Harry hadn’t registered the pull of the spell before Malfoy cut the threads. Harry felt his weight resettle on steady ground, not having realized how out of his own skin the extraction had made him feel before it stopped.<br/>"Yeah," he exhaled, thoughtlessly bending his arm at the elbow, an instinct to put pressure on the cut and keep it elevated, even though Malfoy had expertly spelled it shut. The motion made Harry’s hand prickle; while he had been uncomfortably aware of the lines of his veins up his arm, his fingers had gone numb.<br/>"I’d love that, thanks."<br/>Harry scratched at his forearm, ridding himself of the numbness. He felt fine, the same heavy dizziness as he had felt back when he was regularly donating blood at St. Mungo’s. He made the mistake of looking at the silver signature in the vial, feeling a delayed sense of queasiness at the knowledge that that belonged in his bloodstreams and not in Malfoy’s hand.<br/>Harry once again scratched at his skin, this time to keep himself upright and, more importantly, conscious.<br/>"I can’t believe you did that," Harry blurted after another moment of silence. His attention was still on the vial, but as he regained his peripheral sight, he was all at once hit by the fact that this had been done without any preparation at a home office. When Harry’s eyes turned to Malfoy, there was a moment of marvelled comprehension.<br/>He extended his arm, flexing his fingers as blood flowed to them. A chuckle escaped him, surprising even to him. "Fucking hell."