I realize it's been ages since I updated! I've been busy, and it may be slow, but I can guarantee this fic will continue. And be completed.

Feel

It was 4 a.m. and Harry couldn't sleep, and it had nothing to do with the practical Potions exam he was certain he'd completely failed the previous day. It was 4 a.m. on a Saturday morning, and Harry was dreading seeing Draco Malfoy.

A week had passed since he'd found out about the link. Just one week of shoving Malfoy to the back of his mind every day until Saturday rolled around and he was forced to face the Slytherin.

Harry had thrown up as soon as he got home that day. Then he had downed two glasses of Firewhiskey, thrown up again, and gone to bed at five o'clock. The first couple nights, he had hardly slept at all, lying awake in bed remembering the terrible, cold emptiness that was Malfoy, and how could someone be human and feel like that?

How could Harry have been attracted to someone like that?

That, Harry knew, was part of the reason behind the quasi-permanent queasiness in his stomach. He hadn't quite understood what he had been feeling until the rush of shame had hit him when he'd realized Malfoy knew. Something about Malfoy, something in the bony wrists and too-long hair and easy insults had sparked Harry's interest without him even noticing, and Malfoy had felt and seen and known it long before Harry had. How long would it have gone on, had Harry not accidentally found out? How long would Malfoy have lied to him, how far would he have let it go?

"Bloody hell," Harry said aloud.

The words sounded loud to him, but he doubted Ron, sleeping in another bedroom, would hear them. Ron was splitting his nights almost equally between the Burrow and Grimmauld Place, and while at first Harry had appreciated the company, reminiscent of their Hogwarts days, sometimes when he just wanted to throw a vase to the floor in the middle of the night he resented Ron's sleeping presence. (He didn't understand why Ron had been so annoyed, anyway; it had been a particularly ugly vase.)

It wasn't very fair on Ron, either, to have Harry withdraw from him without explaining why. Ron wasn't stupid; he knew full well that something was wrong, and he had even guessed that it was related to Malfoy. But how could Harry explain? How could he tell his best mate that the problem wasn't that he was sick of Draco Malfoy, but the complete opposite? Ron wouldn't understand. Harry didn't even understand. He'd found himself wishing he could see Hermione and talk to her, really talk to her – he had a feeling this was the sort of thing she'd be good at. But he wouldn't have known how to bring the topic up even if she had been right beside him.

Harry kicked the covers off the bed and sat up. His night was over. He'd had another nightmare, the third this week. The details were always slightly different, but the main part never changed: Voldemort was there, as young as when he had been Tom Riddle at Hogwarts, laughing – and one way or another, his features would morph into Malfoy's, his laugh turning to Malfoy's cool smirk, and Harry would wake up.

He grabbed a book from his bedside table, one of the many obscure titles he had opened in an attempt to find information about life debts. Hermione would be proud of him: he had never studied any subject with so much assiduity and interest. Hermione was much better at the research gig than he was, and he should have asked her to help, but then he would have had to explain what he was looking for and why, and for some reason, he still couldn't bring himself to.

And besides, Harry felt it was something of a lost cause. There was no mention, anywhere, of the sort of link that seemed to have been created between Malfoy and him, as if no one had ever heard of such a thing. But he looked anyway, read anyway, obsessively and determinedly.

This book had a brief entry titled Contracting Multiple Life Debts, which Harry had already read five times and underlined twice. Apparently one wizard in the 17th century had been quite the saviour, contracting eleven documented life debts with nine different people. Two of the indebted had ended up killing each other in an attempt to be the first to save his life. He'd eventually died at the age of seventy-three, and the single indebted who hadn't had the chance to repay his debt reportedly went mad with grief. Harry thought he wouldn't be mentioning that particular case to Malfoy.

But this wizard has saved one guy's life three times, and the guy had returned the favour three times. Harry had written down their names. It said in the book that the two men had been extremely close for the remainder of their lives, though whether their friendship had existed before the first debt was contracted wasn't clear. The idea of being extremely close to Malfoy didn't sit well with Harry, but he wondered whether the intense friendship between the two men had been born of the same sort of bond that now linked him to Malfoy. If so, it didn't seem like they had ever found a way around it.

Harry carefully re-read the passage. He knew it almost by heart now, but he kept hoping he'd missed something, and a solution would magically occur to him the sixth, tenth, or hundredth time around. It didn't.

An unfinished letter to Ginny lay on the bedside table. It read, Dear Ginny, and below that, a couple lines of crossed-out bullshit. Harry had been meaning to write it for two weeks now, a reply to her last owl, but somehow, he couldn't think of anything to say to her that didn't revolve around Malfoy. She had asked him about Pimple Face after that article in the Prophet, but Harry hadn't wanted to talk about it. Truth be told, his surges of anger scared him: they reminded him too much of the hold Voldemort had had on him for years.

Harry checked his watch again. 4:11.

"Bloody hell," he said again.

Ten hours and three cups of coffee later, he stood on Malfoy's doorstep. Narcissa let him in, smiling coolly as she did so. He was grateful for her presence – anything to avoid being alone with Malfoy –, but he found her welcome rather unsettling. She could be warm one minute and frosty the next, and there was a guarded, jumpy look in her eyes that reminded Harry of a frightened animal.

"Lucius hasn't been out this week, as you know," Narcissa said calmly as she guided him toward the drawing room. "I went to Diagon Alley twice for coffee. I'm not sure about Draco, you'll have to ask."

"Er... Yeah, I will."

Mrs Malfoy, unlike her son, was determined to not treat Harry as anything less or more than what he was: a Ministry employee assigned to their case. She insisted on telling him where she'd gone and what she'd bought, and it made Harry uneasy, because he knew he should be asking these questions. He just... didn't want to.

"Draco," Narcissa said smoothly when they entered the drawing room, "Potter is here."

Draco rose to his feet in one swift movement, his expression blank. "Hello, Potter."

"Hi." Harry didn't quite meet his eyes. He tried very hard not to think or feel anything, knowing that Malfoy felt everything.

"Have a seat," Draco said, gesturing vaguely.

Harry sat down across from him. Narcissa chose a high-backed chair with elegant carvings on its armrests and sat with her hands in her lap.

"Has anything changed?"

Harry shook his head. "No, ma'am."

She wanted to know if the Ministry had changed its mind about the Malfoys. The truth was, the Ministry had all but forgotten them. Harry had to write a report every two weeks, which was boring and repetitive, and he wasn't even sure anyone actually read them. The Malfoys weren't exactly future Dark Lords.

"I have a meeting with the Head Auror next week," Harry added. Narcissa paled slightly, and he rushed to reassure her: "I was the one who asked. I thought, since it's been a while, we should talk. But he's not going to..." He trailed off. We're not going to lock you up again.

"What do you want to talk about?" Narcissa asked.

"Just... stuff."

Harry glanced up at Malfoy briefly, and saw how his eyes were narrowed. He was even more glad of Narcissa's presence now. She, at least, had never owed him a life debt. He could appreciate the sincerity of her selfishness.

Harry fingered the object in his pocket nervously. "I thought the Ministry might like to know what your plans for the future are," he said quietly, stumbling over his words.

To his surprise, Narcissa smiled. "Yes, I thought so, too." She looked warmly at Draco, who coloured.

"For, I suppose, maybe income –" Harry began, since Lucius wasn't a Ministry employee anymore.

"Oh," Narcissa said, sounding unconcerned. "Well, Draco is going to start applying to –" She cut herself off; Malfoy hadn't said a word, but the look he gave her was enough. "Few people would employ Lucius or me, but we have money to spare, Mr Potter. Surely you know that."

Harry nodded. He'd seen their Gringotts statements. They weren't going to starve this year, at least, not even after the huge sums they'd been forced to pay the Ministry, St Mungo's, and Hogwarts.

"Draco will work, eventually. But we have other plans at the moment." Narcissa smiled again; Harry found it excessively odd. "We want to convert part of the Manor."

"Convert?" Harry repeated slowly, trying to picture a B&B at Malfoy Manor. He couldn't.

"We have many unused rooms, likely to remain unused for a while. Guest rooms, the reception, the dining hall. It seems a shame to leave them empty. So we're going to open up the Manor."

"Open up the Manor," Harry echoed, still lost. "Er, what kind of clientele are we talking about here?"

"Not clientele, Potter," Malfoy said. "Orphans. My mother wishes to create an orphanage." He said the word with the same inflection someone else would have used to say manure.

"What?" Harry said stupidly.

"An orphanage," Narcissa said. "My family may not run in Ministry circles anymore, but I still know people, Mr Potter. I know how many orphans the war left, and I know the Ministry has never done anything for orphans of wizarding families. They are picked up by distant relatives or, in the worst cases, left to Muggle social care. You cannot deny," she said, "that Muggle orphanages are not equipped to deal with magical children. The Ministry has neither the funds nor the desire to help these children. I do."

"Er," Harry said. "Why?"

Narcissa was silent, and suddenly it was obvious. Harry thought of little Teddy and Andromeda, all alone and completely miserable in that house, and knew instinctively that was why. Shit, he thought, knowing already that this could be a brilliant idea, and if it could be done, it needed to be.

"All right," he said slowly. "What exactly are we talking about here? How many people would you be employing? How many children do you want to bring in? How old?"

"Oh, any age. Up to seventeen, and maybe even some young adults who need support and shelter. I've given it some thought and I've written a proposal for the project. I'd appreciate it if you would look it over, and if you think it's worth it, you could bring it to the Ministry. We'll need their approval before we can start."

"Er, sure. I could do that, I guess."

Narcissa handed him several rolled-up parchments. Harry glanced at them quickly: there appeared to be floor plans of the Manor, as well as several pages detailing Narcissa's ideas.

"I was thinking of registering it as a nonprofit organisation," Narcissa said. "We wouldn't require Ministry funding, but it would make some of the paperwork easier. And then we'd be officially recognised. I thought we might start off with ten children. I have a list of thirty-two children whose parents were killed or became unable to look after them, with current address and name. It wouldn't be hard to retrieve them from Muggle orphanages."

Harry noticed she kept saying I. "Is your husband on board with this?"

"Of course. The Manor is his. I have his approval. He signed the proposal."

But the idea, of course, had been Narcissa's. Harry could see it in the look in her eyes when she spoke of the project. He wondered how long she'd been contemplating the idea. It was hard to think of Narcissa as motherly, tender, or concerned – but she was all of that with her son, he knew. Maybe she wanted to be with Teddy, too.

"And those children... They're all pure-blood?" Somehow, Harry found that hard to believe.

"Does it matter?" Narcissa asked.

Harry felt she was teasing him somehow. He wasn't sure what she expected him to say. It shouldn't matter, but he had a hard time imagining little half-blood children under Narcissa's care. He could think of dozens of things that didn't sit well with this plan – but in the end, it wasn't his decision to make.

"If you give me the proposal, I will pass it on to the necessary people," he said simply, trying not to let his doubts show on his face.

Narcissa didn't exactly smile, but her expression lit up. She seemed, suddenly, much more human. And that, maybe, was what prompted Harry to reach into his pocket and take out a small photograph. He looked down at it briefly.

"Your sister would rather you not contact her," he said quietly, avoiding Narcissa's gaze and the hurt he knew he would find there. "But maybe this..."

He held the photograph out, and their fingers brushed lightly as she took it from him. The captivated look on her face made him feel even more uncomfortable, as she looked down at Teddy, held securely in Andromeda's arms. Even on a black-and-white photograph, you could see his hair shifting to a slightly darker shade. His grandmother was smiling down at him.

"It's not the most recent, but –"

Harry cut himself off. Narcissa clearly wasn't listening. He averted his eyes, then silently cursed himself for it when he met Malfoy's cool grey eyes instead. His heart sped up. With that look, he felt completely exposed, and yet he couldn't tear his gaze away.

Malfoy leaned forward slightly, his gaze dropping to Harry's hands. The spell was broken, and Harry flinched as Malfoy reached out and traced his fingers across his wrist.

"How is it?"

"Fine," Harry said shortly, suppressing a shiver. He pulled his hand back. Then, after a moment: "Thank you."

Malfoy's head snapped back up, and he looked Harry in the eye again, startled. Harry knew he was guarded and jumpy around Malfoy today, more than before. Part of it was fear, part of it was shame – but an even bigger part of it was hurt, as if somehow he had been betrayed. He had realised that a part of him had trusted Malfoy, and now... he couldn't anymore. He felt the loss of that trust as keenly as his awareness that Malfoy knew what he was feeling.

Malfoy glanced at his mother, who was still devouring the photograph with her eyes. Then he tilted his head towards the door. Against his better judgment, Harry stood and allowed Malfoy to lead him out. Malfoy closed the door behind them, and they stood in the corridor, looking at each other.

Malfoy reached out again, and Harry took a step back.

Malfoy let his hand fall to his side. Something flickered in his grey eyes, but Harry couldn't say what. "I'm not going to hurt you."

Harry shrugged. He knew that, of course. Malfoy couldn't hurt him. But that didn't mean Harry wanted him anywhere near him. Somehow, he knew that touch would simply intensify the link between them. The thought made him feel sick.

"Potter –"

"Shut up," Harry said forcefully. "Just... shut up. I don't want to hear it."

Malfoy stepped forward. "That picture. Why would you give it to her? You told me to stay away –"

"And you should stay away. If you don't, Andromeda will ask for support from the Ministry, and you don't want to know what they'll do."

Malfoy's eyes flashed. "Is that a threat?"

"It's a promise," Harry said, irritated. He knew it was stupid to give in to Malfoy's baiting, but he couldn't help himself. He could already feel his temper rising. "And then you'll have to kiss your dreams of an orphanage good-bye –"

"Oh, fuck you," Malfoy said, disgust dripping from his tone. He took another step forward. Harry could feel the anger simmering between them. "You always have to be so superior, don't you? It can never be normal with you –"

"Normal!" Harry exclaimed, incredulous.

He put his hands on Malfoy's shoulders, intending to shove him away – and suddenly realised how close they were. They stood practically nose-to-nose, Malfoy's eyes boring into his. Harry's heart was pounding in his chest, his anger suddenly gone. He wondered how much of it had actually come from Malfoy. They stared at each other, completely silent, hardly breathing at all – and then Malfoy stepped back, averting his gaze.

Harry snapped back to his sense and felt the heat rise to his cheeks as he remembered that Malfoy could feel his want. He shut down his emotions, pushing them as far away from his as he could. He saw Malfoy's expression darken in response and knew he had succeeded.

"Godric," he said, raising a hand to his mouth. "I think I'm going to be sick."

"No, you're not," Malfoy said quietly, still not looking at him.

Harry kept his mouth closed for several moments, breathing steadily through his nose, waiting for his stomach to settle. He studiously avoided looking at Malfoy.

"I should go."

"No," Malfoy said sharply. "No, Potter – wait." His voice was low. Not pleading, but as close to it as it would ever get. "I shouldn't have kept it from you. But this... thing... don't let it mess everything up."

That caught Harry's attention. "Mess what up?"

"Just... everything. If you're going to talk to the Minister –"

Harry laughed shortly. So that was what he was worried about. "Oh, don't worry. I won't tell him about the debt. Or about... whatever this is." It was the last thing he wanted to talk to Kingsley about.

"You aren't?" Malfoy couldn't completely conceal the relief in his voice. "But you don't really... you don't trust us."

Harry dared to glance at him. Malfoy was staring at the wall, but he seemed to sense Harry's eyes on him and turned his head.

"Trust has to be earned, Malfoy."

"Does it? I was under the impression that you gave yours rather freely. You did to me, at least."

And look where that brought me, Harry thought. But he didn't say it. He suppressed his hurt and anger, knowing that if he allowed himself to feel it, Malfoy would certainly pick up on it. Godric, but that was frustrating. If it had gone both ways, maybe he could have learnt to deal with it, but this...

"Could you teach me Occlumency?" The question spilled forth from his lips before he had completely thought it through.

Malfoy looked startled. "You'd want me to teach you?"

"Well... You know it. You're good at it." Harry didn't know whom else he could ask. But he remembered Occlumency lessons with Snape, that disgusting invasion of his mind... He shuddered. "No, you're right. I don't. Forget about it."

Malfoy shrugged, but let the subject drop. "I didn't think you'd come, you know. I thought you would have asked to be replaced."

"Maybe I should have. But I've already told you I can't. I don't hate you enough."

"Even after –"

"Just let it go, Malfoy." Harry really didn't want to talk about it.

Malfoy was silent for a moment, as if struggling with himself. Then his shoulders slumped. "How can I? How can I let it go when I can feel you, feel everything you're feeling, right now? How am I supposed to ignore something like that?"

Harry stiffened. Against his better judgment, he asked, "What can you feel?"

Malfoy looked up at him, his eyes full of confusion. "Everything. As strongly as – no, more strongly than if they were my own feelings."

"Can't you block it out?"

"Sometimes I can, but it gets harder every time. I haven't been able to get you out of my head for weeks. You becoming aware of it, and seeing you so often just makes it even more difficult."

"I'm... sorry, I suppose."

"No you aren't," Malfoy said, and they both knew he was right. "But it's all right. I don't expect you to be. I should be sorry."
He didn't say he was, though; he had sworn never to lie to Harry again.

"You don't have to hold back," Harry said, forcing the words out. "Don't tire yourself. It's there. There's no use fighting it."

"You don't really mean that," Malfoy said, seeing through him like a panel of glass. "You hate this."

Harry ground his teeth together. "Malfoy, for once, just – just believe me, okay? And do as I say. I don't want to talk about this. Ever. I don't want to hear about – about what you can feel. I just –" Another wave of nausea overtook him, and his breath hitched. "I don't."

"Then what do you want?" Malfoy asked, and though his tone was light, Harry took it as a serious question.

He leaned his back against the wall, holding back a sigh as he looked steadily at Malfoy. At the thin, pale, tired-looking Slytherin standing so close to him, yet so far away. And he remembered the fights, the teasing, the unexpected moments of heart-to-heart. He remembered feeling like himself, like a kid at Hogwarts still preoccupied with his Quidditch rival, someone who hadn't saved the wizarding world. And that was what he wanted. That was what he missed: being able to look at Malfoy and know there was, at least, one person out there who didn't think that killing Voldemort made him flawless.

And it terrified him, that he so desperately wanted something only Malfoy could give him.

Preview of the next chapter...

His hand rose to his mouth and came back down streaked with red. When he spoke, his voice was still controlled and it was as if nothing had happened – as if Harry hadn't just split his lip. And at this very moment, there was no one Harry hated more than Draco Malfoy and his infuriating control over everything.