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The flesh of his thigh splits soundlessly; Harry's trousers are soaked in seconds. He curses, shoots another handful of spells, and then something slams into his back.
"It's me."
The flash of red fabric fills him with more relief than the extra wand. He stuns a guy shooting wide Avada s, and wonders how many more men he can down before he faints from blood loss.
"You say that like I know who you are."
"You do," Red says—still Harry’s secretive guardian angel. "How's your leg?"
"Fine."
The room fills with white light. Bodies drop. Someone yells. Red grips Harry’s hand and pulls. "Switch with me. I'll heal you."
"I'm fine—"
"I said switch with me , Potter!"
Red yanks him backward and then Harry's looking at a pile of men who ambushed him. A wand is pressed to his leg. Pain blooms, then disappears. He blinks away the dizziness just in time to pull both of them away from a Bombarda .
"What are you doing?!" Red hisses.
"Saving your life!"
The enemies' backup is a horde of flies: avoiding spells with ease Harry lost half-a-gallon-of-blood ago.
"I'm supposed to be—" Red grunts "—saving—" curses "— you ."
"If we get out of here alive, we'll call it even!"
"Not how that works!" Red shouts back, and then, "Duck!"
Spell-fire crackles over Harry’s head. His hair is singed, ears ringing, vision spotty. Sending a cutting curse at a pair of ankles makes him feel only slightly better.
"Where's your partner?" Red asks as they dance around the middle of the room.
"Stomach flu."
"Why are you here then?!"
" Impedimenta ! Expelliarmus ! Stupefy !" A man drops, and Harry exhales. "I had a hunch."
Something explodes behind him. Dirt and dust rain over them. And then— silence .
Red stumbles away. He's hunched over, hands on his legs, breathing ragged, loud.
"Are you okay?"
Red lifts his head. Harry can imagine the glare thrown in his direction, even if he can't see it.
"Fuck you and your hunch, Potter." He groans as he straightens. "There are two more out there."
"How can you tell?"
"I just can. They'll be here in two minutes." Red's wand glows briefly an unidentifiable orange before dimming. He turns to Harry, all fabric and mystery. "Any other injuries?"
Harry stares into the artificial void inside the man's hood and shakes his head. It's moments like these—of brief respite—that are the most tempting; it would be so easy to pull the cloak off Red’s shoulders.
Harry doesn't even care what he looks like; he just wants to know that he looks like something.
Red’s head snaps up. "One's at the back door, one at the front. We can get them at the same time. Ready?"
"Ready."
"Three, two, one… Stupefy !
The men fall in sync.
A second later, Harry follows them.
" Potter ."
He's caught before he hits the ground, and falls instead into warm cotton. It stinks of sweat and smoke, but it's soft. Red's hands are gentle as they lower him.
"We have to stop meeting like this," Harry mutters.
"Like what?"
"Like… with you all face-less… and in too much danger for me to figure out how to see you."
Red snorts, and helps Harry sit up.
"Do you think you'll survive side-along?"
"We going back to yours?"
"In your dreams, Potter." When they're standing, and Harry is leaning too much of his weight against his saviour to move, Red says, "We're going to St. Mungo's."
"I don't need—" Harry chokes on air as they disappear.
Once home, Draco curses magical bonds and life debts and idiotic recklessness.
And then, he collapses onto his bed to sleep off his stomach flu.