Hot-Blooded

Chapter Five

The Patronus is weak, flickering in and out of existence when it bursts into Draco's bedroom at sunrise after the next full moon.

"Draco," it says plaintively. Harry's voice is unmistakable, although the stag form gave the sender away on sight.

Draco is fully awake and on his feet in an instant. "Can you take me to him?" he asks.

The stag nods, and Draco reaches out to touch it. He brushes his fingers through an antler, closes his eyes, and Apparates into the unknown.

The situation is worse than Draco could have imagined. He's in an unfamiliar forest, and Harry is naked and kneeling on the ground in front of him, his head bowed, covered in dirt and bleeding from multiple wounds. He's surrounded by what can only be described as carnage. The forest floor is stained red—multiple bodies with lethal bite wounds spread around him in a damning circle. When Harry lifts his head, his mouth is smeared with blood.

Worst of all, the Hunters' sigil is glimmering red high in the air above him.

"Fuck." Draco takes a tentative step forward. "Harry."

Harry whimpers, sounding distinctly wolf-like.

The sound jolts Draco into action. He needs to get Harry out of here now before anyone sees. He darts forward, tearing his pyjama shirt off and transfiguring it into a large blanket. He throws it over Harry's shoulders. Harry stares blankly at Draco, then blinks at the surrounding scene before turning wide eyes back on him. His fingers curl into the fabric, holding the two sides closed around him.

"I did this," he whispers, sounding horrified. "I didn't mean to, but I—" He draws in a shuddering breath. "They shouldn't have been able to find me. How did they find me?"

Not the time or place for morals and questions, Draco thinks.

"Focus, Potter. We have to go now, before—"

Chaos. Aurors, reporters, and photographers burst onto the scene in a cacophony of noise. At least one camera goes off in a flash and a puff of smoke before Draco grabs Harry and Apparates them both away.

They land in Harry's kitchen, and Harry immediately sways away from Draco, vomiting spectacularly all over the floor, gasping and choking. Draco steadies him until he finishes, then vanishes the mess with a flick of his wand.

He wipes his mouth against the back of his hand—making more of a mess around it—leans the side of his body into Draco, and starts to sob before whimpering in pain and doubling over.

Gently, Draco tugs away the blanket to examine the wounds. They should have healed on their own by now, but Harry is still bleeding from at least seven locations.

Draco's fangs descend, and he curses his vampire physiology. Ignoring the way the scent of Harry's blood makes him salivate, he reaches out to brush his fingertip over the edge of a laceration on his shoulder.

"Silver," Harry rasps, and Draco looks up to find him watching him, eyes cloudy with pain and tears. "I can't—I need—"

Draco nods and swallows hard. "Lie down." He helps Harry to the ground, rolling up part of the blanket to cradle his head.

Grimacing, Draco slides his fingers into the shoulder wound and finds the shard of silver buried deep in Harry's shoulder. He yanks it free, and Harry cries out in agony.

Now that he knows what to do, Draco works quickly, removing silver projectiles from Harry's back in two places, one in his thigh, his forearm, a tiny one in one calf muscle, and finally, three in his chest, one of which was dangerously close to his heart. He grits his teeth and pulls it out slowly, holding his breath until the piece is resting in his hand.