Archive of Our Own ^beta

In the disorder at the end of the war, the fate of one Draco Malfoy slipped by unnoticed by almost everyone. Maybe it was because people were craving news unrelated to the war, eager to move on. But really, it was mostly because Narcissa Malfoy’s connections at the Daily Prophet ensured the news was buried — just a single line, tucked into a list of other war-related trials and updates on rebuilding:

Draco Malfoy has been found medically unfit to stand trial — his scheduled hearings are hereby postponed until recovery can be confirmed.

Though it was printed nearly two years prior, Ron only found the clipping a few weeks after he began his junior Healer position at St Mungo’s.

So, it was no wonder that Ron nearly dropped the tray he was carrying when he stepped into the communal space for patients at the Janus Thickey Ward for the first time and saw a git with a shiny head of platinum hair lounging by the window, drowning in the standard-issue hospital gown.

Malfoy's eyes lingered on Ron in his lime green Healer robes, then darted up. They stared at each other for a long moment. Malfoy broke the silence by standing abruptly, brandishing a spoon at Ron as if it were a wand.

“Riddikulus!” he yelled, vigorous and determined.

Ron gaped. Healer White slid up beside Ron, taking the tray from him. The middle-aged, dumpy healer deposited the meal on another patient’s table as he walked up to Malfoy.

“Lower your arm, Mr Malfoy. It’s time for your afternoon assessment with Healer Park. Come along, now.”

Malfoy grimaced at Healer White, a look of mild confusion on his face as he lowered his arm, still clutching the spoon like a weapon.

“I told Father the cough’s hardly a bother anymore. I don’t see why he insists on calling Healer Gorlitz to the Manor over such a triviality.”

“Healer Park,” White repeated patiently, gently prying the spoon from Malfoy’s hand. Malfoy allowed it and followed the mediwizard out of the common room, not even sparing Ron a glance — as if he had successfully banished a boggart.

Ron hurriedly shuffled onto the next patient, but his mind was reeling. He wished he could send an owl to Harry and Hermione, but they’d flown off on one of those muggle death traps to take care of Hermione’s parents in Australia, leaving Ron with only one of those tiny pocket fellytones. He’d sooner fly down under on a Comet 260 that try to call them on it; using that contraption was a nightmare.

Ron would have to settle for getting the scoop on Malfoy around the coffee pot, if he and his fellow junior Healers could ever find a spare minute.

Mrs Yardly, a tottery elder witch, tossed her whole meal across the floor with a whimper, and Ron whisked the mess away with a spell while he gently consoled her.

Ron walked past the communal space with a veritable bushel of scrolls in his arms. As he glanced into the room shimmering with afternoon sunlight, he saw it was mostly empty, except for one wizard.

Malfoy was sat cross-legged on the floor. Seeing that, Ron's mouth practically fell open. He'd never seen the git so undignified. Malfoy's gaze was pinned on an armchair about a half a metre from where he lounged. It had a horrible chequered pattern.

“At least I've got you,” murmured the Malfoy heir. He edged forward, his head tilting as though bending his ear to a faint voice. “They think I’m mad, but you understand me.”

Malfoy patted the chair's armrest. “You've always been here for me. I'm eternally grateful.”

Across the room, Healer Park leant against the windowsill, her long legs crossed at the ankles as she observed her patient. A quill and clipboard hovered next to her, jotting down notes as she murmured to it. She didn’t really seem to be all that interested in Malfoy. Ron’s brows also knit tight, suspicion pulling a frown onto his freckled face.

In the corridor the next day, Malfoy stood still, alone and staring at a corner. He drew an imaginary wand, pointing it at an empty space.

“Expelliarmus!” he shouted as he dropped to the floor.

He rolled as if dodging some spell, then sprang up, panting. “Did you see that? They’re everywhere!”

Ron cranked his neck, watching the spectacle as he supported Mrs Yardly from the loo back to her room. He was about to call out for another Healer when White zipped around the corner. “Who’s everywhere, Mr Malfoy?”

Malfoy leant in to him, whispering conspiratorially, “The Rotfang Fighters. They’re after me.”

“Best come along, Mr Malfoy.”

At the end of the week, Ron escorted a prim looking Ministry official to the ward. Ms Sykes was short, with slicked-back dark hair, and dressed in neutral beiges. When she clacked her heels into Malfoy’s room, he didn't react. Malfoy sat motionless, staring at a point beyond the ticking clock on the wall.

He didn’t blink, speak, nor acknowledge anyone.

“Mr. Malfoy?” the official prompted.

No response.

Healer White sighed. “He has these episodes occasionally. Best to let him be.”

As the official left, Ron caught the subtle shift of Malfoy’s eyes as he watched her leave.

Ron was rifling through the records angrily, jabbing his wand at scrolls, making them quiver and shuffle. He was thoroughly irked at himself — he’d barely spared a thought for Malfoy over the past two years, too wrapped up in grief and in burying that grief under the intense Healer training programme at St Mungo’s. Now the git was in his face every day, and things were just not adding up.

As far as Ron knew, other than the occasional outburst in the common room, Draco was a model patient, spending much of his time in his room reading. What exactly was he in here for? The potions he was taking didn’t give much of a hint, as he only took two innocuous draughts a day.

At last, Ron’s locator spell found Malfoy’s records. Three scrolls smacked into Ron’s chest before landing on the floorboards. He slammed them onto the little desk in the corner of the room and jerked one open, hurriedly scanning through the contents.

Patient: Malfoy, Draco Lucius
D.O.B.: 5 June 1980
Observational Notes:

Patient exhibits the following symptoms:

• Persistent verbal engagement with inanimate objects (e.g., furniture, ward fixtures).
• Inappropriate or exaggerated responses to specific trigger words; displays paranoia toward harmless objects.
• Frequently observed speaking to and attempting to physically engage with perceived entities not present (hallucinatory aggression).
• Repetitive pacing behaviour; no identifiable pattern or ritualistic structure noted.
• Episodic memory lapses and confusion regarding recent events.
• Intermittent catatonic episodes without discernible cause or consistent timing.

Recommend continued observation.

Brow furrowed, Ron pored over the records, examining the medical diagnosis and the updates logged over the past two years.

By the time he banished the scrolls back to their shelf, he was thoroughly convinced: Draco Malfoy was faking insanity — and several Healers were looking the other way.

The dining hall was half-empty, as most patients had wandered off or lost interest in their lukewarm cottage pie. Malfoy sat near the window, spooning peas into his mouth with slow, deliberate elegance, as if the room weren’t lined with corner-padded furniture and muttering patients.

Ron crossed the floor with purpose, stopping at Malfoy’s table without a word.

Malfoy looked up, blinked once, and smirked.

“Oh no,” he said dryly. “Have I eaten someone else’s pudding again? Kindly give the Matron my apologies and tell her I was very contrite; simply inconsolable.”

Ron folded his arms. “Cut the act.”

Malfoy tilted his head, spoon poised mid-air. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’ve seen your file. It just doesn’t add up, I don’t have to be Hermione to see that.”

Malfoy set his spoon down with care. “So you’ve uncovered my grand deception. Congratulations. Go ahead and report me, Weasley. No one’s listening.”

Hot anger bubbled up in his chest. Ron clenched his fist and growled. “Who have you bribed, Malfoy? No one’s taking you seriously, least of all me.”

“I’m not trying to fool you, Weasley. You’re hardly the bar I measure myself against.”

Before Ron could retort, the door banged open and Healer Park poked her head in.

“Weasley, we need a hand with the Longbottom’s bathing. Right away, really can’t let the schedule get off track again.”

Ron turned his head, jaw clenched. “Yeah. On my way.” He looked back at Malfoy, eyes sharp. “This conversation isn't over.”

“That's brilliant news,” Malfoy said sweetly. He plucked up his spoon again, all elegant nonchalance. “I find your visits invigorating.”

Ron stormed out without another word.

The diagnostic room was tucked away behind a frosted glass door and lined with shelves of oddly shaped, shiny medimagical instruments. The whole place smelled faintly of antiseptic spell residue and lemon oil.

Malfoy perched on the padded examination table, insouciant pose implying he was posing for a portrait. Amusement roiled off him, threatening to erode the last bit of Ron's patience which Ron had desperately tried to make last the entire shift.

As he swayed side to side, Malfoy eyed Ron from head to toe. Ron glared at him; what was the point of regular diagnostic spells if the git was faking it?

“Sit still,” Ron grumbled, brandishing his wand.

“I am sitting still. If I were any more still, I’d be dead.” Malfoy continued to sway, as if some pop song were rattling around his stupid blond head.

Ron huffed and shuffled closer to his patient, standing in the correct position on the rune-scored floor tiles. His temper was flaring, annoyance which served to mask the nervousness strumming quietly through him.

Ron didn’t dare examine why he was on edge. Well, one excuse was that this wasn’t supposed to be his responsibility — Healer Park had been scheduled for this check-in. Some emergency had yanked her away mid-shift, and now here he was, wand in hand, stuck in a room with Draco Malfoy and a hastily copied spell sequence.

Nonetheless, Ron was supposed to examine him, and perhaps a clean bill of health could be enough to get Malfoy shipped off to Azkaban to await his trial there, instead of getting underfoot here on the ward, where Ron and his coworkers were trying to do real work.

“Let’s just do this as quickly as possible,” Ron spat, shoulders tense as he struck the proper pose for the spell, wand aloft in one hand and a blank piece of parchment scrunched in his other. The spell would record details of Malfoy’s physical, mental and magical state on the scroll — or it should, but Ron’s read-outs tended to be shaky and blurry in the best of circumstances.

“It’d go faster if you stopped sweating all over your parchment.”

Ron didn’t dignify that with a reply. He ran through the charm instructions again in his head. Diagnostic spells were delicate things; you couldn’t brute-force them the way you could with combat spells. They needed steady hands, calm minds, and no interruptions.

He took a breath. “All right. Don’t move. Seriously.”

Malfoy tilted his chin up and gave a mockingly angelic smile. Ron raised his wand, darted his eyes down to his notes, and then cautiously spoke the incantation.

A thread of gold light unspooled from his wand tip and arced slowly toward Malfoy’s chest. It was working; steady and responsive, exactly as it should. Ron exhaled in relief.

Then the door flew open behind them.

“Oops! Hope I’m not interrupting!” A jovial male voice rang out.

Ron’s heart lurched. His hand jerked. The spell twisted.

Malfoy sprang up. “Watch it, you —!”

The golden filament coiled mid-air. Like a branch being stripped, it divided into two halves, glowed scarlet, and both threads snapped forward like striking snakes in opposite directions — straight into both of their chests.

A flash and a pulse of rippling magic preceded a sound like someone striking a tuning fork.

As the note trembled through the air, Lockhart simply stood in the doorway and carried on over the sound as if he hadn’t noticed the disturbance at all. “Just looking for the meet-and-greet, do hope I’m not keeping my fans waiting.”

Ron stumbled away from the examination table, where Malfoy sat frozen, clutching his chest. For one horrible second, everything felt doubled — too hot, too loud, too much. The room righted itself with a lurch.

“What the bloody hell—?”

Malfoy stared wide-eyed at Ron. “You absolute imbecile. What have you done?”

“It was Lockhart! He startled me —” Ron swivelled around and glared daggers at his old professor; if he had a sickle for every time he and Lockhart were caught at the scene of accidental magic backfire... well, he’d have two sickles, which was enough for a round at the Leaky, and that’d be awfully good right now.

As if finally noticing either the seething animosity or the tingle of a magical mishap, Lockhart gave an apologetic smile. “Oh.... marvellous energy in here...” he said with feigned cheerfulness, backing away out the door. “I’ll just... Yes, never mind, carry on!” He flounced off, humming.

Ron turned back to Malfoy, red-faced and breathless. Malfoy was still pressing his palm to his sternum like he half-expected it to explode.

Ron said, “It was just a slightly wonky diagnostic —”

“Something’s wrong,” Malfoy interrupted, sharp and clipped. “I can feel... hang on.”
Malfoy’s eyes narrowed, brow pinching in thought. At last, he murmured under his breath. “Oh, no. No no no. That isn’t me.”
Ron blinked. “What?”

“This. This prickling, sweaty, storming feeling in my stomach. That’s you. That’s your — oh, Merlin, is that guilt? You bloody ought to be guilty!”

Ron’s ears burned. “It’s probably not all that bad.”

Malfoy hopped off his perch, disbelief morphing into horror. “Oh, God, and now there’s defensiveness. I can feel it.”

“Well, I can bloody feel you, too!” Ron shot back, throwing up his hands. “You’re like a swarm of bloody bees — smug, and twitchy, and all over the place!”

They both fell silent. A moment passed. Then another.

Ron offered, teeth clenched. “I’ll find someone to undo it.” This felt tantamount to admitting he’d cocked things up.

Malfoy exhaled and slumped back onto the table. “You’d bloody better. And quick.”

“I will.”

“Good.”

Ron grabbed the blank diagnostic parchment, stuffed it into his pocket, and stormed out. As he pulled the door closed, he caught a last glimpse; Malfoy’s palms were pressed against his eyes, a scowl of dismay on his pretty lips. Ron saw him mouth, “Brilliant. Just brilliant.”

“You miscast. You miscast a diagnostic spell?” Healer Park’s voice had that clipped, professional edge Ron had quickly learned to fear more than shouting.

Ron cleared his throat. “Well, I... yeah... sorry, my concentration broke, I don’t know what happened.”

Healer Park stared at him for a long, exhausted moment, then pinched the bridge of her nose.

“You bonded yourselves emotionally. Do you understand the level of irresponsibility that takes? Especially in this ward.”

“Wasn't on purpose,” Ron muttered.

“That does not assuage my concern.”

She sighed, pressing her fingers into the furrow between her brows. Then she conceded, snappishly. “We’ll look into reversing it, of course, but given our current caseload, it won’t be immediate. You’ll have to manage in the meantime.”

Ron blinked, relief washing over him. “So that’s it?” No punishment? Well, being bonded to Malfoy may be punishment enough. “Just carry on like normal, with his mood bleeding into mine every five minutes?”

“If you can manage not to get caught up in any further magical entanglements, yes. Carry on.” Healer Park arched an eyebrow. “And I suggest you do your very best to keep things civil and not muck up any more duties.”

Ron fidgeted, wishing his embarrassment wasn’t so obviously painted on his cheeks.

“I expect professionalism, Weasley,” she said briskly, scribbling something onto a scroll. “Not dramatics. We get enough of that from Malfoy.”

He hesitated. “Right.” Ron had a sneaking suspicion she was the one letting Malfoy laze about the ward. Maybe it was Narcissa pulling the strings that tugged at Angel Park, quietly nudging the rules to suit her son.

“And for Merlin’s sake, don’t let this escalate into anything. Bottle it up, keep your head down, and just do what needs doing.”

Healer Park swept out of the room. Despite her moral failing, Ron felt a pang of sympathy for his supervisor; she was obviously under a lot of pressure. He’d never heard another mental health professional give such horrible advice. But Ron honestly had no other idea what sort of approach he could take until this mess was all untangled.

As if from a distance, a faint sentiment of indignation and frustration echoed. Ron wondered if that was just the general baseline of Malfoy’s mood.

Malfoy narrowed his eyes as soon as Ron entered his private room carrying a tray of breakfast. Godric, he hated being Malfoy’s little maid. He passed a vial of potion to the git.

“You’re stroppy again,” Malfoy accused, crossing his arms. “The sensation is constant, and it's given me a headache.”

Ron scowled. “Bloody right I'm stroppy — you’ve left chess pieces all over the corridor.”

“They were reconvening for a truce,” Malfoy sniffed. “You’re ruining the diplomacy.”

Ron groaned. “Merlin help me, now it’s not just your ugly mug projecting it all; I can feel your smugness.”

Malfoy held up the potion vial, the blue liquid swirling. Then, he passed a palm over it and whispered a spell, belligerently vanishing the medication right before Ron’s eyes with wandless magic.

Ron suspected he’d been doing as much. He just snatched the vial back and stalked out of the room as Malfoy drawled, “You’ll definitely need blood pressure potions any day now, with this constant anger.”

Ron could feel Malfoy’s stress like an impending weather front.

“You’re brooding,” Ron shot, as he levitated empty cups from around the dining space.

“I am reading,” Malfoy retorted. His fingers clenched the cover of the book in his lap.

“Same difference. My chest feels like a sad violin.”

Malfoy peered more intently at the text in his lap and muttered with a spike of irritation through the bond. “Sod off Weasel.”

At noon the next day, Ron was so busy he had to resort to munching on one of the patient’s leftover sandwiches as he circled the dining hall, tapping his wand on patients’ diet records to confirm he’d checked them.

Ron bit into the dry tuna-and-cress sandwich, and winced as a wave of nausea swelled in his gut. “Ugh — what the —?”

He turned toward the far corner of the room, where Malfoy was seated with the same book he’d been dragging through for days, a blanket over his lap. He looked paler than usual.

Ron approached, glancing at his meal record floating over his untouched tray. The morning shift Healer had indicated he hadn’t touched breakfast, but Ron asked anyway.

“Have you eaten today?”

Malfoy didn’t look up. “No. Not hungry.”

The sick feeling in Ron’s stomach wasn’t exactly a stomachache – pain didn’t transfer over their bond. But it was the sort of roiling emotion that clenched one’s throat and made your stomach acid churn. “What’s crawled up your arse? If you keep this up, neither of us will be able to get anything down.”

After an awkward moment where Malfoy didn’t reply, Ron coughed. “Should I sniff around for something you might be able to eat? Toast? Some sort of pudding? Baby hippogriffs?”

Malfoy glanced up, a frown tugging his lips. He just shrugged dismissively. “Stop hovering. It’s very undignified.”

The worst part wasn’t this minor rejection — it was knowing that Malfoy had felt his jilted dejection, even though Ron turned on his heel and strode briskly from the hall.

It was already the end of the week, and despite Ron hovering near Healer Park and reminding her of their predicament, it clearly hadn’t registered as urgent. With no catastrophic incidents between him and Malfoy, it seemed their case had been pushed to the bottom of her priority list.

Ron was also shocked that things were proceeding perhaps more amicably than they had been before.

They were supposed to be fighting. Metaphorical wands out, tempers hot, magical bond vibrating like a wire about to snap.

Instead... well, yes, they had both been sending prickly, irritated twinges through the bond, but the flood of other everyday emotions was... disconcerting and somewhat startling to Ron.

On top of the brooding, he was being flooded with vague, miasmatic apathy (surprising, given Malfoy’s continued dramatics) and razor-sharp jolts of anxiety. Sometimes, faint amusement, but... the overwhelming majority of Malfoy’s mood was... Ron didn’t want to say concerning, but... notable. From a Healer’s perspective.

When Ron found himself clicking his tongue in irritation at Mr Langley who had once again shoved all manner of odds-and-ends under his mattress, he caught Malfoy’s amusement trickle through before he heard a faint chuckle from the corridor.

Malfoy stood in the doorway, leaning casually against it as if he were wearing velvet and not merely the bland patient robes. “I just knew you’d have the emotional range of a decorative fern.”

Ron — infuriated at himself for the reaction — started laughing. Just a few huffs of it, before he got himself under control. As he extracted some paper plates and pens from under Mr Langley’s mattress, Ron commented offhandedly.

“That makes a lot of sense. Other than patients on the ward, the only other things I commune with are the few withering house plants Hermione gave me to look after while she's in Australia.”

“I’m jealous of anything that gets to live near you and not feel your weekly quota of shame, rage, and whatever else that stew of feelings is.”

Ron grinned. “Careful. Sounds like you care.”

Malfoy scoffed. “More like your egotism is doubling back on itself through this accursed magic.”

A giggle bubbled up Ron’s throat while he was checking patients' records for the shift hand over.

He clapped a hand over his mouth, horrified — he never giggled.

Down the corridor, Malfoy snorted and looked up from a book.

“Merlin, that was you?” Ron hissed, marching toward him.

Malfoy held up the book he was reading, flourishing it as if it were ‘Exhibit A’. “There’s this description of a key lime pie in here... It reminded me of how ridiculous you look in those lime green robes,” Malfoy explained, smirking. “It’s an absolutely ghastly shade.”

Inexplicably, Malfoy’s eyes trailed up from Ron’s shoes to his face. With a pondering expression, he said, ”You somehow pull it off.”

The sensation through the bond was something better not acknowledged. Ron flushed bright red.

“...I hate this link.”

The ward was quieter than usual, shadows pooling in corners, curling away from the low magical lamplight. Ron enjoyed night shift, and it had been a while; the first one since their accidental bond was created.

It was past midnight as Ron shuffled along the corridor, boots muffled on worn floorboards, the faint scrape of an enchanted broom echoing somewhere down the hall.

He paused outside Malfoy’s room, the small brass plate gleaming faintly. The door was cracked open, and the faint sound of muttering caught Ron’s ear.

Ron hesitated. The dutiful, Gryffindor part of him knew he should knock, but another part — something quiet and yearning — wanted to listen. He snuck a look through the gap.

Malfoy was sat on his bed, shoulders hunched as if carrying a weight. Ron felt it too; heavy and pressing, like a smoggy grey cloud of emotion. Malfoy’s hands trembled slightly, fingers tracing restless patterns on the rough blanket. He spoke without looking up.

“They think I’m mad. They want me to be mad. It’s easier that way... Well, I’m the one who’s got them fooled.” His voice was soft, but every word struck sharp against the silence.

Ron had never known this Draco. Despite the bond, he hadn’t stopped to think that the man had anything like this within him.

Draco let out a low, bitter laugh — barely more than breath. “Let me rot in peace.”

Ron’s chest tightened. The distant echo of sorrow stirred under his ribs. It wasn’t loud, but it was raw.

Draco rubbed at his face with both hands, then let them fall limply to his lap.

Ron’s fingers curled against the doorframe. Part of him wanted to barge in and say something — anything — just so Draco wouldn’t feel alone in that moment. But the words stuck in his throat. He’d never been good at this sort of thing. And it wasn’t just the vulnerability that caught him off guard; it was the way Draco sounded… honest. Not performative, not prickly or sarcastic. Just tired and human.

A faint shift in the bond prickled at the back of Ron’s mind, like the scrape of parchment; it was the ghost of self-deprecating thoughts. He knew the flavour of those, because Ron struggled them more often than not, too.

Ron closed his eyes. The pull to step inside nearly overwhelmed him.

Instead, he backed away, his heartbeat loud in his ears.

He didn’t let the door creak. Didn’t let his boots make a sound.

Was Draco able to feel what he felt now? Or was the sympathy just a doubling of Draco’s pain?

Ron walked back into the dim corridor, the hush of night settling around him.
Draco’s emotions trailed after him, anchoring deep into his chest.

Ron shoved his way into the supply cupboard, his arms laden with old towels while he levitated some blankets behind him. Draco's blond head bobbed along behind the stack of them.

“Why are you trailing around after me?” Ron muttered, shoving the towels into boxes in the corner of the cramped space. “Thought you had a nap scheduled.”

“You obviously require supervision, and everyone else in this hospital is overworked,” Malfoy drawled, leaning in the doorway.

Ron shot him a look. “More like you're bored and enjoy being insufferable.”

“Hurry up. It smells like mildew and incompetence in here.”

As Ron turned to head out, Malfoy didn’t move from the doorway. He was purposefully goading Ron, of course, but that didn't make Ron bristle with any less annoyance.

The door clicked shut, dimming the cupboard and making Ron startle.

Ron immediately whispered Lumos and by the faint light saw Malfoy's handsome profile glaring at the doorknob. Ron could not only see it, but also feel the emotion behind the glare.

“Why d’you do that?” Ron accused.

“I didn’t, Weasley. Someone else slammed it shut. Try the handle.”

“You try the handle, you’re closer!”

“It’s obviously filthy...”

Ron scoffed, then shouldered his way past Draco. He shook the door; it rattled, but didn’t budge.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Use an unlocking spell.”

Ron hoped his annoyance was absolutely flooding Draco.

From the other side, a tittering laugh sounded, followed by an off-handed, “Those hags won’t be bothering you anymore, ma’am! Shall I sign your shawl?”

Draco and Ron both groaned, their mutual irritation spiking through the bond and escalating when they sensed each other’s mood.

“Brilliant,” Ron muttered. He banged against the wood. “Oi, let us out!” The only reply was the sound of footsteps walking away.

Ron hurriedly cast Alohomora. It did nothing, so he tried the more advanced unlocking spell with the custom password the Healers used on the ward, but apparently the broom cupboards weren’t under Healer authority.

The space was narrow, musty, and just wide enough for two adult men to stand very awkwardly shoulder to shoulder. Draco bumped into Ron’s arm as he shifted, then stopped, spine stiffening.

“Would you mind?”

There was a strange, warm trickle through the bond Ron didn’t want to acknowledge. He scowled. “This is a broom cupboard, not a bloody ballroom.”

“You’re crowding me.”

“You’re crowding me.”

They glared at each other. The crackling antagonism prickling through the bond laced with a flurry of other emotions.

It would be fine. Annoying and cramped, but temporary. They just had to wait for someone to notice they were missing and come searching.

Ron resisted the childish urge to dig his elbow into Draco's ribs. As he struggled not to explode in frustration, Ron became uncomfortably aware of the heat radiating off him. Their arms brushed, yet Draco didn’t move. He just stood there stiffly, like he hadn’t noticed. But he had; Ron could feel the heightened awareness.

Something passed between them, a brilliant flash through their connection. It was hot and bright and foolish.

The wave of emotion might have been mistaken for any number of things — a flash of resentment, simmering outrage, something possessive and petulant. At least, it could be, if Ron ignored the weeks of veiled comments and heated glances across the ward.

There was barely a hand's breadth separating them; a half-step forward and they would be chest to chest. Abruptly, all of Ron’s common sense was drowned out by Draco’s quickened breathing, the jump of his pulse in his neck, and Ron’s own hammering heart.

Ron told himself that Draco moved first.

It was a sharp, desperate kiss. Mouth on mouth, not even angled right, all teeth and startled grunts. Ron shoved him back for a brief moment, only to give himself enough room to shift, pulling Draco forward again, pinning him against the shelves.

Scrubbing brushes clattered to the floor. They tussled in an urgent fumble of belts and buttons until hands found waistbands and slipped under. Their robes rucked up, they worked each other with frantic pulls — knuckles banging into splintery wood, breath hitching, clothes rumpling. The feeling through the bond coalesced in a pure stream of want. It wasn’t romantic, and it wasn’t careful, but Ron hadn’t expected either, not from himself and certainly not from Draco.

Draco bit down on a curse and buried his face in Ron’s neck as they finished; over in a rough few minutes, hot warmth spilling between them.

The feelings in his head fizzled, a scattering of mixed emotions. Ron’s mind was buzzing with too much post-orgasm haze to really parse any of it.

The cupboard fell silent, save for the rasp of breath. Ron kept one hand on the wall and stared down at the floor, pulse still pounding in his ears.

Draco blinked and looked up. Something odd flickered across his face.

“You feel… different.”

Ron snorted, still catching his breath. “Different how? Have I attained enlightenment? It was good but not really —”

“No.” Draco interrupted with a snap. He straightened his posture, his brows drawing together. “You’re... gone. I can’t — bloody hell.”

Ron’s stomach dropped. The magical bond. The emotional residue that had tethered them for weeks like a faint background hum — gone.

And why was he feeling so shocked and... disappointed? And why was he still battling a flurry of indescribable feelings?

Ron reached out tentatively with his own magic, trying to sense Draco’s usual buzz of annoyed contempt. Nothing. Just silence.

“We broke it,” Ron said faintly.

Draco’s mouth twitched. “Suppose you’ll have to note this down in your Healer report? ‘Prescribed: one angry half-shag in a broom cupboard.’”

Ron mumbled distractedly. “Snogging isn’t a completely unknown cure... usually effective for sleeping curses and such.” He shoved off the wall, buttoning up his trousers with shaking hands. “This wasn’t... this was a mistake.”

“Oh, marvellous.” Draco’s voice affected a cool drawl. “The post-shag guilt spiral. I’m certainly not miffed about missing out on experiencing your stereotypical reaction first hand. Let me guess, you’ve violated a dozen oaths and disgraced your profession.”

Ron stiffened as he realised it. “I have violated my oaths...”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic; you know I’m a fraud. Technically, I’m not your patient if there’s nothing you’re treating me for.”

Ron was still mired in that stereotypical guilt.

Draco leant against the wall, shirt still half-untucked, voice suddenly quieter. “So you are going to report it?”

Ron didn’t answer.

“Excuse me? That is you in there, isn’t it, Healer Weasley?” came the polite voice of one of the other junior healers.

Draco hurried to make himself look presentable, and Ron whispered a spell to vanish the sticky evidence. The door popped open, and Draco pressed his warm, firm body against Ron’s one last time as he squeezed past and into the corridor.

Draco stalked off without looking back, while Ron was pinned in place scrambling to make up something to tell his colleague.

Over the next twenty-four hours, the absence settled deep into Ron’s chest. He felt bereft; it wasn’t a stillness nor calm, but the lack of those nuanced feelings which weren’t his own, which he’d grown too used to to name. Like waking up and finding the rain had stopped, and only then realising that the soothing drizzle had been carrying on for days.

Draco didn’t look up when Ron came into the common room. Just sat there at the little table by the window, one leg folded under him, face half-lit by sun that streamed through the panes. He held a folded piece of parchment. Draco didn’t tremble, and his face was blank. He just continued scanning it over and over, though it was only one page and couldn't take that long to read.

“Morning,” Ron tried, voice measured and cautious. Draco hummed in reply, or maybe cleared his throat — it was hard to tell. He didn’t turn round, and he didn’t make a fuss or put on any sort of show.

Ron greeted the two other patients, and then busied himself with the kettle in the corner, pretending not to glance over every few seconds. The bond hadn’t flickered back. No static, no heat, no thread of feeling winding through his ribs. It was really gone.

The kettle boiled at the tap of a wand, shrieking into the silence. Still Draco didn’t move.

“What’s that?” Ron asked, nodding at the parchment.

Draco finally glanced up. “Nothing.”

Ron raised a brow. “Doesn’t look like nothing.”

“It is,” Draco said flatly, and tucked the letter beneath a book like he wasn’t broadcasting his anxiety with every stiff movement.

Ron realised he didn’t need the bond as much as he thought he did. He crossed the room before he knew what he meant to do. “If it’s nothing,” he said, plucking up the book and the letter together, “you won’t mind if I have a look.”

Draco grunted in protest, but it was too late. Ron had the parchment in his hand, eyes scanning the page before guilt could stop him.

He read it twice to be sure he hadn’t misunderstood.

“They’re not even assigning you legal counsel?” Ron said, hot anger seething in his voice. “They’ve given you three bloody days?”

Draco just muttered, "Mother's got a few lawyers." He didn't seem confident; they were probably Slytherins with barely a scrap of credibility left after the war. Draco's mouth pressed into a line, gaze fixed on a knot in the floorboards.

Ron crumpled the letter in one hand. “When did you plan to tell me?”

“I’m not obligated to tell you anything, Weasley.” Draco said it flat and sulkily, as if he couldn't muster any real venom to put behind it.

That was it, then. Draco would be out of Ron’s hair in a matter of days, but it remained to be seen whether he was headed home or — more likely — to Azkaban.

Ron cornered Ms Sykes, the Ministry official, just outside the Janus Thickey ward. She was her usual sharp-edged self, this time dressed in a green cloak. Ms Sykes tried to smile like they were old friends, except it just made it look like her mouth was made of stiff rubber. Ron didn’t bother with pleasantries.

“You can’t be serious,” he said. “Three days’ notice and no time to prepare? That’s not a hearing, that’s —”

“Standard protocol,” she interjected, with the faintest tilt of her chin.

“Standard protocol for a show trial,” Ron snapped. “You’re railroading him.”

Ms Sykes blinked. “Mr Weasley, the matter is already scheduled.”

“And when exactly was he going to be told he had a chance at a defence?” Ron asked. “After the verdict was handed down?”

Her smile slipped. “You’re too close to the patient. I suggest you take a step back.”

Ron stepped forward instead. “If you think I’m letting you lot string him up for Godric knows what reason, you’re off your nut.”

She didn’t answer. Just turned on her heel and swept off, leaving Ron standing in the corridor with his fists clenched, breath tight, and the sound of nothing still echoing hollow through his chest.

Ron stumbled through his floo even more haphazardly than usual, scattering soot everywhere. His flat was too quiet, almost as if the tumultuous thoughts in his head were dulling the sound of distant London automobiles. All that penetrated his fog was the steady tick of the kitchen clock.

He stood on the living room throw rug for a long moment, staring blankly at the row of his own shoes lined up on a rack nearby. Steel-toed workman’s shoes, dragonhide boots, thick-soled comfortable ones for long shifts. Ron was all work, these days. All some version of duty. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d met anyone beyond a rushed bite at the weekly Weasley dinners.

The sitting room was bland, looking lived-in but without any life. A jumper was thrown over the sofa, old take-out containers he hadn't bothered to vanish still on the kitchen table.

Two years on, and Harry and Hermione were still in Australia, doing what they could for her parents. Ron was here, alone, clutching his wand as he watched the fire burn low.

Ron sat down slowly, elbows on knees, hands clasped like he was praying.

Draco had looked — bloody hell, he’d looked like he was already halfway out the door to the carriage that transports convicts. Pale and tight-jawed and trying not to ask for help.

Three days. No warning. No defence.

Ron reached for the phone; the muggle one, Hermione’s old Nokia, charging by the window as it had been since the day she foisted it onto him. They had said something about the long-distance bill coming out of Harry’s vault, but, it couldn’t amount to all that much, right? Similar to floo powder? Ron pulled out a parchment, glancing between it and the plastic thing as he tried to remember the usage instructions.

After fiddling with it for minute, it finally started beeping promisingly.

One ring. Two. Click.

“Oh, brilliant, it’s you. Hi, Harry. Yeah. Well, I need you... Could you come back here?Just for the weekend.”

The ward had quietened for the evening. Most of the patients had drifted off to their rooms, and the Healers on duty were still busy as ever tidying and ferrying potions. Ron had no business being here. He wasn’t on shift, hadn’t even bothered putting on his lime robes. But his feet had carried him here to the Janus Thickey Ward anyway, and now he was sitting on the edge of Draco’s empty bed, staring at the floor like it might offer answers.

The room had already been tidied by the staff in preparation for his formal discharge, with Draco's personal affects herded onto the small desk. Yet the place already felt stripped and abandoned. The little pile of books Draco kept pretending he was rereading sat next to his neatly folded cashmere jumper. Really, not much had changed, except for the fact that Draco would never sleep here again.

Ron scrubbed a hand over his face. His chest felt hollow. He knew it was meant to feel like relief — Draco wasn’t going to prison. And he wasn’t going to be underfoot on the ward anymore. He’d been given community service and a year of probation under Ministry supervision. Unprecedented leniency, they’d called it. Nearly a perfect outcome; fairer than Ron had dared hope. Yet Ron was so dejected, he couldn’t even feel proud of how earnestly Harry defended Draco’s actions in the war, or how Healer Park stepped up to testify that Draco’s mental health had ‘completely stabilised’.

If only the bond were still active, even faintly. The heartache almost made it seem like it was still there — Ron couldn’t believe this emptiness and longing belonged only to one man. He missed the way it used to buzz behind his ribs, that odd tug whenever Draco’s mood flared or dipped. Even when it had been inconvenient, maddening, it had meant something. It had connected them. Now, there was just quiet.

He startled when the door opened, gaze darting up.

Draco stepped inside, wearing elegant night-blue robes, a black outer robe folded over one arm. He looked... gorgeous, which wasn’t far from usual, and uncertain, which was rare for him. Like he wasn’t sure where he stood.

Ron hauled himself off the bed, taking a hesitant step forward before halting. “Thought you’d send the elves to get your things.”

“I nearly did,” Draco said. His voice was low. “Would’ve been easier.”

“Yeah. But I’m glad you didn’t.”

Draco took in the room. “Feels different.” But his eyes alighted on Ron when he said it.

“Things are different,” Ron murmured. His throat was suddenly dry, the importance of the moment pressing down upon him. “It could mean different in a better way. Doesn’t have to be...” He just trailed off, unable to air what he’d been about to say: It doesn’t have to be the end of us, when we didn’t even really start.

When it was apparent Ron wasn’t going to say anything more, Draco cleared his throat. “I keep thinking... if we still had that stupid bond, I wouldn’t have to say anything now. You’d just know. And I’d know.”

Ron swallowed. “Yeah, well. We don’t.”

“No,” Draco said quietly. “Which is inconvenient, because I’m shit at this sort of thing.”

Then Draco crossed the space between them in three long strides and kissed Ron, and Draco’s honest comment coupled with the relief of his closeness brought a huff of laughter to Ron’s lips as he leant into respond.

Once again, it wasn’t graceful. Draco bumped Ron’s nose as he leant in, his coat slipping from his arm to pool on the floor as Draco encircled Ron’s neck with his arms. But the kiss was full of heat and nerves and was achingly honest.

When they parted, panting, Ron was breathless with giddy happiness and mild disbelief.

“I wasn’t sure you’d want me after all of it,” Ron said, voice rough.

Draco smiled — the first real smile Ron had ever seen directed at him. It blazed like a comet, cutting through the dark of Ron’s mood. Draco thumbed his cheek once before dropping his hands. “Don’t be a prat.”

Ron huffed a laugh. “You say the sweetest things.” He reached out for connection, loosely threading his fingers with Draco’s. They revelled in the touch, the newness of possibility fizzing bright between them.

Wondering what on earth could be next, Ron grasped at straws for something to say. He gestured with his free hand at the room. “Want me to help you pack up? Is this all going back to Malfoy Manor...?”

Draco shook his head. “Mother’s already prepared the flat for me. I just... had to see this place, one last time.”

“Nothing to do with wanting to run into me?”

Draco scrunched his nose, affecting an irritated look, but Ron saw the gentleness in the smile Draco couldn’t repress. “Couldn’t say.”

“So what now?”

Draco looked down at their joined hand, then said matter-of-factly. “You’re taking me out.”

“Oh, am I?”

“Yes,” Draco affirmed. “Somewhere not lit with these tacky, half-arsed lanterns, and with edible food. Wine. Lots of it, ideally.”

Ron’s lips twitched. “Fine. But you’re paying.”

Draco looked mock-offended. “I’ve just been sentenced to community service.”

“I deserve compensation for looking after your arse for no reason all these weeks.”

That earned a snort. “If it’s compensation you want... I expected you’d be interested in a different sort.”

Ron laughed, and Draco smiled, and soon they were caught grinning at each other, hand in hand, in the soft hush of the now-empty room. No bond between them, no magic humming at their cores — but something bright connecting them, all the same. Something real, of a different sort of magic.