explain,” he said coldly.
Malfoy didn’t waste a second. “It was his fault,” he said, jabbing a finger toward Harry. “He dropped the Aethermute without warning—and kneed me, by the way—”
“You’re the one who twitched like an idiot!”
“Because you jabbed me!”
“I barely touched you—”
“That’s because you’ve got the coordination of a troll—”
“You tipped the cauldron! I was doing fine until you moved—”
“Enough,” Snape said sharply.
Both of them snapped their mouths shut.
Snape turned to Malfoy first. “Ten points from Slytherin,” he said coldly. “For your inability to maintain basic composure during a controlled brewing process.
Malfoy’s mouth twitched like he wanted to argue but thought better of it.
Then Snape turned to Harry, his glare positively gleaming. “And twenty points from Gryffindor, for clumsiness, poor judgment, and your persistent inability to behave like anything other than a disaster."
Harry opened his mouth. “That’s not—”
“Do not speak, Potter.”
With a flick of his wand, Snape vanished the mess around them—the ruined potion, the cauldron, the scorch marks on the desk. The heat still clung to Harry’s robes, sticky and uncomfortable.
“Go to the infirmary. Now. And do not speak of this as anything but your own idiocy.”
Malfoy let out a frustrated huff and turned to leave without another word. Harry followed a beat later, ready to never see a cauldron again.
The corridor outside the classroom was cooler, quieter, but did nothing to ease the sting of potion-soaked robes clinging to Harry’s skin. Each step squelched faintly. His shirt was sticking to his back, and his socks were wet.
Malfoy walked ahead by half a pace, shoulders rigid, jaw tight. For once, he didn’t say anything.
It was almost worse.
Harry shoved his hands into his pockets, teeth gritted, forcing himself not to break it. The silence. The tension.
They turned a corner. And another.
Then Malfoy said, without looking at him, “You owe me new robes.”
Harry blinked. “You’re absolutely fucking unbelievable.”
“They were tailored,” Malfoy repeated, snapping, as if that explained everything.
“You flinched. You tipped the cauldron.”
“You kneed me!”
“Accidentally!”
“Kneed my fucking inner thigh, Potter—”
“Merlin, it was a knee, not a finger up your arse.”
Malfoy faltered—just for a second. His mouth opened, but no words came out right away.
Harry smirked, satisfied. Got him.
But Malfoy recovered fast.
“You’re vile,” he snapped, picking up his pace.
“At least I’m not crying over tailored robes.”
“Because yours look like they were passed down from a scarecrow—”
“Boys,” came a sharp voice ahead of them.
Madam Pomfrey stood in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes narrowed.
“Covered in potion and bickering like children. Inside. Both of you.”
They stepped inside without another word.
Madam Pomfrey waved them toward the nearest beds. “Sit,” she said briskly. “You can drip all you like in the corridors, but you’ll do no such thing in my infirmary.”
Harry dropped onto the edge of the closest bed with a grimace. His robes clung to his skin, cold now.
Malfoy sat on the one directly opposite him, arms crossed tight over his chest, expression like he was sucking on something sour.
They were facing each other.
Harry looked away first, focusing on a crack in the tiled floor instead.
Madam Pomfrey didn’t say anything for a moment. Just the shuffle of her steps, the faint clink of a cupboard opening in the background.
Then, flatly, “Well? What happened?”
Harry didn’t answer immediately. Neither did Malfoy.
The pause stretched.
“Cauldron fell,” Harry said finally.
“Because he dropped the Aethermute,” Malfoy cut in. And they were off again.
“Because you flinched like a bloody idiot—”
“Because you kneed me under the table—”
“Enough,” Pomfrey snapped, already moving toward the bed with her wand drawn. “One at a time, if you please.”
Malfoy huffed. “We were brewing Amplifica Sentia. It obviously went very wrong.”
That made Pomfrey pause.
“Amplifica Sentia?” she repeated, glancing up briefly. Her brows drew together. “Why on earth would you be—”
Harry blinked. Strangely, he did remember something—Snape had said something earlier about the potion being “not in their textbooks,” about “experimental use” or “ethics” or something like that. For once, he’d actually been half-listening.
Which... didn’t make him feel any better.
She didn’t say anything else—just gave a small, annoyed shake of her head and raised her wand.
“Hold still,” she said curtly.
She started with Malfoy, casting a quick series of diagnostic spells. Pale blue light shimmered across his arms and chest as she muttered under her breath, brows furrowing slightly.
Then she moved to Harry, repeating the same motions. The tip of her wand hovered over his collarbone, then his wrist, then the side of his neck.
“Hm.”
That didn’t sound promising.
After a moment, she tucked her wand away. “You seem fine, I don't think the potions reacts adversely to skin contact as it’s usually ingested for use. If you start growing extra limbs, feel free to come back.”
Harry was out of his chair the second Pomfrey finished talking.
He wanted out of this room, away from Malfoy, away from this entire disaster of a day.
Harry was already halfway to the door when he scratched absently at his arm.
Behind him, Malfoy froze mid-step.
“What the hell?” Malfoy’s voice was sharp.
Harry turned, frowning.
“What?” he asked.
Malfoy’s eyes flicked toward him—
“What did you just do?”
Harry frowned. “Nothing?”
Malfoy’s eyes narrowed slightly, his jaw tight.
Harry’s irritation spiked. “What, did I look at you wrong? Get over it, Malfoy.”
Malfoy didn’t retort back. He just stared, his brows drawing together—not like he was angry, but like he was pondering something.
“What?” he snapped again.
Instead of answering, the blonde lifted his hand and ran his thumb along the side of his jaw.
Harry felt it on his own skin.
A light, fleeting press—there.
His breath hitched slightly. Just enough for Malfoy to notice.
Malfoy’s fingers stilled. His gaze flicked to Harry’s, assessing.
“You felt that,” he said flatly.
Not a question. A statement.
A flicker of unease curled in his gut.
Madam Pomfrey appeared near the doorway, frowning. “What’s going on now?”
Harry hesitated, glancing at Malfoy, who was still watching him like he was something to be dissected.
“I don’t—” Harry started
“I touched my jaw,” he said. “And Potter felt it.”
Pomfrey’s frown deepened. She turned to Harry. “Is that true?”
He swallowed. “Yeah. I—I don’t know how, but yeah.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line, her gaze sharpening with interest now. “That shouldn’t be happening.”
Malfoy huffed, running a hand through his hair in frustration, muttering to himself. “Well, obviously, but clearly it bloody well is.”
Pomfrey ignored his attitude and she muttered something under her breath before straightening.
“This could be dangerous,” Pomfrey said sharply, her expression darkening. “We need to determine exactly what’s happening—and how serious it is.”
She turned to Malfoy. “We need to assess this properly. Let's go back."
Once they were seated once again, Pomfrey got out her trusted notepad, she directed her gaze at Malfoy.
"Malfoy, I want you to touch your own skin again—slowly—and both of you will tell me exactly what you feel.”
Malfoy looked tense but complied, lifting his hand. His fingers brushed lightly over the inside of his wrist once again.
Harry stiffened, a ghostly pressure trailing over his own skin.
"It’s—" He hesitated, frowning. "It feels like... I’m touching myself, but not? Like—like my wrist is being touched. The sensation is just... there."
Malfoy’s brow furrowed slightly. He glanced down at his wrist, flexing his fingers over his skin. "Feels normal to me," he said, though his tone was clipped. "Like touching my own skin—because I am."
Pomfrey gave a short nod, still watching them closely. “So it only seems to affect the one who isn't making the contact.”
She turned to Harry. "Now you do it, Potter."
Harry swallowed, shifting slightly. His pulse felt too loud in his ears as he lifted his hand and pressed two fingers against the inside of his wrist.
Malfoy stiffened, but otherwise, he didn’t move.
Harry exhaled slowly. "Feel it?" he asked, his voice quieter now.
Malfoy’s silver eyes flickered up to meet his.
Something heavy settled between them. Not anger. Not hatred. Just... something.
"Yeah," Malfoy said eventually, his voice flat but not entirely steady.
Neither of them moved for a moment, eyes locked, breathing heavy.
He should look away. He didn’t.
Pomfrey cleared her throat, snapping them both out of it.
"Now let’s see how far this extends," she said. "I need to check if the effect is limited to your own touch—or if someone else’s will register too."
"Hold out your arm, Malfoy."
Malfoy shot Harry a glare before extending his wrist toward her.
Pomfrey pressed her fingertips lightly against his skin.
Shit.
It was like her fingers had closed over his wrist. A light touch—but the sheer wrongness of Harry being able to feel it made him uncomfortable.
It was on his wrist. But it wasn’t meant to be. On his skin, but not for him.
He jerked slightly, his arm twitching at his side.
Malfoy exhaled through his nose.
"It’s—" Harry started, swallowing hard. "It’s like you’re touching me. I can feel it on my own wrist."
He had no control over what he felt, when he felt it, or who made it happen.
Pomfrey’s gaze shifted to Malfoy. “And you?”
"Nothing unusual," he muttered, his voice clipped. "Feels like being touched."
Pomfrey withdrew her hand, her brows furrowed, thoughtful now. “Alright. So it’s not just your own touch being picked up.”
Harry exhaled shakily, his mind racing through the implications.
Pomfrey barely gave him time to process before speaking again.
“So far, we’ve seen that you feel the sensation when you or someone else touches your skin. Now, we need to see what happens when one of you touches the other."
Malfoy’s head jerked toward her, his eyes wide and expression appalled.
"You want me to—?" Malfoy started, sounding offended.
“One of you needs to touch the other,” Pomfrey cut in, her voice brisk now. “And then say whether or not you felt it yourselves.”
Harry barely resisted the urge to groan.
"Fine," he muttered.
He looked at Malfoy, who looked back at him with equal reluctance.
Neither of them moved.
Pomfrey sighed. “Just get on with it.”
Harry gritted his teeth, then reached out and pressed his fingers against Malfoy’s forearm.
He waited.
He felt the warmth of Malfoy’s skin under his fingertips, the pressure of contact—but he didn’t feel anything on his own forearm.
Malfoy’s eyes flicked up, they were unreadable, almost searching for something.
"Well?" Pomfrey prompted.
Harry exhaled, dropping his hand. "I don’t feel it."
Malfoy visibly relaxed once Harry wasn’t touching him anymore—only to tense right back up when Pomfrey turned to him.
“Go ahead, Malfoy.”
Malfoy bristled in irritation, but after a long, suffering pause, he pressed two fingers against Harry’s wrist.
Malfoy’s fingers hovered for a breath longer than necessary—too still, like he was thinking about something.
Then he exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Same thing. Feels normal. Just touching him. I don't feel the touch on myself."
Pomfrey gave a short nod. “Alright. So when touching each other, the bond isn’t triggered at all. Interesting...”
Pomfrey continued, “We need to test if fabric blocks it."
Malfoy sighed, already looking exasperated. “Brilliant. More touching.”
Pomfrey ignored him. “Malfoy, cover your wrist with your sleeve.”
Malfoy muttered something under his breath but complied, tugging down his sleeve over his wrist.
"Okay," Pomfrey said. "I’m going to press my fingers against the fabric. Tell me if you feel anything, Potter."
She placed her fingertips firmly over Malfoy’s covered wrist.
Harry waited.
…Nothing.
He blinked. No sensation.
"Nothing. I don't feel it," he said.
Pomfrey exhaled, the line between her brows softening slightly. “Alright. So fabric blocks it.”
Malfoy immediately crossed his arms over his chest, as if trying to shrink into his own clothes. His gaze flicked toward Pomfrey’s supply shelves.
"D’you stock full-length cloaks in here?" he asked, deadpan. "Preferably enchanted. With anti-touch charms. And a hood."
Harry snorted despite himself.
Pomfrey cleared her throat. "Enough."
She paused, her gaze flicking between them.
“Before we go further, we should think about what kinds of things this bond might pick up.” Her tone was brisk, but less clipped now. “We’ve established that it transfers physical touch—but not all touch feels the same. It isn’t always just that, is it?"
Harry frowned.
“A firm hand on your shoulder doesn’t feel like a light graze. Pressure, sharpness—those are all physical responses. A hit doesn’t just register as contact. It registers as impact.”
She glanced between them again.
“Even something like fingers running over skin can cause different kinds of reactions. Discomfort. Tingling. Arousal.”
Harry blinked.
What the fuck.
She said it so easily. Like it was nothing. Like that was just a normal word to throw into the middle of a sentence.
Oh, this was getting worse by the second.
He kept his expression neutral—barely—but his ears burned. He didn’t look at Malfoy.
“Pain’s an important one to test,” Pomfrey went on, "since it will determine whether injury could become a risk factor."
Malfoy’s expression twisted. "And how, exactly, do you plan to—"
Pomfrey grabbed his wrist and pinched the inside of it sharply.
"Oi!" Malfoy yelped, yanking his arm back. He clutched his wrist like she’d just set it on fire, his eyes wide with indignation. "What the bloody hell—"
Harry barely heard him.
Because he felt it too.
A quick, stinging squeeze that didn’t belong on him.
He could feel pain.
And if he could feel pain—
What else would he be able to feel?
Oh, this was bad.
His hand twitched at his side, fingers curling as if trying to shake the phantom sensation away.
“Did you feel any pain?” Pomfrey asked.
Harry nodded, "Yeah."
Pomfrey made a quick note. “So pain transfers too.”
She paused for a moment, eyes still on the parchment. “Which means…we can infer that everything else, all the other sensations, will too.”
Harry’s brow furrowed.
Pomfrey didn’t elaborate. Just gave a short nod, like the rest was obvious.
Harry stared down at his wrist.
Fuck. They were completely tangled up in each other now.
Unfortunately, Pomfrey wasn’t finished. "Now, one last test. We need to check whether the person causing the pain also feels it."
Malfoy perked up immediately, eyes flashing. "I volunteer."
Harry shot him a glare. "Of course you do."
"Hold out your arm, Potter," Malfoy said far too smugly.
Harry sighed, loud and tired, but shoved up his sleeve and offered his wrist anyway.
Malfoy lifted his hand—
Pinched.
It wasn’t a light pinch either.
"Ow! Malfoy, what the hell—" Harry yanked his arm back, glaring.
Malfoy ignored his outrage, turning to Pomfrey. "Didn’t feel a thing."
Pomfrey marked something down. “That rules that out, it doesn’t reflect back on the person doing it.”
Malfoy looked far too pleased with that information.
Finally, Pomfrey set her notes aside and looked between them.
“What you’re experiencing is a form of induced sensory bonding. Uncommon, but not unheard of—though I’ve never seen it happen from a school-assigned potion.”
Her gaze lingered on both of them in turn.
“This is manageable, but you need to treat it seriously. Think before you act. Be aware of how you move, who’s around you, and what you’re doing.”
She paused, then added,
“If anything changes—unexpected sensations, additional side effects—you come straight back here. Understood?”
Neither of them responded.
She exhaled. “There is an antidote,” she went on. “But it will take a few weeks to brew.”
“Weeks? ” Malfoy hissed, his voice sharp with disbelief. And maybe panic?
Harry could feel his pulse quickening.
Weeks. Weeks of this. Weeks of every accidental touch, every brush of skin— every single thing.
“The potion you brewed is highly experimental and is usually done with extensive care and the antidote for it needs to be made exactly right in order to counteract the effects. I apologise, but there is nothing I can do. You’ll have to manage in the meantime,” Madam Pomfrey said.
“Fantastic,” Malfoy muttered, his voice bitter. “Just what I’ve always wanted—to feel everything Potter does.”
Harry bristled, glaring at him. “You think I’m happy about this? I’d rather hex myself than—”
“Stop! I know you both don't have the best relationship, but you will have to try to get along, especially under these circumstances. ” Madam Pomfrey interrupted, her tone sharp. “You’re dismissed. Go back to your dormitories and rest for the day. Report to me immediately if you have any other side effects.”
They left the infirmary in tense silence, the air between them practically vibrating with frustration.
Madam Pomfrey had told them to go straight to their dormitories and rest. Which, unfortunately, meant walking the same way—for now. At least until the corridors split and they could finally go their separate ways.
Harry’s thoughts churned as they trudged on, each step heavier than the last. His hand twitched at his side, instinctively moving to rub his face, but he froze mid-motion, clenching his fist instead.
He didn’t know what was worse—the idea of Malfoy feeling his touches, or himself feeling Malfoy’s.
His mind raced through the implications. What about when he washed his hands? All the subconscious touches that you don't even realise? His cheeks flushed hot at the thought, a mix of anger and something else—
And then there was Ginny.
Harry’s stomach sank. Ginny liked to hold hands. She liked to lean against him, her head on his shoulder, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on his wrist. She kissed him—often.
But it wasn’t just the kisses. It was the way her hands would wander when they were alone, the way she leaned into him, her fingers curling into his shirt to pull him closer. It was the heat of her lips moving against his neck, her breath hitching as his hands slipped under her jumper.
And Malfoy would feel all of it.
His heart hammered painfully in his chest.
He clenched his fists, the air thick around him. Ginny and him hadn’t gone further than second base—not because he didn’t want to, exactly, but because he… couldn’t. He cared about her. She was funny and confident and beautiful, and when she kissed him, it felt good. Sometimes even great.
But there was something missing. Something he couldn’t name, but felt like a hollow ache when she looked at him like she wanted more.
Still, things got intense. Heated. After all, they were teenagers, and a lot of the time, they couldn't keep their hands to themselves.
His cheeks burned as his mind replayed moments he shouldn’t be thinking about right now—the way Ginny’s lips would trail down his jaw, her teeth grazing his skin as her hands slid under his shirt. She liked when he touched her, and he liked touching her too.
But that was the problem, because now—
Malfoy would know.
Every private, messy, fumbling moment—Malfoy would feel.
His breath hitched, panic curling in his chest.
Would Malfoy laugh? Would he sneer, make some crude comment?
Or worse—what if he never brought it up, never sneered, never laughed? Just kept it to himself, something sharp and unsaid, a weapon he didn’t even have to wield?
He didn’t want Malfoy to know that side of him—the tension, the hunger, the heat that twisted low and messy when he let go. The part driven by instinct and want.
And then there was the other side of it.
What about Malfoy’s touches?
Harry’s stomach churned as the thought hit him. He hadn’t really considered it properly before now. If Malfoy touched someone—if someone kissed him —Harry would feel it too.
His skin prickled with unease. It wasn’t just about Ginny anymore. It was everything. Every casual touch, every intimate moment. They were all vulnerable now, their private lives exposed in a way Harry couldn’t even begin to process.
Every part of Malfoy’s life Harry had no right—and no desire—to feel, he would.
“Potter,” Malfoy snapped, breaking the silence, breaking the silence as they turned another corner.
Harry startled, his head snapping up to meet Malfoy’s glare. “What?”
"You’re staring into space like a complete idiot,” Malfoy said. “Stop it.”
Harry bristled, his frustration boiling over. “I’m not doing anything.”
“Clearly,” Malfoy said with a sneer, though it lacked some of its usual venom.
Harry rolled his eyes, fighting the urge to lash out. “Like you’re handling this so well.”
Malfoy scoffed, his silver eyes narrowing. “I’m handling it better than you. At least I’m not standing here gaping like the world’s just ended.”
Harry glared at him. “It might as well have. You’ve ruined everything.”
“Me?” Malfoy said sharply, his voice rising. “You’re the one bloody useless at potions!”
Harry took a step closer. “This is your fault, Malfoy. If you’d just—”
“If I’d just what?” Malfoy cut in, his voice low and cutting. “If I’d just let you ruin the potion completely? Trust me, Potter, I wouldn’t have let this happen if I could help it. Do you think I want to feel every time you get your bloody hands on yourself?”
The words hung in the air, cutting through Harry like a hex.
Harry’s breath caught before he could stop it. His heart stuttered, then kicked into a frantic rhythm, heat rushing to his face. The phrase echoed in his mind, unwanted and vivid, sending a jolt through his chest that he couldn’t suppress.
Malfoy’s expression flickered. His cheeks flushed faintly pink, the colour barely visible against his pale skin, and he tensed, his jaw tightening.
For a moment, neither of them moved. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating, filled with something unspoken but undeniable.
Harry’s throat felt tight. He wanted to lash out, to snap back with something angry, but the words wouldn’t come. His mind was stuck on those words, looping endlessly in a way that made his chest ache.
“I—” Harry started, then stopped. His voice came out rough. “Don’t say shit like that.”
Malfoy didn’t look at him. His jaw worked for a second, like he was chewing over a dozen responses and hated all of them.
He let out a sharp breath through his nose, shoulders stiff. “I’m not—” he started, then cut himself off. His fingers curled into fists at his sides.
When he finally spoke again, his voice was too controlled to be natural.
“Just... forget it.”
Thankfully, they’d reached the point where the corridor split—one path leading toward the dungeons, the other toward Gryffindor Tower.
Malfoy didn’t wait. He turned without another word and walked off, footsteps quick. A bit too fast.
Very unlike himself.
Harry didn’t move.
He stood there, rooted to the spot, staring after Malfoy’s retreating figure until he disappeared.
Fuck.
He was so fucked.
He hated Malfoy.
And yet…
His breath shuddered as he exhaled.
This was Draco sodding Malfoy.
And yet, the words lingered.