A Pyre for Two

“𝐈 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐚 𝐬𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐫, 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐲.”

“𝐆𝐨𝐨𝐝, 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐈’𝐦 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮.
𝐈’𝐦 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮.”

Burning wood. Burning flesh.

Harry couldn't tell one from the other. The scents were acrid, clinging to his nostrils, an asphyxiating mix that made his chest feel tight as he moved through the battlefield. He felt like he was moving through a fog, his mind half-detached, drifting somewhere beyond the chaos. Perhaps this was dissociation. He couldn't be sure.

The world around him had become a living, breathing aberration—a grotesque, unending nightmare that defied awakening, its darkness seeping into his soul like a malignant stain.

Shouts and screams reverberated off the stone walls of the castle. Screaming. Screaming. Crying. More screaming. The noise seemed endless, an unbroken cacophony of agony. Spells ricocheted like shards of broken glass, tearing through the air, but all Harry could hear was the screaming. The relentless, godforsaken screaming. Good gods, please, make it stop.

Amidst the chaos, Harry's mind drifted to a memory so out of place, so absurd, that it almost made him laugh.

The cupboard. That damned cupboard under the stairs.

He could see it clearly, the cramped, dark space that had once been his prison. In this moment, he almost longed for it. The safety of those narrow walls, the comfort of being hidden away from the world, where—almost—nothing could reach him. He wished he could crawl back there, into that small, suffocating space, away from this horror, away from all the pain. The cupboard suddenly felt like a sanctuary compared to where he stood now.

There was no order anymore. No strategy, no plans. There was only the will to survive, to keep moving, to keep fighting. The final battle had devolved into something primal, something dark and malevolent that pulsed through the air, vibrating through Harry's bones.

He moved like he was in a trance, his senses dulled, his body on autopilot. His wand moved almost of its own accord, firing curse after curse at the masked figures that surrounded him, the Death Eaters swarming like shadows.

Somewhere nearby, he could hear Hermione shouting, the unmistakable crack of Ron's wand, the desperate cries of those who were falling—friends, classmates, people who had fought beside him, who had believed in him. It was all a blur, a dizzying rush of sound and light and death, and all Harry could do was keep moving. Keep fighting.

There was so much screaming.

There was so much blood.

Then, Harry caught sight of a blond and everything seemed to still for a moment.

Draco Malfoy appeared as an incongruous figure amidst the battlefield—his pallid skin streaked with ash and blood, his silver eyes wide with fear. Even in this chaos, there was something strangely elegant about him. His robes were torn, his hair disheveled, yet somehow he maintained an aura of elegance. He looked like a single white lily blooming amidst scorched earth—out of place, delicate, and defiant. He was not meant to be here. Draco, with his characteristic hauteur and meticulously groomed appearance, always so perfectly tailored, seemed impossibly distant from this nightmare.

Harry could almost visualize him secluded in some safe, hidden enclave, scoffing at the notion of involving himself in the brutality of war. Yet here he was, immersed in the horrors of the battlefield, wand clutched tightly in trembling hands, his shield charm flickering precariously.

Harry's gaze lingered, a flash of confusion sparking as he watched Draco move with a subtle, almost concealed precision. Draco's wand flicked, a curse shooting out and striking a Death Eater who had been advancing on Luna Lovegood. There was something surreal about it. This unexpected act of protection juxtaposed the Malfoy he knew.

Time seemed to distort. Harry's gaze flickered towards Voldemort, who stood at the far end of the battlefield, eyes blazing with malevolent intent. Harry felt fury ignite within him, the magic coiling tightly in his chest as he raised his wand.

This was it.

This was the moment. The culmination of everything. The moment everyone awaited. The moment Harry Potter was destined for.

Years of rage and resentment surged through Harry. The fog seemed to clear from his mind, the incantation forming on his lips as he aimed directly at Voldemort. Time to go, you bastard.  

And then, in that singular, devastating instant, everything unraveled.

A blinding flash of green illuminated the ravaged landscape. Harry's spell veered off course. A blood-curdling scream pierced the mayhem. Harry's breath hitched, his heart plummeting as Draco intercepted the curse.

Time warped. The shield charm disintegrated. Green light engulfed Draco's chest. His body convulsed, crumpling to the ground.

"NO!"

Harry's world tilted. Breathless, vision blurred, he stumbled through rubble. Screams faded, muffled by an eerie underwater silence. His heart thundered.

No, no, no, no, no, no, no.

Knees buckling, Harry collapsed beside Draco. Trembling hands grasped Draco's shoulders, rolling him over. Pale skin seemed translucent. Blood-soaked robes clung to his frame, pooling into the dirt. Harry's hands slipped on the sticky liquid.

"Draco," Harry whispered, voice cracking. Tears scalded his eyes. "Malfoy—Malfoy—come on, Malfoy, not now. Not—not like this. This is not—come on, Malfoy. GET UP! PLEASE! Don’t—don’t—don’t leave—”

Draco's half-open eyes, like moonlit silver, locked onto Harry's. For an ephemeral moment, innocence and vulnerability shimmered within their depths, a fleeting beacon of light amidst the encroaching darkness. Fear, confusion and unspoken pleas flickered, a desperate, silent entreaty.

Draco’s half-open eyes met Harry's, and for a brief, agonizing moment, Harry saw something that made his heart seize. Those silver eyes, always so cold and guarded, now held an innocence that seemed out of place amidst the destruction. The same eyes that once held out a hand and offered friendship, all those years ago, before all the baggage came along.

Just a boy who was looking to befriend Harry.

It was that same boy who was looking at Harry now.

It was the same boy who was now dying in Harry’s arms.

“I’m Malfoy—Draco Malfoy.”

And then, in an instant, the light extinguished. Limp beneath Harry's grasp, Draco's body succumbed, its fragile, battered beauty lost in an instant.

Draco's warmth seeped into Harry's palms, a haunting contradiction to the lifeless stillness. He was so warm, Harry thought. He can’t be dead. His body is so warm. The gentle heat radiating from Draco's body belied the grim reality. His lips, a soft blush, seemed poised for a whisper. The dirt and blood-smeared skin, eerily pale, felt like delicate porcelain beneath Harry's trembling fingertips. Harry wondered how he never knew the softness of Malfoy's skin. Had it always been this soft?

Someone with skin so soft, with a body this warm, lips so pink—he couldn’t be dead. Harry didn’t know if he was awake anymore. Maybe this was all a nightmare. Maybe, after all, he would wake in the cupboard as he always did. Right?

“No, no, no...” Harry’s voice broke, his tears blurring his vision as he shook his head, refusing to accept what was happening. He pressed harder, his entire body trembling as he tried to force Draco back to life, as if sheer willpower could undo what had happened. But there was no pulse, no breath—nothing but the empty, vacant look in Draco's eyes, staring up at nothing.

Draco Malfoy was dead in Harry Potter’s arms.

The world around him faded, the battle a distant blur of noise and flashing lights. All Harry could see was Draco—his blood on Harry's hands, his lifeless body cradled in Harry's arms. The guilt hit him like a physical blow, a crushing weight that drove the breath from his lungs. His fault. This was his fault. He had done this.

“Harry! Harry!” Hermione’s voice cut through the fog, and he felt hands on his shoulders, tugging at him, trying to pull him away. He resisted, his fingers digging into Draco’s robes, his eyes unseeing, unfocused. “Harry, we have to go! He’s—he’s gone!” she cried, her voice trembling, barely holding itself together.

“Come on, mate!” Ron’s voice joined hers, rough and desperate. “We need you. Harry, please! We have to keep moving!”

Harry couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t remember how to inhale. How could he forget such a simple, unconscious doing? Just breathe.

Breathe, Malfoy. Fucking breathe. You always wanted to show me up, now fucking do it! BREATHE!

Harry felt Hermione’s arms wrap around him, her tears dripping onto his shoulder as she pulled him back. Ron grabbed his arm, dragging him to his feet, and Harry stumbled, his eyes never leaving Draco’s still form.

And then she was there—Narcissa Malfoy, her face streaked with tears, her eyes wide with a horror that mirrored Harry’s own. She fell to her knees beside Draco, her hands hovering over his chest, her sobs breaking through the chaos. She cradled Draco’s head, pressing her forehead to his, her grief a raw, terrible thing that tore through the air.

Harry felt the world tilt. He was paralyzed and nauseous and sure he was going to vomit. His legs felt weightless, like he wasn’t even sure how he was standing on his own. What have I done, what have I done, what have I done?

“Go, Harry!” Hermione’s voice was urgent, frantic. “You have to end this. Now!”

Harry couldn’t see, he couldn’t think, he couldn’t breathe. He watched Narcissa close her only son’s eyes—for the last time—and as that last flicker of silver disappeared, Harry knew: Draco Malfoy was not going to die for nothing.

Harry’s fury surged, burning away the numbness, the emptiness, and he raised his wand, the magic gathering within him, dark and terrible.

With a roar, he surged forward, his voice echoing through the world as he cast the spell—powerful, unyielding, final. The air crackled, and in a blinding flash of light, it was over. Voldemort was gone.

For a moment, Harry’s eyes flickered to the blood splattered against the stone walls of the castle. He wondered how they would ever get it off. He wondered if the scent would ever leave the air, even after all the magic in the world was used to restore everything to the way it once was.

As Harry turned away, there was still so much screaming but he could no longer hear it.

Harry was pacing.

It was over.

Sirius was dead. Cedric was dead. Remus was dead. Tonks was dead. Fred was dead. Snape was dead. Draco Malfoy was dead.

Draco Malfoy was not supposed to die.

None of them were supposed to die, but Draco—Draco was different. Harry had seen it, had felt the curse leave his wand, had watched as it struck Draco, had seen him fall. That made it different, didn’t it?

Harry felt the weight of it crushing him, an unbearable pressure, like his chest was caving in under the weight of the bodies that lay scattered in his mind. He kept seeing Draco's eyes. He kept seeing the way the light had gone out, how everything had just… stopped.

His footsteps echoed off the cold stone floor of the castle. This was real. This was not some twisted dream and Harry would not wake up to a world where everyone, including Draco Malfoy, was still alive.

The air was heavy and stiff with suffused smoke and the smell of death and magic, and Harry thought he was suffocating in it. Everything felt too silent, too still, echoes of screams still haunting every corner, reverberating in Harry’s skull.

Draco Malfoy was dead.

Harry kept repeating it to himself, as if saying the words enough times would make them lose their meaning, as if they would eventually dissolve into the air and leave him free of their weight. But they didn’t. The words stuck, caught in his throat, tangled around his heart like barbed wire.

Harry couldn’t entirely grasp what he was thinking or feeling. His thoughts were fragmented, his emotions scattered, and it was hard to breathe—like the air itself had been stolen from him. Beyond that, he wasn’t sure if anything was even registering in his mind. Maybe this was still just a nightmare, one he would eventually wake up from. Because really, he thought, Draco Malfoy couldn’t be dead. Not like this. Not at the hands of Harry Potter.

It felt absurd. They had spent their entire lives wanting to kill each other, but hell itself would have to freeze over before Draco Malfoy allowed himself to die at Harry’s hands. No, Draco would never let that happen. He was too proud, too stubborn. Harry almost smiled at the thought—Draco Malfoy, defiant even against death, refusing to let Harry be the one to take him. No, Draco would not have that.

But the smile never came, just the empty ache that seemed to consume Harry from the inside out. Because despite it all, despite everything that felt so surreal, Draco Malfoy was dead. Harry was the one who had done it, even if Harry hadn’t entirely comprehended it yet.

“Harry—Harry, you have to come—”

Harry looked up to meet Hermione’s eyes as she and Ron approached hastily. Their voices were subdued, nearly drowned out by the low murmur of mourners scattered throughout the hall, holding loved ones amidst the ruin. Harry tried not to see it, tried not to let it fully register—the vacant stares, the broken bodies. They had won, yes, but was the cost worth it? Was this many lives worth it? Surely, it had to be. Yet, that knowledge did little to alleviate the hollow ache in his chest.

Harry was exhausted. A kind of exhaustion that went beyond physical fatigue, an exhaustion that seemed to seep into his very bones, draining his very spirit. Years of struggle had worn him down, and all Harry wanted now was to collapse, to fall into darkness, to somehow escape the waking world. He wanted nothing more than to rest, to stop, to be unconscious himself. “Hermione, not now. I can’t—I just want to—”

“Harry,” Hermione interrupted, her fingers tightening around his arm, forcing him to look at her. “You have to come. Now.”

Confusion knit Harry's brow, and he glanced at Ron, seeking some explanation. Ron merely nodded, his expression equally drained but carrying a strange, resolute determination. “You… you’re going to want to see this, mate.”

“What’s going on?” Harry muttered, but Hermione was already pulling him along, her nails digging into the fabric of his torn and dirty shirt.

“I don’t know, Harry. No one’s giving us any answers. It doesn’t make sense, none of it does. It should be impossible. But you need to see it.”

The hospital wing was chaotic—an assortment of healers rushing from bed to bed, their wands glowing with diagnostic spells, their expressions tense and harried. Hushed sobs filled the air, soft, broken cries. Harry’s heart clenched, and he tried to swallow the lump in his throat, but it wouldn’t budge. Hermione didn’t stop, guiding Harry past the rows of injured and grieving until they reached one particular bed. She paused, and Harry followed her gaze, his heart dropping into his stomach.

There, lying on the bed, was Draco Malfoy.

Harry felt all the air leave his lungs in a rush. He wanted to turn away, to leave, to shout at Hermione for making him face this. He didn’t want to see what he had done—not like this. Not the aftermath of his own magic ripping someone apart.

He turned to Hermione, anger and confusion blazing in his eyes, but she only shook her head, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

“Harry,” she whispered. “Just… wait.”

Harry’s gaze flicked back to Draco—his skin ashen, his hair matted with blood and grime, his chest still and lifeless. It was all Harry’s fault. The guilt surged within him, an overwhelming force that threatened to swallow him whole. He was about to turn away when he heard footsteps approaching.

Madam Pomfrey stepped over, her expression solemn, exhaustion etched into every line of her face. She looked between Harry and Hermione before speaking, her voice soft but steady, disbelief and hope all at once. “He’s alive.”

Harry’s head jerked up, his eyes widening as he stared at Pomfrey. The world seemed to shift, everything narrowing to those two words. “Alive. That’s not—but—”

“He’s not awake,” Pomfrey said, glancing at Draco’s unmoving form. “But his heart is beating. He’s stable, for now. We… we don’t understand how. It shouldn’t be possible, not after—” She trailed off, her eyes lingering on Draco, as though even she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing.

Harry's knees almost gave out, and he reached out, his hand gripping the edge of Draco’s bed. He stared at Draco, the boy who should have been dead, the boy whose life he had taken—and yet, somehow, inexplicably, here he was, alive. Not conscious, but breathing. The faintest rise and fall of his chest was there, a fragile sign of life that seemed impossible.

Narcissa Malfoy stood frozen, her face etched with anguish, tears streaming down her cheeks like rivulets of sorrow. Trembling hands extended, hesitant to confirm reality. Her eyes, wide with incredulity, clung to Draco's pale form.

Her gaze lingered, suspended in denial, as if willing her son back to life. Fingers quivered, hovering above his cheek before alighting with heartbreaking gentleness.

Harry recognized the numb disorientation. This defied comprehension; reality itself seemed distorted.

“Harry…” Hermione’s voice broke through the fog in his mind, and he looked up at her, his own eyes brimming with tears he hadn’t realized were there. “We don’t understand how it’s possible. But… Mal—Draco’s alive, Harry. He’s alive.”

Harry's defenses flared. It was as though Hermione's urgent whispers were really saying something else: 'You didn't kill him, Harry. You're not a murderer. Draco Malfoy's blood does not stain your hands.'

Harry yearned to connect, to verify reality. His fingers itched to graze Draco's silken skin, trace blushed lips and press against the warmth of his chest. The familiar heat would confirm this wasn't a haunting dream.

Yet, he remained frozen. Before him, Draco lay serene, blond locks veiling his eyes, eyelashes kissing his cheeks. Innocence radiated from his still form, echoing the same vulnerability Harry had seen when their eyes last met. Paralysis gripped Harry. Fear restrained his trembling fingers—fear of shattering the fragile illusion sustaining Draco's life, fear of confronting his role in the tragedy.

Harry didn't know what he felt. Fear, confusion, relief, guilt—all of it closed in on him. He had seen it, he was certain he had. Draco struck by a searing bolt of green light, collapsing lifeless to the ground. The memory burned behind his eyes: the final rise and fall of Draco’s chest as he drew his last breath in Harry’s arms, his eyes dulling to a vacant, hollow stare.

Narcissa couldn’t meet Harry’s eyes, her gaze fixed somewhere beyond him, her expression distant, as if she were caught in a dream. Yet, there was something knowing in her eyes, something that made Harry’s stomach twist with unease, though he couldn't discern what she was thinking. She nodded, her lips trembling slightly, though no words escaped her. There was no forgiveness there, no hatred either—only a heavy, aching silence.

Harry shook his head, his eyes burning. He didn’t deserve anything but contempt. He had nearly taken Draco from her—from all of them. And yet, somehow, impossibly, Draco had survived. The realization felt like a double-edged sword.

He looked back at Draco, watching the faint rise and fall of his chest, the gentle rhythm of his breaths, and for the first time since the battle had ended, something within Harry's chest eased, just a little.

Draco Malfoy is alive.

Madam Pomfrey’s office was a small and quiet space, removed from the chaos of the hospital wing beyond its walls. Harry felt more relaxed in there, away from the wounded bodies and sonorous cries. Or at least, as relaxed as he could possibly be considering the tension in the room felt tangible.

Harry perched on the chair's edge, fists knotted in a bloodless grip. Hermione stood beside him, her brow furrowed in that concentrated look she so often wore. Across the room, Narcissa Malfoy's slender frame exuded elegance despite grief's weight. Her crossed arms and set shoulders conveyed rigid control. Tears glistened in her eyes, yet she restrained them, adhering to the Malfoy creed: unyielding dignity. Through the open door, her gaze rested on her son's still form.

“Harry, thank you for being here,” Madam Pomfrey began, her tone gentle yet lined with authority. “There are some things I need to understand. When you cast that spell at the battle, which wand were you using?”

Harry blinked, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. “I… it’s Malfoy’s wand,” he said slowly, his voice hoarse. “I—I took it from him months ago. I just—I’ve been using it since.”

“Draco was using another wand during the battle,” Hermione added. “Narcissa’s—if I’m not mistaken.”

Harry was not at all surprised that Hermione could know such a thing. She had always picked up on things quicker than anyone else. When he briefly glanced at Narcissa, he saw the way her lips slightly parted. A trace of understanding flickering across her features.

Pomfrey nodded thoughtfully. “Would you be willing to show me the wand?”

Wordlessly, Harry reached into his robes, fingers brushing against the smooth wood of Draco’s wand. He pulled it out, extending it towards Pomfrey, who took it with a careful, almost reverent touch. She examined it for a moment before raising her own wand, murmuring a spell under her breath.

The air seemed to shift around them, the temperature dropping slightly. A light began to emanate from Harry’s chest, a soft, golden glow that pulsed with life. Hermione leaned in closer, her eyes wide, her brilliant mind already piecing things together. Pomfrey's eyes were sharp as she watched, her lips set in a thin line of concentration.

“What is that?” Harry asked, bewildered, his hand instinctively covering his chest as if to hide the glow.

Hermione’s eyes moved from Harry to Pomfrey, and then to the wand. “It’s… it’s your mother’s protection,” she whispered, her voice filled with a kind of awe. “The sacrificial magic. It’s still within you, Harry. The same magic that saved you as a child… it’s still protecting you.”

Pomfrey gave a small nod. “It’s not only that. There seems to be… further complexity. When Narcissa cast her protection spell on Draco—maternal protection, woven with her love, her desperation to keep her son safe—it intertwined with the magic of Lily’s that remains within you, Harry.”

Harry blinked, confused. “But… why? I mean—how did…?”

“The wand,” Hermione breathed, her eyes sparkling with epiphany. “The wand that used to be Draco’s—it recognized him. Even though you cast the spell, it was still his wand, and it knew him, understood his magic. Of course—it retained his magical signature.”

Harry shook his head. “I—I still don’t understand.”

“It must mean—when you—when you used it, Harry… the magic from both of your mothers intertwined. And instead of killing him, it saved him.”

“But… how?”

“The protective magic could have converged, couldn’t it have?” Hermione looked at Pomfrey, as though to confirm her suspicions. “Lily’s enduring safeguard and Narcissa’s protective enchantment—they were both borne from maternal love and desperation, essentially carrying the same resolve. Both those protections could have intertwined somehow… diverting the curse’s lethal intent. Instead, their combined magic preserved Draco’s life. It’s…”

"Indeed, a harmonious convergence," Madam Pomfrey murmured, her eyes locking onto Harry's. "Two maternal loves, intertwined, transcending the chasm between former adversaries." With contemplative reverence, she examined Draco's wand. "Uncanny, yet magic's unpredictability is heightened by intense emotions. Love, particularly, redefines its boundaries."

Narcissa’s eyes glistened, her fingers trembling slightly as she brought them to her lips, a fragile gasp escaping her. Her gaze remained fixed on her son through the doorway, the faint rise and fall of his chest a lifeline she could hardly believe.

“You saved him, Harry,” Hermione said, her eyes glistening as she looked at him. “Your mother’s love saved you. And now, somehow, it’s saved him too.”

Harry shook his head, tears pricking at his eyes. “I don’t deserve that. Not—not after what I did. I nearly killed him.” I did kill him, Harry thought. He was dead in his arms and now he wasn’t, and Harry felt like his heart was kicking his ribs.

Narcissa turned then, her eyes meeting Harry’s for the first time. She couldn’t bring herself to speak, her gaze betraying the war of emotions inside her—gratitude, resentment, hope, confusion. And yet, she nodded, an almost imperceptible gesture, a quiet acknowledgment of what had transpired.

Pomfrey cleared her throat, her eyes shifting to the parchment on her desk, scribbled with notes and spells she had tried to make sense of. “Harry, there’s something else I need to understand. The convergence of these spells and the bond of the wand—it’s created something I’ve never seen before.”

Hermione leaned in, her curiosity evident. “What do you mean? There’s something more?”

Madam Pomfrey nodded, her gaze shifting between Harry and Hermione. "Yes, Hermione. There's something truly remarkable about the way these magics intertwined. It's almost as if they've formed a new kind of protection—a barrier that transcends life and death. Magic fueled by love, sacrifice, and pure intent."

Hermione's eyes widened as she began to connect the pieces. "The wand recognized Draco. And the magic—Lily's magic—understood your intent, Harry. It knew you didn't want to kill; you wanted to protect. The curse wasn't meant for Draco—it was intended for Voldemort, but Draco got in the way. And Narcissa's love for her son amplified that intent, creating something far more powerful than any of us could have imagined."

Pomfrey spoke quietly, her voice filled with a sense of awe. "It's more than just a convergence. I believe this magic has anchored Draco's life to yours, Harry. The protective force isn't only around him—it's also connected to you, bound by shared intent and sacrifice."

Harry's breath caught in his throat. "Bound? What does that mean, exactly?"

Hermione frowned slightly, glancing between Pomfrey and Harry. "Think of it like an invisible thread connecting two souls. The intertwining of Lily's and Narcissa's protections created a kind of bond—a soul tether. It doesn't mean you share a soul, but there is now a deep connection between you."

"So, if Draco is tethered to me, does that mean… what exactly?"

“Your life forces are intertwined, sustained by that powerful magic,” Pomfrey explained. “It's rather understated, but unmistakable. It doesn't mean that one’s life depends directly on the other’s, but an echo of that bond will always link the two of you."

Narcissa's eyes widened slightly. There was disbelief, then fear, then a fierce sort of determination in her eyes. She took a step forward. "Then we must ensure that this bond isn't a weakness. If what you say is true, protecting both of them must be our highest priority."

Harry swallowed hard, the reality settling over him like a heavy mantle. He was somehow tethered to Draco Malfoy, of all people. Part of him wanted to laugh. Part of him was sure he’d faint any moment now. He didn’t entirely know what all of this meant—but the unchartered territory was not one he was entirely thrilled to have to navigate.

It was all supposed to be over. The war is over. It was all supposed to be over.

Harry looked down at his hands, which trembled as he clenched them tighter. He glanced at Narcissa, whose composure seemed to falter, revealing the depths of her relief and simultaneous incredulity. Surely, Harry thought, the last thing she was expecting of all this was her son being tied to one, Harry Potter.

Narcissa stepped forward, her voice wavering but steady. "It was not just luck that spared my son. It was your mother’s legacy, Mister Potter. And for that… for that, I owe you more than I can ever say."

Harry swallowed hard. “I—” he didn’t have words.

A thick silence settled over the room, punctuated only by the muffled sounds from the hospital wing beyond.

"Reducio."

Harry watched as the number of boxes in Grimmauld Place shrank into something that could fit in the palm of his hand. It had been two months since the final battle, and Harry was more than ready to leave Grimmauld Place behind.

He couldn't stay here. Not with the constant reminders of everything he had lost. Sirius was gone. Remus was gone. It felt like everyone was gone—and while he had tried to settle into Grimmauld Place to hold onto the last connection he had to Sirius, he couldn't do it.

Everywhere he looked, he felt haunted by shadows and whispers that weren't really there. Sometimes, he could swear he heard Sirius's voice—but Sirius was dead, and Harry needed to get out of Grimmauld Place.

Harry found himself a new place, tucked away in a quiet neighborhood just outside of London. It was close enough to the Leaky Cauldron that he could easily make his way back into the wizarding world whenever he needed, but far enough removed that he wouldn't be recognized and hounded for autographs everywhere he went. The flat was modest, just a small space with a few rooms, but it was exactly what Harry needed—somewhere private, somewhere he could begin to heal without the weight of memories pressing down on him from every corner.

It wasn't much, but it was his. He set the shrunken boxes on the floor and murmured, "Engorgio," watching as they returned to their original size. Slowly, he began to unpack, placing books on shelves, clothes in drawers, trying to create some semblance of a home. It was strange, the emptiness of it all. There was no one here but him, no one to share the silence.

But maybe that was what he needed. A place where he could figure out who he was now, without the expectations of the wizarding world, without the weight of being the Chosen One. Just Harry, for once in his life.

Harry stepped into the small apothecary near Diagon Alley, the bell above the door giving a soft chime that seemed to echo in the quiet shop. The shelves were lined with bottles of various potions, dried herbs, and magical ingredients, the air thick with the scent of crushed lavender and something sharp and metallic.

Harry made his way to the counter, the familiar feeling of exhaustion clinging to him like a second skin. It didn’t matter how much sleep he did or didn’t get these days. He was always tired. Most days it felt like his body couldn’t keep up with him anymore, like his bones had somehow aged decades during the war.

The shopkeeper, an elderly wizard with a hunched back and a mane of unruly, graying hair, looked up as Harry approached. His half-moon spectacles were perched precariously on his crooked nose, and his sharp, beady eyes seemed to assess Harry in a heartbeat. He gave a small grunt, his voice something akin to a growl. "Ah, Mister Potter. What brings you here today, then?"

Harry barely acknowledged the man’s inquisitive tone. He just wanted to get in and out as quickly as possible. He leaned on the counter, his voice rough as he said, "A bottle of Dreamless Sleep, please."

The shopkeeper’s bushy brows knitted together, and he let out a long, wheezy sigh. He glanced down at a worn ledger beside the register, his gnarled finger tracing the line of notes. "Dreamless Sleep, eh? You know, lad, you're coming up on your limit for this one. Dangerous business, taking too much of it. Not something to trifle with. More harm than good if you’re not careful."

Harry's jaw tightened, irritation flaring within him. He knew what the shopkeeper was implying—that he was relying on the potion too heavily. As if this old man had any idea what it was like to close his eyes and see flashes of green light, to hear the screams of the dying echoing endlessly in his mind. As if he could understand the crushing weight of all the things Harry had done—and all the things he hadn't been able to do. The memories that choked him until he felt like he was drowning.

"Just give me the potion," Harry said, his voice colder than he intended.

He could feel the shopkeeper's eyes on him, the scrutiny, and it made his skin crawl. He didn’t need pity. He didn’t need anyone telling him what was or wasn’t good for him. He just needed to sleep, to escape the nightmares that seemed to get worse every time he closed his eyes.

The shopkeeper shook his head, his lips pressing into a thin line. "Youth today," he muttered under his breath. "Always thinkin' they can outsmart their own demons, outrun the shadows. Doesn’t work like that, lad. Never has, never will."

He turned, his movements slow but deliberate as he shuffled towards the shelves behind him, his bony fingers curling around a small vial. He returned to the counter, holding the vial for a moment before meeting Harry's gaze. There was something almost sad in the old wizard’s eyes, a knowing look that seemed to see right through Harry.

"Listen here, boy," he said, his voice softening just a fraction, though it still held that gravelly rasp. "Dreamless Sleep might keep the nightmares at bay for a while, but it won't fix what's broken. You can't run from it forever. Sooner or later, you've got to face whatever it is that's haunting you. Running just makes the shadows grow longer." He held out the vial, his hand steady despite his age. "But I reckon you know that already, don’t ya?"

Harry snatched the vial from the man’s hand, his fingers tightening around the cool glass. "Thanks for the advice," Harry muttered, his sarcasm not concealed.

He dropped a handful of galleons, more than what was needed. Then, he turned on his heel and walked out of the shop without another word, the bell above the door chiming again as it closed behind him.

He stalked down the narrow street, the vial clutched tightly in his hand. He knew the shopkeeper was right, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. The nightmares were unbearable—the faces of those he'd lost, the weight of the lives he couldn't save. The memories of Sirius, Remus, Fred, and so many others haunted him, and every time he closed his eyes, they were there, waiting for him.

Harry felt angry these days, angry and bitter. He felt like a stranger in his own skin, haunted by ghosts and guilt. He was tired—tired of being the hero, tired of pretending everything was okay, tired of everyone expecting that. He wasn’t okay. He was far from it, and he didn’t know where to begin fixing himself.

As soon as he reached his flat, he closed the door behind him and downed the potion before he could think about it. He just wanted silence. Silence and some peace—but peace seemed too much to ask for, so he settled on silence.

He set the empty vial on the counter and made his way to his bed, exhaustion pulling at him, drawing him under. As he lay down, the world around him began to blur, the edges softening as the potion took effect.

For a few hours, there would be no nightmares. No memories. No guilt.

Just silence.

Draco was released from St. Mungo's on a gray, rainy afternoon. The kind of afternoon where the world felt muted, as if every color had been washed away, leaving only shades of silver and ash.

He walked slowly, his mother by his side, her arm linked protectively with his. The rain fell softly, dampening his hair and clothes, but Draco didn't seem to notice—or maybe, he simply didn't care.

He felt changed now, gentler in a way that felt foreign, with a certain faded quality that made him seem almost ghostlike. There was a stillness in him, a sense of peace that hadn’t been there before. The storm raging inside him had quieted, but it had left him hollow in its wake.

Narcissa walked with deliberate care, her eyes darting to him every few seconds, as if she were afraid he might disappear if she looked away for too long. She hadn't let go of his arm since they had left the hospital. Draco knew she was trying to be gentle, trying to understand this new version of him, but her eyes were filled with a desperation she couldn't quite hide.

"Are you alright, darling?" she asked softly, her voice barely audible over the gentle patter of the rain. It was as if she were speaking to a fragile creature, something that might shatter if she raised her voice too much.

Draco turned his head to look at her, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

"I'm fine, Mother," he said. His voice was different now, softer, as if all the sharp edges had been sanded down. There was no malice, no sarcasm, none of the bitterness that had once characterized his every word. Just a strange, empty calm that seemed to unsettle Narcissa more than any anger ever could.

"You don't have to be fine, Draco," she whispered, her hand tightening on his arm. "You don't have to pretend."

Draco looked away, his gaze drifting across the rain-soaked street, the gray sky reflecting in his eyes. "I'm not pretending," he said, and in that moment, it was the truth.

He didn’t know if he was fine but he wasn’t pretending either. He didn’t quite feel like he had any energy left for pretense, for the facade he had held up for so many years. Whatever he was now, it was real, stripped bare of all the masks he had worn.

They walked in silence, the rain falling around them, the city blurred in the distance. Draco felt detached from it all, as if he were watching the world from a distance, through a thick pane of glass. He could feel his mother’s concern, the way her eyes lingered on him, but he couldn’t bring himself to reassure her. He didn’t know how to explain what he was feeling, didn’t know if he even wanted to. He wasn’t sure he could put it into words, this strange, heavy peace that had settled over him, this numb acceptance of everything that had happened.

The truth was, he didn’t know who he was now. The person he had been before the battle felt like a stranger—someone angry and arrogant, someone who had tried to be strong but had only ended up lost and on the wrong side of it all. Amidst the chaos of battle, he chose redemption. Breaking free from the Dark Lord's grasp, Draco stood against the Death Eaters who had once claimed him, fighting alongside the righteous—but fate cut his journey short.

Draco Malfoy had died—at the hands of Harry Potter, his once sworn enemy.

Gods, how Draco wanted to laugh at the irony. He was the one meant to deliver Harry to the Dark Lord, to present the Chosen One on a silver platter. He was the one responsible for countless acts of deception against Harry and his allies. And yet, in the end, Draco had chosen to feign ignorance when Harry was in his home, and it was Harry who had struck the spell that killed him.

It was as laughable to Draco, as it was pathetic.

And yet, he was not mad about it.

He was alive. Somehow. He didn’t know how. But, there was nothing left to fight against, nothing left to prove. He was just Draco, stripped of all the pretenses, all the expectations. And for the first time, there was a sense of calm in that, a quiet that he hadn’t realized he had been searching for.

It was so quiet.

It had been so quiet when he was dead.

He couldn’t really remember it—not fully. All he recalled was the flash of Harry’s spell and then Harry’s green eyes staring down at him. And, mind him, they were quite a sight—almost a pleasant one, considering the circumstances. It was, he thought, not the worst way to go. The last image burned into his memory wasn’t the Dark Lord’s menacing face, nor the lifeless bodies left in the wake of war, nor his father’s cold, forbidding gaze. No, it was those whispers of green—like mossy wellsprings, morning dew on a lush meadow. Yes, he decided, quite a nice way to go.

Then, flashes of cherished memories flooded his mind. His mother, radiant in the gardens, chasing butterflies with a giggling five-year-old Draco. Piano lessons, laughter echoing as tiny fingers stumbled over keys. Tie-tying triumphs, her proud smile illuminating his third attempt. Soft lullabies whispered, her gentle hands weaving through his hair. Warmth enveloped him, her comforting cradle after his first fall from a broom.

Then, nothing.

Draco woke up in St. Mungo’s. The noise in his head was gone, his chest felt unburdened, his limbs were lighter, and the searing pain where the Mark sat was finally absent.

They reached the edge of the street, and Narcissa turned to him. She opened her mouth to speak, then hesitated, her eyes flickering over his face, as if she were afraid of what she might see there. Finally, she reached out, her hand resting gently against his cheek, her fingers trembling.

"You know I love you, don’t you?" she said, her voice breaking slightly. "No matter what happens, no matter what you become or where you are—I will always love you."

Draco’s throat tightened. He nodded, unable to trust his voice, and leaned into her touch for just a moment. The rain pattered softly against their clothes, cool droplets mingling with the tears he didn’t realize he had let fall.

“I know, Mother,” he whispered.  

Narcissa’s eyes softened, her steely composure cracking at the edges as she offered him a faint, relieved smile. She brushed a damp strand of hair from his forehead, lingering as though memorizing the features of her son, now changed and reborn.

As they stood there, framed by the rain-soaked street and the muted chaos of a city trying to find its footing again, Draco felt a strange sense of closure. The world before the war seemed like a distant echo, a life led by a shadow of himself. But now, stripped of pretenses, the calm within him whispered promises—uncertain, fragile, but at least his own.

“Let’s go home,” Narcissa said.

She took his hand and Draco let her.

Harry sat in the corner of his dimly lit flat, shadows pooling like ink around the frayed edges of the room. The night pressed against the windows, vast and unforgiving, seeping into the corners of his mind where guilt festered like an old wound.

He let out a shuddering breath, fingers trembling as he raked them through his hair. His eyes, red-rimmed and vacant, stared at the empty bottle of firewhisky on the table, its amber remnants catching the pale glow of the moon. It hadn’t dulled the sharp edges as he’d hoped. The ghosts were still there—faces framed by dying light, the accusations in their eyes a silent, eternal scream.

Draco’s was the worst of them.

Harry could still feel the warmth of Draco’s body, the weight of him cradled in his arms as life ebbed away. Harry had seen the light leave those silver eyes, the final, fragile breath breaking between blood-stained lips. He felt it as surely as he felt his own pulse—a cruel irony that his heart still beat when Draco’s did not.

He knew Draco was alive now but somehow, it did not take away the remorse. It did not take away the horror at what he had done, what had been done by his own hands.

He leaned back against the wall, eyes sliding shut, the back of his head thudding gently against the cold plaster. There were moments he wished he could trade his life for theirs—for his parents or Sirius or Remus or Fred—or anyone. Survivors’ guilt. Hermione had said the words like an incantation, as if naming it would strip it of its power. But there was no spell for this. No potion to swallow this ache, to erase the taste of loss that coated his mouth like poison.

There was only this: the crushing knowledge that he had been spared when so many hadn’t. That he had wielded death and now stood as its survivor.

The silence was split by a knock, sharp and sudden. Harry’s eyes flew open, pulse jumping in his throat. For a moment, he couldn’t move, legs weighted by the exhaustion that had become a second skin. But the knock came again, more insistent, shoving through the fog that held him.

He pushed himself up, feet dragging against the floorboards, and made his way to the door. When he opened it, the dim hallway revealed a familiar figure: Hermione, her face pale, eyes lined with worry and sleepless nights. She looked at him, taking in the hollow gauntness of his face, the way his shoulders slumped.

He was exhausted by that look—the one steeped in pity, sorrow, and quiet sadness. He couldn’t blame her, or anyone else for it, but he hated the way people looked at him. To them, he was either a tragic figure to be pitied or a savior to be revered. And neither felt any less suffocating than the other.

“Harry,” she said softly.

He turned away, unable to meet her eyes, and walked back into the room. She followed, closing the door behind her. The scent of rain clung to her robes, mingling with the stale air of the flat.

“You can’t keep doing this,” Hermione said. “I know you think you deserve this—this pain, this punishment. But you don’t, Harry.”

He laughed, a hollow, brittle sound. “Don’t I? How many people did I save, Hermione? And how many did I let die?” His voice cracked. “I can still see them, you know. Every one of them.”

“We all carry them, Harry. But this guilt—it’ll only eat you alive. It’s… it’s unhealthy. We need to mourn and grieve and move on, not blame ourselves for deaths that were… that were inevitable.”

Harry clenched his jaw, tilting his head from side to side, resisting the primal urge to scream. Hermione didn’t get it—nobody did. Yes, there had been a war, and death was inevitable. Yes, everyone had lost someone. He knew he wasn’t the only one burdened by grief. But nobody truly understood. They had died for him. Their blood stained his hands, not Hermione’s, not Ron’s. His. Always his.

Hermione’s eyes shimmered with tears she refused to shed, her lips pressed into a thin line as she took a step closer. “Harry, we all made our choices. It wasn’t your fault, any of it, and holding onto guilt won’t bring them back. It’ll only pull you further into this… this darkness.”

Harry let out a harsh laugh. “Oh, you’re the expert on grief now, are you? Think you can just come in here and fix me with a few pretty words? Well, guess what, Hermione—this isn’t a spell you can wave your wand at and make better.”

Harry knew Hermione didn’t deserve that. It didn’t stop him from saying it anyway. It didn’t make him feel any better either—to take his frustration out on her.

She flinched but held her ground. She knew it wasn’t personal even if Harry tried to make it that way. “I know you’re hurting, Harry. And I know you don’t want to hear it. But I care about you. That’s why I’m here. Because I refuse to watch you destroy yourself over something you couldn’t control.”

“Maybe I’m just fine on my own.”

“Maybe you are, Harry. But I’m not giving up on you. I’ll come back tomorrow to check in on you.”

Without another word, she turned and left, closing the door softly behind her. He stood there, the bitterness still burning in his chest, but beneath it, a sick sense of regret clawed at him. She didn’t deserve that. She hadn’t deserved any of it. But the guilt, the anger—he didn’t know how to let them go.

With a shaky breath, he crossed the room, opened the cabinet, and pulled out a bottle of Muggle whiskey. He unscrewed the cap, taking a long, hard swig, the alcohol searing a path down his throat.

Even as the liquid settled in his veins, Hermione’s wounded gaze lingered in his mind, a fresh layer of guilt joining the others.

Harry didn’t have much of a routine these days. He drifted through his hours, untethered and uncertain, unable to grasp what life was supposed to look like now that his one true purpose had been fulfilled. That was all he had ever been—the Chosen One, the Boy Who Lived, the boy bound by prophecy, raised like a lamb for the slaughter. Now that his mission was complete, the question loomed over him, heavy and unrelenting: what was he meant to do now?

The whiskey seared its way down Harry’s throat, a brief, hollow warmth that settled in his chest, but it was never enough to quiet the storm that churned beneath the surface. He knew he should stop, knew that leaning on the bottle was a dangerous path, but it was the only thing that numbed the noise—not entirely but enough for him to get through most of his days.

He sat there, eyes lost in the jagged lines of the cracked ceiling, the bottle resting in his hands like a lifeline he was too ashamed to admit he needed. Then, a sharp knock at the door cut through the haze, jolting him upright.

He pushed himself up, sluggishly moving to the door and yanking it open, fully expecting Hermione keeping her promise to return, determined to drag him out of the pit he’d dug for himself.

But it wasn’t Hermione. It was Ron, looking out of place in Muggle jeans and a jumper, a newspaper folded under his arm and a wary expression on his face.

“Ron,” Harry said, the word coming out rougher than he intended.

Ron shifted, glancing past Harry into the dim, cluttered flat before sighing. He thrust the newspaper forward. “I thought you’d want to see this,” he muttered, eyes catching Harry’s with a hint of something that might have been worry, might have been discomfort.

Harry took the paper, hands tightening around the edges as he scanned the front page. His eyes latched onto the headline: Draco Malfoy Released from St. Mungo’s: Recovering After the Battle That Shook the Wizarding World.

His heart clenched. Draco was out. Alive. Breathing.

Harry’s pulse quickened, the familiar mixture of relief and dread churning in his gut. He could picture the scene—the pale, almost spectral figure of Draco Malfoy stepping out of the hospital, flanked by his mother, a fresh scar no doubt marring his otherwise flawless skin. It was proof that Harry’s spell hadn’t been the end. But it didn’t ease the gnawing guilt, the memory of silver eyes dimming in his arms.

Harry knew that survival was not the same as forgiveness, and living was not the same as being whole.

Ron’s voice interrupted his thoughts, hesitant and strained. “I figured it might be better to hear it from us than from anyone else.”

Harry looked up at him, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. “Why? So I can sleep better knowing I didn’t actually kill him?” The words were sharp, edged with self-loathing, but Ron didn’t flinch. He’d seen Harry like this too many times to be surprised.

“No, mate. Just… so you know,” Ron said quietly. “Maybe it’ll help. Maybe not. But I thought you should know. I thought… you’d want to know.”

Harry nodded once, curtly, and Ron sighed again before stepping back. “Hermione and I are here, Harry. Whenever you’re ready.” With that, he turned and disappeared down the hall, leaving Harry alone with the silence and the folded newspaper.

He stared at the headline again, the need to see Draco flaring up inside him with a sudden, startling intensity. It was irrational, desperate even, but it clawed at him relentlessly. He needed to see Draco, to face the consequence of his actions, to know that the boy he’d held as life slipped away was now walking and breathing and… alive.

But how? How could he just walk up to Draco Malfoy, the person he’d nearly killed, and ask to see him? The idea seemed laughable, a cruel joke. Yet the thought wouldn’t leave him, the pull only growing stronger.

Harry dropped into the chair, the newspaper slipping from his fingers onto the floor. He leaned forward, pressing his palms to his face, trying to steady his ragged breathing. The flat was suffocating, the whiskey no longer numbing anything but sharpening the edges of his guilt.

Harry’s thoughts pulsed like a mantra: I need to see him, I need to see him breathing, I need to see it for myself.

There was a fear that coiled tight in his chest, pressing against his ribs with suffocating force. If Draco wasn’t alive, if that last shuddering breath in Harry’s arms had been the final one—no, he couldn’t bear it. The world had splintered enough; the Gods themselves would have to answer to him if those silver eyes didn’t open again.

Harry stood at the wrought-iron gates of Malfoy Manor, the chill in the air biting through his cloak. His stomach twisted, the memory of the last time he was here surfacing with unsettling clarity—cold walls, fear tightening around his chest, the gleam of Bellatrix’s manic eyes. The manor loomed before him now, a stark silhouette against the pale sky, and he wondered for the hundredth time if coming here was a mistake.

The gates creaked open as if sensing his hesitation, and Harry stepped forward, heart thudding in his chest. The path leading to the grand entrance felt longer than he remembered. By the time he reached the front door, his palms were damp, and something tight coiled in his stomach.

The heavy doors swung open to reveal Narcissa Malfoy, her expression carved from marble, cold and unreadable. She regarded him with the detached grace that only she could manage, eyes as sharp as cut glass, but there was something there—something that flickered in the depth of her gaze when they locked eyes. It was acknowledgment, though of what, Harry wasn’t entirely sure. Gratitude? Forgiveness?

“Mister Potter,” she said, voice clipped and perfectly civil, not a note out of place. She stepped aside, a slender hand gesturing for him to enter. “I anticipated you would come by sooner rather than later. Please. Come in.”

He hesitated for a beat before stepping inside, the air within the manor colder than the winds outside. The silence was oppressive as he followed her through the familiar halls. Memories flashed behind his eyes: splinters of fear, blood on stone, Draco’s face pale and terrified.

Narcissa stopped at the base of a sweeping staircase and turned to him, eyes scrutinizing him. For a moment, neither of them spoke.

“You’re here to see Draco,” she said, more a statement than a question.

Harry nodded, unable to find his voice.

There was a pause, and she looked at him more intently, something shifting in her expression. “He doesn’t know everything, Miste—”

“Harry, please.”

“Harry,” she said. “He doesn’t know the depths. About what saved him.”

“I—doesn’t he want to know?”

“I explained briefly, Harry. Told him enough for him to understand how he is alive but… that was not the entirety of it, was it?”

“And Malfoy was satisfied with that?” Harry quirked a brow. “Doesn’t sound like him.”

“He was content with that. With knowing enough.”

Harry’s brows knitted. Content? Draco Malfoy, the boy who never settled for half-answers, who demanded explanations and certainty? He couldn’t reconcile it, the thought twisting uneasily in his mind. “I don’t understand,” he admitted, his voice strained.

Narcissa’s gaze shifted, the faintest curve of a smile touching her lips, though it was devoid of joy. “You will,” she said, her eyes flickering with an emotion that Harry couldn’t name. “When you see him, you will.”

A cold realization settled in Harry’s chest. Whatever Draco knew, it was clear he didn’t understand the full extent of the soul tether—whatever that even meant. Harry wasn’t sure how to feel about it. He had yet to make sense of the bond himself, and the thought of facing Draco’s reaction to such a revelation sent a shiver down his spine. Surely, Draco would be furious, enraged. The idea of being bound, soul to soul, with Harry Potter—his former enemy, the one who nearly ended his life—seemed like an irony so bitter that Harry could hardly fathom it. Merlin, have mercy.

Narcissa stepped aside. For a moment, Harry saw the mother in her—the fierce, protective force that had risked everything for her son. “He is in the east drawing room. You may go.”

He nodded once, swallowing the tightness in his throat, and walked past her. As he reached the door, a fleeting pause made him glance back, finding Narcissa’s eyes on him, somber and knowing.

“Thank you,” she whispered, the words carrying a solemnity that made Harry’s chest ache. He didn’t know what he was being thanked for, but whatever it was, Harry knew he didn’t deserve it.

His hand tightened on the handle. Without a word, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Draco looked like a ghost of himself, yet more alive than Harry had ever seen him. The soft light settled over him like a benediction, casting him in shades of silver and shadow, as though he’d been carved from the very essence of moonlight. There was a strange, unsettling beauty in the calm that radiated from him, an air of resigned peace that both soothed and disturbed Harry’s restless heart.

Draco’s head turned at the creak of the door, and when their eyes met, the air thickened. For a moment, the past and present blurred, and Harry realized that whatever he had come here looking for, he was nowhere near prepared to find.

Harry took a tentative step into the room, the creak of the floorboards breaking the delicate silence. Draco sat in a chair by the window. His posture was composed, hands folded neatly in his lap.

Harry swallowed hard, the words he had rehearsed sticking in his throat like splinters.

“Potter,” Draco said, breaking the silence with a voice that was steadier than Harry had expected. There was no venom, no bitterness—just a calm recognition that made Harry’s guilt flare brighter.

“Malfoy,” Harry replied, his own voice wavering. He hesitated, searching for a place to start, for words that wouldn’t feel hollow in the presence of someone he had nearly destroyed. But Draco’s eyes, though tired, carried none of the anger Harry thought he’d find.

“You don’t have to say it,” Draco said, a ghost of a smirk touching his lips, so fleeting Harry almost missed it. “I think I know why you’re here.”

“And what’s that?”

“I always knew you’d really try to kill me one day. Frankly, I thought you’d do far sooner.”

Harry hesitated, caught off guard by the unexpected lightness in Draco's voice. “I—I didn’t mean—”

Draco waved his hand absentmindedly. “Yes, yes, I know. You killed me—then your very own magic saved me. It’s all very… ostentatious. What’s there left to discuss, Potter? I’ve gathered the absurdity of the situation already.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “No, you haven’t,” he said, taking another step forward. “You don’t know everything. I need to tell you.”

Draco’s brows lifted, curiosity sparking in the gray depths of his eyes. He gestured to the chair opposite him, an invitation that Harry took with a quiet nod. The room seemed to shrink around them as he sat down.

“It wasn’t just my spell,” Harry began, his fingers fidgeting as if to find an outlet for his nerves. “It was something more. The magic that saved you—it wasn’t just a stroke of luck. It was a combination of my mother’s sacrificial magic and… your mother’s love. Her protection.”

Draco’s expression remained unreadable, though the slight tilt of his head showed he was listening. Harry pressed on, feeling the guilt coiling in his gut.

“Those magics—they combined in a way nobody expected. They tethered you to me, Malfoy. It’s a kind of soul bond, a—a connection that can’t be broken. Not so easily, at least. And—well—I didn’t mean for it to happen, but it did, and now you’re—we are sort of… bound. I guess.” Harry exhaled shakily. “I—I’m sorry.”

The silence that followed was suffocating, and Harry watched Draco’s face for any sign of anger or resentment. But there was none. Instead, Draco’s eyes softened, a quiet, contemplative light entering them.

“Bound to you,” Draco repeated, almost as if testing the weight of the words. His gaze drifted to the window, the sunlight catching on the pale line of a scar at his temple. “I suppose there are worse fates.”

Harry blinked, taken aback. He hadn’t expected this—this calm acceptance, this lack of blame. “You’re… okay with it?”

This had to be a joke, Harry was sure of it. Malfoy must be planning something, some sort of vengeance or retaliation—because there was just absolutely no way Draco Malfoy was going to sit back and let himself—his bloody soul, for God’s sake—be tied, in any way, to Harry Potter. It just wouldn’t be—

“Okay with it?” Draco echoed, a soft laugh escaping him. “Potter, I’ve learned that not everything has to be a fight. Not anymore.”

Harry’s head was spinning. “You’re not…”

Harry blinked.

What the hell was going on?

Harry stared at him, shamelessly. He looked for that familiar sneer or that arrogant smirk that once defined Draco Malfoy. The Draco Malfoy he remembered had vanished. In his place was someone softer, almost translucent. There was a childlike openness in the way he sat, his posture relaxed, his gaze wandering to the sunlit window as if he could find something beyond it worth marveling at.

“I’m just amazed you’re here,” Draco said, the surprise genuine in his voice, as if he were seeing Harry for the first time and still trying to make sense of it. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

“I needed to,” Harry said, shifting uncomfortably.

“Still. You didn’t have to.”

“Well—that would be rather… pitiless.”

“Yes, I suppose you’ve always been too virtuous for your own good, haven’t you?”

“Why?” Harry whispered, more to himself than to Draco. “Why aren’t you angry? I nearly killed you. I—I did kill you. I did this to you.”

Draco’s gaze shifted back to Harry’s, and there was something startlingly soft in his eyes. It wasn’t quite forgiveness, but something close—understanding, perhaps, or a quiet acceptance. “Because I don’t feel it, Potter. I don’t feel angry or bitter anymore, and I think I’m just tired of being so angry and fighting battles that never end.”

Harry’s brow furrowed as he tried to comprehend this new, almost unrecognizable version of Draco—one who spoke without malice or coldness. “Is this because…”

“Because I died?” Draco finished for him, when Harry’s voice failed him. A flicker of a wry smile ghosted over Draco’s lips. “I suppose it might be. I died surrounded by death and chaos, in a world torn apart, and then I woke up and it was over. The war was over. The Dark Lord was gone. And I wasn’t a soldier anymore—I was just alive. And for the first time, I felt free.” He shrugged. “There’s no perfect way to explain it, Potter. It just is.”

Harry swallowed, struggling to reconcile this Draco—calm, unburdened, at peace—with the boy who had once thrived on scorn and rivalry. And for reasons he couldn’t quite grasp, it left him both relieved and haunted.

Draco’s gaze fell to his hands, fingers tracing a faint, invisible line on the arm of the chair. “If it helps, Potter, I don’t resent it. I don’t resent you.”

“You should.”

“I don’t.”

“You should,” Harry repeated, more insistently this time.

“But you didn’t kill me, did you?”

“I almost—”

“But you didn’t.” Draco’s voice was level, almost gentle. “You… well—you saved me. Your magic did.”

Harry’s jaw tightened, and he shook his head. “That wasn’t—it wasn’t me. It was your mother’s enchantment that protected you. My mother’s magic might have played a part, but that still wasn’t me. Even the wands—it was all beyond us. It wasn’t—”

Draco studied him, his expression soft, serene in a way that made Harry’s skin prickle with frustration. He wanted to scream, to make Draco scream, to see that familiar spark of rivalry in his eyes. He wanted Draco to curse him, accuse him, call him a murderer—anything but this unsettling acceptance. This wasn’t normal. This wasn’t right.

Harry’s chest constricted, a storm of anger and guilt twisting inside him. He needed atonement, some tangible consequence for what he had done. He needed Draco to give him that, to lash out, to make him feel the weight of what he deserved.

Draco let out a soft sigh, cutting through Harry’s stumbling words. “It was an accident, Potter,” he said quietly, a faint hint of something almost amused in his tone. “And I made it out alive, so isn’t it hardly worth troubling my pretty little head over?”

Harry stood, his hand hovering over the doorknob, but his feet felt rooted to the spot.

“You’re not leaving,” Draco said, a statement more than a question. It wasn’t accusatory, just an observation, like he was noting the weather.

“I should.”

Draco’s lips twitched into a small smile. “This connection—this soul tether, or whatever it is—it’s strange, isn’t it?” He looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers as though testing their reality. “I can sense your feelings. Right now, at least. Your restlessness, your guilt. Like a shadow that won’t quite leave.”

Harry’s chest tightened. “I feel it too,” he admitted reluctantly. “Your calm. It’s unsettling.”

“Good. Maybe it means one of us is learning how to breathe again.”

“How can you be so—”

“Calm?” Draco finished, the word hanging between them, almost tauntingly.

Harry clenched his jaw, a surge of frustration coursing through him. “Yes.”

Draco shrugged, his eyes studying Harry with an intensity that was disarmingly light, almost playful. His lips curved into a half-smirk—not the sharp, mocking one of their school days, but something softer, touched with amusement. “Dying, perhaps, does that to one.”

Harry didn’t hold back his glare this time. “I nearly killed you, Malfoy. Don’t act like that doesn’t matter.”

Draco’s smirk faded, but his expression didn’t shift to anger or bitterness. Instead, he looked almost… thoughtful. “Oh, it matters. But it doesn’t matter in the way you think it does.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Draco looked away, his gaze drifting to the light streaming through the window, as if searching for the right words. “I’ve spent years clinging to grudges, fighting battles that weren’t mine to win,” he said quietly. “But when I woke up… after everything, I realized I’d been given something I thought I’d never have. A second chance. And it wasn’t about you, Potter, or even about the war. It was about letting go. Doing things differently—doing things better. Being better.”

He turned back to Harry, offering the faintest smile, one so unfamiliar that Harry almost didn’t recognize it. “I’m tired of carrying it all, Potter. You’re right—I could have died. And if I had, it would’ve been as a scornful Death Eater, drowning in the choices that weren’t entirely mine to begin with. But maybe I just… don’t want to be remembered as that person. Is that so hard to believe?”

Harry didn’t know what to say. Draco’s words were cutting through him and he was standing there, still wearing his guilt and remorse like armor and he couldn’t figure out when it was that Draco Malfoy had become the voice of reason.

“You might want to try it sometime, Potter,” Draco added, his tone lighter, a smirk ghosting over his lips. “Letting go, I mean. You’ve been clinging to this guilt like it’s some kind of badge of honor.”

Harry’s fists tightened. “Maybe I deserve to.”

“Maybe,” Draco allowed, shrugging. “Or maybe you don’t. Either way, it’s your choice. Just don’t expect everyone else to carry it with you.” He paused, a flicker of something almost kind in his gaze. “Especially when you’ve already saved them.”

Harry looked away, unable to meet Draco’s eyes. The guilt was an ever-present ghost, wrapping around him with cold, skeletal fingers, whispering reminders of the faces lost, the blood that had been spilled in his name. It was familiar, suffocating, and safe in its own twisted way.

The morning light filtered through the grimy windows of the café, casting golden streaks over the worn, wooden tables. The chatter of the patrons was a low hum, almost drowned out by the creak of the floorboards and the clinking of cutlery. Harry sat in the corner, hunched over a cup of untouched tea, eyes fixed on a crack in the table.

Ron slid into the chair opposite him, a frown deepening the lines on his freckled face. “You look like you haven’t slept in days, mate.”

Harry’s response was a hollow shrug, an automatic gesture. Sleep felt like a distant luxury, haunted as it was by faces he could never forget. The dead didn’t let him rest. They never would. And now, seeing what their sacrifice had led to, it felt like an insult to them all.

Hermione approached, tension radiating off her as she set down a stack of parchment. She folded her hands over it, fingers white with pressure. Her eyes flitted between Harry and Ron before she spoke.

“They’re calling it ‘The Restoration Act,’” she said, her voice low and taut. “Officially, it’s supposed to reinforce peace, but it’s… it’s bad, Harry. Really bad.”

Harry’s fingers clenched tighter around his cup. “How bad?”

Hermione pushed the parchment toward him, and he scanned the lines, the words bleeding into one another. Each sentence felt like a lash against his conscience. Regulations, restrictions, surveillance. The Ministry, the very institution that should have been guiding the wizarding world toward healing, had become the face of oppression. It felt like betrayal.

“They’re tightening control on everything,” Hermione continued, her voice trembling with frustration. “Travel, gatherings, even communication. They’ve placed Aurors in every major community to enforce these new rules. It’s as though they’re terrified, but of what?”

“Or who,” Ron muttered. “It’s paranoia, plain and simple. They’re taking it out on everyone. This isn’t about keeping the peace. It’s about controlling it.”

Harry’s vision blurred as he stared at the papers. The names of the dead rose in his mind like a tide, crashing over him in waves of guilt and fury. So many who had fought, bled, and died for a better world. A world that wasn’t supposed to look like this. The war was meant to bring freedom, not another layer of chains.

“They didn’t die for this,” Harry said, anger twisting through him like barbed wire. “Not for this mockery of peace.”

“We’re supposed to be rebuilding,” Hermione said. “Not choking the life out of everything we fought for.”

Ron’s jaw tightened, a muscle in his temple twitching. He looked at Harry, blue eyes reflecting the same simmering anger. “What do we do, then?”

Harry set the papers down, his hands trembling, but it wasn’t with fear or hesitation—it was with a wrath that felt almost righteous. The guilt he’d worn like a cloak now sharpened into a weapon, turning outward, ready to lash out at a world that had betrayed them all. The peaceful silence they’d fought for had soured into a suffocating lie, and Harry could no longer stand to watch it fester.

“We fight back,” he said, the words dropping like iron. His voice carried not just the weight of the dead, but a promise of reckoning. “We protect what’s worth protecting, even if it means starting all over again.” Even if it means tearing down what’s already been built.

Hermione nodded, determination hardening the grief in her expression. Ron’s lips twitched into a grim smile.

The fight wasn’t over, Harry realized, and maybe it never would be. But this time, it felt different. The anger that coursed through him felt justified, like a flame that had been waiting too long to be unleashed. The guilt no longer threatened to choke him; instead, it fueled him, stoked the fire that promised not just change but upheaval.

If this was the world they’d been left with, then they would tear it apart and rebuild it, brick by brick.

The streets of Diagon Alley were no longer the lively, chaotic mess Harry had grown up with. Now, an uneasy quiet settled over the cobblestones, punctuated by the wary glances of passersby and the heavy footfalls of Ministry-sanctioned Aurors patrolling every corner. Their black robes were stark against the muted hues of the shop fronts, their expressions hard and vigilant, eyes scanning the crowds as if looking for a threat in every shadow.

Harry stood at the edge of the alley, his hood pulled low over his face as he watched the scene unfold. A small group of witches and wizards had gathered outside Flourish and Blotts, where a Ministry official, recognizable by the deep burgundy sash draped over their shoulder, was reading from a scroll.

“Henceforth, all public gatherings are to be pre-approved by the Department of Magical Order and Security,” the official announced, their voice clipped and devoid of emotion. “Failure to comply will result in immediate detainment and investigation.”

A murmur surged through the crowd like a rising tide, faces drawn with fear and barely restrained anger. Evidently, the public was less than submissive to these new rules.

An older wizard, bent with age and time, shifted uncomfortably. He muttered under his breath; his dismay obvious. The Aurors, stationed like dark sentinels, were quick to notice the resistance. One of them stepped forward, the wand in his hand catching the pale light, a gleaming warning.

“Any dissent will be met with consequences,” the Auror declared.

Harry’s fists curled in his pockets, nails biting into his palms as he battled the instinct to step forward, to act. It was what he had always known, what he had always done. Stepping in, standing up—it was in his nature. But he didn’t move.

It wasn’t fear that rooted him to the spot. It was something else, something far more insidious—a sense of foreboding that hung in the air like a storm waiting to break. The atmosphere was thick with a tension that felt almost alive, charged with a darkness that whispered of consequences he wasn’t ready to face. The Ministry’s new face wasn’t just oppressive; it was ruthless and unpredictable. Harry knew better than to test the limits without understanding the full reach of what he was up against.

It had been different with Voldemort. Back then, Harry knew exactly what was at stake—his own life, the certainty of death staring back at him. Now, the threat was more nebulous, insidious. The Ministry wasn’t a singular, tangible enemy; it was a far-reaching, shadowy force, woven into the very fabric of their world.

A shopkeeper, a stout man with flour smeared across his apron and the scent of bread lingering around him, took a shaky step forward. “This isn’t right,” he said, louder this time, his voice hoarse but defiant. “This isn’t what we fought for, what so many of us died for! We fought for freedom, not for this—this tyranny wearing a new face!”

The crowd stirred, whispers breaking out like the rustle of leaves in a storm. The Auror’s eyes turned sharp, glinting with the cold edge of cruelty. “What did you say?” He took another step.

The shopkeeper’s gaze didn’t falter, even as a flicker of fear crossed his face. “I said we didn’t fight for this! We didn’t fight to watch you turn into what we destroyed. We didn’t bleed and die for a world where fear and power silence us all over again!”

The Auror’s expression hardened, lips twisting into a cruel line. The crowd held its collective breath. The wand raised in a swift, practiced motion. Harry’s body tensed, every instinct screaming at him to act, but he remained rooted, caught between fury and caution.

“Obliviate,” the Auror said.

A sharp burst of white light struck the shopkeeper square in the chest, and the defiance in his eyes dulled, replaced by the vacant confusion of a mind wiped clean. He stumbled backward, hands twitching as if trying to grasp something that wasn’t there, and then turned blankly to the bakery behind him.

A sound rippled through the crowd. Horror, disbelief, fear.

Harry’s jaw tightened, a wave of helpless rage crashing over him as he watched the shopkeeper stagger back into his bakery, the fire in him extinguished by one word. One bloody word. What the hell just happened?

The Auror lowered his wand, gaze sweeping the onlookers with a thinly veiled threat. The crowd shuffled, fear thick in the air. They had seen this before, and they would see it again. This was not peace—it was an occupation, and they were prisoners in their own world.

“Disperse!” the Ministry official commanded.

Harry watched as the crowd, cowering, obeyed and moved in silent resignation. Everyone with their heads bowed and eyes downcast—and Harry almost felt déjà vu. How did they get here? How did the ministry turn into—this? How was this allowed?

Harry’s vision swam with ghosts—Sirius’s reckless grin, Tonks’s playful eyes, Remus’s quiet strength. They hadn’t died for this. Their sacrifices, the blood they had given, now felt like fuel for a lie. The bitter taste of guilt and rage rose in his throat as he turned away.

They died for this? They did not die for this. They died for this.

Harry’s heart pounded with the kind of fury that bordered on despair. What was the point of defeating Voldemort if the world that rose from his ashes was just another prison? He’d spent his life fighting, watched friends die, lost pieces of himself he could never reclaim—all for this mockery of peace. For what? So the Ministry could become another tyrant, cloaked in the pretense of law and order? So fear could slip into people’s lives, unnoticed, until it was too deeply rooted to rip out?

The Ministry’s new face was as monstrous as the old, and Harry knew now that the peace they had fought for was rotting from the inside. The world he had saved had betrayed them all, and with it, his anger flared, dark and uncontainable.

The sharp bite of the autumn wind cut through Harry’s jacket as he navigated the streets of Muggle London. He needed the noise, the anonymity, the escape from the whispers and watchful eyes that followed him in the wizarding world. Here, among the throngs of people with their mundane worries, he could just be Harry—not The Boy Who Lived, not the hero, not the haunted man everyone thought they understood.

He ducked into a small café on the corner, the scent of coffee and fresh pastries immediately wrapping around him. The bell above the door chimed softly as it closed behind him, and he pulled his hands from his pockets, blowing on them to warm his fingers.

As he moved toward the counter, he felt a strange pull in his chest, a sensation that made him pause. His eyes scanned the room, landing on a familiar figure sitting at a table by the window. Pale blond hair caught the light of the overcast day, and Harry’s breath caught in his throat. Draco Malfoy.

But this Draco was different. His posture was relaxed, shoulders free of the tension Harry remembered. He sat with a book open in front of him, fingers idly tracing the edge of the page, eyes soft and unfocused as if lost in thought. He looked peaceful, unburdened in a way that felt incongruous with everything Harry knew about him.

Harry stood there, rooted to the spot, a strange mix of guilt, curiosity, and something else he couldn’t name swirling in his chest. The tether, the bond that neither of them had spoken of since that day at Malfoy Manor, thrummed subtly within him. It was as if it knew, even before Harry did, that this moment would happen.

Draco’s gaze lifted, meeting Harry’s across the room. His eyes widened slightly, not in shock, but in recognition—a soft acknowledgment that lacked the guarded, calculating look they once held. There was an unrestrained wonder in Draco’s expression that made Harry’s stomach twist.

“Potter,” Draco said, his voice carrying just enough for Harry to hear. But there was no sneer, no sharp edge. Just a name, spoken softly.

Harry moved forward, the space between them shrinking until he stood beside the table. For a moment, they simply stared at each other, the bustling café a background hum that neither seemed to notice.

“Malfoy,” Harry finally said, a little too late and a little too breathless.

Draco’s lips quirked into a smile—not the smirk Harry was accustomed to, but something genuine and open. “Fancy meeting you here,” he said lightly, closing his book. The title caught Harry’s eye—Great Expectations. It felt oddly fitting.

“You… come here often?” Harry asked, cringing internally at the cliché, but his mind was too tangled to think of anything better.

Draco chuckled, a sound so warm it made Harry’s chest tighten. “I do, actually. It’s quieter here. Less… complicated.” His eyes swept over Harry, taking in his appearance. “And what about you? Hiding from your adoring public?”

There was no malice in the question, only a knowing sort of empathy. Harry hesitated, caught off guard by how easily Draco had read him. “Yeah. Something like that.”

Draco gestured to the seat across from him. “Sit, if you’d like. I don’t bite—not anymore,” he added with a playful wink that made Harry’s face heat up, much to his annoyance.

He took the offer, sliding into the chair and clasping his hands together to keep them from fidgeting. For a moment, neither of them spoke, but the silence was not strained. It was the kind that filled spaces without suffocating them.

“It’s strange, isn’t it?” Draco said after a while, his voice thoughtful. “How we both ended up here, trying to disappear into a world that has no idea who we are.”

Harry struggled to reconcile this version of Draco—one devoid of bitterness, free of defensiveness. Draco was just... cordial, conversational, without any hidden agendas. No strings attached. It left Harry feeling unmoored, trying to find some hidden angle, some ulterior motive. But when he came up empty, he had no choice but to accept that maybe, just maybe, this was genuine. And he found himself liking it—perhaps too much.

It was different from being around Hermione or Ron, whose eyes were always shadowed with concern, their voices laced with an unspoken worry that Harry was all too aware of. He didn’t want to be someone who needed watching over, who inspired pity or anxiety. But Draco didn’t walk on eggshells around him. He didn’t look at Harry like he was about to shatter or fall apart.

Draco looked at him the way he always had—but now, without the spite and old layers of resentment. He looked at Harry like he was just a person. Not a hero, not the Chosen One, not a savior. Just Harry.

And there was something unsettling yet liberating in that simplicity. For once, Harry could just exist without the crushing reminder of who everyone thought he was supposed to be.  

“Yeah, it is,” Harry said. “I suppose we both have reasons to hide.”

“Hiding out in the Muggle world, trying to be… normal. It’s comical.”

Harry huffed a laugh, surprised by how easily the sound escaped him. “Guess it’s one thing we have in common now.”

Draco’s lips quirked up a bit more. “Imagine that. Potter and Malfoy, kindred spirits.”

“Never thought I’d say this, but… I don’t mind it. The quiet. Not being looked at all the time.”

Draco leaned back, crossing his arms, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Who would’ve thought the Boy Who Lived would be desperate for a break from the spotlight?”

“Who would’ve thought a Malfoy would be here, drinking coffee and reading Dickens?” Harry retorted, smirking.

“Touché. But then, I suppose we’re both full of surprises these days.”

Harry found himself watching Draco more than he meant to, something unfamiliar twisting in his stomach. There was a gentleness in the curve of Draco’s smile that Harry couldn’t shake, as if it had been carved just for this moment. The way Draco’s hair fell across his forehead, silken, untouched strands, made Harry’s fingers itch to brush it back.

Draco seemed to notice Harry’s lingering gaze and looked back at him, eyebrow raised. “What? Afraid I’ll curse you for old time’s sake?”

Harry rolled his eyes, feeling a bit of color creep up his neck. “Surprisingly, no. I’m not worried about that.”

“Then, what?”

Harry hesitated, caught off guard by Draco's question. He searched for something to say, something that wouldn't reveal the confusing tangle of thoughts running through his mind. But Draco was looking at him, genuinely curious, and it was hard to retreat behind his usual walls when Draco was being so… open.

“I don’t know,” Harry admitted, a bit sheepishly. “It’s just strange, I guess. Seeing you like this.” He gestured vaguely, as if Draco himself were some oddity, something to be figured out.

“Like what?” Draco tilted his head, amused.

“Like… you’re normal. That’s not—I—I mean, not that you weren’t—but—”

“Go on,” Draco prodded, his smirk growing. “I’m dying to know what Harry Potter thinks is so strange about me.”

Harry felt his face flush a little. “It’s just… you seem different. Lighter, maybe. Less… angry.”

“I suppose I am.”

“It’s not bad,” Harry added quickly.

Draco smiled delicately, looking down at the table. “Quite the compliment, Potter.”

Harry’s gaze softened, and an unexpected warmth unfurled in his chest. He couldn’t quite decipher what it meant. It was easy to chalk it up to the strangeness of the situation—sitting here with Draco Malfoy, of all people, talking as if they were old friends. It felt surreal, almost like stepping into an alternate reality. But as much as he tried to dismiss it as nothing more than an oddity, he couldn’t deny that it was… nice. Unfamiliar, but nice.

Draco gave him a long look. Harry wished he was better at reading Malfoy’s expressions. “Careful, Potter. Keep looking at me like that, and people might start talking.”

Harry snorted. “And you’d love that, wouldn’t you?”

Draco’s smirk widened. “Oh, immensely.”

They fell into a comfortable silence, a surprising ease settling between them. Harry’s mind buzzed with questions, with the strange pull he felt toward this new version of Draco that was almost… endearing.

Harry allowed himself to sit in the quiet, letting it wash over him like a balm. Just the two of them, hidden from the world, not as enemies, not as heroes, but simply as themselves.

Over the next few weeks, Harry found his thoughts drifting to Malfoy more often than he cared to admit. It wasn’t the way he used to think about him back at school, when every glance was charged with rivalry and every encounter was an opportunity to spar with words or wands. No, this was different. This was quieter, unexpected. It was about the way Draco’s hair would slip over his eyes in an almost careless tumble, how he would absentmindedly brush it back with a flick of his fingers. It was the way a faint smile would touch his lips when he was lost in thought, as if there were secrets in his mind that he was finally at peace with.

It was the startling lightness in Draco’s laughter, rare but real, that resonated in Harry’s chest long after it faded. It was the way he moved through a room with a newfound ease, as if he’d shed the heavy skin of who he’d been and learned how to breathe again. It was the absence of the constant defensiveness that once marred his sharp features, replaced now with something soft and open.

There was a time when Draco’s eyes were hard, like mercury trapped in glass, swirling with something venomous. Now, they were the quiet silver of twilight, a transition between day and night where everything felt possible. Where they once shone like cold constellations casting judgment, they now pulled Harry in like a celestial map, guiding him to places he never knew he wanted to discover.

Yes, Harry often found himself thinking about Malfoy’s eyes.

Hermione’s stirred her tea, the soft clinking of the spoon breaking the silence between her and Harry. Harry sat across from her, hands restless on the table, fingers tracing the chipped edge of his mug. The opted to meet at a Muggle café near Harry’s flat, seeing as the Muggle World was easier for Harry to be in these days.

 “Hermione, could it… could it be the soul tether?” Harry asked, voicing his inner thoughts. “The reason why I—why I keep thinking about Malfoy?”

It wasn’t something he was particularly thrilled to admit aloud—but he knew Hermione would understand. She had been there after all, when the soul-tether was discovered. Hell, she had pieced it together herself so she couldn’t quite condemn the situation. That made it easier for Harry to be honest about his feelings regarding Malfoy.

Hermione’s eyes softened with understanding, but there was something analytical in her gaze too, a careful sorting of thoughts as she always did when confronted with something complex. She set down her spoon, folding her hands neatly in front of her.

“Well, Harry, soul bonds and soul tethers—they’re not the same thing. A soul bond is… well, it’s intimate, deep. It connects two souls in a way that’s almost symbiotic. They share emotions, sometimes even thoughts, and it’s mutual, binding.”

Harry’s heartbeat stuttered at the thought, an image of Draco’s calm, pale eyes flashing in his mind.

“But a soul tether,” Hermione continued, interrupting his spiraling thoughts, “it’s quite different. It’s more like an echo—a residual connection born from shared magic or experiences. It ties two people, yes, but not in the same consuming way a bond does. It doesn’t compel you to think about them, or feel drawn to them. Not unless something about the tether is triggered.”

Harry’s brows knit together. “So… you’re saying this isn’t it? This pull, this… whatever it is—it’s not the tether making me feel this way?”

“I don’t think so. Harry, whatever you’re feeling—it’s coming from you. The tether might have opened the door, but it’s not pushing you through it.”

Harry swallowed, the tightness in his chest refusing to let up. He glanced down at his hands, fingers flexing as if they could somehow grasp the answer. The idea that this feeling—the way Draco seemed to permeate his thoughts, weaving himself into the quietest moments of his day—was entirely his own made something shift within him.

“But then why…”

“The tether itself, Harry, is a rare magical phenomenon. It usually happens when two magical forces converge in an extraordinary way—when the intent and the magic of two people intertwine at a fundamental level. But it’s not… emotional in nature. It’s not necessarily meant  to feel personal.”

Harry’s eyes flicked up to hers, searching for any sign that she might be wrong, that there was an explanation for the strange way his heart tightened every time he thought of Draco. But Hermione’s expression was resolute, analytical as ever.

“The tether is more like a thread linking you both in existence,” she went on, eyes far away as she recalled her studies. “It’s there, and it binds your fates in some way, but it shouldn’t cause this… fixation, for lack of a better word. What you’re describing, Harry—it’s different. The tether might explain why you’re aware of each other, why there’s a sense of recognition or calm in his presence, but it shouldn’t be driving thoughts or feelings.”

Harry felt the weight of her words settle over him like a blanket of realization. If the tether wasn’t responsible for the way Draco lingered in his mind, then the answer lay somewhere deeper, in places he hadn’t dared to look. He wasn’t sure if he was ready to face that.

Hermione offered a faint smile as she reached for her tea. “You know, the tether might make you feel connected, like you share some unspoken understanding. But it won’t make you see him the way you’ve described. That’s something else entirely, Harry. And maybe, just maybe, it’s not the magic that’s pulling you—it’s what’s left beyond the magic.”

He nodded slowly, the rain outside blurring the world beyond the glass. Draco’s eyes came to mind and for once, Harry didn’t push the thought away.

The bell above the café door chimed, cutting through their conversation. Harry looked up to see Ron stepping in, rain dripping from his hair and shoulders as he shook out his coat and made his way over to their table. His face was flushed with frustration, eyes darting from Harry to Hermione.

“It’s worse,” Ron announced without preamble, sliding into the chair next to Hermione. “They raided a house last night—said they were looking for ‘subversive materials.’ Took the whole family in for questioning, kids and all.”

Hermione’s eyes widened, and she set her tea down with a clatter. “That’s—Ron, that’s not just overreach, that’s tyranny! What did Kingsley say?”

Ron scoffed, running a hand through his wet hair. “What do you think? He’s tied up in their rules, still trying to hold things together from the inside. But it’s not working. They’re slipping further into control mode every day.”

Harry felt anger searing through his veins. His fingers dug into the edge of the table, knuckles whitening. “So, what do we do?”

Hermione sat up straighter. “We do it the right way. We gather evidence, we expose their corruption with undeniable proof, and we use the laws in place to hold them accountable. If we start acting outside of the law, we’re no better than they are.”

Harry’s jaw tightened, the muscles in his neck straining as he swallowed back the urge to argue. “And how long does that take, Hermione? How many more people get trampled while we’re busy collecting proof and playing by their rules?”

Ron shifted uncomfortably, eyes flicking between them. “I don’t want to see anyone else hurt, but we need to be smart, mate. We can’t just storm the Ministry or hex every Auror who’s lost their moral compass.”

“I’m not talking about storming the Ministry, Ron. I’m talking about doing what needs to be done, even if it means bending the rules. We spent years following the rules, and where did that get us? With graves to visit and the world turned into this.”

Hermione, ever perceptive, watched Harry. Her eyes were soft with concern, but she caught the shadows creeping into Harry’s expression, the darker edge that hadn’t been there before.  “Harry, we can’t lose ourselves to this. If we fight the way they fight, what are we left with at the end?”

“Maybe that’s the point, Hermione. Maybe we’re not left with anything except knowing that we didn’t stand by and let it happen.”

Ron shifted. “We need a plan, a real one. Not just reacting out of anger.”

The rain continued to patter against the windows, casting silvery trails that distorted the view of the street beyond. The world outside moved on, oblivious to the turmoil at their small corner table.

Harry’s mind raced with images of those who had fallen, those who’d believed in a world that no longer existed. He wasn’t sure where this path would lead, but the anger inside him felt like the only thing he could trust now, the only thing that hadn’t been shattered or twisted beyond recognition.

Harry had played the hero, carried the light even when it burned him, and watched as it failed to save the people he loved. The world had asked too much of him, and now, with empty hands and a heart cracked by loss, he wondered what power lay in the dark corners he had once avoided.

“I’ll find a way,” Harry said finally, the words more to himself than to them.

But they heard him, and they shared a look that was half worry, half resolve.

The streets of Muggle London were slick with rain, a silvery sheen glistening under the dim glow of streetlamps. Harry’s footsteps echoed against the cobblestones, a rhythmic beat that matched the restless thrum in his chest. He didn’t know why he had come this way or where he was going; it was as though some unseen thread was guiding him through the maze of alleys and narrow streets.

The wind picked up, tugging at the edges of his coat. Harry shivered, pulling it tighter around him. He rubbed at his chest absentmindedly, the spot just above his heart where an inexplicable warmth seemed to pulse, faint but insistent. It wasn’t painful, but it was there—nagging, drawing him forward.

And then he saw him.

Draco Malfoy stood across the dimly lit street, haloed by the flickering glow of a neon sign that painted him in sharp, electric hues. His hair, pale and almost ghostly, clung damply to his forehead, catching the fractured light like threads of moon spun into silk. A crumpled piece of paper rested in one hand; the other hand let a set of keys dangle precariously.

He seemed at once displaced and belonging, wrapped in simple Muggle clothes that should have been a contradiction, yet draped him with a casual defiance. He was a beautiful paradox—out of time and place, but somehow more real than the shifting world around him.

Harry almost resented how... poised Malfoy always managed to look. Even in this setting, a chaotic blend of city sounds and half-broken neon signs casting fractured shadows across cracked pavement, Draco stood with an elegance that defied explanation. The thin cotton of his dark jumper clung to him like it had been tailored for this moment alone, sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal the subtle curve of his wrist and the silvery tracery of veins beneath pale skin. The worn denim he wore should have been an afterthought, yet on him, it seemed deliberate, the way it skimmed his frame and caught the errant gleam of streetlights.

There was a grace in how Draco held himself, even now, amidst the noise and blur of passersby who never spared them a glance. He stood tall, but not rigid, the keys in his hand tapping a quiet, metallic rhythm that matched the calm rise and fall of his chest. He had a gracefulness that made Harry’s chest ache with something unnamed—a fleeting jealousy, perhaps, that Draco could look both composed and utterly unmoored at the same time.

Harry's eyes traced the way Draco’s damp hair curled against his temples, how the strands glistened like the faintest touch of stardust beneath the hazy glow of the city. There was a softness to his expression, a subtle tilt to his lips. For a moment, Harry felt the edges of the world blur, leaving only Draco and the easy elegance that surrounded him.

Draco belonged to this moment, impossibly graceful, as though chaos itself had bent to him. And Harry, standing just out of reach, felt as though he were witnessing something rare, something caught between the ordinary and the divine.

Draco glanced up, as if sensing eyes on him. His silver gaze found Harry, widening slightly before settling into an expression that was unreadable, a mask of practiced calm. They stood there, separated by the road, the rain falling between them like a curtain.

Harry’s mind raced, confusion tightening like a fist in his gut. What was Malfoy doing here, in the heart of Muggle London, keys in hand and a look that was almost… expectant?

“Potter,” Draco’s voice carried over the patter of rain, laced with an amused lilt. He didn’t move from his spot but lifted the paper he held, shaking it lightly. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Harry crossed the street without thinking, feet moving of their own accord. He stopped a few feet away, close enough to see the drops of rain clinging to Draco’s lashes, the way his lips quirked up at the corners.

“Malfoy,” Harry said, trying to steady his voice. It came out rougher than he intended. “What are you doing here?”

Draco’s smirk deepened, a shadow of the boy Harry remembered, yet somehow softer, less cruel. He lifted the keys, their metal catching the light with a faint jingle. “Looking for an apartment. Thought I’d try something different.” His eyes flicked over Harry’s face, searching for something. “And you? Wandering the Muggle world for kicks?”

Harry took a breath, the rain soaking into his hair, trickling down his neck. “I—didn’t expect to see you.”

“Neither did I.” Draco’s eyes raked over Harry in a way that made him want to squirm—but he didn’t. He held his ground, feigning nonchalance. “You didn’t answer the question.”

“You’re looking for an apartment?” Harry asked, recalling Draco’s prior words. “In… in the Muggle world?”

Draco’s gaze shifted upward, eyes following the soft fall of the rain. After a moment, he stepped aside, moving under the awning of a nearby storefront. Harry hesitated for only a second before following, stepping out of the rain and into the small pocket of dry space beside Draco.

“Is it really so strange?” Draco asked, a faint grin playing on his lips. “You’ve tried to escape the wizarding world too, haven’t you? Why the surprise that I’m doing the same?”

“It’s not—I’m—I just meant—”

“Relax, Potter,” Draco interrupted with a breathy laugh. “Breathe, would you?”

“Sorry.”

“It shouldn’t surprise you, Potter, that despite my shift in allegiance, the wizarding world hasn’t entirely… welcomed me back.”

“What about the manor?”

Draco’s shoulders lifted in a nonchalant shrug. “The Ministry seized it,” he said, a bitter edge creeping into his tone. “It’s going up for auction soon.”

“But—your mother—”

“She’s in France with Aunt Andromeda,” Draco said, his voice quieter, gaze drifting to a point beyond Harry’s shoulder.

“And you’ve… decided to move to the Muggle world?” Harry’s words were careful, as if probing the surface of something fragile.

“It’s not as if I have many choices left, Potter. Sometimes, you take whatever semblance of freedom you can find.”

Harry paused for a long moment, studying Draco’s composed expression. “You seem… rather calm about the whole situation.”

Draco arched an eyebrow. “Would you prefer I throw a fit and hex the nearest lamppost? Cause a scene that would send the Muggles running and give the Ministry a good laugh?”

Despite himself, Harry’s lips twitched. “I suppose not.”

Draco’s smirk softened into something more genuine. “Calm or not, Potter, I learned a long time ago that raging against what I can’t change is exhausting. Besides, I’d rather reserve my energy for more productive pursuits.”

“Those being…?”

“Reinventing myself,” he said simply, glancing at the street around them as if weighing his words against the backdrop of their current reality. “And, apparently, apartment hunting in neighborhoods that smell faintly of rain and car exhaust.”

Harry tilted his head, studying the man before him. The boy who once glared daggers and wielded words like weapons was now here, in the heart of Muggle London, as he spoke of starting over like it was the most natural thing in the world.

There was no armor left, no coiled tension ready to spring. Draco’s eyes—like liquid metal softened by warmth. Harry noticed the subtle curve of Draco’s mouth, how it lifted in a way that was neither forced nor cautious, but authentic, as if he had found peace in places Harry had yet to look.

The contrast was stark and beautiful: the man who once craved recognition now seemed to seek nothing more than his own truth, unconcerned with who was watching or what they expected.

And for Harry, who had spent years bound by the weight of others’ expectations, that freedom was as disarming as it was intriguing. Here was Draco Malfoy, remade, standing at the crossroads of past and present, daring the world to question him. And Harry, unable to look away, found himself questioning everything he thought he knew.

“Reinventing yourself?” Harry echoed. “That’s a far cry from the Malfoy who used to boast about bloodlines and ancient family manors.”

Draco’s smile widened, and for a moment, it almost reached his eyes. “Yes, well, it’s amazing what dying does for one’s perspective, isn’t it?” His tone was light, almost teasing, but Harry caught the flicker of something deeper—raw and buried beneath layers of practiced calm.

Harry looked down at his feet. “I guess so.”

“Tell me, Potter—have you figured out what you’re doing here yet?”

“Maybe I’m trying to do the same thing.” Harry hesitated. He licked his lips, glancing sideways before continuing. “I live a few blocks over. Near that old park with the cracked fountain.”

Draco’s eyebrows lifted. “Really? Here I thought you were just haunting random Muggle streets during the day.”

Harry huffed a quiet laugh. “No. I mean, I do spend some time at the Burrow, but… it’s quieter here. Like you said. Less history, fewer reminders.”

Draco’s gaze softened, the teasing smirk fading into something almost contemplative. “Seems we both decided that a little anonymity might be the key to surviving this mess.”

“Yeah.”

Draco's eyes lingered on Harry for a moment longer. The rain had eased into a fine mist, painting the street in shades of silver. It was almost enough to make the world feel muted, peaceful.

“Well, Potter,” Draco said finally, breaking the silence, “I should continue my search before I’m drenched and looking more like a wet cat than a proper tenant. The Muggles might think me eccentric.”

Harry’s lips twitched. “I’d pay to see that.”

“Of course you would.”

Harry shifted, a part of him reluctant to let this strange, unexpected moment end. “Good luck, Malfoy. With the apartment, I mean.”

“Thanks, Potter. Maybe next time we run into each other, it won’t be in the middle of a downpour.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, the rain running cool down the back of his neck. “Maybe.”

Draco nodded, a slight dip of his head that felt almost like a farewell, and turned to walk down the street. His figure cut a striking silhouette against the wet pavement, shoulders set, steps steady. Harry watched him go, the pull in his chest a subtle, unnameable thing that lingered even after Draco disappeared into the gray haze.

With a sigh, Harry turned and made his way back the way he came, the rain seeping into his clothes and making everything feel heavy.

The corridors of the Ministry of Magic were eerily quiet, a far cry from the bustling, frenzied energy they once held. The silence spoke louder than the whispers that passed between employees in the dim corners, eyes averted and voices hushed. Harry walked past closed doors, past Aurors who stood rigid with tense, watchful eyes.

The Ministry’s corridors felt like veins in a dying beast, pulsing with a silence that carried secrets and betrayals. Harry had walked them before as a hero, but now he felt like an intruder in a place where justice had been twisted into something unrecognizable.

When he reached Kingsley Shacklebolt’s office, the door was ajar, a faint glow from the fireplace casting long shadows across the hallway. Harry knocked once, the sound echoing dully, and stepped inside at the low call of, “Enter.”

Kingsley stood by the window. The lines on his face were deeper than Harry remembered, carved by sleepless nights and relentless burdens. He turned, his expression both weary and resolute.

“Harry,” Kingsley said, nodding in acknowledgment. “Thank you for coming.”

Harry took a seat in front of the cluttered desk, glancing at the papers stacked haphazardly, each bearing seals and scribbled notes. The air was thick with the scent of parchment and ink, tinged with the faint metallic tang of the wards that now guarded every inch of the Ministry.

“What’s going on, Kingsley?” Harry asked, cutting straight to the point. The tension in his shoulders hadn’t eased since he’d walked through the atrium.

Kingsley sighed, running a hand over his closely shaven head. “You know things haven’t been… right, not since the war ended. The Ministry is grasping at control like a drowning man clutching at straws. There’s fear, Harry. Fear that the peace we fought for was only a pause, not an end.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “So they’re trying to keep it in check by suffocating everyone?”

“The new policies were meant to prevent chaos, to keep any remnants of Voldemort’s supporters from regaining power. But it’s twisted beyond recognition. The Department of Magical Order and Security—DAMOS—they were given too much authority, and now… now they’re using it to suppress, not protect.”

“DAMOS,” Harry muttered, the name leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. He had seen their handiwork, the way they patrolled the wizarding world streets, the raids, the fear they cultivated in their wake. “Who’s behind this? It can’t just be a few power-hungry officials.”

Kingsley’s expression turned grim. “Dolores Umbridge was reinstated, under the guise of ‘peacekeeping’ measures. She’s taken to DAMOS like a spider to its web, building a network of power that answers to no one but itself. She’s cunning, Harry, and she’s convinced others that her methods are necessary. That without them, we risk slipping back into chaos.”

Harry’s blood ran cold. The memory of her sickly-sweet smile, the way she thrived on cruelty masked as order, twisted like a knife in his gut. “Umbridge,” he spat. “How did this even—why didn’t anyone stop her?!”

“Because she came back with allies, Harry. Wealthy pure-blood families looking to re-establish their influence, figures in power afraid of losing control. And with Voldemort’s fall, everyone is too afraid to take a stand against anything that smells like rebellion. They see suppression as a safer alternative to freedom. They’d rather chain the wizarding world than risk letting it burn.”

“So, what do we do? We can’t just stand by and watch this happen.”

Kingsley walked around the desk and sat down heavily. “We need allies, Harry. People who aren’t afraid to push back, to question this so-called peace that’s being forced upon us. But the ones brave enough to stand up are being silenced, detained, or worse. DAMOS has eyes and ears everywhere.”

A sharp silence fell over them, broken only by the crackling of the fire.

Kingsley’s expression darkened, the lines around his mouth deepening. “That’s not the only reason I called you here, Harry. There’s another matter—a delicate one.”

Harry’s brow furrowed as he leaned forward.

“It’s about Draco Malfoy’s trial,” Kingsley continued, his voice low and serious. “As you know, it was delayed due to him being comatose for months after the war. DAMOS is using that delay as leverage. They’re planning to make an example of him, Harry. They want to remind the wizarding world of their power by dragging him through a spectacle of a trial.”

Harry’s heart sank, and a mixture of emotions stirred within him. He thought of Draco, pale and unguarded the last time they had spoken, a shadow of who he once was. The notion of him facing a public trial, manipulated for DAMOS’s agenda, churned something cold and bitter in Harry’s chest.

“But that’s not justice,” Harry said, his voice edged with frustration. “That’s using him as a bloody pawn.”

Kingsley’s eyes softened. “Exactly. DAMOS is framing it as a means to ‘cleanse’ the wizarding world of any remnants of Voldemort’s supporters. But it’s not about justice—it’s about control and fear. If Malfoy is convicted, regardless of his actions during the war, it will set a precedent. Others will fall next. They’re starting with him because his name carries weight. His fall will be a signal that no one is safe.”

Kingsley paused, his gaze hardening as he continued. “Lucius Malfoy is already imprisoned. They barely gave him a trial—just enough to check a box before they sent him to Azkaban. Yes, Lucius made his choices, and he deserves to answer for them. But there was no attempt to even consider leniency or house arrest, which would have been within reason given the end of the war and Narcissa’s role in saving you. DAMOS is making it clear that they will not show mercy, regardless of the truth or the circumstances.”

Harry felt the tension coil in his chest as Kingsley spoke. The rush to judgment, the hunger for power disguised as justice—it was a familiar pattern. The Ministry’s pursuit of control was no different from the tactics used by the very regime they had fought to defeat.

“They’re using Lucius as a cautionary tale,” Kingsley continued, his voice dropping. “And now they’re coming for Draco. Not because he poses a threat, but because his downfall will strengthen their grip. If they succeed, it will show that they can come for anyone—no matter how reformed or innocent.”

Harry clenched his fists at his sides. The thought of Draco suffering the same fate, caught in the crosshairs of a system desperate to prove its strength, filled him with a righteous anger. “What can I do?”

Kingsley leaned forward, the light from the fire casting sharp shadows across his face. “You were there, Harry. You know what he did and didn’t do. Your voice, your testimony—it still holds power. If you speak for him, if you tell the truth about the choices he made, it could change the outcome. It could save him.”

Harry's resolve was a savage storm howling with fury inside his chest. He would splinter the bones of heaven itself, let darkness seep into his blood like a poison, if it meant preserving the fragile, shattered peace that Draco Malfoy carried in his wary eyes. Harry would be damned before he let Draco Malfoy fall. 

He had seen Draco Malfoy die. He had seen Draco Malfoy change, during the war and after. He had seen Draco Malfoy become a man shaped by regret, desperately searching for peace to hold onto. And then there was the tether—an unbreakable thread between their souls, binding them together in ways Harry couldn’t name but felt in every breath, every heartbeat. He couldn’t explain it; all he knew was that he'd damn himself to the deepest abyss before he ever let Draco Malfoy go down.

“I’ll do it,” Harry said. “But what happens if it’s not enough? What if DAMOS twists the truth, no matter what I say?”

“That’s why we need to be prepared, Harry. This trial could be a turning point, not just for Draco, but for the entire wizarding world. If DAMOS pushes too far, it could be the catalyst that finally makes people realize what’s really happening. But it could also mean consequences—for you, for him, for everyone willing to stand up and fight.”

Harry’s gaze steeled.

“They’re not looking for justice, Harry. They’re looking for obedience.”

“Then it’s time they remember what defiance looks like.”

“Dolores fucking Umbridge?” Ron looked like he was about to grow a second head. “She’s part of this DAMOS lot now? It’s like they’re actively trying to make things worse!”

Harry’s jaw clenched as he leaned back against the worn armchair in the sitting room of Hermione and Ron's flat. “She’s more than part of it, Ron. She’s practically leading it. DAMOS wouldn’t have half the power it does without her. She knows how to play the Ministry’s game better than anyone.”

Hermione, perched on the edge of the sofa with her hands tightly clasped, exhaled a shuddering breath. “It makes sense, in a twisted way. After the war, people like Umbridge were left in the shadows, waiting for the right moment. Now, with the fear still lingering, she’s using it to her advantage. She’s exploiting the trauma, manipulating people into thinking that safety means total control.”

Ron’s fists tightened, his knuckles going white. “And Kingsley? He’s just letting her get away with this?”

Harry shook his head. “It’s not that simple. Kingsley’s influence is waning. DAMOS has planted seeds of doubt and turned key figures against him. The fear they’ve spread makes it hard for people to trust anything that doesn’t promise immediate security, and Umbridge has positioned herself as the one who can deliver that.”

Hermione’s eyes softened as she looked at Harry. “This is why Draco’s trial is so important, isn’t it? It’s not just about him. If they can use his name to prove they can hold power over anyone, the rest will follow like dominos.”

Harry nodded. “Exactly. They want Draco as the first example—to show that if they can take down a Malfoy, they can take down anyone. And if they succeed...”

“They’ll go after everyone who doesn’t fit their idea of loyalty,” Hermione finished. “It’s tyranny, thinly veiled under the guise of security.”

Ron ran a hand through his hair. “But... how in Merlin’s name did she even get out of Azkaban? Last I heard, they locked her up and threw away the key.”

Hermione exhaled, eyes narrowed. “The only way Umbridge could have gotten out of Azkaban is through high-level Ministry support, or a deal brokered during the chaos after the war. The records might be gone, but there has to be some trace of how this happened.”

“A deal? With whom? Did someone at the Ministry think letting her out was a good idea?”

Hermione’s expression was grave. “It’s possible. During the war, loyalties were blurry, and the aftermath was chaotic. The Ministry was desperate, making compromises to keep itself from collapsing. If Umbridge offered information or leverage—anything they thought would help stabilize power—it might explain her release.”

Harry’s jaw clenched. “So she slipped through under the guise of some wartime agreement?”

Hermione nodded. “It wouldn’t be the first time the Ministry made deals with people they shouldn’t have. And with so many records conveniently destroyed or sealed after the war, there’s no telling what kind of arrangements were made to ‘keep the peace.’”

“So she weasels her way out with a bargain and now she’s here, lording over everything like the war never happened.” Ron looked like he was going to be sick. 

Harry glanced down at his hand, the faint scar from Umbridge's cruelty still etched into his flesh. “And she’s using DAMOS to enforce her twisted vision of control.”

“And we can’t forget who’s at the top,” Hermione added. “Minister Harland Travers isn’t exactly known for his integrity. He’s more interested in consolidating power than leading with any real sense of justice. If he had anything to gain from Umbridge’s release, he wouldn’t hesitate.”

Ron’s jaw tightened. “Travers… he’s twisted, all right. All smiles in public, but ruthless behind closed doors. He’s always been about keeping control, even if it means throwing his own people under the bus.”

“We’re going to have to play this carefully,” Hermione murmured, half still in thought. “If Travers and Umbridge are pulling the strings, they won’t go down without a fight.”

Ron furrowed his brow, the confusion evident. “But hang on—Umbridge was always Voldemort-adjacent, wasn’t she? All that pure-blood supremacy and anti-Muggle propaganda. Now she’s part of some crackdown that targets Death Eaters too? It doesn’t add up.”

Hermione pressed her lips into a thin line, reflecting Ron’s bewilderment. “It’s contradictory, isn’t it? You’d think she’d side with anyone pushing a pure-blood agenda, not turn against them.”

Harry shook his head, a bitter edge in his voice. “No, it makes sense if you look at it from her perspective. For Umbridge, it was never really about Voldemort’s ideology. She didn’t care which side she was on as long as she could wield power and control people. Voldemort offered her that for a while, but now that he’s gone, she’s found a new way to be on top. DAMOS, Travers’ twisted leadership—none of it matters to her as long as she gets to enforce her authority.”

Ron heaved a heavy breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. “So, she’s just a power-hungry vulture, willing to sink her claws into anything that lets her stay in control. Brilliant,” he scoffed.

A tense silence fell between them, each lost in their own thoughts. The rain outside had picked up, tapping insistently against the windows as if urging them forward.

Bitter indignation coursed through Harry's veins like vitriol, seething beneath his skin. A festering resentment. His destiny, engineered by fate and Dumbledore's guidance, forged a warrior. Was this the hollow victory their sacrifices had purchased? Friends laid to rest, blood spilled, now squandered on a rotten edifice? A system corrupt, coddling Umbridge's cruelty and Travers's malice, while suffocating innocence beneath fear's suffocating embrace.

No, Harry hadn't spent his life sacrificing innocence and being raised as an unwitting martyr to merely exchange one dictatorship for another. To hell with that.

He knew Hermione would want to do things the right way—build a case, gather allies, expose the corruption step by step. Ron would back her, grumbling but steadfast.

And Harry? He’d play along, for now.

But deep inside, he knew he was done playing nice. He was done accepting a world that twisted their sacrifices into chains.

If it came to it, he would do what he had to, damn the consequences.

He was done being the wizarding world's pawn.

The rain drummed steadily on the windowpane as Harry sat in the darkened corner of his flat, his mind somewhere else. A spark of anger flared in his chest, but this time it wasn’t directed at the Ministry or the memories of Dolores Umbridge. It was directed at himself, for sitting here, waiting, and doing nothing while the world twisted itself into another form of totalitarianism.

Harry couldn’t quite voice it—it sounded wrong to his own ears—but something acrimonious festered at the core of his being. Maybe it was self-absorbed, maybe even egotistical, but the truth remained: Harry had spent his whole life being a puppet. Whether it was Dumbledore pulling the strings or Voldemort tightening the noose, nothing in his life came from his own will. He never asked to be the Chosen One, never wanted to be the Boy Who Lived—but he was. He was destined to play a role, serve a purpose, and fulfill what was expected of him.

He never asked for any of it. He never had a say. He never had a choice.

He stood by and watched the people he loved die, then pressed on to save the wizarding world as though it was solely his responsibility because, after all, he was the Chosen One. Sure, maybe he didn’t have to come back from King’s Cross that day during the final battle—but that would make him selfish, wouldn’t it?

Now, with the current state of the wizarding world, Harry knew this wasn’t some personal vendetta against him. There was no Dark Lord whose sole purpose was to kill Harry Potter—this time, none of it had anything to do with him. If Harry wanted, he could sit back and watch it all unfold, not a care in the world. He could escape, vanish to the farthest reaches of the earth, leaving the chaos behind.

And yet… somehow… all of this—everything about the Ministry’s new oppressive methods of governing—felt like a directed slap to Harry’s face, a ploy to make a mockery of Harry Potter and everything he had spent his life fighting for, fighting against.

Harry knew this was an impractical, vain way of thinking. The world, in fact, does not revolve around Harry Potter. But that knowledge did nothing to rid him of the growing resentment and rancor gnawing at his insides.

What had he lost his childhood for? What had he spent so many years fighting for—surviving for? What about all the people he had lost, the friends and loved ones he would never see again? What had his parents died for?

The entirety of his life seemed futile now. Trading Voldemort for Umbridge? Harry thought bitterly that maybe, just maybe, they’d be better off with old Tom Riddler. If this was what it had all led to, then perhaps if Harry had known, he wouldn’t have fought at all. He wouldn’t have opened the Chamber of Secrets. He wouldn’t have hunted down every last Horcrux. He wouldn’t have come back from King’s Cross to face Voldemort that final time.

He wouldn’t have done any of it—because now, looking at the state of things, he couldn’t help but wonder, what was the point?

His thoughts wandered, unbidden, to Draco Malfoy. The image of him standing in the rain, hair damp and eyes reflecting the city lights, haunted Harry with an inexplicable pull. It wasn’t the first time he’d felt the tether tugging, a subtle, persistent thrum in his chest that reminded him Draco was out there, that they were connected by a force neither of them fully understood.

With a sharp intake of breath, Harry sat up straight, the warmth above his heart pulsing more insistently. Maybe he could use it. Maybe he could follow that connection, find where it led, and see Draco. It was a reckless idea, and Hermione would have raised an eyebrow so high it might touch the ceiling if she knew what he was about to attempt. But Harry was beyond caring about reason.

He needed to see Draco. Now.

Standing up, he closed his eyes and focused on the faint warmth, willing it to guide him. It was like reaching out into the dark, hands fumbling for a thread barely within reach. The sensation grew stronger, a pull deep within his chest that seemed to resonate like a compass needle aligning itself. He felt a flicker of magic respond, like a whisper in his ear, and before he could second-guess himself, he Apparated, trusting that the tether would take him where he needed to be.

The familiar feeling of compression, the world twisting around him, and then—

Harry landed with a jolt, rain-slick cobblestones beneath his feet and the dim glow of Muggle streetlamps casting long shadows over the narrow road. The street was quiet, save for the rhythmic patter of rain and the faint hum of traffic in the distance. He glanced around, breath caught in his throat as he tried to orient himself.

A block ahead, light spilled out from a second-floor window, warm and inviting amidst the night’s gloom.

He knew, without a doubt, that this was it. Draco was here.

The door to the building was unlocked, a testament to the trusting nature of Muggles who hadn’t lived through war and paranoia. Harry slipped inside, taking the stairs two at a time, the pulse in his chest thrumming louder with every step. When he reached the door, he hesitated, hand hovering just above the wood, listening to the faint sound of movement inside.

Gathering his courage, he knocked.

There was a pause, then the creak of floorboards and the sound of a lock being turned. The door opened, revealing Draco Malfoy in a loose jumper and jeans, fabric that clung and shifted with the lithe lines of his body. His hair, pale and fine as silver thread, was slightly damp, glistening like it had caught the last kiss of rain.

Harry's breath hitched for reasons he wouldn't voice, not even to himself.

There was a sharp elegance to Draco, a fit strength woven into every movement, the kind that spoke of resilience and a life that had bent but never broken him. The warm light caught the subtle slope of Draco’s shoulders and the way the jumper framed him, softening the sharpness Harry remembered from their youth. There was something unguarded in his gaze now, something that made Harry’s chest ache, and in that moment, he knew—he would unravel every strand of himself to keep this sight alive. How could he not?

Draco’s eyes widened as they landed on Harry, mouth parting in surprise.

“Potter,” Draco breathed, voice tinged with disbelief. “What on earth are you doing here?”

Harry felt a rush of relief, inexplicably intense, at the sight of Draco standing there, alive and whole. It was always a relief. Not that he had any reason to suspect Draco would be anything but—nevertheless, the sight of Draco standing here made Harry remember how to breathe. He swallowed, realizing he hadn’t planned what to say.

“I needed to see you,” Harry admitted hastily. He didn’t have any other excuse anyway.

Draco’s expression flickered between confusion, curiosity, and something else Harry couldn’t quite name. He stepped back, gesturing for Harry to come inside. The flat was small but comfortable, the scent of rain mingling with faint notes of tea and parchment. Harry’s eyes darted around, taking in the books piled on a low table, the half-empty cup of tea, and a record player in the corner, still spinning silently.

Draco closed the door behind him and crossed his arms, leaning against it. His gaze was guarded, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at his lips, as though he couldn’t quite believe Harry Potter was standing in his living room.

“So,” Draco said, breaking the silence. “Do you usually show up unannounced, or is this a special occasion?”

Harry huffed a quiet laugh, running a hand through his damp hair. “Sorry. I didn’t plan this. I just… needed to talk.”

Draco’s expression softened, almost imperceptibly. “You look like you’ve had one hell of a day,” he said, eyes scanning Harry’s face with an almost unsettling intensity. “Come on. Sit down before you collapse. Tea?”

“Sure,” Harry replied, moving to the small couch. The fabric felt soft beneath his fingers as he sank into it. He watched Draco move around the kitchen as he poured two cups. When Draco returned, he handed one to Harry before settling into the armchair opposite him, sitting with practiced elegance.

Draco leaned back, one leg draped over the other, the saucer balanced effortlessly on his knee. “You look rather… perturbed,” he noted, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly.

Harry swallowed, staring into his cup as if it held answers. “I just—there’s a lot on my mind these days. That’s all.”

“Well, Potter, when isn’t there?” Draco paused thoughtfully. “Is this… about the Ministry.”

Harry’s gaze lifted sharply, meeting Draco’s. “How did you—”

“Kingsley’s been trying to keep things together, but I’ve heard whispers,” Draco answered. “Even hiding out here—it’s rather challenging to miss the noise of the Wizarding World.”

“It’s worse than whispers,” Harry said. “It’s Umbridge, Malfoy. She’s behind DAMOS. And they’re… they’re coming for you.”

Draco’s jaw tightened, a shadow crossing his eyes. He looked away, fingers tapping a restless pattern on the arm of the chair. “I thought as much. The letters, the warnings—they’ve been getting bolder.”

Harry leaned forward, his fingers tightening around the warm ceramic of his teacup. “Malfoy—I won’t let them use you as an example. I came to tell you that. I’ll stand by you in this, no matter what.”

Draco stared at Harry for a long, tense moment “Why would you do that?”

“What do you mean, why?”

“I mean, Potter, there’s really no reason for you to go that far. You don’t owe me anything.”

“The soul-tether—”

Draco let out a soft sigh and set his cup on the table with deliberate care. “Oh, Potter,” he said, a hint of exasperation in his voice. “You and I both know this isn’t about the soul-tether. That tether was merely a magical fluke, a twist of fate that kept me anchored to this world. It’s done its part. Besides, soul-tethers can be severed easily enough.”

Harry shook his head. “I reckon there’s got to be some kind of loyalty or bond tied to them, though.”

Draco leaned back, a faint smirk ghosting over his lips, though his eyes betrayed a wariness that Harry couldn’t ignore. “Loyalty? Potter, you’re grasping at straws. The tether may have saved my life, but it doesn’t compel you to care about it. Or me.”

Harry set his teacup down, the delicate clink sounding louder than it should have. “Then let me make it simple. I choose to stand by you. Not because of the tether, not because I owe you anything, but because I won’t watch them destroy you for their own ends. I won’t let that happen.”

What Harry failed to mention, purposefully, was that he had watched Draco die once, he watched Draco change since then, and he was not going to watch anyone drag Draco down now when Harry was well aware that Draco deserved better.

Draco’s eyes met his. Instead of surprise or fear, there was a calm acceptance in his gaze that made Harry’s chest tighten with frustration. The corner of Draco’s mouth twitched up into a small, resigned smile. “And what if that’s exactly what I deserve, Potter? What if being made an example is my atonement?”

Harry recoiled as though struck. He stood abruptly, hands curling into fists at his sides. “What the hell are you talking about? You didn’t choose this—none of us did! And now you think it’s alright for them to drag you through a prejudiced trial, to let her twist everything? How can you just sit there and accept it?”

Draco didn’t flinch at Harry’s outburst. “Because I’m tired, Potter. Tired of running, tired of the guilt. If the price of peace is for me to pay with my freedom, then so be it.”

“You think locking you away is peace? That’s not peace—that’s punishment. And you don’t deserve that, not after everything.”

Draco’s calm exterior didn’t crack, but Harry could see it now, the shadow beneath it—a quiet, relentless self-loathing that hadn’t been fully buried. It was there in the way Draco’s fingers dug into the fabric of the chair, in the slight downward tilt of his mouth. “There are sins I need to atone for, Potter,” Draco said softly. “Things I did, things I didn’t stop. This trial, whatever comes from it… maybe it’s justice.”

Harry was all too aware of Draco’s past—his wrongdoings and sins etched into the very fabric of their shared history. But he was also intimately familiar with Draco’s quieter acts of defiance, the moments that spoke of a man trying to make amends. Harry knew that Draco had chosen to switch sides, even if it had been at the eleventh hour. Whether it was too late for forgiveness was not Harry’s decision to make. He remembered how Draco had covertly aided the prisoners at Malfoy Manor, ensuring their escape—including Luna Lovegood’s. And he knew it had been Draco who deactivated the wards, allowing Dobby to rescue Harry and his friends from the manor.

Harry knew these actions didn’t erase the wrongs Draco had committed, but they mattered. They were proof of a complex soul wrestling with the weight of his choices. Harry knew that if Draco were given a fair trial, there might be a chance for him to find the redemption he so desperately sought—something other than a cold life sentence in Azkaban.

But with the Ministry in its current state, fueled by fear and vengeance, Harry had no faith that justice or fairness would prevail. The Wizengamot was no longer a bastion of truth, but a stage for displays of power.

“Justice?” Harry’s voice broke. “Malfoy, this isn’t justice—it’s revenge. It’s them wielding power, not truth.”

“What else is there, Potter?” Draco whispered, a shadow of a bitter laugh escaping him. “I can’t change the past. I can’t rewrite what I did, or undo what I didn’t do. If they want me to suffer for it, maybe I should.”

Harry stepped closer. He searched Draco’s face, looking past the composure, past the calm acceptance, and into the deep, unrelenting self-reproach that simmered beneath. “No. You don’t get to decide you’re guilty just to ease the weight on your conscience. That’s not how this ends, Malfoy.”

Draco’s eyes darted up, startled by the vehemence in Harry’s voice. For a moment, silence stretched between them, taut and fragile. The rain drummed a relentless rhythm on the windowpane, and in that charged pause, Harry’s heart hammered against his ribs.

Draco’s composure wavered as the mask cracked just enough for Harry to see the battle waging inside him. He looked away, shoulders sagging. “And what would you have me do, then?” he asked, voice a whisper. “Fight for a future I’m not sure I deserve?”

“Yes,” Harry said, stepping even closer. “Because you do deserve it. We both do. And I’m not letting them decide that for you. Not while—”

Not while I’m still here.

Draco’s breath hitched, and for the first time, Harry saw the calm shatter, replaced by something raw, something real. Fear, perhaps—or vulnerability.

Draco’s presence was different now, like a song played in a minor key, haunting but beautiful. And Harry found himself drawn to that melody, unable to forget how it had sounded in their darkest moments.

There was something almost holy in the way Draco sat there, the warm light kissing his skin like a blessing he didn’t think he deserved. The air between them held a fragile silence, a moment on the brink of shattering, and Harry felt that if he spoke again, it would be like waking from a delicate, haunting dream.

“What would you have me do?” Draco's voice trembled just enough that Harry almost missed it.

“Kingsley told me that if I gave a deposition—if I spoke on your behalf—it might make a difference. A chance for the truth to come out. But it won’t matter if you’ve already given up.”

Draco’s jaw tightened, his eyes darting away as if searching for an escape. “And you’re willing to do that? Stand up in front of everyone and defend me?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t,” Harry said, voice steady. “You saved people, Malfoy. You made choices that weren’t easy, choices that proved you were more than just a Death Eater’s son. And yes, maybe that doesn’t erase everything, but it counts for something. It has to.”

Draco’s shoulders slumped as he exhaled, the tension bleeding out of him like a deflated balloon. “I didn’t think anyone would remember those choices,” Draco said quietly, almost to himself.

“I do. And so do others. But this only works if you don’t give up on yourself. You have to want to fight for your life as much as—” Harry faltered for a moment. “As much as I do.”

The room settled into a heavy silence. The rain outside had softened into a gentle patter, like a heartbeat, as Draco’s gaze finally met Harry’s, guarded but open. “I never asked for this, you know. For redemption. For anyone to fight for me.”

“I know. But you’re getting it anyway.”

Draco’s lips quirked into a shadow of a smile, bittersweet and fleeting. “Typical, isn’t it? Potter, the savior complex.”

Harry huffed a laugh. “Maybe. But this time, it’s not just about saving the world. It’s about saving what’s left of it. What’s left of us.”

Draco hummed. “Right. What’s left of us.”

The Ministry of Magic had never felt so cold.

Harry, Hermione, and Ron stepped into the grand atrium, now starkly different from the lively heart it once was. The towering fountain that had once depicted witches and wizards standing in unity had been replaced by a cold, austere statue of a faceless wizard holding a wand aloft, expressionless features.

Harry glanced around, taking in the tension that clung to the air like a storm waiting to break. Aurors lined the walls, eyes sharp and suspicious, clad in dark robes that bore the insignia of the Department of Magical Order and Security.

Hermione’s eyes were tight with worry as they walked toward the courtroom. She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, a nervous gesture that Harry had seen countless times before.

Ron’s jaw was set, his expression stormy as he glanced at the guards. He leaned in closer to Harry. “Feels more like a prison than a Ministry,” he muttered.

Harry nodded, unable to argue. The corridors were dim, stripped of the warmth and camaraderie they once held. Every step they took seemed to reverberate off the walls, an ominous drumbeat heralding what was to come.

The courtroom itself was already packed, witches and wizards whispering among themselves, faces a mix of curiosity, judgment, and unease. Harry caught snippets of conversation, most of it leaning toward condemnation. Malfoy’s trial—about time, isn’t it? Should have happened right after the war. His name alone—guilty as charged.

Hermione squeezed Harry’s arm as they found seats near the front. “We’re doing the right thing,” she whispered, though her voice wavered. “He deserves this chance.”

Harry glanced at her. “He does.”

The heavy wooden doors opened, and the noise in the room hushed. Draco was led in, flanked by two stern-faced Aurors. He held his head high, shoulders squared, but there was a paleness to his face that spoke to sleepless nights and the weight of anticipation. He looked thinner, more drawn, but the defiance in his eyes remained.

Harry’s gaze met Draco’s as he was brought to the center of the room, shackles clinking softly around his wrists. For a moment, something unspoken passed between them. Draco’s expression was unreadable, but there was recognition, a fleeting trace of acknowledgment that settled like a stone in Harry’s chest.

Ron leaned over. “Where’s Narcissa? Thought she’d be here.”

Harry shook his head, eyes still on Draco. “He told her to stay away. It’s safer that way. If this goes badly, he doesn’t want her involved.”

A voice rang out, sharp and commanding. “This trial will now commence!”

Dolores Umbridge stood at the head of the Wizengamot, her smile as twisted as Harry remembered. She looked out over the assembled crowd with the satisfaction of someone who believed they had already won.

Draco’s eyes remained steady, though Harry could see the pulse in his neck quicken. A faint, unspoken plea lingered in the sharpness of Draco’s gaze, buried beneath his practiced composure. Harry’s heart ached, the tether that bound their fates pulling taut, whispering through his veins like an ancient song—haunting, obstinate. The tether was a relic of desperation, born from choices and consequences that neither of them could undo. Now it pulsed with a stubborn life of its own, a current that bound Harry’s anger and hope to Draco’s fear and regret.

The trial began with the echoing sound of Umbridge’s gavel striking against the wood. The room fell into an uneasy silence, the murmurs of the crowd fading as she rose from her seat, robes sweeping behind her. Her gaze swept over the room, eyes alight with a smugness that made Harry’s skin crawl.

Harry’s jaw tightened as he watched her, every muscle in his body coiled like a spring. The memory of her sickly sweet voice from years ago echoed in his mind—"I must not tell lies"—and with it came a flash of pain across the back of his hand, the scar she had carved into his skin still faintly visible. His fingers twitched involuntarily at his side.

He envisioned the gavel splintering in her grasp, shattered by the force of justice he longed to unleash. There was a brief, wild thought of her expression twisted in shock, robes smoldering as the fire of his rage swept through the room like a storm. He imagined her voice choked silent, the triumph vanishing from her beady eyes as she realized that power was nothing against the kind of fury that burned in him now. A savage desire to see her fall, to see her pay for every unjust action, every ounce of pain she inflicted, roared inside him, barely leashed.

“We are here today,” she began. “To try Draco Malfoy on charges of collusion with known Death Eaters, participation in the activities of Voldemort’s regime, and acts against the Ministry of Magic.”

Ron shifted beside Harry, his voice a low murmur. “This is bloody mad, Harry. That hag holding justice in her hands, like she’s some sainted beacon of fairness. After everything she did—what she is—it's twisted. It's wrong.” His eyes darted around, taking in the crowd, many of whom seemed unaware—or willfully ignorant—of the irony that dripped from every word Umbridge spoke.

Harry’s gaze remained locked on Umbridge, the muscles in his jaw flexing as he bit back the urge to lash out. The hypocrisy, the sanctimoniousness of it, made his blood boil. Memories flooded his mind. And now she stood here, dressed in pompous authority, as if she hadn’t left a trail of shattered lives in her wake.

“Justice in her hands is like poison in a chalice, Ron. This whole thing is a farce.”

Harry’s eyes flickered to Draco, who stood in the center of the room, shackled yet still managing to hold himself with a poised dignity. He looked past Umbridge, his gaze fixed somewhere in the distance, as if he had already accepted whatever fate awaited him.

The first witness called was a Ministry official, a middle-aged wizard with a narrow face and robes trimmed with the insignia of DAMOS. He stepped forward, eyes cold as he surveyed Draco. “During the Second Wizarding War, the Malfoy family was known to house, aid, and provide resources to Voldemort and his followers. We have extensive documentation proving their participation in anti-Ministry activities.”

“Documentation,” Harry whispered to Hermione, who was already scribbling notes furiously, “but not the truth.”

“Your Honor,” the witness continued, “the defendant may claim circumstances forced his hand, but the facts speak for themselves. His presence at Hogwarts, his role in the attack on the school—these were not actions of an unwilling participant but a willing conspirator.”

Umbridge’s smile grew sharper as she turned to Draco. “Mister Malfoy, how do you respond to these claims?”

Draco’s eyes flickered to her, then to the Wizengamot, where he met the stony expressions of witches and wizards who had already made up their minds. He took a breath. “I acknowledge that I was part of Voldemort’s inner circle. But not by choice. My family was threatened, coerced. I was sixteen when Voldemort marked me—sixteen when I was given a task meant to end in my death.”

Umbridge’s eyes narrowed, the saccharine mask slipping for just a moment. “So, you plead fear, Mister Malfoy? Do you claim cowardice as your defense?”

Harry was on the edge of his seat, itching to reach for his wand. One quick flash of green and it’ll all be over.

A ripple of laughter broke out among the more hostile onlookers. Draco’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away. “I claim survival,” he said. “And yes, fear. But also, change. What I did in the final months of the war—helping prisoners, weakening the Manor’s wards to allow the escape of Harry Potter and others—these were acts I chose, knowing full well they could lead to my death.”

The murmur in the room shifted, softer now, uncertain.

Umbridge’s eyes darted toward the members of the Wizengamot, seeking their reaction before returning to Draco. “And we are to believe that a few acts of remorse negate a history of aiding the most dangerous wizard our world has ever known?”

Before Draco could respond, Harry stood abruptly, the screech of his chair breaking the silence. Every head turned in his direction, surprise and curiosity sparking in the crowd. He stepped forward, his voice ringing out before Umbridge could speak again.

“I can testify to the truth of those acts,” Harry said, meeting the sharp gaze of Umbridge without flinching. “I was there. I saw what Draco Malfoy did to save lives at the risk of his own. If this trial is about justice and not vengeance, then his actions during the war need to be considered in full—not just the ones that suit DAMOS’s narrative.”

A ripple of surprise ran through the court, and for the first time, Harry saw a flicker of something other than resignation in Draco’s eyes. It was fleeting but real—hope, or perhaps disbelief.

Umbridge’s smile faltered, but she recovered quickly. “Mister Potter,” she gritted out. “Your testimony will be heard in due time. But rest assured, this court seeks only the truth.”

Harry’s eyes met Draco’s, and in that moment, Harry made a silent promise: he wouldn’t let them turn this trial into a spectacle of blame. Not while there was still truth to be told.

The trial took on a rhythm that felt both suffocating and surreal. Witness after witness stepped forward, most of them Ministry officials or people who had suffered directly under Voldemort’s reign. Their words dripped with pain and righteous fury, a sharp reminder of the cost of the war. They spoke of fear, of lives destroyed, and of the symbols that had represented that terror—Draco Malfoy among them.

Harry’s gut twisted with each accusation, each carefully framed piece of evidence that painted Draco as complicit. He watched Draco’s face, searching for cracks in the carefully constructed mask.

Draco only sat there, spine straight, eyes locked forward, as if he’d accepted his fate long before stepping into this room.

When the next witness stepped forward—a witch with a scar running from her temple to her jaw—her voice shook with rage. “I saw him in the Manor, holding his wand, looking down at us like we were insects. He didn’t raise a hand to stop what was happening.” Her eyes met Draco’s, dark and accusing. “You stood by while we screamed.”

Draco’s face remained stoic, but the slight tremble in his hands betrayed him, and a sheen of sweat glistened at his temples. He looked like he was holding himself together by a thread, as if one more word might unravel him completely. His knuckles whitened where they gripped the edge of the table, and his gaze fell to the polished wood as if the memories were etched there, taunting him.

Even Hermione’s fingers, tense and trembling on the parchment, reflected the unspoken truth—they were witnessing a man being broken, piece by piece.

Finally, Umbridge called for Harry’s testimony. The room seemed to still, as if everyone leaned forward, breath held, to hear the Chosen One speak.

Harry stood, each step to the witness stand feeling like walking a tightrope. His gaze swept over the court, catching Ron’s wary expression, Hermione’s steady nod, and the dark, shadowed look in Draco’s eyes. Harry took a breath, the silence pressing against his chest, before he spoke.

“I can’t stand here and pretend that Draco Malfoy is innocent,” Harry started, the room murmuring in agreement before he silenced them with a sharp glance. “But, I can’t—won’t—let this trial be one-sided either. Draco wasn’t just a boy twisted by power or privilege. He was a boy caught in a web woven long before he had a chance to choose otherwise.”

Umbridge’s eyes narrowed, and Harry felt the sharp sting of her gaze. He continued, voice unwavering. “I was there at Malfoy Manor. I saw the moments when Draco had choices—real ones. And I saw him make them, even if they were subtle. He turned off the wards. He refused to identify me when it would have been easiest to do so. Those moments, those hesitations, are what kept others alive. It’s what kept me alive.”

The room erupted in murmurs, some angry, others uncertain. Harry could see faces shifting, expressions that had been hardened into anger now softening with doubt or confusion.

“Are we here for justice or for blood?” Harry’s voice rose, fierce, shaking with barely contained emotion. “If it’s the latter, then know that Draco Malfoy isn’t the monster you want him to be. He is guilty of fear, of silence, yes. But he is not guilty of the violence you’re pinning on him. He risked his life to undermine Voldemort’s power when it mattered most. And if this court doesn’t recognize that, then we have learned nothing from the war that claimed so many.”

Harry's testimony continued to cut through the room, laying bare the harsh truth. He portrayed a boy entangled in loyalty and survival, forged beneath suffocating expectations. With unwavering urgency, Harry implored the court to look deeper. To see a young man who, at pivotal moments, chose redemption.

The silence that followed Harry’s extended testimony was suffocating.

Draco’s eyes were on him now, no longer distant but fixed on Harry with a mix of disbelief and something that looked almost like betrayal, as if Harry’s defense had laid bare parts of Draco he’d kept hidden, even from himself.

Umbridge’s face contorted, her sugary voice hardening. “Thank you, Mister Potter. We will deliberate on your words accordingly.”

The trial continued, questions spun into traps, each argument sharp as a blade. At one point, an older member of the Wizengamot leaned forward, eyes gleaming with malice. “Isn’t it true, Mister Malfoy, that your hesitation to kill Dumbledore was not out of mercy, but fear? That you would have taken that life if the opportunity had felt safer?”

Draco’s hands tightened on the chair, knuckles white. He didn’t answer, and silence pulsed through the chamber like a heartbeat.

The trial felt endless, a procession of condemnation masquerading as justice. Harry knew that whatever decision came, it wouldn’t just be a verdict—it would be a statement to the wizarding world, a signal that would ripple out to those already teetering on the edge of despair and rebellion.

It was a warning. And everyone knew it.

As the trial dragged into its next phase, the murmurs of the Wizengamot grew louder. Hermione leaned over, her voice barely above a whisper but edged with urgency. “Harry, they haven’t even bothered to check Draco’s wand. It would prove what spells he cast—or more importantly, didn’t cast—during the war.”

Harry’s eyes widened at the oversight, or rather, the deliberate omission. He glanced at the rows of Wizengamot members. It wasn’t an oversight; it was strategic. If Draco’s wand could prove his innocence, it was clear that they didn’t want that truth to come to light.

“Why haven’t they done it?” Ron muttered.

Harry’s jaw tightened. “Because they don’t care about the truth. They care about making an example out of him, about maintaining control.”

Hermione’s gaze turned toward Draco, who sat in the middle of the chamber, pale and poised, as though he knew this trial was as much a spectacle as a verdict. She lowered her voice even more. “We need to push for it, Harry. If they refuse to check his wand, it will prove just how far they’re willing to go to keep control.”

Ron nodded, eyes darting between the Wizengamot members and Draco. “It’s risky, though. If they stonewall it, it might just make things worse.”

“We can’t let them get away with this,” Harry said. “Not without a fight.”

Hermione’s eyes met Harry’s, determination sparking. “Then we’ll need to be ready. If we call them out and demand they test Draco’s wand, we need to be prepared for whatever they throw at us next.”

Ron let out a low whistle, shaking his head. “They’ll push back. Hard.”

Harry’s lips curved into a grim smile. “Then let them. If they want a fight, we’ll give them one.”

The tense silence of the recess settled over them.

The small room adjacent to the courtroom was dimly lit, a narrow space lined with worn-out benches and a high, arched window that barely let any light in. Draco stood by the window, hands braced on the sill as he stared out into the dismal gray sky. His shoulders trembled imperceptibly, but he kept his head high, jaw clenched.

Harry stood against the opposite wall, arms crossed. The rage simmering beneath his skin was different now—sharper, more corrosive. His patience with the Ministry had reached its end. His fingers drummed against his arm, each tap a reminder of the urge to lash out, to tear down every carefully constructed lie that surrounded them.

Hermione paced the narrow space, her brows knit in concentration. “We need more than just an accusation of unfairness, Harry,” she said, voice low and urgent. “If we’re going to demand they test Draco’s wand, we need to push them into a corner where refusing looks like a blatant cover-up.”

Draco let out a ragged breath, turning around. His eyes betrayed a flicker of panic, though he quickly smoothed it out with an effort that cost him. “It doesn’t matter, Granger. They’re not going to listen. They’ve already made up their minds.”

“No,” Harry snapped, pushing off the wall and stepping toward Draco. “They don’t get to decide this. Not like this.” His eyes burned with an intensity that made even Hermione pause. “You’re not going down without a fight.”

“And if fighting only makes it worse? If it drags you down with me?”

“Then so be it. I’m not letting them win. I refuse to let them twist justice into whatever serves their agenda.”

Hermione stopped pacing and looked between the two of them, worry creasing her features. “Harry, you need to be careful. We’re already on thin ice, and you… you’re getting reckless.”

“Good,” Harry shot back, eyes never leaving Draco. “Maybe it’s time someone got reckless.”

Draco’s mouth twitched, partway between a smirk and a grimace. He crossed his arms, trying to steady himself, to pretend the anxiety coiling in his chest wasn’t there. “You’re going to get yourself thrown in Azkaban if you keep this up, Potter.”

“Let them try. What do we need to corner them? What proof can we throw in their faces that they can’t ignore?”

Hermione hesitated. “There are testimonies. Luna’s. The others who were at the Manor. If they can be summoned quickly enough, their accounts would corroborate what you’re saying. But we need the wand checked, Harry. It’s the only irrefutable proof we have.”

Draco’s eyes closed briefly. When he opened them, they were dull with resignation. “If it comes down to it, and they refuse to test the wand—”

“They won’t refuse,” Harry cut in, voice low and lethal. “Because if they do, we’ll make it the loudest refusal they’ve ever heard.”

Draco’s eyes met Harry’s again, and for the first time, there was a flicker of something else there—hope, fragile and hesitant, but undeniable. Hermione watched them both, worry etched into every line of her face.

“Alright,” Draco said. He turned back to the window, the anxiety not fully gone but subdued. “Let’s see what the Ministry is really made of.”

“Let’s,” Harry agreed.

Draco sat at the defendant's table. His lawyer, Elara Hawthorne, was a sharp-featured witch with an air of calculated precision. Raven-black hair framing her pale complexion and piercing emerald eyes. Elara spoke with clipped, authoritative tones—commanding without being intimidating. She argued fiercely, presenting testimonies and evidence that could have painted a damning picture, but only if stripped of its context—a context the Wizengamot seemed willfully determined to ignore. As Elara wove complex arguments, she also worked to humanize Draco. In any fair trial, her case would have been unbreakable, but given the Wizengamot’s obvious bias, it was clear they were unjustly disregarding every piece of evidence that hinted at his innocence.

“We must consider the evidence beyond mere association. My client’s actions during the war were nuanced and complex, not the simple narrative of a Death Eater seeking blood and chaos. I call for an inspection of his wand, a simple test that would—”

“Objection!” A wizened member of the council was quick to interrupt, his voice steeped in the arrogance of unchecked power. “This is a diversion. We are here to deliver justice, not to entertain theatrics!”

Harry was on the verge of lashing out—it was practically radiating off him. Hermione, beside him, could see this. She shot him a warning glance as if silently urging him to stay in his seat and remain calm.

Harry did not care for it.

“Elara is right!” Harry suddenly stood. “Inspect his wand! You’re refusing to consider the most basic piece of evidence that could clear him!”

All eyes snapped to Harry. The room went deathly silent. The presiding judge, a severe witch with steel-gray hair, narrowed her eyes. “Mister Potter, you are not permitted to speak out of turn.”

Umbridge’s voice drifted from her seat. "Ah, Mister Potter, ever the self-proclaimed hero, convinced your illustrious name grants carte blanche. But, dear boy, this isn't Hogwarts' playground. Your title, nor celebrity, holds little sway here."

Harry’s vision blurred with rage. “My title? This isn’t about my name or what it carries. It’s about fairness—something this court seems to have abandoned!”

“Enough!” the presiding judge bellowed, banging her gavel. “Mister Potter, this is your final warning! Disrupt these proceedings again, and you will be removed.”

Elara cast Harry a fleeting glance conveying appreciation and caution, before steadfastly addressing the council.

"Your Honor, the deliberate omission of wand examination is telling. Transparency, a cornerstone of justice, demands scrutiny. To uphold impartiality, this court must investigate all evidence."

Council members' inscrutable gazes intersected, Umbridge reclining with a saccharine smirk.

Shadows gathered over the dimly lighted recess chamber, intensifying the awful silence. Kingsley stood by the window, arms folded, looking out at the storm-shrouded Ministry. His visage, a mask of firmness, suggested turbulence beneath.

Elara Hawthorne paced, her heels echoing off polished stone. Halting, she faced Harry, rigid and clenched-fisted.

"Harry, we must confront reality. This trial's outcome is predetermined. The Ministry seeks to make Draco an example, asserting authority and quelling dissent. I don’t know that our best efforts will make much difference."

"They've corrupted the system," Kingsley declared gravely. "DAMOS wields excessive influence nowadays. And Umbridge will stop at nothing to maintain control, manipulating trial outcomes. This hearing is no exception."

A dark impulse flashed through Harry's mind—force, destruction, tearing down corruption. Magic pulsed beneath his skin, whispering turbulent promises.

Eyes closed, Harry fought the urge. His quest for justice now tainted by a thirst for retribution. Breathing sharply, he reopened his eyes, green irises clouded by rage.

“There has to be a way,” Harry said, his voice a low growl. “I can’t just—sit back and watch them destroy him for the sake of their power! I won’t.”

Elara’s eyes softened, a rare moment of sympathy crossing her features. “If there is a way, it won’t be found within the confines of this courtroom, Harry. We’re playing their game, and they’ve already stacked the deck against us.”

Kingsley pushed himself off the window frame and stepped closer to Harry. He placed a steadying hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Listen to me, Harry. Whatever you’re thinking, whatever dark place your mind is going to—you need to come back. If you let them push you over that edge, they’ll win in more ways than one. We need you sharp, not reckless.”

Harry’s eyes flared, and he shrugged off Kingsley’s hand. “I won’t let them take him. Not like this.”

“Harry,” Kingsley said. “There’s no way out of this. Not in any way that ends well for Draco. The Ministry has already decided. This isn’t a trial—it’s a spectacle, a message to everyone watching. DAMOS will ensure that outcome, and they don’t care how unjust it is.”

Harry's heartbeat boomed like a battle drum, echoing through his chest. A chilling fury seeped into his veins, numbing his core with icy precision. Clarity dawned, cruel and unforgiving: defeat loomed inevitable. Everyone in the room knew it.

“There has to be a way. I will not let them—”

“There isn’t,” Kingsley said more forcefully, stepping closer. “I need you to hear me, Harry. You are not just the Boy Who Lived anymore. You’re the man who people look to as a symbol of hope, but if you lose control, if you step into that darkness, you will drag everything down with you.”

“And if I don’t?” Harry whispered, his voice dangerously low. “What then, Kingsley? Do we just stand here and watch them take him? Watch them strip away any chance he has at redemption and throw him to the wolves?”

“If you act out of rage, Harry, you will lose everything. Your influence, your credibility. They’ll brand you a threat, and DAMOS will use it as proof that they were right all along. You won’t just lose Draco—you’ll lose the fight for any change in this world.”

Harry’s vision blurred, and for a moment, he couldn’t see anything but red. He wanted to scream, to throw something, to let the storm inside him break free and obliterate everything in its path.

“We don’t have time for heroics,” Kingsley said. “We need to think smarter, fight in the shadows if we have to. But right now, there’s no straightforward way out of this.”

Hermione stepped forward, reaching out as if to touch Harry’s arm, but hesitated, fingers trembling before she let them fall. “Harry, please, talk to us. Don’t shut us out like this.”

He didn’t move, didn’t blink. Only the deep, measured rise and fall of his chest signaled he was still there, still present. “I’ve fought monsters my whole life. I’ve faced death, Voldemort, even my own demons… But this? This is different. Witnessing the world devour its soul, masquerading as salvation."

Ron, standing to the side with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, shifted uncomfortably. “Mate, I know what this means to you, but going off and doing something reckless—”

Harry spun on his heel, eyes blazing, and Ron flinched at the sudden fury directed at him. “What? It isn’t going to what? Save him? Get justice? I’m tired of following the bloody rules and watching them twist every move to suit their agenda while people suffer. I’m done playing their game!”

Hermione’s voice was a please. “Harry, you fought so hard to bring us some semblance of peace. If you throw it away now—why—Harry, why are you risking everything?”

“Because I can’t let him be another name on a headstone… or worse,” Harry muttered bitterly. “I can’t go to bed every night knowing I stood by and let it happen. Not again. Not this time.”

Exhaustion seeped into Harry’s bones, a relentless weight from years of irreparable losses. An endless loop of regrets played in his mind, each one a failure he couldn’t erase. He should have been faster, smarter—he could have saved Sirius, Cedric, Remus… the litany of lost lives that clung to his very soul. There were so many things he wished he could go back and change, a lifetime of moments he would’ve done differently if given the chance. But this, sitting by and watching Draco be unfairly condemned to Azkaban, would not become another name on the list, another silent mark of "what I could have done." Not this time. Not again.

“We’ll find another way,” Ron said, voice strained. “We always do. But you going off like this—it’s exactly what they’re hoping for, Harry. DAMOS wants you to slip up. They’re practically waiting for it.”

Hermione took a tentative step closer. “Harry, we don’t want to lose you too.”

Harry looked away, the darkness in his eyes retreating just enough for a flicker of doubt to appear. “You won’t lose me. Not yet.”

The way his voice trembled betrayed the truth—that he was teetering on the edge, barely clinging to the light they all so desperately needed him to hold onto.

The courtroom erupted into a frenzied hum, akin to a swarm of agitated wasps, as proceedings resumed. Harry’s jaw was set as his gaze raked over the room. He’d spent too long calculating, trying to play by rules that were rigged against them. Everything always seemed to be rigged against him. His own birth seemed rigged against him—and frankly, Harry was tired of always drawing the shortest straw. If Draco’s fate was sealed, then Harry knew there was only one way out, and it would not come from appealing to justice or reason.

Maybe Harry was simply done with justice, reason, and the endless calculations of right and wrong. Perhaps, for once, he was ready to stop measuring his every move against the “greater good.” Maybe it was time to reach out and take what he wanted, not what he was told was best. He was no longer interested in the “bigger picture,” the grand design that left graves in its wake and hollow victories in his chest. Right now, his picture was far simpler and sharper: Draco free, not rotting in Azkaban. He might not know the full shape of what he wanted beyond that, but he knew it began with that single, undeniable point. For once, he was willing to let everything else burn to get there.

Elara glanced nervously at Harry, sensing the shift. Kingsley had warned Harry, whispered with urgency before they left the recess room, but there was no stopping him now. Harry felt the burn of a decision already made deep in his bones.

Draco caught Harry’s eye as they took their seats. His usual mask of indifference faltered, revealing the gnawing dread beneath.

“Follow my lead,” Harry mouthed to Draco. He blinked, confusion swirling in the stormy gray of his eyes, but he nodded slowly, trust or perhaps desperation pushing him to agree.

“Court is back in session!” Dolores Umbridge's simpering voice declared.

The prosecution resumed, hammering down on Draco’s affiliations, the decisions he made, twisting the truth into a grotesque parody that painted him as an unrepentant conspirator. The air crackled with whispers of judgment, the weight of centuries-old prejudice and the lust for retribution.

Draco sat stiffly, every word driving another nail into the coffin they were constructing for him. His fingers tightened around the armrest, knuckles blanching as he fought to maintain composure.

Harry leaned over, just enough for his voice to reach Draco without drawing attention. “When I make a move, trust me. Don’t hesitate.”

Draco’s brow furrowed, the flicker of resistance flaring in his eyes.

Elara Hawthorne stood, attempting to refute another insidious implication. “The defendant, Draco Malfoy, not only aided in freeing captives during the height of the war but did so at great personal risk. The evidence provided—”

Umbridge’s laughter, sickly sweet, cut through like a blade. “Evidence? My dear, evidence is not as valuable as intention, and the intention of a Malfoy is—”

Harry stood abruptly, the force of it sending a ripple of whispers through the gallery. All eyes turned to him, some wide with shock, others with dawning anticipation. He held Umbridge’s gaze with an unflinching stare.

“Harry Potter,” she drawled. “The court recognizes your fame but not your interruptions. Sit down or be removed!”

“Then you’ll have to remove me. Because I’m here to expose the truth, not your warped version of it.”

Gasps echoed around the room, and Draco’s heart thundered in his chest, eyes darting between Harry and the Wizenagamot. This wasn’t a calculated defense. This was a torch set to a forest, a move that would either clear a path or consume them both.

Kingsley shifted uncomfortably in his seat, but he didn’t move to stop Harry. The battle in his eyes told Harry everything: he couldn’t openly support this, but he also wouldn’t interfere.

Umbridge’s eyes flashed with fury. “This is not a circus, Mister Potter! One more outburst, and—”

“It’s not an outburst, it’s a testimony. A testimony about how this trial isn’t about integrity. It’s about control. It’s about silencing anyone who doesn’t fit into your vision of a cleansed world.”

The murmurs turned into an uproar, but Harry didn’t flinch. He felt Draco’s eyes on him, a mixture of awe and fear.

"The truth is, Draco Malfoy made choices that led him here, but they weren't the choices you're distorting," Harry said, voice escalating. "He defied Voldemort when it counted, risking life and family. Facts you conveniently omit. Or did your version of justice forget that detail?"

Elara’s mouth parted, caught between disbelief and admiration as Harry spoke. This wasn’t part of any plan, but it was something more potent: a rallying cry.

Umbridge’s face turned a dangerous shade of red, but before she could speak, Harry took a step forward. “If justice genuinely motivates you, prove it. Check the magic residue of his wand. Summon the captives he rescued. Let’s stop pretending this is anything more than a spectacle. This trial is a thinly veiled intimidation tactic, targeting names and pasts you deem undesirable. And frankly, it’s a rather lazy manipulation."

The courtroom erupted, a clash of voices, some calling for order, others for Harry’s removal. In the chaos, Harry’s eyes met Draco’s, and for the briefest moment, he saw the flicker of something that hadn’t been there before—hope.

If anyone could save him, Draco thought, it had to be Harry saviour Potter.

The cacophony of the courtroom surrounded Harry, voices clashing, chairs scraping, the gavel banging uselessly as Umbridge's screech cut through the chaos.

“Order! I demand order!”

The noise only grew, outrage and shock rippling through the rooms, arguments happening in every corner. The room felt like it was teetering on the brink of an explosion.

Harry took a deep breath, eyes locking onto Draco’s, a silent message passing between them. Draco’s eyes widened, realization dawning, his composure slipping as he mouthed, Potter, don’t—but it was too late.

The world had wanted Harry to be a savior, a martyr for the greater good. He had given them everything, and they had repaid him with graves. Now, he played by his own rules, and pity the one who tried to stop him.

Harry’s wand was in his hand before anyone could react, the movement quick and deliberate. “Protego Maxima!” The spell burst from his wand in a blaze of blue light, forming a barrier that encased Draco in a protective shield.

Pandemonium erupted. Aurors surged forward, shouts of alarm and incantations filling the room. Hermione’s voice cut through the din, sharp with urgency, “Harry, stop!”

But he couldn’t.

He wouldn’t.

Draco sat frozen, eyes wide as the barrier hummed around him, separating him from the mayhem outside. The Wizenagamot members rose from their seats, wands drawn, some firing spells at Harry, which he deflected with a practiced flick.

It was almost laughable, Harry thought, a dark amusement twisting inside him. He had faced legions of Death Eaters and the Dark Lord himself; the Wizengamot’s feeble threats were little more than shadows compared to the horrors he’d already endured. Hell would freeze over before he let a few self-righteous officials hold any power over him.

Kingsley pushed through the chaos. “Stand down! Everyone, stand down!”

Harry knew there was no turning back now. He didn’t think he would, even if it were an option. He twisted his wand, and with a whispered “Evanesco,” the chains binding Draco’s wrists vanished.

Draco stumbled forward, catching himself on the edge of the chair. He knew better, but he couldn’t hold back—not now, not when he saw the fierce resolve in Harry’s eyes, the reckless risk Harry was so clearly willing to take. It didn’t entirely make sense to Draco, yet if Harry was prepared to go down for him, Draco wouldn’t sit idly by and let him face it alone. To hell with years of cowardice, of quiet submission. If Potter could find the strength to throw himself into the fire, then Draco Malfoy could summon whatever shred of bravery lay within him—even if it was a trace of whatever remnant of magic from Harry and Lily still lived within him—he didn’t know. He didn’t have time to think about it.

“Potter!” Umbridge shrieked, her voice grating as she pointed a trembling finger at him. “You will be detained for—”

Harry didn’t wait for her threat to finish. He grabbed Draco by the arm, pulling him up and towards the door. “We’re leaving,” he hissed. “Now, Malfoy!”

“Are you mad?” Draco gasped, resisting for only a moment before Harry’s grip tightened, an unspoken trust me passing between them.

Spells flew through the air, bolts of red and blue lighting up the room as Harry deflected them with a wave of his wand. Ron was on his feet now, eyes wide as he moved to block the approaching Aurors. Hermione’s face was pale, her expression caught between shock and resignation as she cast a spell that sent a table toppling to block their pursuers.

Kingsley’s voice thundered again, this time more pleading, “Harry—Harry, please—think about what you’re doing!”

“I have,” Harry muttered, exiting.

A burst of magic shattered the wooden doors. The crack resounded like thunder. Harry and Draco sprinted out into the corridor, the sound of chaos following them like an echo. The chill of reality set in as they ran, footsteps pounding in sync as they raced through the labyrinthine halls of the Ministry.

“Potter, this is insane!”

“Better than waiting to be buried alive, isn’t it?” Harry shot back, the edge of his mouth twitching.

Somewhere behind them, the shouts of Aurors grew louder, orders being barked and spells firing. The world around them blurred, a mixture of harsh light, dark corridors, and the deafening thud of blood in Harry’s ears. He knew what this meant—knew that there would be no going back.

As they burst through the last set of doors and out into the open air, the night wrapping around them like a cloak, Harry felt a dark satisfaction settle in his chest.

They weren’t prisoners. Not today.

Only fugitives.

Adrenaline was thrumming in Harry’s veins, pulse hammering in his ears. They skidded to a halt in a shadowed alleyway, the silence only broken by their ragged breathing.

Draco leaned against the rough brick wall, eyes wide and wild, chest heaving. The way he was looking at Harry, he was sure his eyeballs were about to fly out of his head. “What the hell have you done, Potter?”

Harry swallowed, the weight of what he’d just done settling like lead in his stomach. His hand was still clenched around his wand, knuckles white and trembling. He glanced at Draco, taking in the pale face streaked with sweat and panic.

There was no turning back, Harry knew that. What scared him though, was that he wasn’t sure he wanted to.

“I got you out. That’s all that matters right now.”

Draco laughed—a short, broken sound that carried no real humor. He pushed off the wall, eyes narrowing as he stepped closer. “Do you realize what this means? The Ministry, DAMOS, every bloody Auror in Britain is going to be after us. You just declared war, Potter.”

“Good. They’ll come for you, but they’ll have to go through me first.”

The vein in Draco’s forehead was pulsing. “And what will you become for that, Potter?”

“Whatever I need to be.”

“Why, Harry?” Draco’s voice cracked, carrying a trace of the fear he’d tried to bury. “Why risk everything for me?”

Harry took a step closer, the space between them disappearing until they were almost nose to nose.

“They’ve taken enough,” came Harry’s simple response.

Draco’s eyes searched Harry’s face, as if looking for a lie, but all he found was the same relentless determination that had defined Harry Potter since the moment they’d met. The realization hit like a punch to the gut, and Draco looked away.

“I didn’t ask for this,” Draco whispered, voice shaking. “Any of it.”

Harry’s lips quirked into a bitter smile. “Neither did I.”

Draco met his gaze again. “What now?”

“Now, we stay one step ahead and make them regret ever thinking they could control us.”

Draco’s lips curved into a small, uncertain smile. “Potter, you’re either the bravest or the most reckless person I’ve ever known.”

“Maybe both.”

Harry thought of the many gravestones he so often visited, row after row, names carved into stone as reminders of the cost. He had stayed in the light, believed in justice, fought for what was right—and it hadn’t been enough. Now, he wasn’t interested in what was right. He was interested in what worked.

As they traversed the tiny alleys away from the courthouse, the stillness between them was filled with unspoken anxiety. The moon shone a weak light over Draco's sharp features, intensifying the apprehension that raged inside him. He looked sideways at Harry, his eyes full with questions he didn't dare to ask.

When they reached a shadowed corner, Draco finally stopped, turning to face Harry fully. “I don’t need a savior, Harry.”

“Good, because I’m not here to save you. I’m here to destroy anything that threatens you.”

There was a madness in Harry now, one that lit his eyes with a fervor that spoke of nightmares and devotion intertwined. He was no hero anymore, just a man who would twist the world’s arm until it broke, as long as Draco remained untouched.

Draco swallowed hard, searching Harry’s face for any sign that this was some twisted joke, but he found only the fierce glint of determination. The space between them buzzed with a volatile energy.

“Potter,” Draco began, voice wavering. “Whatever you’re thinking, you need to know—this won’t end with just me. You’re playing with fire.”

A chilling smile stretched across Harry’s face. “Good. Fire is the only thing that purifies.”

“You’re risking everything—”

“I don’t care.”

“Potter—”

“I don’t care, Draco,” Harry said slowly, deliberately, staring down silver eyes. “They’ve taken too much from me—all of them. The Ministry, the war, the world. I won’t—I won’t let them take you too.”

The fight in Draco was wearing thin and he couldn’t look Harry in the eye.

Draco couldn’t understand it. He would search Harry’s face and see the determination etched in his jaw, the fire smoldering in his eyes, but it only made Draco’s confusion grow. He knew people, knew how they worked, how they acted in self-interest or survival. Even in the war, every choice had its reason, every action a calculated move to protect oneself or secure an outcome. But this—this willingness to risk everything for him—made no sense.

He thought of every way he’d failed, every cowardly retreat and silent compliance. He’d spent years standing in the shadows, watching the world with a hardened heart and a jaded soul. Harry Potter was a light on the battlefield, the one who kept fighting even when all odds pointed against him.

And yet here he was, that same Harry, willing to plunge into darkness for him. It didn’t add up. What was he to Harry but a remnant of a broken past? A remnant best left behind, surely, and not one worth this fevered loyalty.

Draco had learned to live with his regrets, buried them deep under layers of self-preservation, convinced himself that he wasn’t worthy of saving. But Harry, somehow, saw something beyond that. As if Draco wasn’t defined by those moments of weakness, as if there was something left in him worth defending.

But why? Why would Harry care? What did Harry see that Draco himself couldn’t?

The intensity of it unnerved him, and for a moment, a sharp fear settled in his chest. He wanted to protest, to tell Harry to stop, to turn back, to save himself instead. But words failed him.

“And if this doesn’t work?” Draco asked quietly. “If you fall with me?”

“Then we fall.”

Harry took a deep breath, eyes darting around the dimly lit alley where they’d managed to catch a moment of reprieve. They’d escaped the courtroom, but safety was far from guaranteed. Every second here was borrowed time.

Harry didn’t have a plan. He realized, with a hint of grim amusement, that he often didn’t. Even with Voldemort, he’d mostly been guessing, waiting for everything to explode around him. He hadn’t had a plan when he stood up in the Wizengamot, or when he started hurling spells with reckless abandon. And he certainly didn’t have a plan when he grabbed Draco’s arm and dragged him into a life on the run. Head first, Harry thought, dive first—and hope to learn how to swim before drowning.

Draco's gaze was fixed on the entrance to the alley, tension coiled in his shoulders. "They’re going to be tracking us. Apparition, Floo—anything magical, and they’ll be right on us."

“We need to get into the Muggle world, disappear into the crowd, so to say. But we’re going to have to move without any obvious magic. No spells they can track.”

Draco’s mouth twisted into a scowl. “We can’t exactly blend in with these,” he gestured at their robes, his voice edged with frustration. “We’re practically a beacon out here.”

“Yeah, I know,” Harry replied dully. His eyes scanned their surroundings. “So, we can’t Apparate, and if we don’t move, they’ll find us anyway.”

“Do you have any idea where we’re going?”

“Not yet. But we can’t stay here. We need to keep to the alleys, find somewhere to hide until we can work out what to do next.”

Draco gave a curt nod, and they began to move again, weaving between narrow backstreets. The sounds of the Muggle city beyond echoed off the stone walls—cars rumbling, distant voices carrying on the wind. It was a different world, one that didn’t care for wands or bloodlines.

They kept their heads down, ducking through passageways, stepping over puddles as they went deeper into the maze of the city’s backstreets. Each turn took them further away from the Ministry’s immediate grasp, but the sense of urgency was ever-present.

“We’re not going to get far like this,” Draco muttered after a while. Harry could hear the exhaustion creeping up Draco’s voice. “Even if we’re careful, we can’t run forever.”

Harry paused, glancing at Draco, then back down the alley they’d come from. A thought began to take shape, something that might be reckless enough to work.

He looked at Draco, eyes sparkling as the idea solidified. Draco didn’t like that look. It was the same look Harry had in the courtroom—and that led them here in the first place. “I’ve got an idea.”

“Potter, whatever it is—”

But Harry was already moving. They crept further down the maze of alleyways until his gaze fixed on a car parked under the flicker of a broken streetlamp—a 1978 Jaguar XJ6. Midnight blue, chipped paint glinting, its low-slung body seemed to coil like a predator ready to spring.

Draco followed Harry’s gaze, eyes narrowing. “What exactly are you looking at?”

Harry nodded toward the Jaguar. “We’re taking that.”

He said it so casually, as if he’d announced they were catching a bus, and Draco’s jaw dropped. He looked at Harry like he was seeing him for the first time. Who was this man, this Harry Potter who had no qualms about stealing a car, slipping through shadows, or twisting fate to suit his will? Where was the righteous hero who’d always walked the line of right and wrong without crossing it?

The smirk tugging at Harry's lips was answer enough, and something in Draco shivered at the intensity in his eyes.

Draco stared, caught off-guard by the fierce gleam in Harry's eyes, something cold and sly—a hint of ruthless cunning he’d never expected to see. This wasn’t the Harry he’d faced in the halls of Hogwarts, all earnest morality and Gryffindor valor. No, this Harry was coiled like the very shadows around them, shrouded in defiance and Slytherin cunning.

For a moment, Draco was transfixed. He almost felt a tremor of awe at this new side of him—a Harry who bent the rules, who wasn’t afraid to twist the world into the shape he needed it to be. This wasn’t just bravery; this was a quiet, dangerous power that pulsed beneath the surface, a promise that no force, not even fate itself, could stand in his way.

And for once, Draco understood what it was like to see Harry Potter with something close to reverence.

This—this right here—was the Harry Potter everyone tripped over themselves for. The boy-who-lived, the unstoppable, all-powerful force they praised and placed on a pedestal. This was the Harry who could change tides, who stood against the darkest forces and won, the one people admired, idolized, and revered. And for the first time in his life, Draco Malfoy finally understood why.

It was the fierce determination etched into Harry’s brow, the quiet, simmering power he wielded as naturally as breathing. It was as though Harry had carved himself out of the very grit and fire he’d been tempered in, every hardship and every fight sharpening the edges of his resolve. Draco realized, maybe for the first time, why people had always rallied to him, why they’d trusted Harry to lead them through the darkest nights.

It wasn’t just the fame or the titles; it was something embedded deep within Harry—his unyielding drive to do what he believed in, to stand up again and again, no matter the odds. He wasn’t merely brave; he was relentless, a force that refused to be silenced.

In that moment, Draco felt the weight of what it meant to be seen by Harry Potter, to be worth his unwavering loyalty. He understood now why people would follow him anywhere—and why, somehow, he would too.

“Potter… what do you mean, ‘taking that’? How exactly do you plan to make it work? It’s not like we can just… command it to drive.”

Harry smirked. “There’s a way to start it without magic. I think it’s called… hotwiring.”

Draco stared. “Hotwiring? And that means…?”

Harry moved closer to the car, inspecting it for any obvious alarms or signs of surveillance. “It means we’re going to start this car without the keys. I don’t actually know how to do it, but I’ve heard about it enough times. I reckon we can figure it out. Can’t be that hard.”

“You heard about it?” Draco’s voice was equal parts astonishment and horror. “Potter, this is insanity. And how did you even find out about this… this Muggle delinquency?”

“Let’s just say Dudley and his mates were… resourceful. I overheard them talking about it when they were planning to borrow someone’s car without permission.”

Draco gave him a long, skeptical look. “You’re going to take a Muggle car because your cousin’s friends once talked about stealing one?”

Harry shrugged, making his way to the car.

Draco rubbed a hand over his face, muttering under his breath. “This is insane.”

“Would you rather Apparate and end up back in the Wizengamot’s hands?” Harry shot back, his fingers already at the door handle. “Thought so.”

They crept toward the car. Harry cast a quick glance around the empty street before reaching into his back pocket, pulling out a long, slender tool that looked suspiciously out of place in his hand—a relic from one of Dudley’s more “mischievous” phases. It was an old lock-picking tool Dudley had once shown off in some misguided attempt at seeming edgy, but Harry had pocketed it, mostly for the thrill of feeling like he had some tiny rebellion in his back pocket.

Draco’s eyebrows shot up, watching with something between horror and fascination as Harry jammed the tool into the car door’s gap, wiggling it with a surprising ease. “Potter, are you—?”

“Just… give me a sec.”

With a final jiggle, there was a satisfying click. Harry straightened up with a grin that was both sheepish and a touch smug, swinging the door open as if he’d just performed some grand act of heroism.

Draco’s mouth was slightly open. “I—what—you actually know how to break into cars? I… didn’t know you were such a deviant.”

“War changes you,” he said dryly, though there was a flash of mischief in his eyes that made Draco roll his own.

With a wary glance down the empty street, Draco slid into the passenger seat. He surveyed the car’s interior with open skepticism, picking at the seat fabric like it might disintegrate at any moment. “I’ll have you know, I am far too refined for whatever disease-ridden Muggle tin box this is.”

Harry leaned over the steering column, studying the tangled mess of wires underneath. “Oh, quit complaining and make yourself useful,” he muttered, reaching under the dashboard and feeling around for the right wires.

“I would help if I had any idea what ‘making myself useful’ entailed in this scenario.”

“You see these wires?” Harry tugged two loose, glancing up at Draco. “I need you to keep an eye out while I try to… well, short-circuit the ignition.”

“You’re saying you can start this car with just… wires?”

Harry grinned, a hint of madness behind it. “That’s the plan. Now hush.”

Draco watched with rapt fascination as Harry twisted two of the wires together, muttering under his breath as he searched for a spark. There was a sudden flash and a small pop, causing Draco to jolt, his hand instinctively clutching his wand even though he knew they couldn’t risk using magic.

“For Merlin’s sake,” Draco hissed, glancing over his shoulder with a dramatic sigh. “And how exactly did you learn to do this, Potter?”

“Dudley and his gang had a thing for borrowing cars. Picked it up by accident.”

“Accident, right. You really are full of surprises.”

“Growing up in the Muggle world teaches you a thing or two. Consider this the Hogwarts lesson you missed.” With a final twist, the engine sputtered, then roared to life with a low, rumbling growl. Harry gave Draco a triumphant look, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Told you it would work.”

Draco rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the slight grin tugging at his lips. “Brilliant. Now, do you actually know how to drive this thing, or is this about to end in a fiery disaster?”

Harry’s grin faltered, though only for a moment. “I mean, how hard can it be? I’ve seen Muggles do it all the time.” He gave a shrug, feigning confidence as he adjusted his grip on the steering wheel. “Besides, if Ron can drive a flying car, I can handle this.”

“I can’t believe this is our plan. We’re being hunted by half the wizarding world, and we’re relying on something you picked up from a band of Muggle hooligans.”

With a determined look, Harry nudged the car into gear and hit the gas pedal. The car lurched forward with a jolt, sending Draco sprawling against the passenger door with a yelp. Harry winced but didn’t stop, gripping the wheel tightly as he tried to steady the car down the narrow alley.

Draco regained his composure, brushing imaginary dust off his lap. “You call this ‘handling’?!”

“Shut up and hold on,” Harry shot back, though he was grinning as he adjusted to the erratic rhythm of the pedals.

The car jolted again as he steered them out of the alley and onto the open road, each turn a barely-controlled gamble. Draco’s grip on the seat was fierce, his jaw clenched as he muttered under his breath, alternating between cursing and what sounded suspiciously like prayer.

After a few minutes, Draco managed to exhale, glancing over at Harry with reluctant admiration. “I have to admit, Potter, this was either the best or worst idea you’ve ever had.”

Harry laughed, exhilaration flashing in his eyes. “It’s the only idea I’ve got.”

The car bounced over a pothole, causing Draco to let out a rather undignified yelp. “Potter, have you completely lost your mind?”

“Just hang on,” Harry replied, his grip on the wheel tightening as they sped around a corner. He was getting a feel for it now—the strange rhythm of gas and brake, the thrilling hum of the engine beneath them. He might not have mastered it, but he was getting close enough. He flashed a quick grin at Draco, the adrenaline coursing through him like fire. “See? Not so bad.”

“Not so bad?” Draco’s voice went up an octave. “We’re in a stolen car, in the middle of nowhere, and you’re—are you smiling?”

“Well, yeah. It’s kind of fun.”

Draco opened his mouth to argue, but another pothole cut him off, causing him to clutch the seat even tighter. “This isn’t a game, Potter. We need a plan, not a… a bloody joyride!”

“Relax, Malfoy,” Harry replied, feigning nonchalance as he tried to remember which pedal was which. “We’re in the clear, for now. No one will think to look for us here.”

“And where exactly is ‘here’? Because at this rate, we’re liable to end up in the middle of a field or—oh, Merlin forbid—the maritime.”

“Good question. Somewhere far enough away from the Ministry’s reach, but close enough that we can set up wards.” He frowned, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. “Can we even do that without them knowing?”

“Not without a whole lot of concealment spells. They’re bound to pick up on anything strong enough to keep us hidden.”

“What if we just stick to the Muggle side for a while? Find somewhere to lay low?”

“Lay low where, exactly? Are you planning on breaking into a Muggle house now, too? Perhaps you’d like to try hotwiring another car while we’re at it?”

Harry gave him a crooked grin. “That’s the spirit! See, we’re thinking on the same page here.”

Draco scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “If by ‘page,’ you mean ‘reckless disregard for logic and basic self-preservation,’ then yes, Potter, I’m right there with you.”

Harry laughed, the sound rough and exhilarating. He could feel the tension start to ease as they continued down the road, his grip on the wheel growing more confident with each passing second. “Look, we’ll find a place. I’ll keep us off the main roads, and maybe we can set up some light wards—nothing flashy. Just enough to keep any magical signals from leading them to us.”

“So, we’re fugitives on the run with little more than a hotwired car, minimal magic, and a terrible plan.”

“Pretty much. It’ll work, though. You’ll see.”

Draco sighed, muttering something under his breath about Gryffindor recklessness. He might not have trusted Harry’s driving, or his half-baked plans, but for once, he allowed himself to lean into the madness. “I swear, Potter, if we survive this, I might just start worshipping the god of miracles.”

“Good to know you have faith, Malfoy.” Harry jerked the car into a turn, ignoring Draco’s exasperated groan as the wheels screeched against the asphalt.

Draco shot Harry a quick look. "Head south," he muttered, glancing out the window at the darkened road. "There’s a place… about three hours out. It’s secluded, near the ocean—safe enough for now."

Harry frowned, giving Draco a sidelong glance. “You’re holding out on me, Malfoy? Where is this place?”

Draco’s lips pressed into a thin line. “It’s called Black Cove, near Cornwall. We’ll have wards and shelter there.”

The road unwound endlessly before them, bathed in the soft, ethereal glow of moonlight and punctuated by the fleeting flashes of passing streetlights. Draco's tension had finally succumbed to exhaustion, his head lolling gently against the windowpane, eyes closed in a rare, serene slumber.

Harry’s gaze lingered on Draco’s sleeping form, the pale moonlight casting a gentle glow over his face, softening his sharp edges. It struck Harry, painfully and inexplicably, just how fragile Draco looked in this moment—no sneer, no defensive walls, just a quiet stillness that seemed almost otherworldly.

Harry felt an ache settle in his chest, a yearning he couldn’t quite name. It was like touching something sacred, something buried deep within the marrow of his own bones, something he hadn't allowed himself to reach for in a long time.

For so long, he had believed he understood his own heart, his own limits. But sitting here, watching Draco breathe, Harry felt those boundaries unraveling, the careful lines he’d drawn between himself and what he dared not want. It felt as if he were a galaxy away from reason and rationale, hurtling through a vast, empty sky, driven by a force he couldn't control or explain.

What was it about Draco that called to him like this? The way a moth is drawn to flame, the way planets are held in orbit by forces they can't defy. It wasn’t love, not exactly, nor was it friendship. It was something darker, deeper—a recognition, a quiet understanding between two souls scarred in different ways but bound by a shared history.

As they drove on, Harry tightened his grip on the wheel, feeling the weight of this strange, unspoken bond—something both beautiful and terrifying, as if he were staring into the heart of a star and daring it to consume him.

The car rattled down the road, the fuel gauge inching perilously close to empty. Harry glanced at the dashboard, brow furrowing. They needed petrol—badly.

“We have to stop soon,” Harry said, eyes scanning the deserted streets.

Draco blinked at him, sitting up straighter. “Stop for what?”

“Petrol. Fuel. The car runs on it, and we’re almost out.”

Draco frowned, eyes darting to the fuel gauge as if it might somehow translate into something he could understand. “What? Like… broomstick polish?”

Harry let out a half-snort, half-sigh. “Not quite.” He spotted a small, dimly lit petrol station in the distance and pulled the car towards it. The place looked ancient—a flickering neon sign, a single pump standing under a crooked canopy, and an old shop that seemed to barely hang together. It would have to do.

As Harry parked beside the pump, Draco's gaze flitted between Harry and the strange contraption outside. He eyed the nozzle like it might explode at any moment, lips curling with distaste. “What exactly are we doing?”

“Refueling.” Harry opened the car door and stepped out, motioning for Draco to stay put. “Just stay here, alright? I’ll handle it. And maybe don't touch anything.”

Draco watched Harry head to the pump, eyes narrowing suspiciously. Harry grabbed the nozzle, shoving it into the car’s fuel tank. “This is absurd,” Draco muttered under his breath, leaning over the seat to get a better look. “Honestly, how do Muggles live like this? So much effort for so little return.”

Harry smirked, giving the nozzle a squeeze, the pump grumbling as it started to transfer fuel. He turned his head slightly to meet Draco's bewildered gaze through the window. “It’s not that different from refueling a broom… just takes a little more finesse.”

Draco shot Harry a look, his eyes a wary mix of irritation and something darker, an almost magnetic pull between fear and admiration, as if he couldn’t decide if he wanted to throttle Harry or follow him to the end.

“This isn’t finesse, Potter. This is—” He paused, eyes going wide as the pump gave a loud click, making him jump slightly. He shot Harry a glare. “See? Dangerous.”

Harry just shook his head, laughter threatening to bubble up. He knew Draco hated feeling out of his depth, and right now, everything about the Muggle world was testing his patience. Harry finished at the pump and made his way inside to pay, leaving Draco to grumble to himself in the car. Draco shot one more skeptical look at the pump, as if it might spontaneously combust.

A few moments later, Harry returned, sliding back into the driver’s seat with a triumphant smile and a plastic bag filled with snacks. He tossed it onto Draco's lap, earning a baffled look. “See? Easy as that.”

Draco eyed him suspiciously, then glanced at the bag of unfamiliar items. “What is all this?”

“Snacks,” Harry grinned. “Figured you could use a taste of Muggle cuisine. Besides, I was curious.”

Draco pulled out a packet of Jaffa Cakes, turning it over in his hands like it was some alien artifact. “Snacks. Muggles are so strange.”

Harry watched Draco with a strange sense of fascination. There was something oddly captivating about seeing Draco so out of his element—confused, curious, and for once, without the usual defenses up. The sight made Harry’s chest feel tight, an unfamiliar warmth blooming there. He quickly looked away, focusing on the road instead.

Harry bit back a grin as he started the car, the engine roaring back to life. “Perfectly safe.”

Draco leaned back, letting out a huff. “This entire ordeal is ridiculous. You know, if we were using a broom, we wouldn’t need to stop in the middle of nowhere just to feed it.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not like we had many choices, Malfoy. Besides,” Harry added, glancing over at the sulking blond. “I kind of like it. Makes it feel like an adventure. Bonnie and Clyde style.”

“By the gods of magic—what on Merlin’s name is a ‘Bonnie and Clyde’? Are they Dark Wizards? Did they pioneer some revolutionary spell?"

Harry glanced at Draco, his smile reaching beyond his eyes. "Uh, no. They were infamous Muggle outlaws. Robbed banks, evaded the law… quite the legendary duo."

Draco's expression transformed from perplexity to disdain. "How quaint. Muggle thieves. How very thrilling."

"Well, they had style. And their story ended famously—in a hail of bullets."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Fascinating. I'm sure their lack of magic made their exploits utterly captivating."

"You're missing the point, Malfoy. It's about the thrill, the unpredictability."

Draco snorted. "Unpredictability? You mean like your driving?"

"Hey, I resent that. I'm a great driver."

"Really? Then why did we nearly end up in a ditch?"

"Minor detour."

"I'm traveling with a madman."

Harry chuckled. "That's the spirit, Malfoy. Now, let's make some more questionable life choices."

Draco shot him an incredulous look, but Harry didn’t miss the way the corners of his lips twitched up. “You’re insufferable, Potter.” He popped open the box of Jaffa Cakes, giving Harry a side-eye before gingerly taking a bite.

“See, it’s not so bad.”

“I suppose it’s not entirely awful,” Draco admitted. “But let’s not make this a habit, Potter. There’s a difference between Muggle ‘delicacies’ and actual food.”

He didn’t put the Jaffa Cakes away.

The Jaguar rolled to a stop, its engine rumbling before Harry turned the key, letting the sudden silence take over. Before them, the house stood on a solitary cliffside, overlooking the endless expanse of the ocean. Moonlight bathed everything in a silvery glow, the waves below crashing rhythmically against the jagged rocks, their white froth glimmering in the night.

It was a small, secluded cottage, the stone walls weathered by years of sea spray and wind. Ivy trailed up one side, clinging like delicate fingers reaching toward the thatched roof, and a narrow path led from where they parked the car to the front door, bordered by wild, overgrown heather. There was something almost magical about it, as though time itself had forgotten this place, allowing it to exist untouched and hidden.

Harry stepped out of the car, taking in the scene. The salty tang of the sea breeze filled his lungs, and he could feel the air, heavy with the scent of wildflowers and ocean mist, cool against his skin. There was nothing else in sight but the sea and the darkened sky above—a quiet, private haven.

Harry thought he could stay here forever. He had never known peace much in his life—but suddenly, it felt like peace must resemble something very close to this.

Draco moved to stand beside him, grey eyes fixed on the house. He was equal parts nostalgic and uneasy. He didn’t even think he’d be here again—but now, it felt like a punch to the gut. He was quiet for a long moment before he spoke, his voice barely a whisper, lost almost in the rush of the waves.

"This was Snape's," Draco said, his gaze distant. "He called it a safehouse, but it was more than that. It was… an escape. Somewhere no one could find us, not even the Dark Lord. Sometimes, when things were—when it was unbearable at the Manor, he'd bring me here. Told me it was the one place in the world that was truly safe." He paused, then looked at Harry. "It's entirely untraceable—warded to the highest degree. No one knows about it but us. Not even the Ministry could locate us here."

Harry nodded, watching Draco. He could see the way Draco's eyes lingered on the house, the tension etched into his shoulders. It was all there now—an image of a younger Draco, desperate to escape the war, finding refuge here with Snape, the only adult who had ever truly protected him. For the first time, Harry understood it—the depth of Draco and Snape's bond. He had never believed that their relationship held any real meaning, but now, standing here, he saw it clearly. Snape had been to Draco what Sirius had been to Harry.

Draco moved toward the door, taking out his wand and tapping it gently against the weathered wood. There was a soft click as the lock gave way, the door creaking open.

Draco glanced at Harry, giving him a tired, almost wistful smile. "Come on then, Potter. Let's get inside."

They stepped over the threshold into the small, dimly lit entryway. The air held a faint scent of musty parchment and herbs, earthy bitterness lingering. The interior of the house was as unassuming as the exterior, yet there was an almost reverent stillness in the walls, as if each stone and floorboard had absorbed secrets whispered only to the dark.

A single sitting room lay beyond, its furniture sparse and worn, each piece functional rather than decorative. A battered armchair with faded upholstery sat by the old stone fireplace. A collection of vials and potion bottles lined a low shelf nearby, each labeled in cramped, meticulous handwriting. Their contents ranged from familiar herbs to strange, dark liquids that gleamed in the light.

A well-worn, frayed rug covered part of the wooden floor, its colors dulled but still bearing the faint outline of intricate patterns. On a low table beside the armchair, books were stacked in a haphazard but somehow purposeful arrangement: heavy leather-bound tomes with cracked spines, pages yellowed with age, and slimmer volumes with no titles on their spines. Many were filled with handwritten notes in the margins, dark ink scrawled alongside ancient runes and arcane symbols.

Draco walked through the space, fingers brushing over the back of the armchair, eyes tracing the outlines of the room like he was seeing ghosts of the past. "Snape was… meticulous about keeping this place secret," he said, almost to himself. "It was the one thing that Voldemort never knew about. He wanted me to have somewhere—somewhere that wasn't touched by the war. A place I could just… exist."

Harry followed silently, taking in the faded elegance of the small house, the way everything seemed frozen in time. He moved toward the French doors at the back of the room, pushing them open to reveal a small terrace that overlooked the ocean below. The wind rushed in, filling the room with the crisp scent of salt and the distant roar of waves.

Draco came to stand beside him, the sea stretching infinitely before them. He let out a breath, his shoulders sagging, and for a moment, Harry saw him as he truly was—wearing the weight of his past like armor, a quiet, battered grace woven into every line of his body. A haunting that lingered behind his eyes, yet somehow, he bore it with a dignity that defied defeat.

Draco was a mosaic of all the things he couldn’t say, fragments held together by sheer force of will. And sometimes he wondered if one word, one touch, might be enough to shatter him all over again.

"It’s… peaceful," Harry said quietly.

Draco nodded, a small, almost sad smile tugging at his lips.

Harry followed Draco’s gaze, waves crashing against stone. “What do you see when you look out there?”

“Everything I could have been, and everything I still might be.”

The ocean crashed far below, and the night sky arched above it. For a moment—only a moment—they had found a place untouched by the world. They allowed themselves to catch their breath.

After what felt like hours of fighting, running, and driving down endless roads, neither man could think straight. They’d called it a night with little more than a few exhausted murmurs between them. Neither felt entirely comfortable taking Snape’s old room, so Draco took the guest bedroom, and Harry settled for the couch.

When Harry woke, he felt disoriented. To his surprise, though, there was a strange calm settling over him—a feeling so foreign he almost didn’t recognize it. Maybe it was the sound of the ocean crashing outside, the tangy scent of saltwater wafting through the air, or perhaps it was Snape’s lingering magic, still resilient, humming softly through the house. For once in his life, Harry felt an odd sense of peace, as though he were suspended in time.

He didn’t know what would come next or how to untangle the mess they’d become wrapped up in—but in this moment, it didn’t matter. Here, he was simply allowed to be—unseen, unburdened, free in a way that defied words. Not free from the world, but away from it, tucked into a quiet place where, even if only for a moment, he was allowed to exist without judgment or demand. Hidden from a world that had claimed him, he felt, perhaps for the first time, like he belonged only to himself.

Harry’s peace was soon broken.

Draco came bustling down the stairs, hair tousled as though he hadn’t managed even a blink of sleep. He looked like a madman unchained, poised to rampage—and for a moment, Harry felt a flicker of genuine unease at the sight of him.

Draco, despite everything, had always done a remarkable job of maintaining his composure, keeping up appearances even in the darkest moments of the war. But now, all that control, all that practiced poise, seemed to have slipped through his fingers like sand. He was practically vibrating with rage, his entire body trembling as he stormed back and forth, pacing across the small room.

“What the fuck have we done, Potter?” Draco’s voice was edged with a hysteria that made it crack. He looked at Harry like he might actually kill him, eyes wild and wide, the anger so palpable it felt like it could split the air in two.

Harry rubbed his eyes, still groggy. He wasn’t even fully awake, but Draco’s panic hit him like a splash of ice water.

“What we had to, Malfoy.”

“No, no, no!” Draco’s voice rose, his chest heaving with each frantic breath. “You don’t get to decide that for me! You just—you dragged me along! Do you even get what this means?” He stopped in front of Harry, eyes burning. “We’re fucked, Potter! We’re fucking fugitives! You just threw your whole bloody life away, and for what?”

Harry stood, pushing himself off the couch. “I couldn’t let them take you, Malfoy! They were going to lock you away, destroy you—”

“So?! Maybe I deserve it! Maybe that’s what should happen!”

“No!” Harry stepped forward, closing the distance between them until Draco had no choice but to meet his eyes. “You don’t get to say that. You don’t get to decide that you’re not worth saving.”

Draco swallowed hard, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Why, Potter? Why would you do this? Why risk everything?”

Harry clenched his jaw, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “I’ll be damned before I let them make us puppets all over again.”

“You’re insane, Potter. You’re absolutely mad.”

Harry took another step closer. “Maybe I am. Maybe I’m tired of doing what’s right, of following all the rules and watching as it destroys everyone I care about. I’m done playing by their rules, Malfoy. I’m choosing you. And I’m not letting anyone take that choice away from me.”

Draco’s eyes stung, vision blurring as the anger drained out of him, leaving only the raw, aching fear that had been there all along. He turned away, running a hand through his disheveled hair, shoulders slumping.

“You’re going to get yourself killed, you know that?”

Harry’s lips twitched. “Maybe. But at least I’ll know it’s at my own hands.”

Harry had always been the weapon, the shield, the banner they rallied behind. But no one stopped to think about what that did to him, the way it carved into his very soul. He was tired of fighting for people who praised him with one breath and shackled him with the next. Tired of a world that demanded sacrifices without end.

So now, when he looked at Draco and saw something fragile and fierce, something worth protecting for no other reason than because he chose to—he’d do whatever it took to keep that safe. The world had asked for his soul, but Draco only wanted his loyalty. And he’d give it, even if it meant tearing down everything he’d ever fought for.

“Right then,” Harry said, dusting his hands off as if he’d just completed a difficult task. “Tea?”

Draco blinked. “What?”

“Tea,” Harry repeated, opening a cupboard and pulling out a mismatched mug, examining it for dust. He looked over his shoulder at Draco with a raised eyebrow. “You know, that warm beverage people drink when they need to calm down?”

“Are you serious, Potter? You’re offering me tea right now?”

“Always works for Mrs. Weasley. Figured it’s worth a shot.”

Draco stared at him, his mouth opening and closing as he tried to find words. “You’re unbelievable. Completely, utterly unbelievable.”

Harry only shrugged, his movements casual as he filled a kettle with water and placed it on the stove. He turned back, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, his eyes glinting with a playfulness that Draco found, in that moment, maddening. “You know, you look like you could use some tea. Might even make it chamomile—something calming.”

Draco rubbed his eyes, the exhaustion beginning to weigh on him again now that the adrenaline had run its course. “You think a bloody cup of chamomile is going to fix all this?”

Harry smirked. “Worth a try. Besides, you need to relax. You’re way too high-strung for someone who just got away from a death sentence.”

Draco let out an incredulous laugh. “You’re insufferable, Potter. Truly.”

Harry’s smile widened, the tension in the room easing just slightly as the kettle began to whistle. He turned back, pouring the hot water over a teabag. “Yeah, but you’re still here,” he murmured, voice soft.

Draco watched as Harry moved, the ease in his shoulders, the way he moved as though he woke up here every morning and made tea. Like it was all so natural and routine. It was unnerving, but it was also… oddly comforting.

Harry approached, offering Draco the mug with a cheeky smile, his eyes meeting Draco’s with a softness that made Draco’s chest tighten. “Here,” he said. “Just drink it. For me?”

Draco hesitated, looking from Harry’s face to the mug. He took it with a sigh, wrapping his fingers around the warm ceramic, letting the heat seep into his skin. “You know, this doesn’t mean I’m not still furious with you.”

“Of course not. You can be furious and drink your tea at the same time. Multitasking.”

“Just… try not to do anything too reckless again,” Draco muttered, eyes on the tea, avoiding Harry’s gaze. “We’re not getting out of this if you end up dead.”

“We need a plan,” Harry said. “The wards here mean our magic is untraceable for now, but we can’t expect to stay hidden here forever.”

Draco nodded, his expression thoughtful as he took a sip of the tea. The warmth seemed to steady him, if only a little. “We can’t keep relying on Snape’s wards. They’re old, and while they’re strong, the Ministry is relentless. DAMOS won’t stop until we’re both either in Azkaban or—” He trailed off, his jaw tightening. “We need something else. Something more permanent.”

Harry nodded. “I’ve been thinking. The tether—it connects us, right? Maybe we can use it.”

“Use it? How do you mean?”

Harry set his mug down, leaning forward. "Think about it, Malfoy. It’s not just a bond—it’s a magical link that’s as deep and intrinsic as life itself. The magic of a soul tether runs through both of us, binding our essences together in a way that’s incredibly strong, but also nearly impossible for anyone else to detect unless they know exactly what they’re looking for. It's different from standard magical traces—it’s subtle, almost like an echo."

“Your point?” Draco asked tiredly, already not liking where this was heading.

"Well—the tether isn’t like regular magic, is it? It’s not something bound by the laws of normal spellwork or ordinary enchantments. It’s deeper. If we can figure out how to cloak ourselves within that tether, it could essentially work like a camouflage.”

Draco frowned slightly, considering. “You’re talking about modifying a soul tether, Potter. That’s advanced, dangerous magic. And if we mess it up—”

“Then we’ll be no worse off than we already are,” Harry interrupted. “Look, I know it’s risky. But it’s also our best shot. I don’t want to just keep running. I want us to actually have a chance.”

“How do you even know where to start?”

“I don’t. But I think Hermione would.”

“Granger?” Draco gaped. “You can’t be serious, Potter. We can’t involve her. Or Weasley. If the Ministry catches wind of them helping us—”

“I know, I know,” Harry said, sighing. “But she’s brilliant, Malfoy. If anyone could figure this out, it’d be her. She’d know what we’d need to do, how to go about it. I hate the idea of dragging them into this, but… I can’t think of anyone else who’d have the knowledge.”

Draco was shaking his head adamantly. “And what if they come for her? Or for your precious Weasley? DAMOS isn’t playing fair, Potter. If you think they’ll hesitate to use your friends against us—you’ve got another thing coming for you.”

Harry stared into his tea, his brow furrowed. He knew Draco was right. DAMOS wouldn’t hesitate to hurt anyone close to him if they thought it would force his hand. But the alternative was wandering in the dark, hoping for a miracle. He wasn’t sure they could afford that—not right now.

“I think I have an idea.”

“You and your ideas, Potter,” Draco heaved a breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. “What sort of idea would this be? You look like you’re about to do something reckless. Again.”

A smirk tugged at Harry’s lips, and it was unsettling—almost dangerous, a hint of the boy-who-lived-but-would-burn-everything-to-ash-if-he-had-to. “Well, it might be a little reckless… but I think it’s the best way to get to Hermione.”

“Go on, then. Let’s hear this brilliant plan of yours.”

“I think there’s a way to reach Hermione without the Ministry catching wind. We know their patterns. DAMOS, they have their spies, their traces—but they’re not perfect. There are holes in their watch, places where their surveillance can’t reach.”

“And you think you can just slip through those holes?”

Harry’s lips twisted into a grin that was almost feral. “I know I can. I’ve done it before, remember? They’re too focused on major locations—the Burrow, Grimmauld Place. But if I can lure their attention somewhere else, just long enough to get in and get Hermione’s help… it could work.”

Draco blinked, stunned into silence for a moment. “You want to what? Set up some sort of diversion and sneak in while they’re distracted?”

Harry nodded. “More or less, yeah. Look, I know it’s risky, but this is our best shot. If we can draw their attention to another target, something big enough to make them pull resources away, I can get to Hermione without them knowing.”

The way Draco was staring at Harry, you’d have thought the brunette had grown a second head. “You’re insane. And what’s your plan for this ‘diversion’? You’re talking about baiting DAMOS like it’s some sort of children’s game.”

“Well, it doesn’t need to be anything complicated. A few well-placed spells, maybe a Patronus or two—get them looking somewhere else. I can get in and out before they even realize what’s happened.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed, the fear and uncertainty evident, but so too was the admiration—this was the Potter that people had followed into the fire, the one with the sheer force of will to make anything seem possible. “Potter, you’re playing with the devil’s bones. Going there alone… it’s suicide. And for what? So we can drag more people into this mess?”

"I told you I'm done playing by their rules. We need to outsmart them, stay ahead of the curve. This is our ticket. We can't move forward, Malfoy, until our magic is off the radar. You know it, I know it—we're sitting ducks otherwise."

Draco stared at him for a long moment. “You really think this is the best shot we have?”

"I do. I trust Hermione with my life. We'd be mad to pass up her expertise. She's our best shot at cracking this."

Draco sighed, the reluctance evident in his eyes. “Alright, Potter. We’ll do it your way. But if this goes sideways… I’m blaming you.”

Harry grinned. “Fair enough. But it won’t go sideways, Malfoy. Not this time.”

“It had better not. Because we’re out of options.”

Harry rose from the chair, his determination making him move with a confidence that seemed unshakable. Draco watched him as he grabbed his wand from the counter and tucked it securely into his waistband. There was a tension in his movement, a certain kind of readiness that made Draco’s heart clench—this wasn’t just Harry being reckless. This was Harry diving headfirst into chaos, trusting his instincts like he always did, and Draco knew that once Harry made up his mind, there was no changing it.

“Alright,” Harry said. “I think… I think I should make the diversion tonight. The sooner I can get to Hermione, the sooner we can figure out how to keep our magic from being traced.”

Draco rubbed a hand over his face. “You’re really going to do this, aren’t you?”

“I have to. DAMOS won’t see it coming—I’ll be in and out before they know what hit them.”

Draco had been afraid more times than he’d ever dare admit. Fear had shaped him, worn into him like water over stone. He’d been afraid when he first stepped into Hogwarts, just an eleven-year-old boy in crisp new robes, heart pounding with the terror that he might be sorted into the wrong house—any house but Slytherin. He’d worn confidence like a mask, acting as if he were certain of his place, as if his fate were undeniable. But deep down, he was just an eleven-year-old boy terrified of disappointing his father.

The Forbidden Forest had sent shivers down his spine whenever he glanced at its dark borders. When he approached Buckbeak in third year, his chest had been tight with dread, fingers trembling under the weight of forced arrogance. Even the dark—the simple, inky dark of his own room—had haunted him through most of his childhood. Shadows twisting into shapes he couldn’t understand, couldn’t reason away. And as he grew older, fear never truly left him; it only grew sharper, more precise, settling like ice in his chest.

But this fear was different. It was less tangible, more insidious. Fear for Harry’s life, fear for what lay on the path they were carving for themselves—fear that, one day, Harry might not come back. And worse yet, the fear of what that loss might carve out of him.

As much as Draco was coming to realize that Harry Potter was not all he had presumed—that Harry didn’t, in fact, crave attention or want to be the world’s savior—he was also recognizing something far more unsettling: Harry was still reckless and maddeningly brave, but now he was something more. A blade balanced on the edge of breaking. It was entirely disquieting, watching this new version of Harry emerge—not merely courageous, but relentless, a force of nature barely contained, a storm gathering strength with no intention of dissipating.

“Where are you even going to do this?” Draco asked, steadying his voice. “You can’t just show up in Diagon Alley or at some Ministry facility. They’ll have you in shackles before you can even lift your wand.”

A small smile played at Harry’s lips. “I have an idea. I’ll go somewhere they wouldn’t expect—like Little Hangleton. The old Riddle House. They’re still keeping an eye on it, but not like they used to. If I make enough noise, they’ll come running, and that’ll give me enough time to get to Hermione.”

“You’re going to Little Hangleton? That’s insane. That’s where Voldemort—” He paused, shaking his head as if to dispel the thought. “That place is crawling with dark magic, Potter. It’s dangerous.”

“It’s always dangerous, Malfoy. But that’s why it’ll work. They’ll think I’m planning something big—maybe even going after something of Voldemort’s. It’ll pull them away from Hermione, and that’s all I need.”

Anxiety was rolling through Draco like a tidal wave. “And then what? You get to Granger, you get whatever you need… and then we run again? How long can we keep this up?”

Harry stepped closer, his eyes softening. “As long as it takes, Malfoy. Until you’re truly safe. I know it’s not what you wanted, and I know this isn’t what you signed up for—but it’s what we have to do now. If there’s a way to make us untraceable… we have to try.”

Draco looked at him, the exhaustion in his bones warring with the undeniable truth of Harry’s words. He hated the risk, hated the haste. “Alright,” he said finally, his voice quiet. “Just… don’t die. Please.”

Harry’s smile was gentle as he reached out, squeezing Draco’s shoulder. “I won’t. I promise.”

Draco’s eyes lingered on Harry’s hand, feeling the warmth, the steady strength radiating through that simple touch. For a moment, he wanted to say something—anything—but found himself nodding instead, the words caught in his throat. “If anyone can pull it off, I suppose it’s you.”

Harry gave him one last reassuring look before turning toward the door. As Harry’s hand reached for the doorknob, Draco found his voice, a thread of desperation laced within it.

“Potter,” he called, and Harry paused, glancing back over his shoulder.

“Yeah?”

“Seriously… don’t die.”

Harry’s smile widened. “I’ll be back,” he promised, his voice soft, but as firm as an oath. Then, after a heartbeat, he added, “I don’t intend to leave you alone in this, Malfoy.”

And with that, he was gone, leaving Draco alone in the dim quiet of the room, the warmth of Harry’s touch lingering like a whisper of something fragile and just out of reach.

Draco paced the small living room, the silence gnawing at his nerves in Harry’s absence. It felt unnatural, that anchor of Harry’s unruliness gone, leaving Draco to stew in the uneasy quiet that seemed to stretch each minute into hours. His gaze drifted to the door, hoping it would swing open with Harry’s confident grin, proof of another impossible escape.

He hated waiting. But worse was this helplessness, the frustrating sense that everything hung by a thread. Desperation drove him to the bookshelf, his fingers tracing the spines of Snape’s old books. This house held Snape’s memory like a ghost, and Draco could almost hear his mentor’s biting tone. How he wished he could ask Snape what to do now.

Pulling down a few volumes, Draco combed through notes and spells, searching for answers, for anything that could help them stay hidden. His gaze settled on a section on soul magic, and he traced the passages on binding spells. It was strange, unnerving—the way their fates were bound by something so intangible, and yet, it was all they had.

He found a mention of a masking spell that could make one untraceable, but it was vague, typical of Snape’s guarded writing. Draco sighed, the ache of missing Snape mingling with the gnawing worry for Harry.

He wasn’t sure when it had happened—when he’d started to believe in Harry like this, when he’d started to trust him so implicitly. But it was there, a quiet conviction that Harry would come back, that they’d figure this out, that somehow, they’d survive this.

And Draco found that, despite everything, he wanted that more than anything. He wanted to see Harry walk through that door, a grin on his face, and he wanted to be there, right beside him, fighting for whatever came next.

Harry moved through the shadows of Little Hangleton with the quiet grace of someone who had learned long ago to disappear into the night. Beneath the hazy glow of streetlamps, he slipped between dark corners, his footsteps blending with the wind as if he were just another shadow.

The Riddle House loomed ahead, broken and dark, carved against the sky like a wound left to fester. He felt a thrill, cold and sharp, as he approached. Harry Potter, returning to the darkest place he’d ever known. It was absurd, irresponsible, and yet it was exactly what they wouldn’t expect.

It was a liberating metamorphosis, Harry realized. Releasing his lifelong grip on moral perfection, he surrendered to primal instincts. Unshackled from the weight of destiny, he broke free from the scripted narrative. For the first time, he shed the hero's mantle. Embracing darkness, he claimed empowerment. This wasn't redemption or crusade; just unapologetic self-pursuit. His terms, his desires, his liberation.

Now, he was just Harry, stripped of all the titles, free to act in his own name. And it was wild, reckless, and beautiful.

As he reached the side door, he held his breath. It creaked open with a groan, and he slipped inside, wand in hand. The house was steeped in memory, a place where violence had seeped into the walls, into the floors. He could almost taste it on the air—a sickly, bitter residue of dark magic, like burnt metal and ash.

This darkness no longer intimidated him. Years of shouldering righteousness had exhausted him. Tonight, he embodied a different essence—untamed and menacing. He moved carefully, each step light. His heart was pounding—in tightly wound focus, rather than fear.

Harry reached the base of the staircase. In a breath, he raised his wand. "Confringo," he whispered, and the spell exploded from his wand, shattering the wood in a violent blast. The sound ripped through the silence like a scream. Shards flew in every direction, scattering like shrapnel, embedding into the walls.

“Ventus Maximus.” A fierce gust roared from his wand, slamming into the shattered wood and sending splinters flying in a cyclone of force. Dust and debris swirled in the air. The remnants of Voldemort's lair shuddered under the force, as if the house itself was recoiling from his anger.

He felt a dark satisfaction settle in his chest, a thrill that bordered on defiance and something close to fury. This wasn’t a righteous act, not some calculated move in a noble fight. It was raw, reckless, and his.

How’d you like that, Tom?

For a heartbeat, he stood there, almost mesmerized by the destruction he’d caused, his breath coming in quick, harsh bursts. The splinters fell around him in slow motion, settling in a thick layer of dust—a scene that felt like something pulled from a nightmare.

But he wasn’t the one haunted tonight.

No, tonight, he was the haunting.

He moved to the ceiling, casting another spell. This time, the ceiling cracked, heavy fragments raining down like stones.

Harry slipped back outside, the cool air rushing against his face. Alarms began to blare in the distance. DAMOS was coming. They would think he was up to something grand, something dangerous. And in truth, maybe he was. Because what else could you call it when a man was willing to let his past consume itself in flames just to make sure one person, one improbable, irreplaceable person, stayed safe?

Harry didn’t look back. He moved with the sharp purpose of a blade, cutting through the alleyways. He pulled out the enchanted DA coin, the one he’d held onto like a relic from another life. As he touched it, he sent a silent message. Hermione would know. She would feel the urgency, the importance of it.

And as he slipped out of the village, his thoughts turned to her—to what she would say, to the look she might give him, equal parts worry and understanding. She was one of the last things tethering him to that older version of himself, the one who followed rules, who tried to be right. But that Harry felt farther away than ever. Tonight, he was something else—unbound, darkened with purpose, driven only by the fierce need to protect. He wasn’t a savior. He was a warning.

Reaching the spot where he’d hidden the Jaguar, he slipped inside, letting his fingers settle over the steering wheel. The rearview mirror framed a stranger—chiseled, forged from darkness. Shadows accentuated sharp angles, his reflection radiating an unfamiliar intensity.

As the engine roared to life, he felt the night stretch out ahead of him like a winding path that could lead anywhere—toward redemption or ruin, he didn’t know.

Harry floored the pedal. The Jaguar burst forward, speed and defiance merged in a sleek, disappearing streak.

Harry drove through endless back roads, the Jaguar rumbling beneath like a beast barely in check.

He knew that he had likely succeeded in drawing DAMOS to Little Hangleton. He could almost picture them, swarming the Riddle House, wands raised, expecting to find something twisted and grand—some secret mission that would threaten their newly consolidated power. But they’d find nothing. By the time they realized it was just a diversion, Harry would be long gone.

He glanced at the enchanted coin, glowing faintly in the passenger seat. It had been years since the DA had used them to communicate—secret messages passed silently, calling allies together. He just hoped that Hermione still had hers, that she understood what it meant. It was a long shot, but it was all he had.

The road abruptly curved, and Harry wrenched the wheel, the Jaguar sliding around the corner, tires throwing up loose gravel. The headlights cut a trail through the darkness. He knew he was getting near. The signal from the charmed coin pulsed, guiding him to Hermione.

Harry pulled up to an old, nondescript barn—one he knew had been used during the war as a safe point for Order members. It was abandoned now, as far as he knew, but it was the closest landmark he could think of that was far enough from the Ministry’s eyes. He parked the Jaguar a little way off, tucking it behind a thicket of trees before slipping out, wand in hand, every nerve on high alert.

The barn loomed ahead, a dark silhouette against the night sky. Harry approached with caution. He reached the door, pressing his hand to the rough wood, pushing it open with a creak that shattered the stillness.

Stepping inside, darkness swallowed him, his wand casting only a faint light along the edges. The air was thick with old hay, dust, and a faint tang of mildew. He took a steadying breath, eyes scanning the shadows, searching.

Suddenly, a flicker of movement caught his eye. Harry tensed. His wand snapped up as he turned sharply, only to come face to face with a bushy-haired witch, her eyes wide with worry.

"Harry?" Hermione’s voice was barely a whisper.

Harry lowered his wand, a sigh escaping him as he moved closer. "Hermione," he breathed.  

Hermione’s eyes went wide at the sight of Harry, her shock quickly giving way to a storm of emotions—relief, concern, and unmistakable anger. She stepped forward, her voice rising.

“Harry James Potter, what the hell did you do?!” Her hand came down hard on his arm, and she hit him again, not enough to hurt, but enough to let the frustration pour out. “Do you know what you’ve done? The Ministry kept Ron and me for nearly twenty-four hours—questioning us, threatening us. They tore the Burrow apart! They nearly—”

“I’m sorry, Hermione,” Harry whispered. The guilt clawed at his insides. He took her hand, stilling it, the heat of her rage dissipating against his skin. “I didn’t have another choice. I can’t tell you where we are or what we’re doing. It’s too dangerous for you to know anything more than you already do.”

Hermione’s eyes were glassy, her voice cracking as she pulled her hand free. “Harry, you’re going to get yourself killed! You’re going to get Draco killed. Ron and I—we believed in you. We always have. Even at the end, even when everything was falling apart—we still believed—”

“And look where it led us, Hermione!” Harry snapped, frustration bubbling to the surface. “Belief doesn’t bring the dead back. Belief doesn’t make things right.”

Her expression twisted with the hurt she couldn’t quite hide. “I’m scared, Harry.”

Harry gave a faint, strained smile. "Me too. But I’m not letting Draco take the fall for this. I won’t let him pay for things he never did. You have to trust me, ‘Mione. I can’t—I won’t sacrifice his freedom.”

“You used to fight for love, Harry.”

“Love didn’t fight for me,” he whispered into the silence. “Not when it mattered.”

“Well—where have you been, Harry? Where are you staying? Are you safe? And what’s going on with Draco?” She paused, taking a breath. “No—wait. You can’t tell me, can you? It’s not safe. Not for me, not for Ron.”

Harry reached out, resting a hand on her shoulder. “I wish I could, Hermione. You know I do. But I need you to trust me right now. I’m… doing what I have to.”

“I trust you, Harry. I always have.”

Hermione was smart—always had been. Nothing about that had changed. She was rational, steady, grounded in an instinctive righteousness. Inherently good. And Harry, for all his flaws, had always been the same—or so she thought. Most of her wanted to scream at him, to shake him until he remembered himself, to reprimand him for his recklessness and transgression, because this wasn’t the Harry she’d known, the one she’d trusted to cling to the light, no matter how dark things got.

But she couldn’t do that. Because it was already too late. Harry had dug a grave for himself that no amount of remorse could ever fill, and Hermione couldn’t bear to heap guilt upon him for that—not when, deep down, she understood it. Maybe more than anyone else ever could.

She knew what he’d done was wildly out of line, morally gray and perilously close to something darker. But she also knew why he’d done it. She could see the pieces, tracing back in her mind all the moments Harry had been forced to be a savior, the pressure he’d carried like a curse. She’d always sensed that somewhere beneath the surface of his endless resilience was a fracture waiting to break open, a crack that the weight of his sacrifices had carved over time. And perhaps, though she didn’t say it, part of her was surprised it hadn’t come sooner.

More than anything, Hermione understood the why of it—why Harry would go rogue, why he’d throw his entire life into chaos for this. And why, strangely, he would do it for Draco Malfoy of all people. He was obsessive in his loyalty, even to the unlikeliest of souls, and he carried his promises like debts. But it was more than that. She could see it in his eyes, in the way he talked about Draco, as if there was a part of himself wrapped up in protecting him. As if, somehow, in keeping Draco safe, he was safeguarding a piece of his own battered soul.

So, she couldn’t blame him. Not truly.

She saw, perhaps too clearly, that this was a different side of Harry—but it was one she’d anticipated, had feared and maybe even pitied. She’d always known he wasn’t invincible. And though she knew better than anyone the danger of his descent, she also knew that this might be the only way he’d ever be free.

"I need your help,” Harry said. “Malfoy and I—we’re trying to find a way to sever the connection between our magic and any traceable signature. DAMOS is tracking every bit of magic we use. We need to become invisible, magically speaking. We need to mask our presence, make our magic untraceable."

Hermione frowned, her eyes narrowing as her mind began to work. "Severing your magical trace… that’s incredibly complex. You’d need something like a masking charm, but those don’t last, and they can still be undone. And with the tether…" Her eyes widened slightly, realization dawning. "Wait, you’re talking about the soul tether, aren’t you?"

Harry nodded. "I think the tether might be the key. If we can manipulate it, maybe we can use it to mask our magic. There’s got to be some way that might work… right?"

"Harry, that’s—" Hermione shook her head. "That’s soul magic. It’s dangerous, unpredictable. And manipulating a tether like that… if it goes wrong, it could sever your magic entirely. Or worse. It could sever your connection to each other or—”

“I know the risks, Hermione. But we don’t have another choice. They’ll find us eventually if we don’t do something. This is the only way to stay hidden."

“And Draco? Does he understand what this could mean? What it could cost?"

"He knows. He’s scared, and so am I. But we both agreed—it’s better than the alternative. The Ministry won’t stop, Hermione. They’ll never stop. And we can’t let them win."

Hermione's eyes narrowed, a sharpness cutting through her worry as she looked at Harry. "If you’re serious about this, Harry—about making your magic untraceable—there’s a way, but it isn’t easy. It’s dangerous—dark, even—but it might be your only chance."

Harry met her gaze, something tightening in his chest. He knew Hermione wouldn’t say this if she didn’t believe it was necessary. He nodded, urging her to continue.

"There’s a spell—obscure, ancient. It’s called 'Umbra Vinculum.' It binds your magic in shadows, cloaking it in a kind of ethereal veil. It essentially makes your magical signature disappear, like it’s hidden behind a dark mirror. But the problem is, the spell needs something to anchor the concealment—a connection, a life force. That’s where the tether comes in."

Hermione continued, "The soul tether—if you use it as the anchor, it could mask both of you, hide your magic completely. But it’s risky, Harry. You’d be tying your magic—your very essence—directly to Draco’s. If either of you falter, if either of you weaken, you’ll both be exposed. Worse, it could drain you both. It’s dangerous magic, Harry. Dark magic. But it’s also powerful, and if you do it right… it could work."

Harry stared at her. He felt a chill run through him, but there was something else too—a twisted kind of determination. "I’ll do it. I don’t care about the risks. If it’s what we need, then I’ll make it happen."

Hermione’s eyes glistened, her breath hitching as she spoke again, voice cracking. "Harry, you have to understand—this isn’t like anything we’ve done before. This magic is dangerous, and if it goes wrong—"

"I understand. But I have to do this, ‘Mione. We’re in too deep now and I won’t let DAMOS take him."

Her eyes locked onto his, searching. After an eternal pause, she nodded. Embracing him tightly, her voice barely audible. "Just come back, Harry. You and Draco both. Just come back."

Harry closed his eyes, holding her close for a moment. "We will. I promise."

With one last look, Harry turned and slipped out of the barn. He had what he needed—a chance, however slim, to make this work. And he would do whatever it took to keep Draco safe.

Before he left, Hermione had insisted they come up with a way to communicate—something that would be impossible for the Ministry to trace. She had pulled out a small, unassuming object from her pocket—a simple bronze button, worn around the edges.

“This button,” she said, “I’ve enchanted it to work like an untraceable communicator. It’s linked to another one that I have. When you need me, press your wand to it and think of a keyword. I’ll get the signal. It’s a variant of the Protean Charm—no one will know what it is unless they’ve enchanted it themselves.” She had given him a fierce look. “But only use it when absolutely necessary, Harry. It won’t leave a magical trace, but we can’t be too careful.”

Harry had taken the button from her, his fingers brushing over the worn metal. “Thank you, Hermione. You’ve always been there for me. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.”

Hermione smiled, her eyes betraying both her worry and her pride. “Just don’t do anything too stupid, Harry. And if you do… at least let me help.”

He hugged Hermione tightly, her arms clinging to him as if anchoring him against the impending storm. Parting, she pressed a matching button into her own palm, her nod a silent vow.

As Harry slid into the Jaguar, its engine purring softly in the night stillness, he glanced back at the barn. Hermione's silhouette stood watch. She was holding back tears; Harry could see that.

Their plan, imperfect and perilous, sufficed.

For Draco, freedom and fearless living, he'd fight.

Harry wondered when his world had tilted on its axis, so that every compass point led back to Draco. When had he become the gravity holding him together, the fixed point in a sea of shattered promises?

When Harry returned to the safehouse, the moon was high in the sky, casting the entire property in a silvery, haunting glow. The ocean crashed against the rocks in the distance, the salty air brushing against Harry’s skin.

The door opened quietly, and Harry stepped inside. He closed the door behind him and turned, but he didn’t have time to even call out Draco's name.

Draco was already there, eyes wild with anxiety, hands trembling as they gripped the frame of the doorway. He looked like he hadn’t sat down for even a second since Harry left—his hair was a mess, his eyes red-rimmed, and there was a frantic energy that radiated from him, vibrating with the intensity of a taut wire about to snap.

“Malfoy—” Harry began, but the words were lost as Draco all but lunged toward him, his hands catching the front of Harry’s shirt, fists knotting into the fabric.

“Where the hell have you been? What took you so long? I thought—I—” Draco’s voice cracked, his eyes blazing. He was breathing hard, his chest heaving with each breath as he clung to Harry as though to reassure himself that he was real, that he was back, that he hadn’t vanished into the night without a word.

Harry could feel Draco's knuckles digging into his chest, could feel the shudder in Draco's breath, and something in him softened at the sight of the usually composed Slytherin unraveling before him.

"I'm back, I'm here," Harry whispered. He raised his hands slowly, resting them on Draco’s shoulders, trying to calm him, feeling the tension thrumming beneath his palms. “It’s okay. I made it back.”

“You said it would be quick, that nothing would go wrong, but you left me here—wondering—wondering if—if—”

Harry felt a pang of guilt. “I—I’m sorry it took so long. We—I had to do this, Malfoy. You know that. I needed to get to Hermione—I needed answers, something to help us.”

Draco shook his head, his eyes squeezing shut as he took a shaky breath, forehead pressing against Harry’s shoulder. “If you didn’t come back alive, Potter—I swear—”

Harry stilled. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he raised his hands, one resting gently at the back of Draco’s neck, his fingers threading through soft blond hair. “I’m here, Malfoy. I’m not going anywhere. I swear it.”

Draco held onto him, his grip finally loosening. The adrenaline that had kept him upright was now draining away, leaving only exhaustion in its wake. He closed his eyes, leaning into Harry, letting the warmth of Harry's embrace soothe the frayed edges of his nerves. For a moment, there was only this—no DAMOS, no Ministry, no threat of Azkaban—just the warmth of Harry’s arms.

In hindsight, Draco supposed he should’ve felt at least a flicker of embarrassment at how closely he stood to Harry now, or at the strange, desperate need to stay near his presence. But after hours spent pacing, replaying every scenario in his mind where Harry was either dead, shackled by DAMOS, or worse—helpless under Dolores Umbridge’s mercy—he found he didn’t care.

What had started as one of Harry’s usual reckless schemes had rapidly turned into something far graver the moment he left. In that echoing silence, reality hit Draco with brutal clarity: they were fugitives, running from a government whose corruption was as entrenched as the Ministry’s roots. And the stakes had never been higher.

Draco couldn’t shake the twisted images that had played in his head—Harry, bound and wandless, staring down a dementor’s hollow maw as it threatened to consume him. Or worse, lying lifeless in Little Hangleton, nothing but a sacrifice to Harry’s own audacity. The thought had lodged like a shard of ice in Draco’s chest, freezing any lingering pride or resentment, leaving only a desperate, unnerving need for Harry to simply be there, alive and within reach.

The room sank into silence, thick and still, like the world had stopped just for them. Harry’s hand stayed tangled in Draco’s hair, the steady thud of his heartbeat loud against his ribs as if it might break free.

Draco pulled back, his gaze haunted. "No more half-baked plans, Potter.”

“I promise.”

Draco stared at him, his fingers still curled into the fabric of Harry’s shirt, as if he couldn’t quite let go. Finally, he exhaled, a hint of resignation in the way his hand drifted down, fingers ghosting over Harry’s chest before falling to his side. He looked away, clearing his throat. “Good.”

A small, quiet warmth settled in Harry’s chest, a fragile thing he dared not break. He reached out, hand brushing Draco’s shoulder. “Let’s get some rest. Tomorrow… we’ll figure out where to go from here.”

Draco nodded, the sharpness easing from his frame, just enough for a breath. He glanced at Harry one last time, his gaze lingering, before turning away toward the guest room. Bottom of Form

The following morning, the light was dim, filtered through heavy clouds that cast a pale gray over the cottage. Harry sat cross-legged on the floor, his wand held steady as he conjured up a small wireless, old-fashioned and slightly crackling. With a flick, it sprang to life, the soft hum of static filling the silence.

Draco, seated stiffly on the edge of a nearby chair, cast a wary glance at Harry. “Do we really need to do this?”

“We need to know what they’re saying about us. Forewarned is forearmed, remember?”

Draco said nothing, but Harry caught the way his hands stilled, his jaw setting in quiet resignation.

The wireless sputtered, a voice crackling into clarity. “…and in other news, the Ministry has issued a high-priority bounty on Harry James Potter and Draco Lucius Malfoy…”

Draco froze, his face draining of color. A quiet fury burned beneath Harry’s calm expression as they listened, every word reinforcing the grim reality they now faced.

“…charged with undermining the safety of the wizarding community, the two are to be considered dangerous, hostile fugitives,” the announcer continued, his voice tense, measured. “Undersecretary Dolores Umbridge has stated that this threat to our society must be neutralized at all costs.”

The voice shifted, and suddenly, Umbridge’s simpering tone filled the room. “It is the duty of every upstanding witch and wizard to help bring these criminals to justice,” she purred. “We cannot allow such darkness to fester among us—such corruption, such evil.”

“Draco Malfoy,” she continued, her tone hardening, “is a known associate of Voldemort’s inner circle, a former Death Eater who has continued to elude justice. He is dangerous. Unpredictable. And a threat to the purity of our world.”

Harry felt his pulse quicken, an icy fury settling deep in his chest as he watched Draco’s face grow even paler, the veneer of composure beginning to crack.

“Harry Potter has fallen into darkness,” Umbridge’s voice slithered on. “He is no longer the hero we once knew. His actions threaten the very fabric of our society. He must be apprehended!”

Silence fell, cold and heavy, as the broadcast continued with more banal updates. Harry flicked his wand, and the wireless cut out, leaving the room filled with a hollow quiet.

Draco swallowed, gaze fixed on the floor. “So that’s it, then. They’ve turned us into… into monsters.”

“If that’s what they think of us, then that’s on them,” Harry muttered. “But I know what we are. And I know exactly what she is.”

Draco looked up, caught by the steely determination in Harry’s eyes, the glint of unyielding defiance. He had seen Harry fight before, but there was something new now, something fiercer—a line that had finally, irrevocably, been crossed.

“We’ll find a way to bring her down,” Harry said, each word deliberate, like a vow he was carving into the air. “We’ll show her what real justice looks like.”

Draco searched Harry’s face. “You’re not trying to be a hero anymore, are you?”

Harry, something obscure lingering under the green of his eyes. “No. Heroes don’t survive. But monsters—they get the job done.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “So much for your precious honor. What’s left of it now?”

“Honor is buried beside everyone I couldn’t save.”

A thick silence settled between them.

Draco’s gaze was still fixed on the wireless, his expression tense, as if waiting for it to crackle back to life with more accusations. He swallowed. “Do you really think it’s going to be that simple?”

“Umbridge wouldn’t miss the chance to twist everything. But,” he shrugged, turning toward the small kitchen. “She has no right. Not after everything she’s done. And I’m not about to start caring what she thinks now.”

Draco blinked, watching as Harry set about making tea with a calmness that bordered on unnerving. “That’s… that’s it? You’re not even the slightest bit worried?”

Harry smirked faintly as he reached for a battered kettle, filling it with water and placing it on the stove. “You’re missing the point, Malfoy. She’s terrified of us. That’s why she’s stirring up everyone she can, throwing around words like ‘criminals’ and ‘monsters.’ She wants people to think we’re dangerous. That’s her way of keeping control.”

“It’s not just her, though. This isn’t Hogwarts anymore, Potter. There are Aurors, bounty hunters… people out there who will actually come for us.”

“I know. But being afraid isn’t going to help us. And if we lose our heads over every threat, she wins.” Harry leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms as the kettle began to whistle. “Look, we’ll take this one step at a time. First tea, then plans.”

“You’re… you’re ridiculous, you know that? Absolutely ridiculous.”

“Maybe.” Harry’s lips quirked up as he poured the boiling water into two mismatched cups, sliding one across the counter to Draco. “But it’s kept me alive so far.”

Harry, the ever-reluctant hero, so fiercely calm in the face of Umbridge’s vendetta, the Ministry’s threats. And despite himself, Draco found that Harry’s steadiness felt like a lifeline—a strange, comforting anchor in this surreal new reality. Draco couldn’t help the smallest of sighs as he took a sip, letting the warmth settle his nerves.

If Harry Potter is calm, we all should be calm… right? He did defeat the Dark Lord. What’s Umbridge in comparison? Nothing, surely. Nothing.  

“You really think we’re going to get out of this, don’t you?” Draco murmured, almost to himself.

“I know we will. She doesn’t scare me, Malfoy. And neither do her lackeys.”

Draco rolled his eyes, hiding a smile behind his cup. “Impossible.”

The tea was still warm in his hands, but Draco’s fingers gripped the cup tightly as he listened to Harry recount Hermione's words. Harry’s voice was steady, as though he were discussing some trivial matter rather than ancient, dangerous magic that could very well bind them together in ways neither of them fully understood.

“There’s a spell,” Harry explained. “It’s called Umbra Vinculum. It’s dark magic… the kind that could make our magical signatures disappear completely, like we’re hiding behind shadows.”

“And this is… legal, is it?”

Harry smirked. “Not remotely. But legality isn’t exactly a priority for us right now, is it?”

Draco let out a breath, half-exasperated, half-skeptical. “Alright, I get it. We’re desperate. But what exactly does this Umbra Vinculum do?”

“It uses a tether as an anchor. By binding our magic to the tether, we could effectively hide our signatures. If it works—it would make us, well, invisible.”

“And what’s the catch? Because there’s always a catch with magic like this.”

“The catch,” Harry said, his tone quieter, “is that we’d be binding our magic, our very essence, to each other. If either one of us wavers, if one of us gets weak or… or worse… the magic fails. It would expose us both. And the spell itself… it’s draining. Dangerous.”

There was a cold pit of dread settling in Draco’s stomach. “So, you’re telling me that if one of us slips up, if one of us so much as falters, we’re both at the Ministry’s mercy.”

“Pretty much. But it’s better than being hunted, isn’t it? At least this way, we have a chance. Hermione agrees, it’s our best shot.”

Draco fell silent, gaze locked on Harry, searching his face for some hint of hesitation, some sign that he might be second-guessing this madness. But Harry’s face was calm, almost serene, as though he’d already accepted the risks, no matter how high the stakes.

“Potter… you’re really willing to do this? To tie your magic to mine?”

Harry nodded, unwavering. “Yes. I am.”

Draco stared down at his tea. Tie your magic to mine. It was almost absurd—the very idea that he and Harry Potter, of all people, would share something so personal, so irrevocable. There was a part of him that wanted to tell Harry to forget it, to find some other way. But then he thought of Umbridge, of DAMOS and the Ministry and the prison cells they’d eagerly throw them into. And he knew there was no other choice.

“This is insane.”

Harry’s lips curved into a faint smile. “Maybe. But insanity seems to be our best option these days.” He set down his tea and leaned forward. “Malfoy, if we’re going to do this, I need to know you’re in. Completely.”

“Alright, Potter. Let’s say I am in. If this goes south… if one of us weakens or slips up…?”

“Then we deal with it. Together.”

Draco let out a short, humorless laugh, running a hand through his hair. “You really don’t know when to quit, do you?”

“No,” Harry replied. “I don’t.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The room was filled only with the quiet hum of their breathing and the lingering scent of tea. And in that silence, Draco felt a strange sense of inevitability settle over him, a twisted kind of acceptance. He’d spent so long running, so long fearing every shadow and every whisper, that the thought of facing it with someone like Harry… it didn’t feel so terrifying after all.

Draco looked up, meeting Harry’s gaze. “Fine. Let’s do it. Let’s make ourselves disappear.”

Draco stood by the edge of the cliff, the wind tugging at his hair, the salt spray misting his face as the waves below crashed against the rocks. The moon was low, casting the water in a silver sheen, each wave pulling back like the lull of a breath, before breaking again in a relentless rhythm. The night was quiet, save for the waves and the distant echo of the world they’d left behind, and in that quiet, Draco could almost feel himself slipping away—disappearing into the vastness of it all.

He was trying to make sense of everything, to reconcile the person he had been with the person he was now. There was something unsettling in knowing that his life was now bound to Harry’s, that every breath, every spell, every risk they took was no longer his alone. And for reasons he couldn’t quite understand, that realization didn’t bother him as much as he thought it would.

“You alright?” Harry’s voice cut through the sound of the waves.

Draco didn’t turn, only nodded. “I don’t know. Probably not. But I think I can live with that.”

Harry came to stand beside him, close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed, and for a while, they both stared out over the water, neither of them breaking the silence. Harry’s presence was calm, almost steadying, and it annoyed Draco, how unbothered he seemed by everything that was happening.

“It doesn’t scare you, does it?” Draco murmured, still gazing out at the ocean.

Harry turned to him, his gaze curious. “What?”

“This… tether. Being bound to someone else’s magic. Having your life tangled up with mine.” He looked down, the wind whipping around them. “I mean, maybe it’s easy for you, being the hero and all.”

Harry chuckled softly, though there was little humor in it. “I don’t know if it’s easy. But I think I’m used to being tied to things bigger than myself. And this… it doesn’t feel as different as you might think.”

Draco’s jaw tightened, and he glanced at Harry, his face half-lit in the moonlight. “I don’t get it. You’re… calm about it. About all of it. You’re out here making tea and talking about ancient magic like it’s just another problem to solve.”

Harry shrugged, a hardened edge in his eyes. “Because if I let it get to me—if I stop to question and justify and hold myself to some higher standard—I’ll be the same pawn I’ve always been, dancing to their rules.” He paused, studying Draco. “You’ve done this before, haven’t you? Run. Escape. Survive.”

“Yes, but… I’ve always had a way out. I’ve always had somewhere to go. This feels different. Like the world itself has turned against us.”

“It has. But that doesn’t mean we don’t fight it.”

Draco shook his head, letting out a soft, bitter laugh. “You make it sound so simple, Potter.”

“It’s not,” Harry said, his eyes steady and holding Draco’s. “It’s terrifying. It’s dangerous. And every part of me knows this might be the last chance we have. But that’s exactly why I won’t let it stop me. Because if we give up now, if we let them win… they’ve taken too much, Malfoy.”

Draco’s breath hitched. For years, he’d convinced himself that he didn’t need anyone—that isolation was armor, that solitude kept him safe. He was a Malfoy; he knew how to rely on nothing but his own cunning, to shield himself from the vulnerability of needing or wanting anyone. It was a hard-won belief, one forged in the fire of betrayal and fear, and he’d worn it like a second skin, trusting no one but himself.

But Harry’s gaze, fierce and resolute in the moonlight, made him wonder if he’d been wrong all along. Harry had been his enemy, a figure of resentment and envy—a symbol of everything Draco felt he could never reach.

Yet here Harry was, no longer the hero everyone expected, but something unpolished and sharp. There was no grand morality left in Harry’s eyes, no empty promises or well-tread speeches about right and wrong; only an unwavering conviction to protect him at any cost.

And in that stare, Draco glimpsed a reflection of himself he wasn’t prepared to see—a desire for freedom, a defiance of the weight they’d both been forced to carry. He felt exposed, the years of loneliness and fear stirring like ashes in the wake of Harry’s fire. How could someone who had been his enemy, someone who once stood on the other side of a line drawn in blood and pride, now look at him with such loyalty, such valor?

The idea unsettled him, tore at the walls he’d spent years building around himself. All his life, Draco had been the boy without choices, the puppet in a play he never asked to join. Forced to toe the line, to bear the weight of decisions that were never his, he’d learned early that rebellion was a luxury afforded only to those who had the privilege of freedom. He’d worn his compliance like a mask, a thin veneer to hide the bitterness underneath.

But Harry wasn’t just offering him protection; he was offering something deeper—a choice, a liberty to shape his own future. For once, there was no script to follow, no expectations pressing him into a role he despised. Harry was showing him a way out, a path carved by their own hands. Everything they did, everything they faced—whether deadly or not—it would be at their own will.

And in that moment, Draco realized just how much he wanted it, how much he wanted to stand beside someone who would burn the world down if it meant he could breathe.

“So, what now? What if this doesn’t work? If this spell fails, if we fail—”

“Then we try something else,” Harry said simply. “And we keep trying until we don’t have any options left.” He turned, his hand finding Draco’s shoulder, and Draco felt a surge of warmth through the contact.

There was a safety in Harry’s words, a promise that didn’t feel like a lie. And for the first time in a long time, Draco allowed himself to believe in something beyond survival.

“Are you scared?” He didn’t expect Harry to answer; he wasn’t even sure he wanted him to.

Harry shrugged, lips quirking up. “Scared isn’t the right word. I think I’m more… alive.”

Draco frowned, a part of him resenting Harry’s calm, his confidence. Yet another part of him felt pulled in by it, like a moth to the flame. He swallowed, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. “They say fugitives die young, you know.”

Harry’s expression softened, his hand reaching out. Before Draco could react, Harry’s thumb brushed gently across his cheek. A touch that soothed like summer rain yet seared like a branding iron.

“Then let’s make every second we have worth something. Burn brighter than they ever expected.”

Draco held his breath, feeling the warmth of Harry’s touch linger even after he pulled away. He turned away, staring back out over the water. “I thought you hated me.”

“Turns out I just needed someone who understood what it’s like to feel caged.”

“And… is that really enough?”

“I’d burn down the world just so you could build it anew, Malfoy. Piece by piece, exactly as you’d want it.”

Draco stared at him, half entranced, half terrified, his heart kicking his ribs. He didn’t understand it—couldn’t understand it. It scrambled his mind, flipped his world upside down, and frankly, it freaked him out a little. Because how could Harry Potter, of all people, look at him like this? How could Harry feel this way, and what had Draco done to deserve it—and—

“Why?” Draco’s voice cracked. “I’m not worth it, Potter. I never was.”

“Worth isn't measured by bloodlines or deeds, Malfoy. It's the weight of your soul, the depth of your scars. Yours resonates with mine."

"You can't mean that."

"I do," Harry said, voice low, fervent. "Our cages differ only in design. Yours, forged by family expectation; mine, by destiny. But—trapped, nevertheless, all the same."

They stood there, on the edge of everything they’d known and everything they couldn’t yet see, the quiet between them holding promises neither was ready to break.

The night was as still as death.

The faint glow of the moon cast long shadows over the cliffs, but beneath the trees where Harry and Draco stood, not even that pale light could reach.

Draco knelt on the damp, cold earth, watching as Harry sliced a thin line across his own palm with a jagged piece of glass. The blood welled up, dark and rich, dripping into a small silver bowl. There were no wands, no comfortable incantations to cushion this magic. This was ancient, something that demanded sacrifice, that wanted not only words but flesh and will and blood.

“Are you ready?” Harry’s asked quietly.

Draco nodded, though his hands shook. They had no choice. They would either go through with it, or they would eventually be found, torn apart by the world that hunted them.

Throughout all of this, Draco had been panicked and reluctant, his instincts clashing violently with the path Harry was leading him down. He’d always been more calculating than this. Draco Malfoy didn’t gamble with his life; he’d made mistakes, certainly, but they were always in pursuit of self-preservation, a desperate bid to protect himself or, more often, his mother. He questioned, again and again, why he was letting any of this happen—why he was following Harry blindly into chaos, allowing himself to be dragged into this life of a fugitive, of prey. Malfoys weren’t prey. They were predators, survivors.

But now, Draco was beginning to see that Harry, maddeningly, was right. The only way for Harry to reclaim his life was to tear down the world’s cage around him. And in the process, Draco felt himself dragged into that liberation too, pulled into a freedom so raw and relentless he couldn’t look away.

He realized, to his shock, that he wasn’t afraid of death anymore. Death was a release. What terrified him now, what made his blood run cold, was the idea of being caught—of what they’d do to him and Harry if the Ministry ever had them under its thumb again. That fear twisted through him like a vice, squeezing out any last remnants of hesitation.

For the first time, he understood that survival wasn’t just about life or death.

It was about freedom.

Harry extended the piece of glass to Draco. Draco’s hands were shaking far more than Harry’s—but he took the glass, feeling its sharp edge bite into his palm. He pressed down, letting the blood pool in his own hand before he held it over the silver bowl. Their blood mingled, dark rivers blending together, indistinguishable.

Blood dripped and Harry began to speak. Murmuring. Words being ripped from him. They were Latin, some Draco could just faintly make out. Harry was chanting and a heaviness seemed to encompass the air around them. The earth beneath them seemed to pulse, hungry for what they were offering.

“Coniungo… animas nostras in umbris aeternis… et abscondo…” Harry’s voice wavered, but his grip on Draco’s bloodied hand was iron-strong.

Then, without warning, Harry plunged his fingers into the bowl of blood, swirling it with eyes shut tight. As he did, Draco felt an icy sensation creeping up his arm, sharp and invasive, like something tugging at his soul—a hook lodged deep in his chest, pulling. A raw, brutal pain twisted in his chest, spreading like wildfire.

Harry's hand shot forward, pressing firmly against Draco’s chest. Draco’s breath hitched, strangled by the searing heat that ignited under Harry’s touch, scorching past skin and bone, carving its way to his very core.

Draco felt a pull, not just within his chest but throughout his entire being, as if something was drawing him into the earth itself, binding him to it and, impossibly, to Harry. The magic clawed at his veins, weaving through every nerve, tearing through sinew and bone as it sought out every last trace of his magical signature, burying it under layers of dark enchantment.

He gasped, feeling the violent tug in his chest as the magic twisted, stretching out from his heart to Harry’s, their souls painfully, unnervingly linked. The magic pulled and bound, threading itself into the very marrow of his bones, weaving around his essence with an almost sentient ferocity, each coil more suffocating than the last.

Harry’s eyes were closed, his face etched with concentration, his lips still mouthing the incantation, soft and rhythmic. With every word he whispered, Draco could feel the magic thickening. It wasn’t gentle; it was raw and consuming. Draco’s magic twisted violently within him, fighting the intrusion, but Harry’s hold was forcing him to let the spell take hold.

He felt the earth shifting subtly, the darkness pressing in, wrapping around them in thick, impenetrable layers. It was forming a barrier, a cocoon of shadow magic that would make them invisible to any trace.

And then—through the haze, Harry’s voice cut in, a raw whisper, desperate and charged. “You are the cloak for my magic, and I am the veil for yours. In this tether, we become each other’s shadows—untouchable and unseen.”

Draco fell forward, his breath ragged, body folding into itself. His fingers remained entwined with Harry’s, blood seeping into the cold earth beneath. He could feel it—dark silk winding around them. The spell had taken, weaving them into obscurity, hiding them behind a veil of blood and bond, their very existence slipping between the cracks of reality.

Harry let out a breath, whispering a wandless 'episkey,' sealing their wounds. His fingers lingered, brushing aside the damp strands of hair clinging to Draco's forehead. He looked down, eyes dark and haunted, searching for something in Draco's drawn features.

"It's done, Malfoy. We're hidden now. Wrapped in shadows. They won't find us."

Draco nodded, too drained to speak.

The spell’s completion didn’t bring an immediate relief—only a deeper, almost sickening stillness. The earth seemed to tremble faintly beneath them, the soil around their hands darkening as though it drank hungrily from the pooled blood, absorbing every ounce of the magic they’d summoned.

Draco glanced down, feeling a strange warmth spread across his wrist. His breath caught as he noticed it—a mark, faint yet unmistakable, like ink woven into his skin. A faintly glowing knot; an eternal loop with no beginning or end, winding just beneath his veins.

Harry had gone still as well. He lifted his wrist to the dim light, revealing the same mark, knotted and bound in the same eternal twist.

“What… what is this, Potter?”

Harry looked from his wrist to Draco’s. “The spell left its mark. A signature, maybe. I think… it’s the tether, made real. A symbol of it.”

Draco reached out, his fingers brushing over the mark on Harry’s wrist. The skin felt warm, too warm, as though the magic was still simmering beneath the surface. The mark seemed to pulse at his touch, and he drew his hand back, unnerved by the way it felt almost like he was touching his own flesh.

A tremor ran through him as he looked back at his own wrist, where the symbol glowed faintly against his pale skin. The lines seemed to twist and shift slightly, like it was alive.

He looked at Harry, eyes wide. “Does it… does it mean we can feel each other? Through this?”

Harry’s jaw tightened as he flexed his hand, a brief spark in his eyes as if he’d felt something answer within him. “Maybe. They won’t find us because we’ve become a single pulse, a beat that belongs to neither of us alone. Our magic… it’s learned to hide in the tether—our safest secret, buried in the space where you and I become… we."

The realization struck Draco like a blow, the permanence of it sinking in. A strange, haunting intimacy lingered between them.

“Are you ready for that, Malfoy?” Harry’s voice was almost a challenge.

Draco’s heart was a hammer striking down atop his chest. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “But… I can feel it. Your magic—it’s like a whisper in my bones, a warmth beneath my skin.”

“I feel it too.”

They looked at each other, eyes locked.

“I am no longer my own,” Draco said quietly, something of a whisper. “I am yours, as you are mine, bound together in ways even fate couldn’t sever."

“We’re in this, whether we like it or not.” Harry held his wrist up. “And I won’t pretend to be sorry about it.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed as he lifted his own wrist, holding it up next to Harry’s, the two marks nearly touching, pulsing in tandem like twin hearts. “Then neither will I.”

Draco’s gaze lingered on the mark and a peculiar thought flitted through his mind. He turned to Harry and with a faint smirk that barely masked his intrigue, he whispered, “Let’s test this.”

Harry tilted his head. “Test it? How?”

“Close your eyes,” Draco instructed. “Count to sixty. Then… find me.”

“You think you can hide from me?”

“Only one way to find out.”

With a quiet exhale, Harry closed his eyes. He began counting and could faintly hear Draco turn on his heel and slip away. Yet, even with the knowledge that Draco had gone away, Harry could still feel his presence like it was something tangible. A gentle pulse beneath his skin that was as comforting as it was eerie.

Draco found a narrow closet tucked away down a back hall in the cottage. It was barely wide enough for him to fit inside. Crammed and uncomfortable, Draco waited.

Forty, forty-one…

A thrill ran down his spine, as childish as it was. Logically, Harry shouldn’t be able to find him so easily—not with the winding hallways, the countless rooms to search, the twists and turns of the safehouse. There was too much space between them, too many doors to check before reaching this particular back hallway, this specific door. And it didn’t help that Snape’s safehouse was a maze of cupboards and closets stuffed with books, potion ingredients, and black robes hanging like specters in the shadows.

Back in the other room, Harry counted down to sixty. With each number, he felt something strange unfurl within him, a pull that started faintly but grew stronger, like a thread stretched between them. As if a magnetic current buzzed just beneath his skin, guiding him. He didn’t know what he would find, but somehow, he knew exactly where to go.

Sixty.

Harry’s eyes opened, sharp and sure, and without a second thought, he turned down the narrow hallway, his steps silent and confident.

Draco’s presence was like a scar, healed but never forgotten, always there in the quiet of the night, in the spaces Harry didn’t dare fill with anything else. It was there well before their ritual tonight. They shared a history carved into their bones, too bitter to be called love but too precious to be called anything less.

Harry moved through the darkness like he’d been here a thousand times before, like he could sense Draco in every beat of his own heart. It wasn’t so much a path as it was an instinct, a strange awareness that tugged at his mind, pointing him toward the shadows where Draco waited.

The faintest sense of Draco’s pulse brushed against his own. A warmth in the air, a whisper, something so faint it was almost imperceptible—but it was there, irrefutable, pulling him forward.

He stopped outside a small, unassuming door tucked down the hall. His hand hovered over the handle, a smirk tugging at his lips as he felt Draco’s presence like a hum.  

Draco’s breath caught. The door opened with a soft creak and Harry’s silhouette filled the narrow frame. Draco was—almost—irritated by how smug and victorious Harry looked, as if he had just won the House Cup all over again. Insufferable git, always winning. Yet, Draco wasn’t bitter at all. Not anymore.

“Found you,” Harry murmured lowly, voice laced with a satisfaction that bordered on possessive.

Draco swallowed, his own pulse fluttering traitorously. “How did you…?”

“I felt you,” Harry replied simply, the words weighted with a strange intimacy. “It’s like… like I know exactly where you are, even if I can’t see you. Magnets being drawn together.”

Draco stared at him, caught between awe and trepidation. “It’s strange. We can just… sense each other. Like a—”

“Like having a compass,” Harry said. “That only points to you. Even if I close my eyes, I can feel the direction, feel where you are like I know my own heartbeat."

Draco’s throat went dry.

Draco looked at Harry with that guileless expression, eyes wide and glossy, his lip caught between a twitch of uncertainty, as if he couldn’t decide whether to grimace or smile. And Harry was watching him as if he could read every line of Draco’s soul like a map he’d memorized long ago. Somehow, Harry knew—knew that whatever they were now, whatever they had been before, was written in stars that had burned out centuries ago, an ancient fate they were only just beginning to understand.

“Are you afraid?” Harry asked.

Draco blinked. His breathing was shallow. “I don’t know. But—I’m starting to think… I’d rather be afraid with you than safe anywhere else.”

Harry slipped out of bed, the early morning light filtering through the curtains in muted grays and blues. He padded down the hall, trying to keep quiet; he assumed Draco was still asleep, and he didn’t want to disturb the fragile peace that seemed to come by so rarely.

In the kitchen, he moved automatically, filling the kettle and setting it on the stove. There was something soothing about the routine of it, the comfort in doing something as ordinary as making tea when everything else in their lives had turned upside down.

As he waited for the water to heat, his gaze drifted to the small wireless radio sitting on the counter. They’d used it sparingly, wary of what they might hear. Harry felt a strange, reckless urge to check in. He needed to know if DAMOS had made any moves, if their names were still being whispered like curses through the wizarding world.

Harry rolled his eyes as he fiddled with the ancient radio. Here we go again. Let’s see how many creative ways they can call us 'unhinged fugitives' today. The static buzzed, a harsh crackle filling the room, and he gave the dial an exaggerated twist. Think they’ll give us a nice little title? ‘Enemies of the State’? Or maybe ‘Renegade Wizards Extraordinaire’? Really put some flair into it.

Just as the water began to boil, a voice broke through the static—a calm, official tone that sounded all too familiar.

“The Ministry has issued a continued high-priority warrant for the apprehension of Harry James Potter and Draco Lucius Malfoy. These individuals are considered extremely dangerous. Citizens are urged to report any sightings immediately. A reward—”

Harry’s jaw tightened. He leaned against the counter, the coolness of the metal pressing into his palms as he forced himself to listen. They’d heard similar announcements before, but something about hearing it again, so casually broadcast into the world, twisted something in his gut.

So much for ‘saving’ you lot. Glad to see all that’s earned me is a nice, shiny bounty . Should’ve let old Voldy handle it—saved you the trouble, wouldn’t it? Bunch of stupid gits.

The announcement continued, and sure enough, Umbridge’s voice cut in with a sickeningly sweet tone. She painted the two of them as dark forces, warning the public about their—blah, blah, blah—Harry couldn’t be bothered to listen anymore.

A faint noise from outside interrupted. Harry frowned, setting his mug down and moving toward the back door, curiosity piqued. The sound was muffled, a low clanging.

He slipped outside and followed the sound around the side of the cottage. Tucked away in a small, makeshift garage, barely more than a lean-to, he found Draco crouched beside the Jaguar. The old car looked strange under the dim light, its sleek, dark exterior a stark contrast to Draco, who was currently frowning at something in the engine.

Harry blinked, momentarily taken aback. He hadn’t thought Malfoy knew a single thing about Muggle cars—or Muggle anything, for that matter.

Draco looked up as Harry approached, his expression somewhere between irritation and concentration. His hair was tousled, half falling into his eyes, his fingers were smudged with oil. Harry raised an eyebrow, fighting the urge to smirk.

Gods, of all the sights you've ever granted me—please, let this be the one I see when I die.

“You’re up early,” Harry said, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorframe. He shamelessly took in the sight of Draco Malfoy tinkering with a Muggle vehicle. “Didn’t peg you for a mechanic, Malfoy.”

Draco scoffed, though he didn’t look up. “Don’t flatter yourself, Potter. I don’t know the first thing about cars.” He paused, inspecting something under the hood with a look of disdain. “But if we’re going to be relying on this contraption to keep us out of the Ministry’s grasp, I’d rather not leave it entirely to chance. A bit of maintenance can’t hurt.”

“So, your solution to being wanted by a corrupt government is to try and play Muggle repairman?”

“Laugh all you want, but I’d rather not risk breaking down in the middle of nowhere because we were too proud to learn how to keep this thing running.” He straightened, wiping his hands on a cloth with a fastidious motion. “We can’t use the Floo Network—and you know Apparition points are probably being surveilled. Not to mention the magical trace we’d be leaving behind. They’d have us in Azkaban faster than you could say ‘Alohomora.’”

“Fair point,” Harry conceded, his tone softer. He looked at Draco, the blonde’s face lit by a sliver of morning light cutting through the garage. “Didn’t know you cared so much about our survival.”

“I care about not dying, Potter. And… I’d rather not spend the rest of my life running, either.”

Harry had a feeling the last half of Draco's confession wasn’t meant for him—it was something Draco needed to say for his own sake. He wondered if Draco had ever really felt safe, or if he’d always been waiting for the next threat, the next betrayal.

“We’re doing all right, you know,” Harry said quietly. “As mad as it all sounds, I think we’re actually… managing.”

Draco snorted. “Is that your way of saying you’re actually impressed with me, Potter?”

“Maybe I am. A little. Didn’t think I’d ever see the day you’d be elbow-deep in a Muggle engine, of all things.”

Draco rolled his eyes, shoving the cloth into his pocket with a look of mock disgust. “Don’t get used to it. The sooner we can fix this mess, the sooner I can stop pretending to be some… grease-stained Muggle peasant.”

“Right. Wouldn’t want that.”

Draco didn’t respond, but Harry could see the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

The safehouse had settled into a deep, contemplative silence, the kind that wrapped around the walls like ivy. Morning light filtered through dusty curtains. Harry could hear the quiet rustle of paper, repetitive scrapes of Draco turning page after page.

Draco was hunched over a pile of old, leather-bound journals, filled with Snape’s handwriting. He traced his finger over the words, as if by touch he could pull meaning straight from the ink, make sense of the twisted recipes and cryptic notes. Vials and jars of ingredients—some recognizable, others disturbingly foreign—were scattered across the table, labels peeling.

Harry leaned against the doorway, watching. Draco’s brow was furrowed, lost in a world of arcane symbols and instructions that seemed half-spell, half-poison. He didn’t think Draco even noticed he was there, caught up as he was, as if he were unraveling a puzzle that had no edges, no end, just a dark and winding path through the depths of Snape’s mind.

There was something utterly exquisite about Draco's fascination, his unbreakable focus—and Harry found he couldn’t look away.

“You know,” Harry said softly, breaking the quiet, “I didn’t peg you as someone who’d be so invested in potion-making. Though—maybe I should have. You did always have a knack for it.”

Draco didn’t look up, but a smirk ghosted over his lips. “Desperate times, Potter. Besides, Snape’s notes are… extensive. A lifetime’s worth of knowledge, sitting right here. It’d be a waste not to use it. You’d be surprised how much of this could keep us alive.”

Harry came closer, peering over Draco’s shoulder. “What are you working on?”

Draco sighed, rubbing at his temple, leaving a faint smudge of ink behind. “Trying to adapt a few of these brews. Tracking spells, concealment potions… anything that can make us vanish a little more convincingly. But Snape’s notes…” He shook his head. “They’re maddening. Half of this feels like it was written in code, and the other half in pure spite.”

“Sounds about right. Have you found anything useful?” Harry leaned in closer, his shoulder brushing against Draco’s.

“Here’s something… interesting. It’s a distortion spell. Temporary, but it could warp magical signatures. Make us look like… well, someone else.”

“Doesn’t sound any more dangerous than the mess we’re already in.”

“Snape would be rolling in his grave, knowing his precious potions were being used to keep the likes of us alive. I suppose there’s some irony in that.”

Harry snorted, reaching out to thumb through the notes. “I think he’d secretly be pleased. Nothing he loved more than subverting expectations.”

“Maybe. Or maybe he’d hate that we’re even touching his work.”

Even now, there was a sense that Snape was watching over them, his presence woven through the shadows and dust of the safehouse. Here they were, sifting through the remnants of his life, searching for safety in the brittle pages and faded ink he’d left behind. It was strangely poetic, as if, even in death, Snape hadn’t let go, his protection lingering. They were completing something he’d begun long ago—a final act in a story he’d left unfinished, his legacy looping back to shield them, one last promise kept. After all this time.

The coin in Harry’s pocket warmed suddenly, and he felt it before he saw it—a pulsing heat against his thigh. His heart jumped, and he pulled it out. The familiar bronze button Hermione had given him.

Draco looked up, frowning. “What’s that?”

"It’s Hermione."

Harry held the coin in his hand. He watched as a shimmer unfolded across its surface, letters emerging slowly, faint as a ghost, but fierce with urgency.

Status update. We’re doing all we can, Harry. The Ministry is more rotten than we ever imagined—Umbridge has clawed her way into everything. She’s twisting the laws, rooting out anyone who dares dissent. Even Shacklebolt’s influence is slipping through the cracks.

Draco leaned in, close enough that Harry could feel the brush of his breath, silent as he read over Harry’s shoulder.

Ron and I are keeping things steady on the ground, watching those still loyal to you, but it’s slow. Too slow. People are afraid—more afraid than we’ve ever seen them. They’ve watched what happens to those who stand up. They know the cost.

The Ministry is painting you both as dangerous renegades, ‘disrupting the peace.’ We’re trying to unravel it from within, but Harry… it’s like battling a tempest with a single candle.

We’re with you, Harry. Hold on. Keep safe. Both of you.

Harry turned the coin over in his hands. He glanced up at Draco, who was leaning against the counter, fingers tapping an uneven rhythm.

“Do you ever wonder…” Harry began softly. “What it’d be like to just… walk away? Leave all of this behind.”

Draco’s gaze lifted to meet his, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. For a moment, Harry thought he saw a spark of longing, a brief hint that Draco, too, might dream of slipping away into some nameless freedom. But just as quickly, Draco’s jaw tightened.

“Where would we go, Potter? Even if we managed to disappear, we’d always be looking over our shoulders, always hiding. Freedom like that… it’s an illusion. Running isn’t the same as being free.”

“Maybe. But what if it’s all too broken, Malfoy? What if nothing we do makes a difference?”

“Then we fight until it does. If we walk away, we’re just leaving the wreckage for someone else. But if we stay… maybe we can change things. Maybe we can make something that doesn’t need to be run from.”

There it was—a paradox Harry hadn’t realized he’d been living.

Harry wanted freedom as desperately as a man gasping for air—an escape from the world that had shaped him, wrung him dry, then discarded him when his usefulness waned. He dreamed of disappearing, slipping into obscurity where no one would chase him, no one would expect anything from him. But he knew, somehow, that he couldn’t walk away until Draco was free too. It was as if Draco’s liberation had to come first, as if he could only lay down his fight once he was certain Draco’s life was his own.

Draco’s need was different, more complicated, laced with a reluctant kind of hope. He didn’t just want freedom for himself; he wanted to take the broken pieces of this world and build something new. A chance to redefine the life he’d inherited, to make amends for the things he once upheld without question.

And so, they were bound together by this paradox. Harry would give Draco that future, that clean slate he craved. Harry was ready to burn every bridge if it meant Draco would one day stand, unburdened, on his own.

Now, Harry realized, with a strange pang, that Draco’s idea of freedom would never look like his own—but he would fight for it anyway.

Harry padded quietly down the narrow hallway.

He found Draco in the small study, hunched over a low workbench, brow furrowed in concentration. Scattered across the table were small glass vials, bits of parchment scribbled with intricate runes, and what looked like pieces of dark, polished stone.

Draco looked up as Harry entered. There was evident exhaustion wearing his pale skin, eyes and cheekbones more hollow than usual. Harry wondered how much sleep Draco was getting—if any at all.

"I’ve been working on something.” Draco lifted a shard of smoky crystal, turning it between his fingers. The surface flickered faintly with something that looked almost like a heartbeat.

Harry arched a brow, intrigued. “You’ve been busy. What is it?”

Draco delicately placed the shard on the surface, eyes gleaming with calculated interest. "It serves as an early warning system—a proximity charm, courtesy of Snape's forgotten notebooks. It’s linked to our wards and calibrated to magical auras, so it functions as a sentinel. Any being, no matter how faintly magical, breaching our one-mile perimeter will trigger a pulse through these stones. At least that’s what it’s meant to do."

“So, it senses magic?”

"It won’t just detect movement—just give us a feel of what’s coming. If there’s an intent, a certain kind of magic involved… it’ll warn us. This one here,” he pointed to a deep amethyst-colored crystal, “will start vibrating if there’s any dark magic nearby. And this,” he held up a pale, smoky quartz, “will glow if anyone casts spells within range."

Harry let out a low whistle. “That’s… brilliant, Malfoy.”

Draco’s lips quirked into a half-smile. “Snape saves the day, yet again. And… I don’t fancy waking up to Ministry agents crashing in on us.”

Harry picked up one of the stones. "You think this will be enough to keep us one step ahead?"

"We can’t always rely on wards alone—some of these agents are practically breaking through hexes these days. But this,” he gestured at the assembled stones. “This’ll give us a head start, at the least.”

“You’re getting good at this. I didn’t know you had a knack for spellcraft.”

“Desperation breeds creativity, Potter. Besides, I’ve learned from the best,” Draco said, eyes glancing over the bookshelves lined with Snape’s notes.

“You know,” Harry said, glancing sideways at Draco. “I’m starting to think you enjoy this whole ‘being on the run’ thing a little more than you’d like to admit. Inventing charms, plotting escape routes… sounds suspiciously like you’re getting comfortable.”

“Comfortable? Hardly.” Draco leaned back against the table, crossing his arms. “Though, if we’re being honest, it’s a bit more… stimulating than my usual routine. You could say I’m becoming something of an expert at living like a vagrant.”

“And here I was, never picturing you as the sort to get his hands dirty. Literally and figuratively.”

“War changes people, Potter. Besides, you’re hardly one to talk. The Boy Who Lived, turned rogue—no one saw that coming.”

Harry gave an exaggerated shrug. “Well, desperate times,” he said, his voice trailing into a murmur as his gaze met Draco’s.  

Draco, almost nervously, looked away, reaching for a vial but fumbling it in the process. The glass clinked against the table, startling them both. Harry burst into laughter, and, after a beat, Draco’s lips curled into a reluctant smile.

“Graceful as ever,” Harry teased.

“Oh, shut it,” Draco muttered, though the blush creeping up his neck betrayed his usual indifference. He pushed the vial away and shook his head, feigning irritation. “If you’re just going to stand there and gloat, you might as well make yourself useful.”

Harry raised his hands in mock surrender, still grinning. “Alright, alright.” He stepped closer, leaning against the table beside Draco, their shoulders nearly touching.

Draco glanced sideways, a faint smile lingering on his lips. “Just… don’t break anything.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

For a moment, silence settled again, but it was different this time, almost charged, as if the room itself was holding its breath. And as they stood there, barely a breath apart, neither one of them made a move to step back.

The light on the crystal charm began to flicker, a soft glow that pulsed faintly at first, then quickened. Draco stared at it, brow furrowing as he watched the charm’s delicate shimmer.

“Oh, brilliant,” Draco muttered, looking almost irritated. “It’s just… blinking. Could be a defect. Or maybe I messed up the sequence—” He leaned in, squinting at it. “Maybe the binding charm was too weak. I thought it might be sensitive to false triggers, but—”

“It’s not a fluke,” Harry interrupted, his eyes already scanning the room. “Someone’s here.”

Draco blinked. “How can you be so sure? It’s probably just a random surge from one of the spells. You know how these things can be—”

“Malfoy,” Harry cut in. He was already moving, reaching for his wand, his senses prickling with the familiar, unsettling awareness of approaching magic. “We can’t afford to assume anything. I’ve been in too many situations where ignoring a small sign meant nearly getting killed.”

“You’re sure it’s not just a malfunction?”

Harry shook his head, his grip on his wand tightening. “Think of it this way: either it’s nothing, and we’re cautious… or it’s real, and we’re ready. I’d rather not take chances.”

Draco swallowed, glancing at the charm, which had now grown bright enough to cast a faint glow across his hand. It pulsed again, and this time, Draco felt a chill slide down his spine. He inadvertently shifted closer to Harry.

“So… if this is real, what exactly are we supposed to do?”

“We stay quiet. Stay hidden. Use every ward and charm we have.”

Draco let out a shaky breath, gaze flicking to the door. “Right. Quiet and hidden.”

Harry’s jaw clenched as he stepped forward, wand already outstretched. His movements were precise, each flick of his wrist sharp, every incantation a low murmur that sent shivers down Draco’s spine. He watched Harry’s eyes darken, that familiar green intensity now clouded with something sharper, something that bordered on wrath.

Harry wasn’t casting simple concealment spells this time. Draco recognized the shift in the magic—felt it crawling through the air, coiling around them like smoke.

Draco’s chest tightened as he watched. “You… you know these spells?”

“I know what we need to survive.”

Draco’s throat constricted. The Harry he had known years ago—defender of the innocent, the bright-eyed Gryffindor who hated anything remotely dark—seemed like a faint memory, eclipsed by this Harry, who wielded his power with an almost dangerous abandon. Draco knew magic, understood its intricacies and limits, but even he was unnerved by the way Harry was drawing on something darker, something potent and hidden within him.

Harry, on the other hand, had always clung to hope like a lifeline, a spark that kept him going through endless nights. But when hope turned to ashes in his hands, he learned that survival was not about light or darkness—it was about wielding whatever kept you breathing.

“Harry, these spells…” Draco’s unease leaked through his voice. “If we’re found… these could—”

“Do you trust me?” Harry cut in, his gaze piercing.

Draco blinked, momentarily stunned, but he nodded, feeling a strange compulsion in his chest, something that both soothed and ignited the fear he was holding onto. “I… yes. Yes, I trust you.”

“Then let me do this.” Harry’s tone softened. “I will never do anything that will cause you harm, Malfoy.”

Draco felt his pulse spike at that—a mixture of awe and dread flooding him as he watched Harry, the magic swirling and wrapping around them both. Draco looked down at his hands, clenched and trembling, then back at Harry’s, steady and firm.

“Potter, you—” Draco stopped, words failing him.  “How many more lines will you cross for me?”

Harry turned and met Draco’s gaze. There was a turbulent fire in Harry's eyes, as if the very fabric of destiny had been rewritten, and he was the architect of chaos. Draco’s salvation fuelled his rebellion. “All of them. I’ll make new ones just to tear them apart.”

And just like that, the air around them stilled, the magic folding in, settling into an eerie, watchful silence.

The charm’s light flickered one last time, then went dark. Whatever presence had been approaching had vanished, or at least, Harry’s wards had been powerful enough to send it off.

The silence settled again. Draco found himself unable to look away from Harry. He swallowed, finally finding his voice, though it came out rough and unsteady. “One of these days, you’re going to have to stop saving my life.”

Harry’s lips curved in a faint smile. “I’d have to die for that to happen.”

Harry leaned forward, his fingers tapping restlessly on the table’s worn surface.

“We can’t stay here,” he said at last. “It’s not safe, not smart. We need to move.”

Draco’s jaw tightened, his gaze drifting to the small, familiar details around them—the chipped cups, the pile of books Snape had once touched, even the dust that seemed settled as if it belonged to this place as much as they did. He’d grown used to these walls, used to the illusion of safety. But he nodded, reluctant acceptance in his eyes.

“Where do we even go from here? Another hiding place, another safe house? Always looking over our shoulders?”

“Only until they’re gone.”

Draco leaned back, fingers tracing absent circles on the table’s edge. “Funny, isn’t it?” His voice was tinged with bitterness. "We’re running as fugitives, yet for the first time, I feel… almost free."

“Then we keep running,” Harry said, voice steady. “We run until there’s nothing left to run from.”

Draco held his gaze. He nodded, and together, in silence, they began packing. Their hands moved with an urgency, grabbing essentials, tossing aside anything unnecessary. As they moved through the dim, dusty room, gathering their belongings, Harry broke the silence with a declaration that made Draco’s hand still midair.

“You know the only way out of this is to tear the Ministry down.”

Draco blinked, his mouth slightly open. “I—of course that’s what you’d think. You’re bloody Harry Potter. Just… dismantle the Ministry, topple the wizarding government, singlehandedly save the day.” His voice dripped with dry amusement, but Harry didn’t laugh.

Instead, Harry turned to him, eyes unflinching. “I told you before, Malfoy, I’ll break this world down to dust and ruin if that’s what it takes to build you a new one.”

Draco’s smirk faltered. For a moment, he looked like he was about to argue, but he just shook his head, bewildered. “You’re… completely serious, aren’t you?”

“Dead serious. Hermione and Ron are already working with Shacklebolt, doing whatever they can from the inside. We’re not alone in this. It’s already happening. But right now, the most important thing is for us to stay alive. So, unless you want to help me collapse the Ministry dressed in last week’s clothes, we’d better get moving.”

Draco looked at Harry, still baffled, but unable to suppress the reluctant grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You really do intend to end the Ministry, don’t you?”

“We’ll figure it out. Now pack up. Unless you want Dolores Umbridge planning our next holiday.”

Draco gave a dry laugh, reaching for his things, but he couldn’t help the surge of anticipation twisting in his chest. This wasn’t just Harry being reckless—there was a fire in him, a plan so absurdly ambitious Draco was almost tempted to believe it.

Harry paused, watching Draco toss book after book into his bag with single-minded determination. “Malfoy,” he said, eyebrows raised, “you know we don’t need all of those, right? We’re not setting up a bloody library. We need essentials. Food, cloaks, a few basic supplies, but… books?”

Draco scoffed, glancing up with a flicker of exasperation. “Essentials, Potter?” He held up one of Snape’s leather-bound journals. “These are essentials. Knowledge is power. Or haven’t you noticed that it’s Snape’s research that’s keeping us ahead of everyone hunting us?”

Harry rolled his eyes but didn’t argue, shrugging as he moved to pack his own things. Just as he turned away, he heard a soft intake of breath behind him. He looked over to see Draco holding a small, battered notebook, its cover faded and cracked, pages yellowed with age.

Draco turned it over in his hands, his fingers tracing over faint scrawls along the spine. He flipped it open carefully, breath catching as he read the names scrawled across the first page: Lily Evans in looping handwriting, with Severus Snape scrawled just below, his angular letters pressing over hers, almost intertwined.

“Potter…” Draco’s voice was low, almost reverent, and he held up the notebook as if handling something sacred. “You may want to see this. This… this was your mother’s. It’s… it’s both of theirs.”

Harry stilled, gaze locked onto the notebook. He took a slow step closer, eyes tracing the faded ink. He reached out, hesitated, then let his fingers rest gently on the edge of the pages.

Draco flipped open to a page filled with intricate notes, diagrams, and hastily scribbled theories. Across the top, Lily’s elegant handwriting read, Protection spells for the soul. Harry’s breath hitched, a wave of recognition crossing his face. It was as if he could feel her presence, something warm and powerful that reached across time, across loss.

Here, in Snape’s collection, was proof of her strength—a reminder that her magic had saved him once and maybe, just maybe, could guide him again.

Draco thumbed through more of the notebook, stopping at spells that Lily had detailed in careful handwriting, with Snape’s darker ink adding notes and variations beside them. It was a conversation in ink, a dialogue spanning years and lives, now laid bare in Draco’s hands.

“Your mother was… she was extraordinary,” Draco said softly. “She didn’t just protect you that night, Harry. She left pieces of herself here, in her magic, to help you—even now. It’s… it’s bloody brilliant.”

Harry swallowed hard.

Draco closed the notebook carefully, a newfound respect glinting in his eyes. “This is why we bring the books, Potter,” he said, a hint of a smirk softening the intensity. “Some things… they’re worth more than just knowledge. This—this is a legacy.”

Over the weeks in Snape’s cottage, Draco had developed an unlikely fondness for a Muggle contraption—the Jaguar. Sleek yet rugged, it held a strange allure he couldn’t quite put into words, an odd fascination he’d never admit aloud.

During the long, dragging days in Snape’s sanctuary, Draco spent hours buried in books, reading them spine to spine before starting again. But in the lulls, when even Snape’s pages couldn’t distract him, he found himself drawn to the car he once would have sneered at. He’d never given Muggle inventions a second thought, yet here he was, almost charmed by this machine.

Draco had always prided himself on his intellect, yet it went deeper than the usual Malfoy polish. Knowledge was more than just a badge—it was power, a kind of mastery he couldn’t gain anywhere else. Magic could save or destroy, but knowledge… knowledge unlocked understanding, revealed mysteries he longed to uncover. And though he wouldn’t say it, he was always quietly fascinated by how things fit together, how they worked, what fueled them beyond the magic he’d always known.

And so, his initial tinkering with the Jaguar, born out of sheer necessity—ensuring the car was functional and could keep them moving if need be—shifted into something else. He wanted to understand it, to see how it worked without a hint of magic. It seemed almost impossible to him, that something could be so finely crafted without a single spell.

Through Snape’s vast library, he discovered books on Muggle machinery that he hadn’t expected to find. Some, he was certain, were remnants of Lily’s collection—signs of her Muggle upbringing. And others, he suspected, were Snape’s own curiosities, lingering interests in the world Lily had come from. He’d thought he would scorn the car, or at least ignore it. But instead, it had become his private fascination—a quiet rebellion against the parts of himself he was learning to let go.

Harry watched, barely holding back a laugh, as Draco leaned over the engine, brows knit with determination. It was still strange, even after days of watching him tinker with it, to see Draco Malfoy, of all people, crouched over a Muggle car like it was some sacred artifact. His white t-shirt was smudged slightly with grease, and his hair was haphazardly pushed back, giving him an uncharacteristically rugged look that Harry never would have thought possible.

“Need a moment alone with her?” Harry called out, grinning as he approached, carrying their final packed bags over his shoulder.

Draco looked up, pretending to be irritated, though he couldn’t quite hide the gleam of pride in his eyes. “Unlike you, Potter, I know the importance of actual upkeep. This isn’t a broom you can just charm to fly straight; it’s Muggle engineering. Takes care, finesse.”

Harry snorted, leaning against the garage door with his arms crossed. “You do know it’s a car, right? It won’t take it personally if we just drive it and go.”

Draco shot him a look of pure offense, hand instinctively patting the Jaguar’s hood like it was a prized pet. “I don’t expect you to understand. But Nyx here deserves respect. She’s our only guarantee we won’t be stranded in the middle of nowhere.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Our car, is it? Sounds like you’re getting a bit attached.”

Draco’s hands stilled. “Well, I’d rather not end up stranded in some Muggle village with you blaming me. That’s all.”

“Alright, alright, I get it. But—Nyx? Got a ring to it, I suppose.”

“Nyx conveys elegance, precision, and class. Things you, frankly, wouldn’t understand.”

“Oh, I understand, Malfoy. I’m just impressed by how… protective you are,” Harry teased. “Got to say, it’s got style. Just like its mechanic.”

Draco ignored him, muttering under his breath as he waved his wand over the engine again, casting a spell to keep it resistant to sudden temperature changes. As he spoke, he was nearly cooing, something Harry had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing at.

“You’ve enchanted nearly every part of her at this point,” Harry said, shaking his head. “Are you planning on making her fly next?”

“I’m being practical, Potter. Unlike you, I don’t fancy driving a hunk of junk with no magical reinforcement.”

“Magical reinforcement, is it? Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll have Nyx running like she’s fresh out of Hogwarts herself.”

Draco shot him a look that was almost—almost—affectionate, though he’d never admit it. “Nyx is, in every way, an investment. If we’re going to rely on Muggle methods to keep the Ministry off our scent, then I’m making sure she’s damn near untraceable.” He brushed a hand across the hood once more, murmuring another small spell, this one woven to ward off any potential tracking charms.

“Wouldn’t dream of crossing you on this, Malfoy. Though it’s nice to know you’ve got a soft spot for something Muggle.”

“I’m simply ensuring our survival, Potter. I prefer not to leave things to chance.” With one final tap of his wand, Draco stepped back, giving the car a satisfied once-over. “There,” he announced. “She’s as ready as she’ll ever be. You might want to show some gratitude.”

Harry shook his head, clapping him on the shoulder as he passed. “Thank you, Malfoy. Nyx and I will rest easy, knowing she’s in your capable hands.”

Draco shrugged him off, but Harry didn’t miss the faint glint of pride in his eyes as he packed away his tools. “Just remember, Potter—she’s our lifeline. Treat her with the respect she deserves.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dare do otherwise.”

The engine of the Jaguar rumbled softly as they pulled away from the cottage. The headlights cut through the inky blackness, illuminating the narrow dirt path ahead.

Harry glanced in the rear-view mirror, watching as Snape’s safehouse disappeared behind them, swallowed by the shadows of the trees. It felt surreal—leaving behind yet another place that had felt, if only for a moment, like refuge.

Harry was starting to believe he’d never know what a true “home” felt like. Where once it was his biggest fears, it was now one of his less gruelling thoughts.  

Draco sat in the passenger seat, one hand gripping the door handle, the other resting on the dashboard, as if he needed to keep some connection to the car. His lips were pressed into a tight line, pale skin ghostly in the soft glow of the dashboard lights. For all his bravado earlier, he looked just as uneasy as Harry felt.

“Do you even know where we’re going?” Draco finally asked, his tone sharper than intended.

Harry smirked faintly, eyes on the road. “Does it look like I’ve got a map, Malfoy?”

Draco sighed dramatically, tilting his head back against the seat. “Fantastic. We’re fugitives, Potter, not tourists on a bloody road trip.”

“We just need to keep moving for now. Put distance between us and them.”

“Them,” Draco repeated, his voice dripping with disdain. He stared out the window, fingers drumming absently on the door. “You mean the people who have all the resources, all the manpower, and now, apparently, the entire bloody Ministry under their thumb.”

“Yeah, them. And we’re not as outmatched as you think.”

“That’s comforting, Potter. Truly.”

The car bumped along the uneven road, and Draco grimaced. “You’re going to ruin the suspension driving like this.”

“Didn’t realize you’d become so devoted to Nyx. Here I thought she was just a ‘necessary evil.’”

“Nyx deserves better than this abuse. She’s carrying us, isn’t she? You could show a little respect.”

Harry barked a laugh, the sound startlingly loud in the quiet cabin. “You sound like you’re talking about a person.”

“Don’t be ridiculous… she’s far more reliable than most people I know.”

They fell into silence for a while, the hum of the engine blending with the rustle of leaves in the wind. Draco couldn’t sit still, restless as ever. The lack of a plan—or even a clear destination—set his teeth on edge. It was reckless, uncertain, chaotic. Everything Draco hated. Everything he wasn’t built for.

Draco had always been self-reliant, priding himself on precision and control. He was a perfectionist to the core, and this ordeal—hoping for the best—was anything but. It grated against everything he knew, everything he’d been taught to value.

But there was no room for argument now. He had no choice but to trust Harry. And while he did—wholeheartedly, against every instinct that whispered caution—there was still an uneasy knot in his stomach. Trusting Harry didn’t erase the sharp edges of their reality, didn’t make this reckless uncertainty any easier to stomach.

Draco spoke again, his voice quieter, contemplative. “Do you think this is it, Potter? Just… running? One hideout to the next until they catch up?”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “They’re not going to catch us.”

“You say that like you can guarantee it.”

“I can’t. But I can promise that if they do, they’ll regret it.”

Draco turned his head to look at Harry, the dim light carving sharp planes across his face. It was exasperating, the way Harry existed so wholly, so utterly himself, even now. The tenacity, the sheer defiance of him—it was infuriating and yet… Draco couldn’t look away.

Harry, who had once been blindingly bright, had become something else entirely. Not light, not darkness, but a force of nature, untamed and relentless. A tempest incarnate. He carried the weight of his own ruin like armor, worn not to shield himself but to warn the world to stay away. He was forged in pain, shaped by fire, tempered in a resolve so angry it could shatter mountains.

And Draco realized, with a pang of something too vast and too sharp to name, that it was the most breathtaking thing he’d ever seen. Terrifying, yes—but in the way the sea is terrifying, in the way fire consumes and leaves nothing untouched. It was Harry unbound, stripped of the expectations of the world, finally—finally—something entirely his own.

Draco knew now, with tenacious clarity—this was Harry Potter when he finally stopped letting the world decide who he was supposed to be.

A terrifying, beautiful, maddening, insufferable, extraordinary man.

“You’re bloody infuriating, you know that?”

Harry grinned, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, I’ve heard.”

The road opened up ahead, a stretch of desolate highway cutting through fields shrouded in mist. Harry pressed the accelerator, and Nyx surged forward, the engine purring as if she shared their urgency.

Draco drummed his fingers absently against his thigh.

“You know, Potter,” Draco drawled, his tone laced with that familiar brand of disdain, the kind that suggested he’d been stewing over this for quite some time. “We wouldn’t have to keep tearing down these godforsaken roads like common vagrants if we just used a portkey. Honestly, we could be halfway across the world by now. A tropical island, perhaps—somewhere civilized, with a decent climate and no Ministry bounty hunters skulking about.”

Harry sighed. “It’s not that simple, Malfoy.”

“Oh, do enlighten me.”

“The Ministry isn’t just corrupt—it’s paranoid,” Harry explained, frustration creeping in. “They’ve locked down every major magical port, set up wards that flag unauthorized travel. Apparition outside the country? Tracked. Portkeys? Restricted to government use. Even if we managed to bribe someone—or fake our papers—they’d sniff us out before we got past the Channel.”

Draco leaned back, fingers drumming. “And what about the non-magical way? Surely your precious Muggles have ways to slip under the radar. Boats, planes… I hear those are a thing.”

“Oh, sure. Let’s show up at Heathrow, ‘Mister Potter’ and ‘Mister Malfoy,’ without passports or a shred of plausible identification. I’m sure that’ll go swimmingly.”

“When the hell did the Ministry get so thorough anyway? What are they going to do next, start branding people like cattle?”

Harry spared him a glance, confusion flickering in his expression. “You don’t know?” He paused, then realization dawned. “You… you were still out of it after the war. You missed all of it.”

Draco shifted uncomfortably. “Out of it. That’s one way to put it.”

Harry’s stomach coiled with guilt. The memory of the final battle surged to the surface, unbidden and merciless. It was a memory he had locked in a place he dared not tread—Draco’s skin warm under his fingers, his eyes a storm of grey and silver before they dulled, lifeless and empty.

Harry swallowed hard, forcing it down, forcing it away. He couldn’t think about it. Wouldn’t.

“You were in a coma,” Harry said quietly, the words bitter on his tongue. “Because of me.”

Draco’s head snapped toward him. “Oh, for—don’t start that martyr act, Potter. I know exactly what happened, and if I was holding a grudge, you’d know it.”

“It doesn’t change the fact that it was my curse that—”

“Hit me because I walked into the line of fire,” Draco interrupted sharply. “If anything, it’s a miracle I wasn’t hit by someone else. Honestly, Potter, do you think I spent all those weeks unconscious dreaming up ways to blame you?”

Harry didn’t respond.

Draco groaned, running a hand through his hair. “Merlin, you’re insufferable. I don’t hold it against you, alright? Let it go.”

“Still. It could have—”

“But it didn’t. And here I am,” Draco gestured dramatically to himself. “Breathing, talking, alive. A little worse for wear, perhaps, but alive nonetheless. Stop trying to shoulder every bloody tragedy like it’s yours to carry.”

“You make it sound easy.”

Draco let out a sharp laugh. “Nothing about you is easy, Potter. But this? This you can let go of. If you’re so determined to save the world, at least save yourself some unnecessary guilt.”

Harry’s hands tightened on the steering. “I’m not trying to save the world anymore.”

“Then what is all this? What is it for, if not for some grand, Potter-esque crusade?”

Harry pondered. He supposed it was many things. But none of them had to do with saving the world—not anymore. He’d paid those dues, over and over, and the gratitude he’d received in return was meager at best, nonexistent at worst.

No, this wasn’t about the world. It was about Malfoy. About freedom—not the grand, abstract kind they wrote about in history books, but the personal kind. The kind that let you simply breathe.

It wasn’t that he didn’t care. It was that he cared differently now, in a way that was sharper, more focused. He wasn’t trying to save the world anymore. He was trying to save them—himself and Malfoy. The world could crumble around them, and Harry wouldn’t lift a finger if it meant sparing them another ounce of suffering. He wasn’t interested in playing savior to the masses anymore. Let someone else carry that burden, for fuck’s sake.

I choose me, I choose me, I choose me.

The words looped through Harry’s mind like a mantra, each repetition feeling more hollow than the last. He was the Chosen One, wasn’t he? The boy who’d been chosen for sacrifice, for battle, for everything except himself. What did it even mean to choose himself now? He didn’t know what that looked like—how it felt. How could he? He had spent his whole life as someone else’s tool: Dumbledore’s soldier, Voldemort’s target, the Ministry’s scapegoat. Harry Potter didn’t get to choose.

Who even am I? Who is Harry Potter? What is Harry Potter? Is Harry Potter even a person? A symbol with no substance. A name more real than the boy who bore it. The Savior. The Puppet. The Martyr.

He was choosing himself—or at least, that’s what he told himself. Yet it didn’t entirely feel like freedom. It felt like another kind of twisted joke—how many more ways can the Wizarding World torture and traumatize Harry Potter?

Because if he really chose himself, he would leave all of this behind. He’d disappear, vanish into some quiet corner of the world where no one knew his name. But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. Not while Draco still looked at him with that mix of exasperation and reluctant trust, as if Harry were the only lifeline keeping him afloat in this chaos. Not while the Ministry had a noose poised, waiting for Draco's neck.

The paradox was maddening.

So, he chose, again and again, not himself, but them. The ‘them’ that was him and Draco.

The Chosen One chooses himself.

Harry finally answered, “If the world has to burn to make something right, then let it burn. There is no beauty in ashes, but there is honesty.”

“So,” Draco said after a beat. “What’s the grand plan, then? We keep driving until the Ministry collapses under its own incompetence? Or are you actually going to tell me where we’re headed?”

“Right now? Forward. We’ll figure out the rest when we get there.”

“You know, there’s a certain irony in all of this.”

“What’s that?”

Draco gestured vaguely toward the road ahead. “This. Us. Running like this. You—the Golden Boy—becoming the Ministry’s most wanted. Me—well…” He smirked faintly. “Not so surprising that I’m here, but you? I’d bet even Voldemort didn’t expect this twist.”

Harry huffed a dry laugh. “I’m not sure Voldemort expected much beyond his own grandeur.”

“Still,” Draco pressed, his tone gaining an edge of sardonic humor. “There’s something poetic about it, don’t you think? You, the symbol of everything good and righteous, and me, the so-called villain, both shoved into the same box by a corrupt Ministry that doesn’t give a damn about either of us.”

Harry’s lips twitched in a humorless smile. “Poetic isn’t the word I’d use.”

“What would you call it, then?”

Harry’s hands flexed on the steering wheel, his knuckles briefly whitening. “Predictable. The world doesn’t care about what’s right. It cares about control. I’ve been their weapon, their pawn, their savior—but never anything of my own. Now, I’m just a threat they can’t leash.”

“And me? What am I in this grand narrative of yours?”

Harry’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, he didn’t answer. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, deliberate. “You’re the reason I’m still fighting.”

Draco blinked, taken aback, and for a brief second, he didn’t know what to say. “You’re mad. You do realize this fight of yours is impossible, don’t you? The Ministry is a machine. It grinds people like us into dust.”

“Then I’ll break the machine. Piece by piece, bolt by bolt. I told you before, Malfoy—I’ll burn this world down if that’s what it takes to build something better.”

Draco’s lips parted, but no retort came. Instead, he leaned back as he watched Harry from the corner of his eye. “And what if there’s nothing left to build from, Potter? What then?”

Harry’s gaze flicked to Draco. “Then I’ll make sure you’re free before it all falls apart.”

Draco stared at him. His chest was tight, and his head suddenly felt a little dizzy and he wondered if it had always been this warm in the car. He reached over to fiddle with some controls, trying to turn the heat down.

Outside, the sky was beginning to darken. The horizon was tinged with deep purples and blues.

“We should find somewhere to stop soon,” Harry said after a while. “It’s getting late.”

Draco nodded absently, fingers toying with the hem of his sleeve.

The car hummed steadily onward, carrying them into the encroaching night.

Nyx was speeding through the dense forest, headlights slicing through the dark. Harry had to admit, he was rather impressed with how quickly he’d picked up driving. Sure, he fumbled with the gears now and then, braked a little too hard, and occasionally took corners sharper than he should have—but for someone who’d spent most of his life flying on a broom, he was managing surprisingly well.

Draco sat rigid in the passenger seat, hands gripping the edge of the seat as if bracing for impact. Whether it was fear that the trees might spit out monsters at any moment—or the undeniable fact that Harry’s reckless driving might be the death of them both—he couldn’t quite tell.

"We need to stop soon," Draco drawled tiredly. "Apparently, this contraption runs on something called petrol—and Merlin knows we’ll need more of it. Not to mention, Potter, I’d rather not die of exhaustion or your tragic inability to drive in a straight line."

"Oh, don’t worry, Malfoy. I’ll make sure to find a nice, cozy petrol station for you to stretch your legs and complain properly." He glanced at Draco out of the corner of his eye. "And for the record, my driving’s fine. You’re just not used to going anywhere without a house-elf carrying your luggage."

Draco’s response was a mere roll of his eyes.

They had been driving for hours, the hum of the engine the only constant in an otherwise shifting, hostile world. The warning stones Draco had enchanted had flickered faintly before they left the cottage, a beacon of looming danger. Harry hadn’t questioned it—hadn’t hesitated—because hesitation meant capture, and capture meant death.

Draco's breath caught as he saw it—a shimmer in the distance, a faint pulse of blue light coming from between trees. His hand shot out to grab Harry's arm.

"Stop," he hissed, voice sharp.

Harry slammed on the brakes, Nyx skidding to a rough halt on the gravel road. His wand was already in hand. "What is it?"

Draco pointed ahead. There, a distant flicker of blue between the trees. "Detection stones. Ministry-issued. They're like runes—designed to trace magic. If we go any farther, they'll have us."

"They're close."

Draco nodded. "Too close."

Harry drove Nyx off the main road and into the cover of the forest, tires crunching over brittle leaves before coming to a halt. His mind churned. They couldn't be tracked, not now, not with Aurors snapping at their heels like wolves. He flicked his wand at the dashboard, muttering under his breath. Nyx's engine fell silent.

Draco’s brows furrowed. "What are you doing?"

"Making sure we’re ready to run," Harry said curtly. He grabbed the small emergency bag he had shrunk and tossed it to Draco. "Take it. If it goes bad, you run."

Draco’s lips pressed into a thin line, eyes flashing with something like anger. "Leave you? Don’t be ridiculous, Potter."

But Harry didn’t argue. He was already out of the car, wand in hand. Draco sighed, muttering a litany of curses under his breath about reckless Gryffindor heroics. It wasn’t surprising, of course—Harry running headfirst into danger was as predictable as the sunrise. Insufferable, frustrating, and utterly maddening. Draco often wished there was a way to screw Harry’s head on properly, but right now, he didn’t have the luxury of dwelling on it. Reluctantly, he followed, his own wand at the ready.

They moved together, crouched low. Harry’s strides were deliberate, predatory, his focus sharp as a blade. Draco’s steps were more cautious, measured, his hand brushing the hilt of a concealed dagger—a relic with the Malfoy family crest etched into its silver. He had never used it for more than slicing open a stubborn letter or perhaps the odd stray string, but given the way their lives had unraveled lately, it felt like a precaution worth keeping. Just in case, of course.

“Stay behind me,” Harry said, leaving no room for argument. Draco, for once, didn't argue. He swallowed, his fingers twitching around his wand.

The Aurors emerged from the shadows, figures obscured by the dim light of the forest. There were three of them—three wands raised, three faces twisted into ugly masks of confidence. One of them, a wiry man with cold eyes and a twisted smirk, took a step forward.

“Harry Potter,” he bellowed, voice dripping with condescension. “You’ve been quite the nuisance, haven’t you, boy? But it ends here. Surrender now, and maybe—maybe we’ll go easy on the Malfoy boy.”

Harry let out a laugh, bitter and sharp, a sound that seemed to freeze the air between them. Something about it make a shiver go up Draco’s spine.

“Go easy?” Harry repeated, taking a step forward, his wand already raised. “Is that what you called it when you dragged the others away? When you broke them? Shattered them? Spare me your lies.”

The Auror’s smirk faltered. His eyes narrowed, sharp and cold. “Suit yourself.” His wand slashed through the air. A crackle of light. Deadly. Blinding. Barreling toward them.

But Harry was faster. His wand moved in a blur. The ground beneath the Auror erupted, sending him crashing back against a tree. The impact was sickening, and Draco felt something twist in his gut at the sound of breaking bone. Harry didn’t even blink.

“Expelliarmus!” another Auror shouted, wand aimed at Harry.

Harry’s magic surged. A wildfire, untamed. The shield flared into existence, shimmering, deflecting the spell with ease. He looked like a nightmare come alive—power rolling off him, dark and unrelenting. Eyes wild. Untouchable.

The second Auror turned his attention to Draco. “Stupe—”

“Protego!” Draco’s shield flared just in time. The impact made him stagger, his breath catching.

The Auror sneered, stepping closer, eyes burning with malice. “Pathetic,” he hissed. “A Malfoy, cowering like a scared little—”

Harry’s roar tore through the clearing. Raw. Vicious. The magic that erupted wasn’t precise or calculated—it was pure rage. It slammed into the Auror like a battering ram, sending him sprawling into the dirt.

Before the Auror could react, Harry was on him. His boot slammed down onto the man’s chest, pinning him to the ground with unrelenting force. His face was shadowed, eyes wild and unhinged. This—this was Harry untamed. The world had known Harry Potter as the boy who tried to save it, who bore its weight on his shoulders. But the world had never seen Harry when he no longer cared if it burned. If the world was smart, it would tread carefully. Because this version of Harry Potter wasn’t just fighting to survive—he was fighting to protect the one thing he had left to lose.

“You touch him,” Harry growled. “And I’ll make sure you never touch anything again.”

Another Auror spat blood onto the ground and snarled, his hand scrabbling toward a concealed dagger at his belt. Harry didn’t let him get close.

“Constringo Mortem!” The spell whipped from Harry’s wand. It struck the Auror’s arm, locking his muscles in place, and the dagger clattered uselessly to the ground.

The Auror howled in pain, veins standing out starkly against his skin, dark tendrils of magic curling around his limbs like binding chains. His face contorted. “You’re crossing thin lines, Potter! Do you even recognize yourself anymore?”

Harry’s laugh was sharp and hollow.

The magic coiled tighter, and the Auror’s screams echoed in the clearing. Draco stood frozen, his wand trembling in his grip as he watched. His shield flickered out, forgotten. The scene before him felt unreal, like watching a storm tear through the earth.

“Potter,” Draco managed to choke out, his voice uneven, but it wasn’t enough to cut through the haze of fury.

Harry couldn’t see anything past his own rage and resentment. Harry’s thoughts were a cacophony of every time he had been someone’s pawn—Dumbledore’s weapon, the Ministry’s poster boy, the Order’s sacrificial lamb. To hell with them all. I’ll do what I bloody want, for once.

The Auror’s partner staggered forward, shaking. “Expelliarmus!” The spell aimed at Harry was deflected without a thought, Harry’s free hand raising to send another shockwave of force that sent the second Auror careening into the trunk of a tree.

The third Auror, groaning as he struggled to his knees, raised his head. “Potter, you’re no better than—”

Harry’s wand flicked, and shimmering ropes wrapped around the man, silencing him instantly.

“Potter,” Draco’s hand tightened around Harry’s arm. “Please—enough. You have to—stop—”  

Harry’s eyes snapped to Draco. For a moment, the red fury in Harry’s vision started to clear up. The noise got quieter. There were just grey eyes and the breaths between them. Slowly, Harry’s grip on his magic loosened, the power dissipating, the air clearing.

He stepped back, letting the Auror fall to the ground. The man scrambled away, clutching his ribs, his face pale. “You’re… you’re insane! No wonder the Ministry wants your head! You’re no Harry Potter—not the one the world knew!”

Harry didn’t even flinch. He crouched down, wand still aimed. “Tell your Ministry this,” he said, his voice deathly calm. “If they want to come after us, they’d better send more than the likes of you.”

The Auror hesitated. His eyes flicked between Harry and Draco, fear etched into his face. Slowly, he stumbled to his feet. He grabbed his bound partners, dragging them back into the shadows. Not a word.  

The silence that followed was thick and heavy. Only the rustling leaves and Draco’s uneven breaths broke through it. Harry turned, his eyes locking with Draco’s. The fury in his gaze faded, drained away, leaving behind something raw. Something worn. Something dangerously close to vulnerable.

“You’re terrifying,” Draco whispered, his voice barely audible. His eyes were wide and unsettled.

Harry’s lips twisted into something of a bitter smile. “You think they’ll stop if I play nice?”

Draco didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. He knew the answer as well as Harry did. His gaze flicked to the detection stones scattered across the ground, their glow fading, then back to Harry. There was blood on Harry’s knuckles, his hands still trembling slightly.

“They’ll come back,” Draco said finally.

“I know.”

Draco swallowed, his gaze flicking to where Nyx sat just beyond the trees. “We need to go. Can’t stay anywhere near this mess. Not unless you fancy getting ambushed again. Let’s move before they catch up—preferably far, far away.”

Harry nodded, his eyes scanning the scene. Ropes lay tangled on the ground, the discarded dagger from one of the Aurors catching the faintest glint of moonlight. A dark smear of blood trailed across the leaves. He let out a slow breath. How had his life twisted into this?

Draco watched him.

Harry turned to head back to the car.

“One of these days, they’ll catch us, you know."

Harry stopped but didn’t turn to look at Draco. "Let them try."

Something grim flashed across Draco’s eyes. "I’m starting to think you enjoy this, Potter."

Harry glanced over his shoulder, a ghostly smile on his face. "I enjoy that they haven’t taken you yet, Malfoy."

The problem was, they didn’t have a plan.

Harry knew, long-term, the only way this ended was with the Ministry’s corruption burned to ash. The downfall of Umbridge. The collapse of the new regime. And while the very thought of dedicating another second of his life to fighting for a wizarding world that had given him little more than gravestones and scars made his stomach turn, he knew it was unavoidable. Not for himself. For Draco.

Because, truthfully, Harry didn’t care what the Ministry did to him anymore. He was resigned to it. Almost numb. After everything they’d put him through—after everything everyone had put him through since the moment he stepped into their world at eleven years old—he had no delusions that life would ever grant him peace. It should’ve. After Voldemort, it should have been different. But who was he kidding? Nothing about being “The Chosen One” ever suggested easy.

And yet, despite everything, despite the anger and the weariness and the jagged edges he’d been left to live with, there was Draco. Draco deserved more than this endless fight for survival. It was about undoing the chains that bound them both, no matter how impossible it seemed.

But none of that changed the fact that he didn’t have a plan.

Harry hadn’t exactly had one when it came to Voldemort either. Some things worked. Some things didn’t. Some people died. Some didn’t. In the end, instinct and desperation got him through. No roadmap. No guarantees. Just determination, a bit of dumb luck, and the guidance of others who were better at seeing the bigger picture.

That was the thing, he realized. He wasn’t much of a planner. Never had been. He was a fighter. That’s all he’d ever been. And now, with everything crumbling around them, that’s all he had to fall back on.

In this case, Harry knew the Ministry had to fall for him or Draco to ever have a chance at anything resembling a normal life. But the thought of how to bring about that downfall felt impossibly far away, like staring at a mountain he’d never be able to climb. He couldn’t even begin to imagine the steps it would take. If he was honest, he was banking on Hermione and Ron to figure something out—probably with Shacklebolt and the few others they could still trust.

Beyond that, though, Harry and Draco didn’t have much of a plan for their immediate situation either. Snape’s safehouse had been a blessing while it lasted, and maybe—just maybe—they could return there one day. Harry had liked it there. He liked the ocean, the way it mirrored his own chaos while somehow still calming him. The waves crashing against the shore felt like his own mind—unrelenting and restless, yet oddly grounding. He liked the warmth of Snape’s magic that seemed to hum through the cottage walls, protective and steady, like a ghostly hand on his shoulder. He liked the scent of the place—a mix of earthy herbs and tea. And he liked that Draco had found his own little haven in the garage, tinkering with Nyx for hours on end, muttering curses under his breath as he tried and failed to keep grease off his hands.

But wishful thinking wasn’t something Harry indulged in often. It never got him anywhere. Not when the reality was that they couldn’t stay.

The initial plan had been simple—just drive. Get away from the safehouse, away from the place where they were almost caught. Just drive.

At least for a while. Long enough to find somewhere temporary—a quiet spot to get some rest, maybe scrounge up something to eat. Something, anything, that would give them enough fuel to keep going.

But after the forest incident, the idea of stopping felt laughable. Rest, it seemed, was yet another luxury they wouldn’t be granted anytime soon. They had to keep moving. They had to put as much distance as possible between themselves and whatever shadow of the Ministry might be trailing them.

Harry didn’t know where they were anymore. The road stretched endlessly before them, weaving through trees that all looked the same, cutting through an emptiness that felt infinite. They could’ve been anywhere—a nameless corner of the country, some forgotten crack in the map—and Harry wouldn’t have known the difference. All he knew was the hum of the engine beneath them and the weight of the unknown pressing down on his chest.

What was stranger still, was that Harry wasn’t entirely bothered by the unknown. Sure, he worried about Draco’s safety, and he understood the logistics of staying hidden—a task that promised to be nothing short of tedious—but he wasn’t unsettled. There was something oddly freeing about being on the road, driving into the horizon with no set destination. For once, he didn’t have a role to play, no grand duty thrust upon him by fate or anyone else—at least, not any that weren’t his own decisions. As precarious as their situation was, Harry felt a strange sense of peace knowing that, for now, he was steering his own path.

Sure, I’ve got the whole of the British wizarding community—or at least its corrupt Ministry—hunting me down with a bounty on my head. But this time, it’s by my own hand. Not Dumbledore. Not Voldemort. Just me. For once, I’m the one pulling the strings.

Draco had fallen asleep at some point, his head tilted against the window, pale strands of hair catching the faint moonlight filtering through the glass. Harry let him sleep—he needed the rest, needed the reprieve.

Harry’s eyes flicked to him every so often, drawn in by the rare softness on Draco’s face, the way the lines of tension seemed to fade in sleep. It was strange, seeing him like this—unguarded, almost delicate. The sharp angles of his cheekbones softened in the dim light, lashes casting faint shadows against his skin.

There was a peace there that felt fragile, like it could shatter at the slightest sound, and Harry hated how much he wanted to protect it. Protect him. It gnawed at him, sat heavy in his chest.

Draco’s hand was curled loosely in his lap, and Harry’s gaze lingered there for a moment, on the faint, winding scar that marked his wrist—the imprint of the magic that bound them. It glowed faintly in the dark.

He looked back at the road, but his mind stayed on Draco. In the quiet, Harry wondered if Draco could hear his heartbeat—how it stuttered, clumsily, every time they stood too close, every time he caught that flash of silver in Draco’s eyes.

When Draco stirred, his eyes opened slowly, still heavy with sleep. For a fleeting moment, he looked disoriented—confused, even. The faint lines of his brow creased as he glanced around, as though trying to piece together where he was, why he was in a car, and why Harry Potter was beside him. But the moment passed, the haze lifted, replaced by the all-too-familiar weight settling back into his stomach.

The dread unfurled like a slow, inevitable tide, creeping up and making his chest feel tight. He shifted in his seat, his gaze flicking to Harry, who sat steady and focused at the wheel. There was a quiet confidence about him, an unshakable calm that Draco couldn’t ever fathom. He often found himself wishing he could feel the same—that same certainty, that same control.

But he wasn’t Harry.

And that thought burned more than he cared to admit.

“You never sleep,” Draco murmured, his voice rough with lingering sleep. He shifted in his seat, stretching lazily as if the weight of his words didn’t carry the scrutiny they so obviously did.

Harry glanced at him briefly, startled that he was awake. “I sleep,” he replied casually, turning his eyes back to the road.

Draco let out a soft scoff, rubbing at his temple. “Sure. Fifteen minutes here and there when you think I’m not paying attention doesn’t count, Potter.”

Harry’s lips quirked into a faint smirk, but he didn’t respond immediately. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the purr of Nyx’s engine and the faint whisper of the trees beyond the window.

“It’s not a big deal,” Harry said finally, his tone too dismissive to be convincing. “Someone’s got to keep watch.”

“Always the noble martyr,” Draco muttered, rolling his eyes. But the amusement in his voice was thin, frayed. He sat up straighter, studying Harry’s profile with a look that was far too perceptive for Harry’s liking. “You’re going to burn out. And when you do, it’s going to be spectacularly inconvenient for the both of us.”

Harry snorted, shaking his head. “I’ll be fine. You, on the other hand, were drooling a little in your sleep.”

Draco’s head snapped toward him, indignation flashing in his eyes. “I did not drool.”

“You did. It was tragic, really. Very un-Malfoy.”

Draco stared at him for a beat, and then—unexpectedly—he laughed. It was soft, barely there, but it was real, and it lingered.

“Fine,” Draco said, leaning back. “Brush it off if you want, but don’t come crying to me when you collapse from exhaustion, and I have to haul your Gryffindor arse out of trouble.”

Harry’s grin softened, the weight of Draco’s concern sitting somewhere in the back of his mind. He didn’t have the heart to tell Draco the truth—that the reason he couldn’t sleep wasn’t because of the bounty on their heads or the Ministry’s hunt. It was the faces—every time he closed his eyes, faces and eyes of those he couldn’t save, choices he couldn’t undo, and a war he could never truly leave behind.

Instead, he settled for a quiet, “Noted.”

Draco let the silence hang for a moment, his gaze drifting out the window. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “So, what’s the grand plan, Potter? Or are we just driving until the wheels fall off?”

“I don’t know. Just need to keep moving. Keep ahead of them.”

Draco frowned. “That’s not a plan. That’s running.”

“Yeah,” Harry said simply. “It is.”

“You do realize we can’t just keep driving forever. At some point, we’ll need… I don’t know, an actual destination. Somewhere to regroup, to figure out how the hell we’re supposed to survive this.”

Harry still didn’t look at Draco. “I know. But right now, every destination feels like a trap waiting to spring. So, until we figure out where it’s safe, we keep going.”

“Brilliant. Just brilliant. The hero without a plan.”

Harry’s lips twitched at the corner. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“You’re actually joking? That’s comforting, Potter. Truly. Nothing says ‘trust me with your life’ like admitting you’re winging it.”

Harry glanced at him briefly, one brow raised. “You’d rather I lie to you? Say I’ve got it all figured out?”

Draco hesitated, caught off guard. His fingers drummed against his knee as he stared at Harry’s profile. Draco’s mouth opened, then shut. He looked away, his gaze falling to the faint mark on his wrist.

The road stretched on, dark and winding, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence wasn’t comfortable, but it wasn’t unbearable either. It was just them, the car, and the uncertain path ahead.

The low rumble of Nyx’s engine quieted as Harry pulled into the dimly lit petrol station. The fluorescent lights flickered weakly, casting eerie shadows over the cracked pavement.

“We’re out of petrol,” Harry said, cutting the engine. He glanced at Draco. “And you could probably use some real food.”

Draco rubbed his temples. “You’re assuming this place has anything remotely edible.”

Harry stepped out, stretching briefly before heading to the pump. “Stay here,” he muttered, glancing over his shoulder. “Keep an eye out.”

Draco frowned, the tether humming faintly between them as Harry moved away. He leaned forward, scanning the darkened lot. Nothing seemed amiss, but that did little to settle the weight pressing against his ribs. He hated how much trust he’d started putting in Harry’s instincts.

Minutes later, Harry returned, wiping his hands on his jeans. “There’s a diner just across the lot,” he said, nodding toward a neon sign flickering in the distance. The word "DINER" buzzed faintly in red and blue, barely illuminating the shabby building beneath it. “Let’s get something to eat.”

Draco stared at him. “You want to eat… there? In that?”

Harry shrugged, opening the driver’s side door and grabbing his wand from the dashboard. “Unless you’ve got something better in mind.”

Draco scoffed but climbed out of the car, his reluctance clear in every movement. The chill in the air wrapped around him, biting at his exposed skin and making him shiver as he followed Harry toward the diner.

The diner's door groaned on its hinges as Harry pushed it open, the sound grating in the stillness. A bell above jingled weakly, its tinny chime swallowed by the oppressive quiet inside.

The scent hit Draco first—stale coffee clinging to the air, mingling with the acrid tang of burnt grease and something faintly sweet, like syrup that had overstayed its welcome on sticky tabletops. He wrinkled his nose, stepping inside cautiously, his gaze darting over the room.

The place was dimly lit, the overhead fluorescents buzzing faintly. A lone waitress stood behind the counter, her stained apron hanging crookedly from her shoulders, her hair tied back in a limp, unkempt bun. Her face was drawn, exhaustion etched into the lines around her eyes, and she didn’t so much as glance up as they entered—just continued methodically wiping down a mug with a rag that looked like it had seen better days.

Draco glanced around, his unease deepening. The booth seats were cracked, the plastic peeling at the edges, and the faint sound of a late-night talk show played from a small, flickering TV mounted in the corner. It felt like they had stepped into a pocket of nowhere—a liminal space where time moved differently, slower, as though the world outside the diner had momentarily ceased to exist.

Harry didn’t hesitate, striding toward an empty booth near the back with the same unshakable confidence he wore everywhere, as if they hadn’t just narrowly avoided death in the woods. Draco lingered for a moment longer, his fingers brushing against the doorframe before he followed.

Draco’s nose wrinkled. “This feels… unsanitary.”

“Ease up, Malfoy. We’ve seen through worse, haven’t we?”

Draco slid into the seat opposite him, glancing warily at the sticky surface of the table. He looked at Harry, his tone dry. “I’m not sure I’d classify whatever this is as ‘better.’”

Harry leaned back. His wand rested on his thigh beneath the table, fingers brushing it absently. “It’s food, Malfoy. Something we need in order to survive—and fight, for that matter. And it’s safe enough.”

“Safe? Do you have some unspoken metric for determining that, or are you just betting on luck?”

Harry smirked faintly. “A bit of both.”

The waitress shuffled over, notepad in hand. “Coffee?” she asked, her voice flat.

Harry nodded. “Two. And whatever’s easiest to throw on a plate.”

Draco opened his mouth to protest, but Harry shot him a look, silencing him. The waitress scribbled something down and wandered off, leaving the two of them in a bubble of uneasy quiet.

Draco crossed his arms. “You’re far too comfortable with this sort of thing, Potter.”

“You get used to it.”

“No, you don’t. You just pretend you do.”

The coffee arrived first, bitter and lukewarm, but Harry drank it without complaint. Draco took one tentative sip, grimaced, and pushed the cup aside.

“Remind me,” Draco muttered, his tone laced with dry disdain, “why we couldn’t just have stolen some food and avoided this… experience.”

“Because,” Harry replied, deadpan, “you insisted on staying civilized. Welcome to civilization, Malfoy.”

Draco huffed, but the faintest twitch of a smile betrayed him. They sat in silence after that, the hum of the diner’s ancient refrigerator the only sound as they waited for their food, each lost in their own thoughts.

Draco drummed his fingers against the sticky surface of the table, gaze darting toward the windows. The faint neon glow of the diner's sign barely reached the edges of the parking lot, where Nyx sat idling under the shadows of a broken streetlight. Outside, the town seemed eerily quiet, save for the occasional flicker of movement—a stray cat, maybe, or a trick of the light.

“We shouldn’t be here,” Draco murmured. He glanced at Harry, who was stirring his coffee with a level of calm that Draco found infuriating. “This is reckless, even for you. Sitting here in plain sight like we’re on some kind of bloody road trip.”

“We’re in the middle of nowhere, Malfoy. A small-town diner at…” He glanced at the clock above the counter, its second hand ticking faintly out of sync. “Four in the morning. You think anyone’s looking for us here?”

“You think we’re invisible because we’re surrounded by Muggles?”

“No. I think we’re inconspicuous because we don’t belong here. No one’s looking for a Jaguar and two blokes in a greasy spoon at this hour. They’re searching for wizards in hidden safehouses or on magical transport routes. Not here.”

Draco didn’t look convinced. He leaned back, arms crossed, his foot tapping an impatient rhythm against the linoleum floor. “You’re too comfortable with this. That’s how mistakes happen.”

Harry’s expression sobered. “I’m not comfortable, Malfoy. I’m vigilant. There’s a difference.”

Draco’s fingers tightened around the edge of the table. “And what happens when one of those Aurors from the woods figures out we didn’t head for the coast or double back to the safehouse? What happens when they realize we are hiding in plain sight?”

Harry tilted his head, studying him. “They won’t. Not tonight.”

It wasn’t exactly amusing to see Draco as paranoid and cautious as ever, but there was something oddly comforting about it. He had always been this way—meticulous, guarded, ready to dissect every detail of a situation before stepping into it. For Harry, it was strangely reassuring, almost endearing in its predictability. There was a charm in it, in the way Draco’s caution balanced Harry’s impulsiveness, even if neither of them would ever admit it aloud.

“That’s optimistic,” Draco muttered.  

“It’s realistic,” Harry countered. “This is what we have, Malfoy. Small towns, middle-of-nowhere diners, and greasy coffee. The Ministry’s not omniscient. They’re powerful, sure. Corrupt. Dangerous. But they’re still blind in places like this. Places where we don’t fit into their idea of where we should be.”

“So, you’re saying we’re safe because we don’t belong.”

“Exactly. No one in this diner gives a damn about us. That waitress probably doesn’t even remember what we look like. This is where we disappear, Malfoy. For tonight, anyway.”

Draco exhaled slowly, the logic settling uneasily in his chest. He didn’t like it—didn’t like the vulnerability of stopping, of sitting still. But he couldn’t argue with Harry’s reasoning. Not entirely.

The waitress returned, placing two plates in front of them with a dull clatter. Pancakes, slightly burned, and a side of eggs that looked far from appetizing. She didn’t say a word, just shuffled back behind the counter, her gaze glued to the flickering television mounted above the coffee pots.

Draco eyed the food, his lip curling in mild disdain. “Civilization,” he muttered under his breath. He picked up a fork, poking at the pancakes as if they might fight back.

Harry grinned, picking up his own fork. He took a bite, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. “Just—trust me, Malfoy. Would you?”

“Trust you. Famous last words.”

Harry chuckled softly, but his hand never strayed far from his wand. Neither of them noticed the faint flicker of movement outside the diner’s window, where the shadows stretched just a little too far into the night.

The town was called Point Pleasant—a sleepy, coastal village that seemed to exist on the edge of time itself. The streets were quiet, lined with quaint, weathered houses and the occasional flicker of a porch light. The motel they stopped at was just as unimpressive as the rest of the town. A crooked sign above the office door proclaimed it the Bayview Inn, though the only view was the cracked asphalt of the parking lot and a rusted chain-link fence.

“This is it?” Draco asked, his tone laced with the kind of disbelief that Harry had grown used to. He leaned out of Nyx’s passenger window, nose wrinkled in disdain. “This is where we’re staying?”

Harry cut the engine and opened his door. “Unless you’d like to drive back into Auror territory, yeah. This is it.”

Draco let out a long-suffering sigh and climbed out, the gravel crunching beneath his boots. “You’ve really outdone yourself this time, Potter. I didn’t think it was possible to find a place less hospitable than that forest, but here we are.”

Harry smirked but didn’t respond, making his way toward the motel office. The fluorescent light inside buzzed faintly, casting an unflattering glow over the small space. Behind the counter, an older woman with half-moon glasses and a crocheted cardigan looked up from her magazine.

“Room?” she asked, her voice flat and tired.

Harry nodded, pulling out some cash from his pocket. He didn’t bother giving his name; places like this didn’t care about details. The woman handed over a key attached to a faded plastic tag with the number 12 stamped on it. She didn’t even glance up as Harry took it and walked out.

Draco was leaning against the hood of Nyx. “Well?”

“Room twelve,” Harry said, tossing the key toward him. “Don’t get too comfortable.”

Draco caught the key with a scowl. “As if that’s possible here.”

They grabbed their bags and headed toward the room. The motel was every bit as dismal as Harry had expected. The door to number twelve stuck slightly, and Draco had to shoulder it open, muttering something under his breath about Gryffindor accommodations. Harry was used to such commentary, amused by it, in fact. Inside, the room smelled faintly of damp carpet and old cleaning supplies. The decor was dated—floral bedspreads and faded wallpaper—but at least it was clean. Mostly.

Draco dropped his bag onto the closest bed, unimpressed. “I hope you’re not expecting me to actually sleep here.”

“Think of it as character-building.”

Draco shot him a withering look but said nothing, instead pulling out his wand to cast a series of cleansing and protective spells. Harry sat back on the edge of his bed, watching him work with a faint smile.

“You know,” Harry said after a moment, “for someone who claims to hate this whole on-the-run thing, you’re awfully good at it.”

Draco paused, his wand still raised, and turned to glare at him. “If I die from whatever filth is lurking in this room, I’m haunting you, Potter.”

Harry laughed, the sound low and unexpected. For a moment, the tension in the room lifted, replaced by something lighter, almost normal. But as the laughter faded, the weight of their reality crept back in. Point Pleasant might have been far from everything, but it wasn’t far enough. Not yet.

Harry lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. His fingers tapped against the frayed edge of the blanket, restless. The bed was uncomfortable—lumpy and stiff—but that wasn’t what kept him awake. His mind churned, looping through fragments of thought too tangled to untangle. The Ministry, the Aurors, Draco. Always Draco.

Somewhere in the quiet hours, Harry started dreaming of a life without the weight of the wizarding world, a place where he could shed his skin and disappear into anonymity. But with Draco, it was different—his hands were steady with purpose, eyes fixed on a vision of a world made right, a future he could still fight for.

Across the room, Draco lay curled on his side, breaths slow and even. He had been falling in and out of sleep for hours, his silhouette barely visible in the faint light. Harry turned his head, his gaze tracing the sharp lines of Draco’s profile—his furrowed brow even in sleep, the faint rise and fall of his chest.

It was strange, Harry thought, how different Draco seemed now. Like a blade dulled by too many battles, still dangerous if wielded the right way. He’d changed, not in the way people often did after wars, with heavier shoulders and darker eyes. Draco had changed like a forest after a fire—stripped bare, yet waiting, almost patiently, for life to grow back in the charred spaces.

The thought made Harry sigh, soft and resigned. He turned back to the ceiling, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. He was exhausted, but sleep wouldn’t come. It rarely ever did.

From the other bed, a voice broke the silence.

“Are you planning to sigh all night, or can the rest of us sleep in peace?”

Harry froze, then let out a short laugh. “Sorry. Didn’t realize I was keeping you up.”

Draco shifted, propping himself up on one elbow. His hair was mussed, his voice low and raspy. “I doubt that’s what’s keeping me up.” He studied Harry for a moment, his eyes sharper than they should have been at this hour. “What is it this time? The Ministry? Or is it just your usual tendency to brood?”

Harry didn’t answer immediately. He pushed himself up, resting his forearms on his knees. “I don’t brood.”

Draco let out a dry laugh. “Right. And I don’t complain. Spare me, Potter. You’ve been lying there like you’ve got the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

“Old habits die hard, I guess.”

After a moment, Draco sighed, softer this time. He settled back down, turning onto his side. “Just try to sleep, Potter. The world will still be a mess in the morning.”

The silence stretched on save for the soft hum of the heater. Harry lay still, fingers tangled in the frayed edge of the blanket, eyes tracing the vague outline of the cracked ceiling above him. Shadows danced across the plaster as the wind outside stirred the branches, casting fleeting shapes that disappeared as quickly as they came.

After what felt like hours, Harry whispered into the stillness, “Malfoy?”

There was no immediate answer, and for a moment, Harry thought Draco might have actually fallen asleep. But then came the faintest of sighs. “What, Potter?”

Harry turned his head slightly toward the other bed, though he couldn’t see much in the dark. “Are you still awake?”

“No. I’m talking to you in my dreams.”

Harry huffed a quiet laugh, rolling onto his side to face Draco, though the distance between their beds remained. “You can never help yourself, can you?”

“Not when I’m being kept awake by your existential crisis. What is it, Potter?”

Harry stared at the ceiling, hesitant. “Do you… ever think about what you’d be doing if none of this had happened?”

Draco was quiet for a moment, as if the idea caught him off guard. “I don’t know. Maybe running my family’s estate, overseeing meaningless renovations to ancient corridors and hosting garden parties that no one actually enjoys. I suppose I would’ve ended up managing something dreadfully posh—breeding winged horses, perhaps, or curating some grand collection of rare magical artifacts. Something respectable but lifeless… married someone I didn’t like.” He paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, “Something normal.”

Harry’s lips quirked into a faint smile. “Sounds awful.”

“It does,” Draco agreed quietly. “What about you?”

Harry hesitated, his fingers stilling. “I don’t know. I guess I never really thought about it. For so long, everything I did felt like… like it was already decided for me.”

“And now?”

“Now…” Harry’s voice trailed off, soft and unsure. “I think I’d like to just… exist. Somewhere quiet. Maybe by the sea.”

Draco hummed thoughtfully, his gaze drifting upward. “The sea, huh? You don’t strike me as the beach type, Potter.”

“It’s not about the beach. It’s about the quiet.”

“I suppose I could tolerate the sea. As long as it wasn’t too humid. And no sand getting everywhere.”

“Noted.”

Draco shifted, his voice softer now. “It’s strange, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“How we ended up here. You and me. If someone had told me a few years ago, I’d have laughed them out of the room.”

Harry smiled faintly. “Yeah, well… life’s funny like that.”

Draco snorted, but it was quiet, almost fond. “Funny isn’t the word I’d use.”

They were ruins, both of them, remnants of a war that had left them with fractures instead of victories. And yet, when they stood together, the pieces seemed to fit, broken edges finding solace in shared scars.

As Harry closed his eyes, he could hear the faint sound of Draco’s breathing steadying again, soft and even. And for a moment, he thought that maybe, just maybe, there was a sliver of peace in the world after all.

The morning crept in sluggishly, pale light seeping through the threadbare curtains like an unwanted intruder. Harry was already up, moving quietly around the room, packing their essentials into the ever-worn bag with deliberate, cautious motions. It was the kind of carefulness that came only from the constant anticipation of having to run at any moment.

Draco stirred, blinking groggily at the faint clinking of mugs. He rubbed his eyes, groaning softly as he dragged himself up and wandered to the cluttered table. Snape’s and Lily’s books lay scattered across its surface, spines worn, pages spilling with scraps of parchment. Draco reached for a small, battered notebook.

Harry placed a steaming mug near Draco, who took a sip absentmindedly, his gaze fixed on the book. "We need to leave soon," Harry reminded. "But first, breakfast. We’ve got bread and jam, unless you’ve got some brilliant spell to whip up an omelette."

Draco didn’t respond immediately, his attention lost to the notebook. "Give me a minute," he murmured, his fingers flipping through the pages. Something caught his eye, and he frowned, leaning closer.

"What is it?"

Draco pointed at a page. "This… Snape and Lily’s work—there are notes from both of them—potions, mostly. But here…" He tapped on a section filled with Lily’s neat handwriting, with Snape’s sharp annotations in the margins. "This isn’t just any potion. It’s a healing elixir. Advanced. Something with restorative properties that go beyond normal remedies."

Harry leaned over, peering at the delicate writing. "Healing? How’s it different from what we’ve already got?"

Draco ran a finger along the words. "It’s not just healing. It’s designed for resilience. The way they’ve described it… it repairs magical exhaustion as well as physical injury. Something that could keep us going even when we’re drained. We’re always running on empty, Potter. This could change that."

"You think you can brew it?"

"It’ll take time. We’ll need a few rare ingredients, but the base components are common enough. If we can find what we need, I could do it. Might give us an edge."

"Alright. We’ll make a list, pick up whatever we can when we get the chance.”

Draco finally looked up, the corner of his mouth quirking into a faint, almost defiant smile. "Leave it to me. Just make sure we don’t get caught before I finish, yeah?"

Harry let out a soft snort. "Right. Just don’t blow us up in the process, Malfoy."

Draco turned his gaze back to the book as he began making mental notes. The sense of purpose steadied his hands, grounding him in a way the constant running couldn’t. He felt Harry move away, heard the sound of bread being sliced and jam being spread, the mundane comfort of it a stark contrast to the chaos of their reality.

Harry set a piece of bread beside Draco, nudging his elbow lightly. "Eat. I’d rather not have to drag your unconscious body through another forest, thanks."

Draco took a bite without looking up.

The road twisted and turned beneath them, Nyx’s tires humming across the uneven path. Harry’s eyes scanned the treeline. Beside him, Draco sat, sifting through the list they’d made.

“We’re running low on just about everything—potion ingredients, powdered runes… even food.” Harry said, shoot Draco a quick glance. “We’ll need to make a stop soon. There’s a village just up ahead. Small, but it should have what we need.”

Draco frowned. “You’re sure about this? A village means people, and people mean risk. The more we interact, the greater the chance someone sees through our glamour.”

“The glamour will hold, Malfoy. We’re going to be careful. We don’t have much choice otherwise.”

Draco didn’t argue, though he wasn’t convinced. The spell they had cast before leaving—the one that hid their magical signatures—had given them an edge, but walking into a Wizarding village—small and inconspicuous as it may be—meant relying on more than just magic; it meant trusting luck, and Draco wasn’t sure how much of that they had left.

It was nearly twilight by the time they approached the outskirts of the village. Harry parked Nyx a ways off, hidden among the trees, the path covered in underbrush that would make it difficult for anyone to stumble upon by accident. They both stepped out. Draco flicked his wand towards the car, casting a brief concealment charm around it.

“It’s temporary,” Draco said quietly, tucking his wand away, “but it’ll keep Nyx hidden long enough.”

Harry nodded. “Alright. Best we make this quick.”

The glamour settled over them like a second skin, subtle enough not to draw attention, but effective enough to mask the unmistakable features that would have given them away. Harry’s hair was darkened, his scar concealed beneath an illusion of smooth skin, while Draco’s appearance shifted—his blond hair now dark and scruffy, his features blurred into something more anonymous.

The air around Willington Quay carried a damp chill, the sharp tang of the river biting at the back of Harry’s throat. Water lapped faintly against the quay, mingling with the hum of distant ships and the soft pulse of magical wards. The cobblestone streets, slick with mist, gleamed faintly under dim streetlamps. It wasn’t like the bustling, overtly magical villages Harry was used to. The magic here was quieter, threaded carefully into the mundane. Too seamless, too practiced—like the village was trying a little too hard to blend in.

Harry adjusted the collar of his jacket, fingers brushing over his wand tucked securely in his sleeve. The glamour spell clung to him like a second skin, the magic altering his features enough to make him unrecognizable. His black hair was now a sandy brown, his glasses swapped for clearer vision charmed into his eyes. Even his scar was gone.

Draco walked beside him, his own glamour just as effective. His sharp, pale features were softened into something unassuming—a plain, slightly freckled face, his trademark blond hair muted into a dull brown. He adjusted the strap of the satchel slung over his shoulder, filled with books he refused to leave behind. Despite the disguise, there was an unmistakable wariness in the way he moved, his gaze darting between the narrow alleys and the few people they passed. His fingers twitched occasionally, brushing against his wand as though needing the reassurance of its presence.

"We shouldn’t have come here," Draco muttered under his breath. The village wasn’t crowded, but even a handful of people felt like too many to him. "A glamour won’t hold up to everything. What if someone casts a detection charm? What if—"

"They won’t," Harry cut him off. He scanned the shops and stalls for anything useful. "The glamours are solid. They’ll hold."

Draco didn’t look convinced. The village's charm might have lulled others into a sense of safety, but to Draco, it was a powder keg waiting for a spark. "You’re far too confident about things you shouldn’t be."

"Comes with the territory, doesn’t it?"

"This isn’t a joke," Draco snapped, though he kept his voice low. "If someone recognizes us—"

"They won’t," Harry repeated. "We need supplies. If we keep running without restocking, we’ll be caught, glamours or not. This is the safest village in the area. They won’t be expecting us to show up in a quiet backwater like this."

Draco exhaled sharply, shoulders still tense. He wasn’t convinced, but he followed Harry as they turned down a narrow lane leading to a shop with a faded sign that read: Alchemia Arcanum, Magical Goods and Curiosities. The sign creaked as it swung gently in the wind, the faded lettering barely legible.

The bell above the door jingled softly as they stepped inside. The air was thick with the scent of old wood, parchment, and faintly charred herbs. Shelves were crammed with vials, jars, and spell ingredients, labels written in a spidery hand. A wizard behind the counter barely glanced up, too engrossed in a copy of the Daily Prophet to notice them.

"Start looking," Harry murmured. He moved toward the shelves, fingers skimming over rows of potion ingredients, eyes darting between jars of dried mandrake root and powdered bicorn horn. The silence of the shop was almost oppressive, broken only by the soft rustle of Harry’s movements and the occasional creak of the floorboards.

Draco lingered near the shelves. His eyes darted across the rows, searching for anything Snape’s notes had highlighted. Powdered moonstone, dried asphodel root, phoenix ash. His fingers paused on a small jar of ground pearl dust, Lily’s handwriting flashing through his mind. It could be useful. If they were injured again, spells alone might not be enough. The thought of their last harrowing escape sent a cold shiver up his spine.

Harry appeared at his side, his arms already holding a small collection of items: a spool of enchanted thread, a few vials of concentrated magical essence, and a nondescript black pouch. "How’s it going?"

"If I say I’m regretting this already, will you be surprised?"

"Not in the slightest," Harry said lightly, his smirk returning. There was something almost reckless in the way he carried himself—like he was daring the world to challenge him. "Find anything useful?"

Draco gestured to the pearl dust, then added a jar of wolfsbane extract. "I’m hoping we won’t need some of these. But if we do…"

"Better to have them. Anything else?"

Draco hesitated. "A wand polish kit, maybe. Yours is looking a bit… worn."

Harry blinked, then laughed softly. "You’re worried about my wand maintenance now?"

"I’m worried about the idiot holding the wand," Draco shot back, though there was a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Someone has to think ahead."

Before Harry could respond, the shopkeeper glanced up from his paper, his eyes narrowing slightly as he observed them. "That everything?"

"For now," Harry said smoothly, striding toward the counter.

Draco followed a few steps behind, his eyes darting to every corner. Every shadow felt like a threat. His heart pounded, each step heavy with dread. He swallowed hard, fighting the sick twist in his stomach. Damn Potter. Always calm. Always unruffled. Like the whole world isn’t ready to fall apart.

They paid quickly, the coins exchanged with as little interaction as possible. Draco cast a glance over his shoulder as the door swung shut behind them, the bell's jingle echoing like a warning.

"Relax," Harry said as they started back down the lane. "We’re fine."

"You say that like it’s guaranteed. You’re insufferably Gryffindor."

Harry grinned.

"Come on," Harry said, as if he could simply will the danger away. "Let’s grab a bite and then get moving again."

They turned into a small alley, the smell of freshly baked bread wafting through the air from a nearby bakery. Draco caught himself taking a deep breath, savoring the scent, letting it momentarily wash away the weight of their reality.

Harry glanced at him, eyes twinkling. "See? Not so bad.”

Draco huffed. "Just hurry up, Potter. The sooner we’re out of here, the better."

For now, they had this—a brief moment of stillness, of something almost normal.

The village was unnervingly quiet as they stepped out of the bakery. Draco felt it immediately—a tingling under his skin, dread curling in his stomach. Something was off. Of course it was. How foolish had they been to think they’d be granted even a moment of peace? The glamours felt too fragile, the air too dense. It was the kind of silence that hung heavy before a storm. Too still. Too wrong.

Draco's hand drifted towards his wand, a whisper of fear clawing its way up his throat. He opened his mouth to speak, to warn Harry, when the flash came. A sudden burst of light, a shimmer of magic across the air—a detection spell, ripping through their glamours like parchment under a blade. The enchantments shattered, falling away from their faces. Harry’s heart stopped for a beat, then started again, faster.

“We need to move, now,” Harry hissed. He was already turning and pulling Draco along with him. Draco could have winced at Harry’s tight grip on him—but everything seemed to be happening quickly. It was too late. He could hear them. The crack of Apparition, the cold snap of Ministry-issued boots hitting cobblestone. Aurors materializing out of the mist, wands drawn.

“Harry Potter! Draco Malfoy!” A voice called, shrill and commanding. “By order of the Ministry, you are under arrest!”

The Aurors gave no quarter. They moved with ruthless precision, wands carving through the air, curses exploding on impact and tearing into stone and wood. The world around Harry and Draco erupted into chaos—smoke, shouts, and the sharp, acrid sting of burning magic. This wasn’t a fight. It was a hunt. And they were the prey.

Harry’s magic flared like a living thing. It responded to the danger with a raw, primal ferocity. His wand slashed through the air, and a wave of force erupted from him, sending one Auror careening into a crumbling wall. “Malfoy, MOVE!”

Draco obeyed instinctively, his pulse hammering in his ears. His shield charm snapped to life just as a hex sizzled past his head, the force of it slamming into a lamppost and toppling it in a shower of sparks. He stumbled back. This was madness. The noise was deafening, drowning out his own thoughts. Draco wondered—what even was the right side? Surely, it couldn’t be him. But it couldn’t be the Aurors either, could it? Not them, with their corrupt ideologies and blind loyalty to a tyrant.

“Stupefy!” Harry’s voice rang out. The spell hit another Auror square in the chest, sending him sprawling, his wand clattering uselessly to the ground.

But they kept coming.

An Auror emerged from the haze, wand aimed squarely at Harry. Draco barely had time to react, his shield charm flickering just in time to deflect the curse. “Protego!”  

The Auror sneered, his lips curling into a cruel smile. “Malfoy, you can’t hide forever. You think Potter can save you from this?”

Harry’s roar shattered the taunt like glass. His magic surged forward, feral, slamming into the Auror with a force that left him gasping for air. Harry was there in an instant, wand pressed to the man’s throat. “He doesn’t need saving from me,” Harry growled. “You, though? You should start running.”

The man whimpered, his bravado crumbling under Harry.

Draco’s stomach twisted as he watched. Harry wasn’t just fighting—he was dismantling them, piece by piece, his movements calculated and brutal. This wasn’t the Harry Potter the wizarding world revered. This was someone else entirely. Someone sharper, darker, unbound by the rules he once upheld. And it terrified Draco, even as it made something tighten in his chest—a twisted kind of awe.

Another curse shot past them, close enough to sear the edge of Harry’s jacket. He whirled, wand slicing through the air with a viciousness that sent the offending Auror sprawling, his arm bent at an unnatural angle.

Draco raised his wand, deflecting a hex aimed for Harry’s back.

“Enough!” Harry snarled.

Harry’s magic reached a fever pitch and the ground feel like it was quaking. The cobblestones cracked and splintered. “Sectum Aere,” Harry hissed, the words foreign as they left his lips. A blade of air shot forward, slamming into the Aurors, leaving one clutching his side, blood seeping through his fingers.

“Potter, we have to go!” Draco’s voice broke through the haze of fury. He grabbed Harry’s arm, yanking him back just as another Auror tried to stand.

Draco’s throat felt tight, his wand heavy in his hand. He didn’t deserve this—this protection, this sacrifice. He didn’t deserve Harry. And yet, here he was, Harry's shield, Harry’s obsession, Harry’s choice. He wanted to scream, to tell Harry to leave him behind, to save himself, but the words stuck in his throat, frozen by the sheer power of Harry’s presence.

Harry’s eyes locked on Draco. Then, they were running. Shouts erupted behind them, heavy footsteps closing in. They weaved through the narrow streets, dodging startled locals—some frozen in confusion, others stepping aside in fear, and a few casting fleeting, sympathetic glances their way.

The pub loomed ahead. They barreled inside, slamming the door shut behind them. Harry cast a series of locking charms, his breath coming in short, harsh bursts.

Draco leaned against the wall, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. “What in Merlin’s name was that?” he demanded, his voice shaking. “You—You almost—” He stopped, words catching in his throat.

Harry didn’t answer right away. He was staring at his hands, his fingers trembling ever so slightly. “They weren’t going to stop,” he said finally, his voice low, almost detached. “You saw them.”

Draco’s jaw tightened. “That doesn’t mean you have to—”

“Have to what?” Harry snapped. “Let them take you? Let them kill you?” He stepped closer, his eyes ablaze. “I told you, Malfoy. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

Draco’s breath hitched, his throat tightening. He wanted to argue, to tell Harry to stop, to remind him of the lines he swore he wouldn’t cross. But the words wouldn’t come. Because deep down, he knew—there were no lines left. Not for Harry. Not anymore.

And that terrified him.

“I—I don’t need your protection, Potter. I didn’t ask for you to do all of this.” Draco’s voice was shaking. The words felt hollow, like he was trying to convince himself as much as Harry. The guilt was there, gnawing at him. Draco had spent a lifetime believing he didn’t deserve things—didn’t deserve love, forgiveness, hope. And now here was Harry, offering all three so freely, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. Draco didn’t know what to do with it, didn’t know how to hold something so fragile without breaking it. He didn’t know how to let himself take it.

Harry was watching him, green eyes steady and calm, but there was something raw in them, something aching. They reminded Draco of spring meadows, of things growing where they shouldn’t, of life forcing itself into cracks.

“I know,” Harry said softly. “But—have you ever thought I’m protecting you for me, not for you?”

“What?”

“It’s all that’s left that makes me feel human.”

Draco shook his head, the protest forming on his lips before he could stop it. “You can’t—I’m not—”

“Do you know what’s worse than dying, Malfoy?” Harry interrupted, his voice quiet. “It’s living for everyone else and never for yourself. And if I burn for you—if I break the world for you—at least, for once, it’s my choice.”

Draco’s breath caught, his chest tight. Draco hated it almost as much as he hated the part of himself that wanted to take everything Harry was offering.

They continued down the passage, footsteps echoing in the confined space. Harry’s eyes darted to every shadow, every creak of the old boards above them. He could feel it, the darkness coiled inside of him, urging him to act, to do whatever it took. And he would. If the game was rigged, you stopped playing—you turned the board over. What was morality, anyway, in a world that rewarded sacrifice with chains and called oppression peace?

They reached the end of the passage, a rusted door barely hanging on its hinges. Harry pushed it open, the hinges groaning in protest, and they stepped out into the cold air. The alley was empty, moon casting long, eerie shadows on the cobblestones.

“Come on,” Harry said. “We need to keep moving.”

They moved together, side by side, into the darkness, the world around them a blur of shadows and stars, the only thing real the promise that bound them, the vow that Harry would never let them touch him. Not now, not ever.

The road stretched out before them, endless and uncertain. Draco sat stiffly in the passenger seat. His fingers tapped an uneven rhythm on the door, betraying his nerves, while his other hand gripped the edge of his seat. Every so often, his eyes darted to the mirrors, scanning the empty road behind them.

Harry, on the other hand, was slouched behind the wheel, one hand loosely gripping the steering wheel, the other resting on the gearshift. He looked deceptively calm, his gaze fixed on the horizon, but there was a tension in his jaw, a quiet restlessness in the way he occasionally ran a hand through his hair.

“You’re going to make a dent in the upholstery,” Harry said after a moment, glancing at Draco’s tapping fingers.

Draco gave him a sharp look. “Do you have any idea how reckless this is? We’re sitting ducks out here. I mean, honestly, do you even have a plan beyond ‘keep moving’?”

“No, Malfoy, I don’t. If you’ve got a better one, feel free to share.”

Draco’s mouth opened, then closed, his frustration visibly warring with his restraint. “We can’t run forever.”

“Right. But we can run for a while.”

“How can you be so… casual about this? There are Aurors hunting us. We have no clear destination—”

“Because, if I let myself think about all of that right now, I’ll go mad. So, unless you want me to swerve this car into the nearest tree, I’d suggest we talk about something else.”

Draco blinked. Then he huffed. “Fine. What, exactly, do you suggest we talk about, Potter? The weather?”

Harry smirked. “How about school? Bet there’s plenty we didn’t know about each other.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “I know enough, thanks. You were the insufferable Gryffindor golden boy, and I was your favorite nemesis.”

“Favorite? Please. You were barely competition.”

That earned him a glare, but there was no real venom in it. “You have no idea how much effort it took to one-up you, Potter. And for what? The House Cup? Bragging rights? It’s utterly ridiculous, now that I think about it.”

“Then why did you?” Harry asked, glancing at him with genuine curiosity.

Draco hesitated. He stared at the passing trees for a moment before replying, his voice quieter. “Because it was expected. Because I didn’t know how to be anything else.”

Harry didn’t respond right away, letting the words hang in the air. He drummed his fingers on the wheel, his gaze thoughtful. “You know,” he said after a while, “I never actually hated you. Not really.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“You were annoying, sure. Arrogant. But I think I was more angry at what you represented than at you. You were... everything I wasn’t. Or at least, that’s how it felt at the time.”

“And what did I represent, exactly?”

“Freedom,” Harry said quietly. “Even if it was twisted, even if it came with expectations—you still had it. You could walk away, make your own messes, choose your loyalties. I didn’t have that. Everything was decided for me. And that used to piss me off.”

Draco fell silent. He shifted in his seat, uncomfortable with the unexpected vulnerability between them. “I always thought you hated me.”

Harry’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “Maybe I just needed someone to hate who wasn’t me.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I didn’t hate you either,” Draco muttered. “Not entirely.”

“Wow, Malfoy. Such high praise. I’m flattered.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

The tension in the car eased slightly, the weight of their reality momentarily lifting. Harry reached for the radio, flicking it on, letting the low hum of music fill the space between them. For now, it was enough. Just the open road, the sound of tires against asphalt, and the quiet understanding that, for all their differences, they were in this together.

The road stretched endlessly behind them, the crisp autumn air seeping into the car through the cracked windows. Harry pulled Nyx over to the side of a narrow country road, gravel crunching under the tires as they rolled to a stop. The view was unexpectedly breathtaking—a rolling hill, carpeted with golden leaves and framed by trees in varying shades of amber and crimson. A small stream cut through the landscape, its water sparkling faintly under the gray, overcast sky.

Draco climbed out first, boots crunching against the gravel. He stretched, groaning slightly as he worked out the stiffness from the long hours of driving. “You’ve got an awful habit of turning every pit stop into some postcard-worthy scene, Potter.”

Harry chuckled softly as he got out, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I thought you might like it,” he said, nodding toward the view. “You’ve been looking like you were about to kill me for the last hour.”

Draco rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. He wandered a few steps toward the hill, eyes scanning the horizon. The air was sharp with the scent of damp leaves and earth, cold enough to nip at their skin but not yet biting.

Harry lingered by the car, shoulders hunched against the chill. His sweater, thin and well-worn, didn’t do much to keep out the cold, but he didn’t seem to notice—or maybe he just didn’t care. He often didn’t notice such things. He leaned against Nyx, his gaze distant, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he watched a small flock of birds take off in the distance.

Draco noticed, of course. He always noticed.

Really, Draco had never failed to notice anything when it came to Harry Potter. Even back in their school days, when they were rivals, Draco had cataloged things about Harry in a way that felt instinctual. Things his friends found entirely bizarre. Like how Harry’s nose crinkled slightly when he was frustrated or how his tie was always crooked by mid-morning because he never bothered to fix it properly. Or the way his fingers tapped against the edge of his wand during exams, a rhythm that spoke to some restless energy only Harry carried.

He knew Harry preferred coffee over tea, even if it was terrible coffee from the castle kitchens, and that he took it with far too much sugar and barely any milk. He noticed the way Harry’s shoulders stiffened whenever someone mentioned the Triwizard Tournament, even years after it ended, and how he’d bite the inside of his cheek when he thought no one was looking. He’d even memorized the way Harry’s glasses slid down his nose when he leaned over his books in the library, though he always seemed too stubborn to adjust them.

It wasn’t deliberate. Draco hadn’t gone out of his way to pay attention to these things. It had just… happened. The way noticing Harry Potter was as natural as breathing, something ingrained in his very being. Back then, it had been a weapon—a way to anticipate Harry’s next move, to one-up him, to know exactly which buttons to push to get under his skin.

But now? Now, it wasn’t a weapon. Now, it felt like something else entirely, something Draco wasn’t ready to name. Because the truth was, even when he tried not to notice Harry, he still did. The way Harry’s jaw tightened when he thought they were being followed. The way his hands flexed on the steering wheel, his knuckles pale, as if bracing himself for some invisible blow.

It grated on him sometimes—how Harry was so self-sacrificing, so utterly unconcerned with his own well-being. It wasn’t noble; it was infuriating. Because Draco could see the cracks forming in Harry’s armor, the weight pressing down on him like a curse, and Harry refused to let anyone help carry it.

Right now, Draco noticed, Harry’s cheeks were faintly pink from the cold. His hair was ruffled in the breeze, and his eyes seemed softer out here. But most of all, he noticed the shiver Harry tried to hide, the way his fingers curled into his sleeves in a poor attempt to conserve warmth.

With a sigh that was more for show than actual annoyance, Draco shrugged off his coat. It was a thick, tailored jacket, warm enough to withstand the chill, and without hesitation, he walked over and draped it over Harry’s shoulders. “For Merlin’s sake, Potter,” he said, his tone sharp but his touch uncharacteristically gentle. “You’re useless if you freeze to death.”

Harry blinked, startled, and looked up at Draco, his lips parting as if to protest. But the warmth of the jacket, still carrying Draco’s faint scent of bergamot and parchment, was too inviting, and instead, he settled into it with a sheepish smile.

“Thanks,” Harry murmured, voice quieter than usual.

Draco sighed, shaking his head. “You’re ridiculous,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to Harry.

Harry glanced up. “What?”

Draco straightened, brushing imaginary dust off his sleeves. “Nothing. Just wondering how you’ve managed to survive this long without someone making sure you don’t trip over your own feet.”

“I manage.”

“Barely,” Draco turned away, pretending to be engrossed in adjusting Nyx’s side mirror, but his eyes flicked to Harry’s reflection, studying the faint smile that lingered on his face.

Because really, Draco had never failed to notice anything when it came to Harry Potter. And, though he wouldn’t admit it—not even to himself—he wasn’t sure he ever wanted to.

“Malfoy,” Harry said.

Draco looked at him.

“Thank you.”

Draco waved him off, turning sharply on his heel and walking back toward the stream as if the moment hadn’t happened. “Don’t get used to it,” he called over his shoulder, his ears turning faintly pink in a way Harry couldn’t help but notice.

Harry’s grin grew, and he followed Draco down the hill, the jacket still wrapped snugly around him. Harry stopped near the stream, crouching down to skim his fingers along the cold water.

“You’re quiet,” Draco said after a moment, his arms crossed as he leaned against a tree, pretending to be uninterested but stealing glances nonetheless.

“Just thinking.”

“Dangerous territory for you.”

Harry chuckled, shaking his head. “It’s nice out here. Feels… simpler. Like we’re miles away from everything.”

Draco’s gaze softened imperceptibly. He didn’t respond, just let the quiet stretch between them as the wind rustled through the trees.

They strolled around the hills. Leaves crunched as they walked, the soft rustle of the stream following them like a distant melody. Draco, ever watchful, kept his eyes scanning the trees, the path ahead, the shadows between. Harry, on the other hand, seemed lighter—looser—as if the nature here offered a reprieve he hadn’t dared to hope for.

They found the tree by accident. It was massive, gnarled roots twisting into the earth like ancient hands, bark scarred with the names of strangers long gone. Some were faint, weathered by time and rain, while others looked recent, sharp and fresh against the rough surface.

Harry stopped in front of it, tilting his head as he traced a few of the carvings with his fingers. “Look at this,” he murmured, his voice soft with wonder. “Bunch of names.”

Draco frowned, stepping closer despite himself. “Pointless vandalism.”

Harry smiled faintly. “Reckon we should add ours?”

Draco’s scoff was immediate, sharp and dismissive. “Why on earth would we do that?”

“In case we’re forgotten?” Harry glanced at him, his smile faltering just slightly.

Draco shifted his weight, arms folding over his chest. “Forgotten? You’re Harry bloody Potter. The wizarding world has practically enshrined you. Forgotten is the last thing you’ll ever be.”

Harry didn’t respond right away, his gaze falling back to the tree. His fingers hovered over a heart carved deep into the bark, the initials faded but still visible. “Maybe it’s not about being remembered. Maybe it’s just a way of saying we were here. That we mattered.”

Draco opened his mouth to reply, but the words didn’t come. Something about the way Harry spoke—the subtle ache in his tone—lodged in Draco’s chest.

“That’s a bit melodramatic, don’t you think?” Draco finally said.

“Maybe. But what’s wrong with being a little melodramatic now and then?”

“I’m sure you’d find a way to make even this some grand, tragic gesture. Potter’s eternal mark on the world.”

“Maybe it’s not about the world. Maybe it’s just about now.”

Draco broke eye contact, his gaze falling to the ground, but he didn’t move away. “You really want to carve our names into this thing?”

Harry stepped closer, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. “Yeah,” he said, just as soft. “I do.”

Draco hesitated, fingers twitching toward his wand. “Fine. But I’m doing it. You’ll make a mess of it.”

Harry chuckled. “Whatever you say.”

With a flick of his wand, Draco etched their names into the bark—precise, elegant. The motion was practiced, almost reverent, as though he was performing a ritual rather than a whim. The letters curved neatly, side by side. There it was. Proof they had been here. Together.

Draco stared at it for a long moment, his wand lowering slowly. His fingers grazed the bark, as though testing the reality of the mark, before he slid his wand back into his pocket. There was something guarded in his expression, a flicker of vulnerability he couldn’t quite hide.

Harry tilted his head. The simplicity of it struck something deep in him—something he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying. “It’s nice.”

“It’s ridiculous,” Draco muttered, his voice quieter than usual, almost as if he were embarrassed. His hands fidgeted for a moment before disappearing into his pockets, and he turned on his heel sharply. “Let’s go. It’s getting cold.”

Harry fingers brushed over the fresh grooves. “Thanks, Malfoy.”

Draco didn’t respond, his footsteps crunching softly against the fallen leaves as he made his way back toward the stream. But Harry caught the faintest twitch of his lips as he turned away, a flicker of something that wasn’t quite a smile but wasn’t nothing either.

The wind shifted, rustling through the branches, scattering golden leaves to the forest floor. The world around them seemed to pause, suspended in the moment. The old tree stood tall and resolute, bearing their names among so many others. For a brief, fleeting instant, it felt like the rest of the world didn’t exist.

Harry stood there a little longer, staring at the tree.

Finally, he turned and followed after Draco.

The forest seemed to hold its breath as they left, as if memorizing the moment, sealing it away among the whispers of the leaves.

The town of Rothbury was quiet, tucked in the northern English countryside like a secret the world had forgotten. It was the kind of place where no one asked questions, where strangers were noticed but rarely interrogated. Harry figured it was as good a hiding spot as any.

Their glamours were simple, nothing elaborate—just enough to blur the edges of recognition. Harry’s unruly hair was tamed into something closer to tidy, his glasses swapped for contacts, and his lightning bolt scar hidden. Draco’s platinum hair darkened to a sandy brown, his sharp features softened ever so slightly, giving him the look of someone who belonged in a sleepy village.

They stood in front of a small rental shop advertising “furnished flats,” the peeling sign swinging lazily in the autumn wind.

“You really think this’ll work?” Draco muttered, his hands shoved into his jacket pockets as he glanced skeptically at the worn-down building.

Harry shrugged. “It’ll have to. We can’t keep running without some semblance of a base.”

Draco gave a small, derisive snort. “I’ve never been a ‘base’ kind of person, Potter. I was raised in a bloody manor.”

“Yeah, well, welcome to life on the run,” Harry shot back, his tone amused. He nudged the door open and stepped inside, the faint smell of damp wood and mildew hitting him immediately.

The landlord was an older man, balding with spectacles perched on the edge of his nose. He barely glanced at them, his attention fixed on a crossword puzzle as Harry made small talk, negotiating the rent in cash. They gave false names—Harry introduced himself as “James,” and Draco, without missing a beat, muttered “Evan.”

“Evan?” Harry asked later, as they climbed the stairs to their temporary flat.

Draco scowled. “What? It’s a perfectly respectable name.”

“Of course it is. Very posh. Very you.”

“Shut up, Potter.”

The flat was small but serviceable. A modest living space with a worn sofa, a kitchenette that looked like it hadn’t been updated since the seventies, and a bedroom just big enough for two twin beds crammed against opposite walls. Draco made a face at the sight of them.

“Really?” he muttered, gesturing at the mismatched quilts. “This is barbaric.”

Harry smirked, setting their single duffel bag on the couch. “Not exactly Malfoy Manor, huh?”

Draco’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t reply. Instead, he began inspecting the room, his fingers brushing along surfaces as though appraising their worth.

Later that evening, they ventured into the heart of the village. It was a charming place—cobbled streets lined with shops and pubs, the faint scent of woodsmoke hanging in the crisp air. They purchased a few essentials at the local market, blending in as best they could. Harry carried their bags while Draco trailed behind, muttering complaints about the dampness of the air and the ridiculousness of Muggle commerce.

“Do you think they’ll suspect us here?” Draco asked as they crossed the square.

Harry considered the question. “No. We’re nobodies here. Just James and Evan, two out-of-towners looking for some quiet.”

Draco didn’t look convinced, but he let it drop, his gaze flicking to a bakery window where loaves of bread were displayed like treasures.

Back at the flat, they settled into a tense sort of routine. Draco began thumbing through Snape’s old notes, scattered across the tiny coffee table. Harry sat by the window, staring out at the quiet street below, his thoughts distant.

For a brief, fragile moment, they almost felt like ordinary people. Two strangers in a borrowed flat, hiding in plain sight. But the weight of what lingered outside—the Ministry, the Aurors, the ever-tightening noose of their pursuers—hovered like a shadow over them.

Even here, in the heart of nowhere, Harry and Draco couldn’t forget who they were or what they were running from.

The next morning, sunlight filtered weakly through the thin curtains of the flat. Draco was perched at the edge of the sofa, a cup of tea in hand, legs crossed like he was still sitting in some grand Malfoy parlor. Harry shuffled out of the bedroom, his hair an unrepentant mess, yawning as he scratched the back of his neck.

“Tea’s cold,” Draco said without looking up from the notebook in his lap.

Harry gave him a bleary glare. “Good morning to you too, sunshine.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, finally sparing Harry a glance. “Sunshine? That’s rich coming from the boy whose very presence dims every room.”

Harry ignored him, dragging himself to the tiny kitchenette to start the kettle. The flat was cramped, so when he turned to reach for the mugs, he nearly collided with Draco, who had apparently decided to bring his cup to the sink at the exact same time.

“Could you not?” Harry grumbled, stepping back.

Draco sniffed, looking Harry up and down with barely concealed judgment. “You look like you’ve just crawled out of a grave.”

“Thanks. Means a lot coming from you.”

Draco’s lips twitched, but he didn’t say anything as he set his cup down and moved back to the sofa, resuming his reading. Harry watched him for a moment, then shook his head, muttering something about insufferable ferrets under his breath.

The cobblestone streets were still damp from morning dew, and the air carried a faint chill that hinted at the coming winter. They walked in silence for a while, the tension of the past few days easing slightly under the gentle rhythm of their steps.

Draco, for once, seemed content to take in their surroundings. He glanced at shop windows, lingering near a small florist displaying bundles of autumnal flowers. Harry caught him staring at a bouquet of deep red dahlias, his expression unreadable.

“Didn’t take you for the flower type,” Harry teased.

Draco’s gaze snapped to him, and he sniffed, his usual air of superiority slipping back into place. “I have layers, Potter. Unlike you, who remains a singularly dull onion.”

Harry laughed, loud and genuine, and Draco’s cheeks flushed faintly as he turned away.

A street musician was playing a violin, the melody lilting and melancholic. Harry tossed a coin into the open case as they passed, earning a polite nod from the musician. Draco watched, one eyebrow raised.

“Generous, aren’t we?”

“It’s just a coin,” Harry replied, shrugging.

“Still,” Draco muttered, tucking his hands into his coat pockets. “You’re impossible.”

Harry smirked. “And yet, here you are. Stuck with me.”

Draco didn’t respond, his gaze fixed ahead as they walked on, but Harry caught the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

They sat on opposite ends of the sofa. Draco had spread out Snape’s notes and a few books, occasionally scribbling things down in a neat, precise hand. Harry lounged with a deck of cards he’d found in one of the kitchen drawers, absentmindedly shuffling and cutting them.

“Potter, must you?” Draco asked, barely glancing up.

“Must I what?”

“Make that incessant noise.”

Harry grinned, shuffling the cards louder. “Does it bother you?”

Draco shot him a withering look but didn’t respond, returning to his notes with a dramatic sigh. Harry snickered and leaned back, the cards forgotten as he watched Draco scribble furiously.

Harry’s smile softened, the moment feeling strangely… normal. Almost like they weren’t fugitives hiding from a corrupt government. Almost like they were just two people sharing a quiet evening.

It wouldn’t last, Harry knew.

He would hold onto it as long as he could.

The small bronze button warmed in Harry’s pocket, a gentle pulse of heat that made his heart skip. He pulled it out, the familiar surface shimmering faintly as it began to unfold a message. Across the room, Draco glanced up from the cluttered table where he was sorting through Snape’s notes and scattered vials.

“It’s Hermione,” Harry murmured, his eyes fixed on the words as they began to unravel.

Draco stood, crossing the room to peer over Harry’s shoulder. He didn’t speak, but his presence loomed close, his breath barely stirring the silence.

Status update. Things are shifting, but slowly. Resistance groups are forming. We’ve connected with a few—some old allies, some unexpected faces. Luna and Dean have been working with smaller circles, spreading information and keeping dissent alive. The Ministry’s new laws are suffocating everyone. They’ve tightened their grip on everything—commerce, travel, even education. Hogwarts is practically a prison now.

Harry felt a pang in his chest at that.

Shacklebolt’s trying, but his influence is limited. Too many are afraid to act openly. Too many have fallen in line with Umbridge’s regime, believing the lies she feeds them. The propaganda paints you and Draco as villains—reckless, dangerous, a threat to peace.

Draco’s scoff was quiet but sharp. “Peace. That’s rich, coming from them.”

We’re working to dismantle the Ministry’s network, but it’s like trying to drain the ocean with a teaspoon. The resistance is small, fractured, but there’s hope. There always is. Stay hidden, stay safe. And Harry, Draco… don’t lose faith.

The words lingered for a moment before fading, the surface of the button going cool once more. Harry turned it over in his hands, his thoughts heavy.

“She’s trying,” Draco said after a moment, his voice unusually quiet. “More than most would.”

“She always does.”

Draco crossed his arms, leaning back against the table. “Resistance groups. Sounds noble. But it also sounds like a bunch of people clinging to scraps.”

“Scraps can grow into something bigger.”

Draco arched a brow. “And what about us, Potter? Are we meant to join this noble crusade of scraps?”

“I don’t know.”

Draco shook his head, his gaze drifting to the notes on the table. “Resistance,” he said softly, almost to himself. “It’s a pretty word for chaos.”

The knock at the door came just as Draco was flipping through some more of Snape’s old books. Harry’s head snapped up, his hand instinctively reaching for his wand.  

“Expecting someone, Potter?” Draco muttered.

Harry didn’t answer, already moving toward the door. His heart thudded in his chest as he glanced through the small peephole, his grip tightening around his wand. It was their neighbor—a wiry man with a pinched expression and suspicious eyes, his nose practically pressed against the door as he waited.

Harry glanced back at Draco, his expression grim. “Stay here.”

Draco opened his mouth to argue, but Harry was already stepping out into the corridor.

The neighbor’s gaze darted over Harry the moment the door opened, sharp and prying. “Evening,” he said, his tone clipped. “Bit odd, isn’t it, seeing new faces around here? We don’t get many people moving in these parts.”

Harry forced a polite smile, though his fingers twitched around his wand, hidden just out of view. “We’re just passing through,” he said smoothly. “Bit of a holiday.”

“Holiday?” The man’s eyes narrowed. “Strange choice for a holiday, coming to a place like this. Quiet little town, not much to see. Bit private, we are.”

“That’s the appeal,” Harry replied, his voice calm and measured. But the way the man was looking at him set Harry’s nerves on edge. He knew that look—too curious, too invasive. It was the kind of look that led to trouble.

“Seen you and your friend around. Don’t seem like the usual types we get here.”

“Well, we won’t be here long. Thanks for checking in.”

Harry moved to leave, but the man’s foot shot out, wedging the door open with a deliberate force that sent Harry’s pulse spiking. “Odd, isn’t it? Two young blokes, keeping to yourselves. Not much luggage. No introductions. Makes a man wonder what you’re hiding.”

Good Gods, even Voldemort hadn’t been this annoying. Or had he? At least the Voldy had a purpose for his madness.

Harry’s grip on the edge of the door tightened, his knuckles white. “We’re not hiding anything. Like I said, we’re just passing through.” Not a crime, is it. Is it? Ha.

“Passing through,” the man echoed. “Thing is, not many folks pass through here. And when they do, they’re usually not so… quiet about it.”

Harry forced a thin smile, though his heart was hammering in his chest. “We prefer to keep to ourselves.”

“That much is obvious,” the man replied, his lips curling into something that wasn’t quite a smile. He tilted his head toward the window. “Blinds drawn during the day. Lights off at night. Saw your mate heading into town—skittish, that one, like he’d never been in a shop before. Makes me wonder what you’re running from.”

Harry’s breath hitched. His mind raced, calculating the man’s next move, his own. The neighbor leaned in closer, his foot pressing harder against the door. “You’re not locals. You’re not tourists. So, what are you?”

Harry’s wand was in his hand before the words fully registered. “Obliviate.”

The man froze, his foot slipping back, his mouth still half-open. His eyes glazed over, the suspicion draining from his face like water through a sieve. He staggered slightly, blinking as if trying to clear a fog that had descended over his mind.

“You should head home,” Harry said quietly. “You were never here.”

The man nodded slowly, his movements mechanical. “Never here,” he repeated dully before turning and walking away, his steps uneven as he disappeared down the hall.

Harry stood there for a moment, his chest heaving, the door still half-open. The adrenaline in his veins burned hot, even as the night around him stilled. He pushed the door shut with more force than necessary, the lock clicking into place.

He wasn’t entirely sure what he’d just done. The act itself hadn’t fully registered, like a fleeting shadow he couldn’t quite catch. It had been an accident—or maybe it hadn’t. He didn’t know. The word had left his lips before his mind could catch up, a spell flung like instinct, like breathing. And now, it was done. Irrevocable.

Would he take it back, even if he could?

The thought twisted uncomfortably in his chest. What did this mean? Did it make him as bad as the Ministry he hated, the Aurors who had done the same to countless innocent people? Lines were drawn and crossed, and now Harry wasn’t sure if lines even existed anymore. He wasn’t sure when they had stopped mattering—or worse, why he didn’t seem to care.

But he did care. He had to. His stomach twisted, a sick churn of nausea rising as he replayed the old man’s face in his mind. His confusion, the fleeting panic. He must have a family. Kids, maybe. A dog. A quiet life that Harry had just erased with a single word. The man had probably been nothing more than curious—a neighbor caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.

And yet… there was a hollow kind of justification lurking beneath Harry’s guilt, a cold whisper that told him it was necessary.

He didn’t want to admit it, even to himself. But wasn’t that the truth? Wasn’t that what mattered most now? Survival, above all else. He couldn’t afford the luxury of second-guessing. Not when Draco was watching him with that wary look. Not when it wasn’t about his own survival and freedom—it was about Draco’s.

Harry swallowed hard, the taste bitter on his tongue. He felt sympathy. He felt guilt. And yet, some darker part of him, a part he didn’t want to examine too closely, felt nothing at all.

Draco was already waiting, his expression somewhere between exasperation and unease. "I heard voices. What the hell happened?"

Harry didn’t answer immediately, brushing past him toward the small table where their supplies were scattered. "Nothing," he said, his tone clipped. "It’s handled."

Draco’s eyes narrowed. "Handled how?"

"I Obliviated him."

The air in the room shifted, the tension snapping taut like a pulled string. Draco blinked. "You what?"

Harry shrugged, his shoulders stiff. "It was necessary."

"Necessary," Draco repeated, his tone growing colder. "You’re getting a little too comfortable with that word, Potter."

Harry’s jaw tightened, his fists clenching at his sides. "What would you have had me do? Let him go running to the authorities? Let him sell us out to the first person he could find?"

"Perhaps try not to draw attention to yourself for once!" Draco snapped. "You always think you're untouchable, don’t you? Like you can just toss spells around, erase memories, and—and, what? It’ll never come back to bite you because you’re Harry fucking Potter?”

"I did what I had to do to keep us safe."

Draco took another step closer. "Safe? Is that what you call this? Hiding in the arse-end of nowhere, running from every shadow like hunted animals? Obliviating anyone who looks at us wrong?" His voice cracked, and he hated himself for it. "How far are you willing to go, Potter? When do you stop?"

"When you’re free," Harry said simply. "I’ll stop when you’re free."

Draco froze, the words hitting him like a physical blow. He opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. He felt unmoored, like the floor had been ripped out from under him.

"Don’t," he finally managed, his voice barely above a whisper. "Do not make this about me."

Harry’s expression softened, but only slightly. "It is about you. It’s always been about you."

Draco shook his head, turning away, his hands trembling as he shoved them into his pockets. "I didn’t ask for this. For any of this."

“I know you didn’t. But it doesn’t change the fact that I’ll keep doing it."

Draco stalked the edges of the cramped room like a caged animal, his hand dragging through his hair, down his face, gripping the bridge of his nose as if he could pinch himself out of this madness. His breath came too fast, too shallow. He couldn’t find a hold—on the situation, on himself, on this new, jagged reality that cut deeper the longer he sat with it. Harry Potter—Harry bloody Potter—savior, martyr, light incarnate, had walked willingly into the dark. For him.

No. It was madness. Utter madness. There wasn’t a universe, a thread in the tapestry of time, where this could make sense. Heroes didn’t trade their halos for ashes. They didn’t abandon the light they were built from to chase shadows. They didn’t tear themselves apart, piece by bloody piece, for someone like him—a man forged in the fires of all the wrong choices.

Draco’s hands clenched into fists, nails biting into his palms as if pain might anchor him. Heroes didn’t burn down the very world they saved for the sake of a ruined thing like Draco Malfoy. They didn’t choose monsters over the light.  

“You didn’t have to Obliviate him,” was all Draco managed to choke out. He watched the fire in Harry’s eyes and thought, for the briefest of moments, that maybe it wasn’t the Ministry he was afraid of. Maybe it was Harry burning himself out, piece by piece, until there was nothing left but ashes. Ashes and Draco, a ruined thing clutching what remained of him.

“Yes, I did.”

“It’s like you don’t even—”

“Don’t what? Care?” Harry’s voice was cutting. “Don’t mistake survival for apathy, Malfoy. I care more than you realize. That’s the problem.”

“Then why—”

“Because the world didn’t leave me a choice!” Harry’s voice broke, louder than he intended, echoing in the enclosed space. He took a shuddering breath. “Do you think I enjoy this? I’ve fought my whole life to stay on the right side of things. But the truth is… I don’t even know what that means anymore!”

The light in Harry wasn’t extinguished in a single moment. It was slow, methodical—a candle devoured by the wind, a sunrise eclipsed by shadow after shadow. Every betrayal, every loss, every scream he couldn’t stop—it all ate away at the boy they thought he was. Until there was nothing left but a man who now knows how to destroy better than he knows how to save.

"I tried to be good. I fought for it,” Harry’s voice cracked. “I held onto the light with bloody hands, refusing to let go, Malfoy. But—there’s only so much darkness you can endure before it seeps in, becomes a part of you. The world wanted a fucking hero, and they burned me alive to make one. Now—well now, all they have is the ashes."

Draco’s chest tightened. “Potter…”

“They burned the light out of me, Malfoy,” Harry’s voice, for the first time, reeked of exhaustion and defeat. “Every death. Every lie. Every choice that wasn’t mine. They broke me down, over and over, and then they acted shocked when there wasn’t anything left.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to become—”

“What? Like them? I don’t even know who ‘them’ is anymore. The Ministry? The Aurors? The people who demanded I fight their wars and smiled when it was convenient, then turned on me the second I stopped being useful?”

“You’re not them, Potter.”

“Am I not?” Harry’s voice softened, but his words were no less sharp. “I erased that man’s life. Took away everything he knew, everything he was. Maybe he was curious, maybe he was suspicious—but either way, I took it. Just like they’ve taken everything from us.”

Draco didn’t answer. He couldn’t. What could he have said to make any of this feel better?

Harry never asked for anything in return. He gave and gave and gave—until he had nothing left but scars and shadows. And all Draco wanted was to teach him how to take.

The wind outside howled, rattling the windows. For a moment, it felt like the whole world was holding its breath, waiting for something to give.

Finally, Draco broke the silence. “You’re wrong, you know.”

“About what?”

“The light in you… It’s not gone. It’s dim, sure. But it’s still there. And I think—” Draco faltered, his throat tightening before he forced himself to continue. “I think it scares you more than the dark ever did.”

Harry shook his head. “What scares me, Malfoy, is how easily I could become something monstrous for you, and it terrifies me more how much I want to.” 

"You—you’re burning yourself alive, and for what? For me? I’m not worth it, Potter. I’ve never been worth it."

Harry took a step closer. "You don’t get to decide that."

Draco stared at him, his breath uneven. He hated this—hated the way guilt slithered through his veins, coiling tight around his ribs every time Harry gave up another piece of himself. It was unbearable. The sacrifices, the wounds, the quiet devastation etched into Harry’s every step—Draco hadn’t asked for any of it. He hadn’t asked to be saved, to be tethered to someone who should’ve let him drown.

But it was too late now, wasn’t it? The damage was done. And the worst part, the part that made him sick to his core, was that some dark, unspoken piece of him didn’t want Harry to stop. Some selfish, desperate fragment of his soul craved it—craved the way Harry fought for him, burned for him, destroyed for him.

It was twisted and wrong, but that small, ruined part of Draco clung to it all the same. It whispered that maybe—just maybe—he was worth saving. And that thought was a blade in his chest, sharp and cruel, because he knew it was a lie. He wasn’t worth this. Not the fire in Harry’s eyes, not the wreckage left in his wake.

And yet… he couldn’t bring himself to stop it. To let Harry go.

"And when there’s nothing left of you, Potter what then?” Draco asked. “What am I supposed to do with your ashes?"

Harry’s lips twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile. "You scatter them somewhere nice. Somewhere peaceful. The ocean, perhaps."

"Don’t joke," Draco’s hands were shaking.

"I’m not joking.”

Draco stared at Harry, the moonlight cutting sharp angles across his face, and wondered how someone could hold so much destruction and still stand so steady. It was like watching a star collapse—silent, inevitable, blinding.

"I hate you," Draco muttered, the words brittle and hollow, breaking as they left his lips.

"I know."

"The boy of life," Draco murmured under his breath, "turned into the man who carries death like a second skin."

"I am all but an outcome." 

"I wish you’d hate me again," Draco whispered. "It’d be easier."

"But I don’t," Harry said, stepping closer. "And it’s not."

Draco felt something inside him crack, a dam breaking under the force of Harry’s presence. He wanted to scream, to lash out. All he could do was sink into the nearest chair, his head in his hands, the fight draining out of him.

"You’re clinging to guilt," Harry said after a long silence. "You hold onto it because it’s easier than believing you’re worth saving."

"And you? You fight for me because it’s easier than facing your own demons. You’d rather throw yourself into the fire for me than deal with whatever’s eating you alive."

"Maybe.”

They stared at each other. Breathing in sync. 

"You’re an idiot. A self-sacrificing, stubborn idiot."

Harry smiled faintly, something soft and fleeting in the curve of his lips. "Maybe.”

The morning passed uneventfully, the apartment bathed in the muted gray light of an overcast sky. Harry sat at the small table, flipping through one of Snape’s old notebooks while Draco leaned against the counter, sipping a cup of tea. The air between them was oddly tranquil, the kind of quiet that felt borrowed, temporary, like a thread stretched too thin.

“I’m heading out,” Harry said suddenly, breaking the silence. He closed the book and stood, grabbing his jacket.

Draco frowned, lowering his cup. “For what?”

“We’re running low on provisions,” Harry replied, pulling the jacket over his shoulders. “Figured I’d pick up a few things. You know, essentials.”

“You shouldn’t go alone.”

Harry smirked faintly, his hand resting on the doorknob. “Worried about me, Malfoy?”

“Hardly. But if you’re caught out there, it’ll be a lot harder for me to escape without you.”

“I’ll be fine. Glamour’s still holding. Besides, it’s just a quick trip.”

“Right. Because nothing ever goes wrong when Harry Potter makes a quick trip.”

Harry gave him a pointed look but didn’t argue. “Lock the door behind me. I won’t be long.”

Draco watched him go, his chest tightening in a way he didn’t care to analyze. The door clicked shut, and the quiet settled in again, heavier this time. Draco sighed, finishing his tea before returning to the cluttered desk in the corner. Snape’s books were scattered across the surface. He picked up one at random, flipping through its contents with a practiced eye.

Minutes turned into an hour, and Draco’s focus began to waver. He glanced at the clock, then back at the door. Harry was taking longer than expected, but it wasn’t unusual. Still, the unease in his chest refused to settle. He stood, pacing the room, his wand clutched tightly in one hand.

When the door finally opened, Draco whirled around, his heart lurching in his chest. Harry stepped inside, carrying a paper bag.

“Got everything we need,” Harry said, setting the bag down on the counter.

Draco raised an eyebrow. “And? No trouble?”

“Nothing worth mentioning.”

But Draco didn’t miss the tension in his movements, the way his shoulders were tighter than usual. “What happened?”

Harry paused, his back to Draco. “Nothing,” he said, too quickly. “Just a couple of locals asking questions.”

Draco’s stomach dropped. “Questions? What kind of questions?”

“The usual,” Harry replied, his voice carefully even. “Where we’re from, how long we’re staying. Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

“You think they bought it?”

Harry turned to face him. “I don’t know.”

The words hung in the air. Draco’s mind was racing. “You think they’ll report us?”

“It’s possible.”

The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the faint creak of the floorboards beneath their feet. Draco ran a hand through his hair, fingers trembling slightly.

“This place is a liability,” Draco said. “We can’t stay here. Not after—” He broke off, his hand gesturing vaguely, but they both knew he meant the Obliviation, the suspicious stares, the too-curious neighbors.

Harry leaned against the wall, arms crossed. His expression was calm, but Draco had spent enough time around him to recognize the storm simmering beneath. “We’ll leave. Just… not tonight.”

Draco whirled around. “You can’t be serious, Potter. This whole place is watching us like we’ve got flashing signs over our heads. We wait too long, and someone’s going to report us—if they haven’t already.”

“And if we leave now, unprepared, we risk walking straight into an ambush. The Ministry’s network is tighter than you think. We move too fast, and we’ll be running blind.”

“You’re too confident for someone who’s spent the better part of a year on the run.”

“I’m not confident. I’m careful.”

Draco scoffed, frustration bleeding through. “Fine. But don’t expect me to sit around and wait for the next nosy neighbor to come knocking.”

Harry’s lips twitched into the faintest shadow of a smile, though it didn’t touch his eyes. “Noted.”

Draco stopped pacing, his hands dropping to his sides. He glanced at Harry, the tension in his posture easing just slightly. “You’re sure about this?”

Harry nodded. “We’ll leave tomorrow. First light.”

“If this goes south, it’s on you.”

“I can live with that.”

Draco didn’t respond, turning toward the small window and peering out into the dimming street. He didn’t like it—this waiting, this uncertainty—but he didn’t have much of a choice.

As the hours passed, the unease in the apartment only grew. Harry and Draco moved around each other in tense silence, each lost in their own thoughts. The air felt charged, electric, like the moments before a storm. And when the first distant sound of footsteps reached their ears—too many footsteps, coming too fast—they both knew their time had run out.

The sound of boots on the staircase sent a shockwave through the still apartment. Harry froze mid-step, his hand instinctively going to his wand. He glanced at Draco, who had gone pale but resolute, his wand already drawn. Their eyes met for a split second, an unspoken understanding passing between them. Here it comes.

The first blast came from the door, a spell ripping through the lock and sending the wood splintering inward. Harry moved faster than thought, a shield charm bursting to life and deflecting the hex aimed directly at Draco.

“Stay close!” Harry barked.

The room erupted into chaos. Harry’s wand cut through the air with brutal precision, spells lashing out like lightning. The first Auror was thrown against the wall, body crumpling on impact. Another pushed forward, but Draco was already moving, his movements fluid and calculated. He fired a stunning spell that ricocheted off the narrow hallway, catching the Auror square in the chest.

Harry’s magic surged, raw and unchecked. He shouted an incantation, and a wave of force erupted from him, throwing furniture, Aurors, and debris in all directions. The walls cracked, plaster raining down as the apartment seemed to groan under the strain of Harry’s power.

One Auror managed to push through the chaos, his wand aimed directly at Harry. “Expelliarmus!” he yelled, but Draco was faster.

“Protego Maxima!”

Draco’s hands were steady, his wand moving with the precision of someone who had spent years mastering technique. Snape’s voice echoed in his mind: Subtlety, Malfoy. Precision, not recklessness. And for once, Draco was grateful for the old bat’s relentless drilling. “Confringo!”

The explosion shattered the remaining doorframe, the force throwing another Auror off balance. Harry seized the moment, stepping forward like a man possessed. His wand cut through the air, a torrent of flame erupted, roaring toward their attackers. The smell of burning fabric and scorched flesh filled the room.

Draco flinched but didn’t falter. He turned, catching sight of another Auror attempting to flank them. His wand slashed downward. “Incarcerous!” Ropes shot from his wand, binding the man tightly before he could even react.

But Harry wasn’t holding back. His spells were no longer calculated—they were raw, vicious, and deadly. One Auror lunged at him, and Harry’s wand erupted with a jagged bolt of energy, sending the man flying into the shattered remains of the kitchen. Blood splattered against the tiles as the Auror crumpled, unmoving.

“Potter!” Draco shouted, his voice cutting through the haze.

But Harry didn’t hear him. An Auror fired a hex that grazed his side, tearing through his shirt and drawing blood. Harry didn’t flinch. Instead, he turned on the man, his wand raised. “Sectumsempra!”

The spell tore through the Auror, blood spraying across the already ruined room. Draco’s stomach lurched, but there was no time to react. Another spell exploded near the window, sending shards of glass raining down.

Draco fired back instinctively, the room a cacophony of curses and destruction.

Then it happened. Harry staggered, his face pale, blood dripping from a deep gash along his side. His hand pressed against the wound, his movements slowing.

“Draco…”

Draco’s chest tightened, his wand snapping toward the last remaining Auror. “Petrificus Totalus!” The Auror froze mid-step, his body falling with a dull thud.

Draco turned back to Harry, who was struggling to stay upright. “Potter, don’t you dare—” Draco was crossing the room in quick strides. He wrapped an arm around Harry’s waist, holding him up as the other man’s legs threatened to give out.

“We need to move,” Harry said, his voice barely a whisper.

“Brilliant observation,” Draco snapped, his voice tight with panic. With a flick of his wand, their belongings flew from the apartment, shrinking into a single, compact bag that settled into Draco’s satchel.

He tightened his grip on Harry, his wand flicking again. The front door burst open, clearing their path. Draco half-carried, half-dragged Harry down the stairs, their steps quick and unsteady.

“Nyx,” Harry mumbled, his head lolling slightly.

“I know. Just hold on.”

When they reached the alley, Nyx shimmered into view, her sleek form concealed by the same wards that had kept her hidden. Draco opened the door with a flick of his wand, easing Harry into the passenger seat.

“You’ll ruin the upholstery,” Draco muttered, but his voice cracked at the edges.

Harry gave a weak laugh, his head leaning back against the seat. “It’s already ruined.”

Draco froze, his hand hovering inches from the door. The world had stilled, as if it, too, was waiting, balancing on the edge of a knife. Their ragged breaths filled the silence, sharp and uneven, the faint hum of lingering magic crackling like a broken promise in the air. The distant echoes of the battle they’d barely escaped felt like a lifetime ago, though the blood staining Draco’s palms was still warm.

“You’re an idiot,” Draco said, his voice fraying at the edges, trembling with something too sharp to name. “An absolute, reckless idiot.”

Harry turned his head weakly, his gaze hazy and unfocused but somehow still finding Draco’s eyes, as though he’d know the shape of him even in the dark. A faint, fractured smile tugged at the corner of his lips, and it broke something in Draco. “Maybe,” Harry murmured, voice thin as glass. “But you’re worth it.”

“Don’t—”

“Draco,” Harry whispered. “Listen to me. You deserve… more than this. More than me. You deserve to live. To be free. To—”

“Shut up,” Draco snapped, his hands curling into fists, nails digging into his palms. “Don’t you dare give me some hero’s bloody martyr speech, Potter. You’re not allowed to do this.” His voice cracked. “You’re not—you won’t give up.”

Harry’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment, his breathing shallow and uneven, like every inhale was a battle he was slowly losing. When he opened them again, they were softer somehow, distant but unrelenting, as if he’d already made his peace with something Draco couldn’t bear to name. “I’m not giving up,” he said, his voice so faint it was almost lost in the stillness. “But if I don’t… I need you to promise me—”

“No,” Draco whispered, shaking his head furiously, the words clawing their way out of his chest. “No, you’re going to be fine. You hear me? You don’t get to make me—”

“Promise me,” Harry interrupted, his lips barely moving now. “Promise me you’ll keep going. That you’ll live, Draco. You’ll fight and you’ll live and you’ll be free, one day. Even if I’m not there to—”

“Stop it,” Draco hissed, his nails scraping against the cold leather seat as his whole body trembled. “Don’t you dare leave me. Don’t you bloody dare. I will fucking kill you, Potter, if you—”

“Promise,” Harry whispered again, his voice cracking like ice over deep water. “You have to. Please.”

Draco’s heart was slamming against his ribs. His vision blurred, and for a moment, he thought he might break apart entirely. “You are not dying, Potter. Do you hear me? You’re Harry fucking Potter and you will—just—fuck—you don’t get to leave me here. I won’t let you. I’ll drag you back from hell myself.”

Harry’s eyes fluttered close. “Good—” he coughed, blood sputtering out. “I’m counting on you, Draco.”

The silence that followed was deafening, unbearable. Draco could hear the blood rushing in his ears, the faint rasp of Harry’s breath slowing, too slow, far too slow. His hands scrambled for his wand, shaking so violently he almost dropped it.

The world was collapsing around Draco Malfoy.

And all Draco could hear was the ragged stutter of Harry’s breaths, each one thinner, fainter, as if air itself was abandoning him. The blood—so much of it, crimson and viscous—spilled over Draco’s trembling hands, painting his pale fingers with a violence that felt alive. It seeped through every crevice, pooling like a confession Draco wasn’t ready to hear.

The world narrowed, the edges of his vision blurring, and all that remained was the unbearable sound of Harry fading—bit by agonizing bit.

The car jolted forward, lurching awkwardly as Draco fumbled with the gearshift. His hands were slick—sweat and blood—Harry’s blood. His grip on the steering wheel was unsteady, fingers trembling, slipping against the smooth leather. His chest pounded so loudly he could hear it echoing in his ears.

Grey eyes darted between the road ahead and Harry’s slumped form beside him. Pale, too pale. The faint rise and fall of his chest was all that reassured Draco Harry was still alive. Still holding on. Barely, from the looks of it.

Draco cursed under his breath as the car swayed dangerously close to the edge of the narrow road. His knuckles whitened on the wheel as he forced himself to focus, to steady his breathing, to not fall apart. It was a wonder he hadn’t driven them straight into a tree.

“Potter—this is mad—” Draco’s voice was a pitch too high. His foot slammed on the brake, and Nyx screeched in protest. “This is absolutely insane! I can’t—I don’t know what I’m doing!”

“Ease off the clutch,” Harry slurred from the passenger seat, his head lolling against the window, eyes half-lidded. “And don’t… don’t kill Nyx, Draco. She deserves better.”

“You deserve better, you idiot! You’re bleeding everywhere, and you’re worried about the car?”

A wet cough was Harry’s only response, a faint smile tugging at his lips. It was infuriating. Draco’s stomach twisted.

The car stalled again. The engine sputtered, and Draco growled in frustration, yanking the gearshift. His wand, shoved haphazardly between his knees, wobbled dangerously. “Finite Incantatem,” he barked, pointing it at Harry’s chest, his free hand trying to steady the wheel. The spell fizzled uselessly, the wound seeping through Harry’s shirt, soaking the fabric in dark crimson.

“Why isn’t it working?” Draco’s voice cracked. His eyes darted to Harry’s pale face, then back to the road. “Why the hell isn’t it working?!”

“It’s… cursed… must be—needs more… complicated magic than—” Harry’s head slumped, his breath coming in shallow gasps.

“NO.” Draco’s shout rang through the car. His hands shook as he tried another spell. “Episkey! Vulnera Sanentur! Come on, come on—”

The wound refused to close. It pulsed, dark and angry, like the magic inside it was alive, mocking Draco’s every attempt.

Draco hated this. He hated not being in control. Control was what kept him composed, what made him him. And right now, everything was slipping through his fingers, unraveling faster than he could piece it back together. Draco Malfoy did not do well with chaos.

The car jolted violently as he swerved off the road, the tires skidding perilously close to the edge of a ditch. His hands were slick on the steering wheel and his heart was hammering so loud it drowned out the rumble of the engine. Harry was bleeding out in the seat beside him, cherry red soaking into the leather, staining everything.

“Stay with me, Potter!”

Through a faint smirk on blood-streaked lips, Harry rasped a laugh. “Doing… my best.”

Draco had no idea what he was doing. He was driving a bloody car, a Jaguar, no less—a machine that, just a week ago, he wouldn’t have trusted to get him across the street.

“This is your fault, Potter! You had to play the bloody hero again. You always have to—you—you’re not allowed to die, do you hear me?”

Harry’s eyes fluttered open, glassy but oddly steady as they fixed on Draco. “You’re… doing fine.”

“Fine?” Draco’s foot slammed down on the accelerator. The car lurched forward, speeding recklessly down the empty road. “We’re about to crash. You’re about to bleed out. Nothing is fine, Potter!”

“You’re driving,” Harry said, like it was the most amusing thing in the world.

“I’m not—I don’t even know how to drive, you absolute—tell me what to do, Potter! Tell me how to fix this!”

“Stay in gear,” Harry muttered weakly. His head rolled toward Draco. “You’re doing it, Draco. Just… keep going.”

“Don’t you dare die on me. I won’t—I can’t—”

The car hit a bump, jarring them both. Draco swore, his knuckles aching from how tightly he clutched the wheel. He glanced sideways at Harry, his breath catching at how pale he looked, the blood soaking his shirt like ink spreading on parchment.

“I’m sorry,” Draco whispered. “I’m so—just stay awake, all right? You have to stay awake.”

“Just keep it steady. Hands at ten and two.”

“Ten and two? What the hell does that mean?”

Harry gestured weakly with his bloodied hand. “The clock, Draco. Pretend the wheel’s a clock. Ten and two.”

Draco stared at him for half a second, incredulous. “We are not pretending anything right now, Potter! You’re going to bleed out on this ridiculous muggle contraption, and I’m going to crash us both into a tree!”

“You’re not. Just relax your shoulders.”

“Relax—” Draco’s voice pitched higher, his free hand swiping at his hair in frustration. “Relax? You want me to relax while you’re sitting there dying and giving me advice like you’re my bloody instructor?”

Another weak chuckle escaped Harry. “You’ve got to admit, it’s kind of funny.”

“It is absolutely not funny!” Draco snarled, his wand rolling across the dashboard as Nyx lurched over a bump in the road. “You’re bleeding everywhere, Potter! You should be holding your wound! Hold the damned wound!”

Harry blinked slowly. “You’re the one driving. Thought you had it handled.”

Draco groaned, one hand fumbling for his wand as he tried to keep the car steady. “Put pressure on the wound, you idiot! Just—just push down hard!”

Harry pressed a shaky hand to his side, grimacing. “Like this?”

“No, Potter, like—” Draco shot him a sideways glare. “Merlin, you’re useless. Harder! Apply pressure! Are you deliberately trying to die on me?”

“Trying to make your first driving experience memorable, that’s all.”

“Memorable? Potter, this isn’t a bloody joke. You’re going to—”

“Left turn,” Harry interrupted, voice croaking. “Coming up. Slow down a bit.”

Draco’s foot fumbled between the pedals. “I don’t even know which one makes it stop!”

“Brake. It’s the one on the left,” Harry said evenly, as though they weren’t hurtling down a dark road at breakneck speed with his blood soaking into the seat.

Draco slammed his foot down, Nyx jerking violently as she skidded onto the shoulder of the road. Draco cursed loudly.

“You’re not half bad, Draco.”

Draco wanted to throttle him. Instead, he managed to pull the car back onto the road, his breaths coming in shallow gasps. “You’re delirious. Stop talking. And for the love of Merlin, stop smiling!”

“Mm—can’t—” cough, “—can’t help it. You’re doing great.”

“Just shut up and hold your damn wound, Potter! You don’t get to die while I’m driving, for fuck’s sake!”

“Fair deal,” Harry murmured, his eyes slipping closed. “Keep… keep driving, Dra—Draco. You’re a natural.”

Draco pressed harder on the accelerator, the road blurring beneath the headlights. “You are the most infuriating person I’ve ever met,” he muttered, voice cracking. “And if you die, I’ll kill you.”

Harry’s fragile chuckle was the only response, and Draco’s stomach twisted painfully. He kept driving, his heart pounding. It was impossible to focus on anything but the brittle sound of Harry’s breaths. Devil’s Snare coiled around Draco’s ribs.

The headlights illuminated the road ahead—a winding stretch of cracked asphalt that seemed endless. Draco knew they couldn’t keep this up. They couldn’t outrun the Aurors forever, not with Harry in this state. His mind raced, scanning for options, for anything that might offer them cover, sanctuary, time.

There.

The outline of a decrepit building emerged from the darkness, half-hidden by overgrown trees and tall grass. It looked abandoned—windows shattered, the roof sagging—but it would have to do. Draco slowed Nyx, the car groaning as it skidded onto the uneven gravel path leading up to the structure.

“Alright, Potter, we’re stopping,” Draco said, throwing the car into park and wrenching the door open. He bolted to Harry’s side, pulling the door open and reaching for him. “Come on, up you go.”

Harry grimaced as Draco hauled him out of the car, his weight sagging heavily against Draco’s shoulder. “You… don’t have to… carry me,” Harry mumbled, his voice slurred.

“Shut up, Potter,” Draco snapped, practically dragging him toward the building. “You’re in no position to argue.”

The interior of the building was worse than Draco anticipated. Dust hung thick in the air, and the floor creaked ominously under their combined weight. Broken furniture and debris littered the space, but there was enough room to lay Harry down. Draco eased him onto the remains of an obscene couch, his hands already fumbling for his wand.

“Alright, alright,” Draco muttered to himself, his voice trembling. “I can fix this. I just need to—Merlin, Potter, you’re a bloody mess.”

Harry gave a weak laugh, though it turned into a wince. “Always… charming.”

Draco glared at him, his hands shaking as he pressed his wand to the wound. “If you can make jokes, you can hold still,” he snapped. “This is going to hurt.”

Harry nodded faintly, his lashes brushing against his cheek as his eyes slid closed.

Blood. Everywhere.

Too much blood.

The couch was ruined, soaked through with sticky, crimson warmth. It clung to Draco’s unsteady hands, smearing his skin, staining his clothes. His pulse hammered against his temples, a frantic, dizzying rhythm that made his head spin.

He couldn’t think.

The coppery tang of blood filled the air, sickening and metallic. It was on him, under his nails, pooling against the uneven floorboards.

Too much.

Harry’s face was pale, too pale, and his chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven jerks.

Not enough breath.

Draco pressed harder against the wound, but his hands wouldn’t stop shaking. His vision blurred, the edges of his sight hazy and dark.

“Don’t,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Don’t do this to me, Potter.”

The world was too loud. The hiss of his own breathing. The rush of his pulse. The muffled, choking sound Harry made when his body jolted faintly beneath Draco’s hands.

Everything smelled like blood.

His stomach churned.

He couldn’t fix this. He wasn’t enough.

“Stay,” he hissed through gritted teeth, his voice breaking on the word.

Draco muttered the spell, voice cracking, focus splintering as his magic faltered. The gash wouldn’t close, the edges jagged and angry, as if mocking his every effort. His frustration clawed at him until it spilled over in the wild crackle of his magic. Again. Again. He tried—each spell more frantic, more pleading than the last.

Draco’s hands trembled uncontrollably, pressing down harder, harder—as if the pressure alone could stop the bleeding, could stitch the wound closed by sheer will. But the blood kept coming. Warm, sticky, unrelenting.

Harry was too still now.

Too still.

Draco’s breath hitched. His vision blurred, the edges smearing with unwelcome tears that burned hot against his frozen cheeks.

No. No, no, no.

His lip quivered, and he bit down hard, teeth sinking into flesh until he tasted copper. The sharp sting grounded him for a fleeting second before the fear swallowed him whole again, a black wave crashing over his thoughts.

Harry’s chest barely moved. Draco’s pulse thundered in his ears.

Don’t fall apart. Don’t fall apart.

But his hands wouldn’t stop shaking. His shoulders wouldn’t stop trembling. The tears he refused to shed hovered on the edge of his lashes, hot and heavy, blurring the ruined mess of Harry’s body beneath him.

“Come on,” Draco muttered, sweat beading on his brow. “Come on, damn it!”

“Draco.”

Draco froze. “What?”

“You’re doing fine,” Harry murmured, his eyes barely open. “Just… don’t panic.”

Draco was blinking rapidly. “Right. Because that’s so easy when you’re bleeding out all over the place.”

“You’ve got this,” Harry said, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “You’re… better than you think. Always—errm—always—” cough. “Always were. Better.”

Harry’s groans filled the silence, each one ripping through Draco like shards of glass. His wand trembled in his hand, useless against the dark, jagged wound in Harry’s side.

“Why isn’t it working?” Draco hissed under his breath. His spells barely made a dent. The wound still bled sluggishly, refusing to close. He pressed his hands against it, trying to stem the flow, but the blood seeped through his fingers, staining his pale skin.

“Hold on. Just—hold on.”

Harry’s breathing hitched, a wet, rattling sound. Draco’s mind raced. What was he supposed to do? He wasn’t a Healer—wasn’t trained for this. He could barely keep himself together most days, and now Harry—Harry—No. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Harry wasn’t supposed to look so small, so fragile. He wasn’t supposed to be the one slipping away. He was supposed to be indestructible, the unstoppable force that held the world together even when it tore Draco apart.

He was Harry Potter, for fuck’s sake.

“It’s dark magic,” Harry rasped. Blood flecked his lips. “The spell… it’s cursed. It must—” cough, “—be.”

Draco swore under his breath. “The car,” he blurted. “Snape’s notebooks—his potions—I—there has to be something.”

He didn’t wait for a response. Bolting upright, he sprinted out of the building, legs trembling beneath him. It was a wonder he was still carrying his own weight. The night air hit him like a slap but he barely registered it. Nyx was parked just a few yards away. Draco yanked open the trunk, hands scrabbling through the chaos of their belongings.

Where the hell is it? We could do with being more organized, for fuck’s sake—He shoved aside spare clothes, empty potion vials, and torn bits of parchment until his fingers closed around the worn leather of one of Snape’s notebooks. He grabbed it, along with a box of hastily packed potions, and ran back inside.

Harry was worse. His head sagged lifelessly to one side, chest rising and falling in short, labored gasps. A trickle of blood seeped from the corners of his mouth, staining his teeth a dull pink and pooling into dark, viscous droplets on his chin. Draco dropped to his knees beside him. “Don’t you dare. Come on—just hold on—”

Harry's lips curled into a macabre, crimson-hued grin, a fleeting, morbid mockery of joy. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Draco didn’t have time to roll his eyes or respond. He flipped open the notebook, scanning the cramped, spidery handwriting. The words swam before his eyes, a mix of ingredients, diagrams, and instructions.

Come on. Come on, Snape. You’ve never let me down before.

He found it—something about counteracting dark magical wounds, but the instructions were dense, riddled with warnings. Draco grabbed one of the vials, yanked the stopper out, and tipped the contents onto a clean strip of fabric. He pressed it against Harry’s wound, earning a sharp hiss of pain.

“Just stay still. This has to work. It has to.”

Harry groaned, his fingers wrapping feebly around Draco's wrist. “You’re… bossy—” cough, “Draco…”

“What?” Draco barked, fingers pressing harder against the wound as he skimmed the notebook with his other hand.

“Do you think…” Harry paused, more coughs, more blood sputtering. “Do you think… you could call me Harry?”

Draco froze. “What?”

“Feels wrong. Er—” cough. “You holding my life… in your hands… and still call—calling me Potter.”

“You’re delirious,” Draco tore his gaze away. But his hands softened, the pressure on the wound more careful, more deliberate.

"Draco," Harry rasped, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Draco’s head jerked up, his heart clenching at the sound, like the last note of a dying song. Their eyes met, and the world around them seemed to fall away. Harry’s green eyes—once so bright, so alive—were dim now, their light flickering like a candle on the verge of going out.

“Alright. Alright. Just—hold on, alright… Harry.”

Harry’s lips twitched into the faintest ghost of a smile. His eyes fluttered shut, body sagging like he was ready to let go, as though this was an acceptable way to slip away. “That’s… better. It—” cough. “Sounds… nice.”

Draco’s throat burned.

His hands shook as he poured the potion into a small glass. “You need to drink this.”

Harry’s eyelids fluttered weakly. Draco cursed under his breath, slipping an arm under Harry’s shoulders to prop him up. The closeness of it—the warmth of Harry’s skin, clammy against his own—was disarming, but Draco pushed the feeling aside. There was no time for hesitation.

“Stay with me,” Draco pressed the glass to Harry’s lips, tilting it carefully. “Drink, Harry. Or so help me, I’ll force it down your throat.”

Harry’s lips twitched faintly. He managed a weak sip, then another, the potion sliding down his throat as his head lolled against Draco’s shoulder.

The soul tether throbbed weakly, a fragile thread trembling on the edge of snapping. Draco felt it—a faint, persistent hum in the back of his mind, like a dying heartbeat. It wasn’t just magic weaving through them; it was Harry’s very essence, flickering, unraveling, dimming with every shallow breath he took. The tether wasn’t just fraying—it was unraveling, and with it, Harry’s life was slipping away. The thought stole Draco’s air.

“You’re not dying,” Draco hissed, half to himself, half to Harry. “You’re not allowed to die. Not here. Not now.”

“Bossy…”

“And you’re a bloody idiot,” Draco shifted, lowering Harry back onto the makeshift cot with a care he wasn’t sure he was capable of. “You don’t get to do this. Not to me.”

His fingers scrambled for the notebook, flipping through the brittle pages with a frantic urgency. Snape’s notes were dense, full of cryptic symbols and ancient incantations. One passage caught his eye, the runes etched into the margins like tiny flames dancing across the parchment. The spell was intricate and unlike anything Draco had ever seen before.

“Green…” Harry whispered, barely a breath. His eyelids fluttered, his unfocused gaze slipping past Draco’s face, like he was looking at something only he could see. “You—always green… robes—Slytherin crest…”

“Stop talking. Save your strength.”

Harry wasn’t listening. His lips moved again, the words faltering, slurred. “In the hall… light was always different there. Made it… made you look… sharp edges, like glass. Like… emeralds.”

There was a fire scorching its way through Draco’s chest. “Shut up, Harry. You’re delirious. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“You do, though. Always… green. Always watching. Couldn’t help it… even then.”

Harry’s head tipped back. Draco’s hands pressed harder. “Harry, stop—”

Harry only sighed. “Green suits you. Even then… always. Hrmm—Draco…”

Draco sketched the runes into the air with his wand, each one glowing faintly before dissolving into the ether. The room seemed to grow colder. The tether between them thrummed, growing stronger, sharper, until it felt like a second heartbeat in Draco’s chest.

Harry watched—or tried to. His eyes wouldn’t quite stay open, lids dragging shut like they were weighed down with lead. Still, he fought against it. This was a sight he needed to remember, to etch into whatever part of his soul might linger if this was it.

To Harry, Draco looked like a tragedy carved into flesh. All sharp angles and fractured fire, as if he were made to unravel the world just by standing in it. Beautiful, yes, but in the way a collapsing cathedral is beautiful—ruined and reverent, yet still standing against all reason.

Draco’s face was the kind poets ruined themselves trying to capture—perfect only after too much wine. Unreal until you saw it in the dark, when the shadows softened his edges and made him look less like a weapon. His cheekbones too sharp, his mouth too cruel, until the moments it wasn’t. And his eyes—God, his eyes—promised a kind of destruction you’d walk into willingly.

Harry blinked sluggishly, the world tilting in and out of focus. Blond hair—too bright, like sunlight cutting through a storm. A pale face, edges blurred, but the eyes—grey, frantic, burning with something Harry couldn’t name.

Cheekbones, sharp and unforgiving. Lips moving—saying something Harry couldn’t quite catch, the sound muffled, distant, like it was underwater.

The tilt of Draco’s head, the way his hair fell against his forehead, messy but deliberate in a way that only Malfoy could make look effortless.

Harry’s vision swam. He blinked again, slower this time. Draco’s hands—covered in blood, shaking, pressing down, too much pressure but not enough.

Draco. Always Draco. A blur of pale and sharp and fire. Beautiful in the way ghosts are beautiful—haunting, half-real, something you can’t touch but want to anyway.

His eyes slipped closed, Draco’s face the last thing he saw.

Harry was fairly certain this was it. And, oddly enough, he thought he might be okay with it. Dying in Draco Malfoy’s arms—because Draco was warm—so impossibly warm—and Harry was so cold. The chill was seeping into his bones but Draco… Draco was burning against him, like a lifeline he’d never known he needed.

How could someone who always seemed so cold, so untouchable, be this warm? And how had Harry never noticed it before? It felt cruel, almost, to realize it now, at the edge of everything. Cruel, but comforting in a way he couldn’t explain.

Harry couldn’t pinpoint when his life had been rewritten to revolve around Draco Malfoy. Maybe it wasn’t a single moment. Maybe it was the slow erosion of everything else—until all that remained was this sharp, fragile constant.

But Gods, Harry would kneel for it. Bleed for it. Break for it.

Because within Draco Malfoy, he had finally found something to fight for. Something worth living for. Even if it was messy, even if it meant running and hiding and scraping by in shadows.

And now—if this ruin, this fractured, fleeting thing, was what he had to die for—it would be Draco.

It would always be Draco.

Draco gripped his wand so tightly his knuckles turned white. The air around him thickened, charged with an ancient energy that seemed to hum through his veins. He drew a sharp line across his palm with the tip of his wand, blood welling instantly. It dripped onto Harry’s wound with a sickening hiss, the dark magic festering there reacting violently. Harry flinched, a low groan slipping from his lips, his body jerking under Draco’s steadying hand.

“I’m sorry,” Draco whispered.

The pages of Snape’s notebook lay open beside him, the words scrawled in an ink that seemed to shimmer and shift in the dim light. Draco’s eyes darted over the instructions, committing the intricate runes and ancient phrases to memory. He raised his wand, drawing a rune into the air.

“Vita ex umbris,” Draco began. The words tasted foreign on his tongue, their cadence rhythmic, almost musical. “Sanguis meum vinculum, vita tua servetur.”

The air around them seemed to ripple, a cold wind sweeping through the room despite the lack of any open windows. The runes glowed brighter, shapes interlocking like pieces of a puzzle, forming a pattern that circled Harry’s body.

Harry’s breathing hitched, chest rising sharply as the magic began to take hold. The tether between them pulsed violently. Two rivers colliding.

“Animam tuam vincio. Vinculum nostrum fortifico. Lumen tuam ab tenebris abstraho.”

The wound on Harry flared, dark tendrils of cursed magic writhing against the light of Draco’s spell. Harry cried out, his back arching off the couch as the magic surged through him. Draco pressed on, wand moving with deliberate precision to draw more runes into the air.

“Vita tua mea est,” Draco intoned, his voice shaking as he traced the final rune—a jagged, looping design that felt more like a sigil than a letter. “Mors non habeat potestatem hic. Vinculum nostrum infinitum.”

The room erupted in light, a blinding flash that made Draco wince. The runes burst apart, their energy sinking into Harry’s body like a thousand tiny needles. Harry’s screams echoed through the room, guttural, tearing through Draco like a blade. His own magic surged, pouring into the tether, bolstering Harry’s failing lifeforce with a piece of his own.

It felt like hours, but it was only seconds before the light dimmed.

Draco collapsed to his knees beside Harry, breath coming in shallow gasps. His hand hovered over Harry’s chest, hesitant, trembling, before finally pressing down gently. The wound was still there, but the cursed magic was gone, replaced by a faint glow that pulsed feebly beneath Harry’s skin.

Harry’s eyes fluttered open, bloodshot and glassy, lips parted as he struggled to catch his breath. “Draco…”

“Don’t,” Draco said sharply, voice cracking. He leaned over Harry, his bloodied hand still resting against his chest. “Don’t say anything. Just… breathe. For Merlin’s sake, just breathe.”

Harry coughed. “Hurts… like hell.”

Draco let out a shaky laugh, though it sounded more like a sob. “Of course it does, you idiot.”

“You’re… good at this.”

Draco glared at him, though the expression was more exasperated than angry. “Don’t you dare die just to compliment me,” he snapped, though his hand lingered against Harry’s chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath his palm. He couldn’t seem to move his hand. He needed to feel it—Harry’s pulse, proof.

Draco slumped back against the couch, his entire body trembling with exhaustion. His legs felt like lead, his chest hollow, and his hand was still slick with his own blood. He pressed the back of his head against the wall, staring blankly at the ceiling as the weight of what had just happened settled into his bones.

He had almost lost him.

Draco’s eyes drifted to Harry, who lay sprawled, his head resting on Draco’s lap. His skin was still too pale, a stark contrast to the dark hair that clung to his forehead, damp with sweat. His breathing was shallow but steady now, the rise and fall of his chest the only thing grounding Draco in the moment.

He couldn’t stop his hand from moving, fingers trailing through Harry’s unruly hair in slow, absentminded motions. The strands were softer than he expected, curling slightly at the ends.

Draco closed his eyes.

There was too much happening in his head.

A faint groan pulled him from his spiraling thoughts. Draco’s head snapped down, his breath catching as Harry’s eyes fluttered open. The green of them was muted now, dulled like the forest at dusk. Harry’s gaze found his, a weak, broken smile tugging at lips smeared with blood.

“You’re still here.”

Draco’s fingers froze where they’d been absently tangled in Harry’s hair. “Where else would I be, you idiot?”

Harry made a faint movement—half a shrug, half an attempt at something more. It failed. His body barely shifted, too heavy, too drained.

Draco let out a shaky sigh, hand tugging slightly at Harry’s hair again, grounding himself in the motion. His head fell back against the wall, and his eyes slipped shut.

“Don’t die,” Draco murmured, the crack in his voice betraying the panic he couldn’t quite shove down. “Just—don’t die, Harry.”

For a moment, there was nothing. Just silence. The ragged sound of Harry’s breath was too shallow, too thin, scraping against the walls of the room like a ghost. Then—Harry’s hand moved. Weak. Trembling. It brushed against Draco’s knee, barely a touch, but enough to send another twist of agony through him.

“I’ll try not to.”

Draco’s throat was burning. He stayed there, fingers threaded through sweat-damp hair, listening to Harry breathe.

The first thing Draco noticed when he woke was the stiffness in his neck, the dull ache spreading from his shoulders to his lower back. He blinked blearily, the dim morning light filtering through cracks in the boarded windows. Everything smelled faintly of iron and sweat and earth. It wasn’t pleasant. His hand was cramped, fingers still tangled in Harry’s hair, and his grip had gone so tight in sleep it left indentations on his palm.

Harry’s head was still in his lap, his face slack in an uneasy sleep. The dried blood on his temple and neck was stark against his skin, cracked and flaking, and his breaths came slow but steady—each one a relief Draco hadn’t asked for but clung to all the same.

He shifted slightly, wincing at the protest of his sore muscles. His other hand was gripping Harry’s shoulder, tight enough that his knuckles had gone white. He forced himself to let go, flexing his fingers. The sudden absence of that contact sent a jolt of unease through him, irrational and sharp. He let his hand rest on Harry’s chest instead, just over the faint, steady beat of his heart.

They hadn’t meant to fall asleep. That much was obvious by the state of things. The floor was littered with empty potion bottles and bloodied rags, Snape’s notebook left open to a page filled with hastily scrawled runes Draco could barely make sense of anymore. Their wands were on the ground, carelessly abandoned in the chaos.

Harry stirred faintly, a low groan rumbling in his chest as his lashes fluttered.

Draco froze as those green eyes cracked open. They were heavy-lidded, still stultified by exhaustion and pain, but the faint glimmer of awareness there was enough to make Draco’s chest unclench.

“You’re awake,” Draco said, his voice hoarse, almost accusatory. He didn’t move his hand from Harry’s chest.

Harry blinked slowly, gaze drifting up to meet Draco’s. His lips curled into the faintest smile, dry and cracked but still somehow infuriatingly Harry. “Morning, Draco,” he croaked, voice rasping like gravel. “Sleep well?”

Draco stared at him. “You nearly died,” he snapped, but the sharpness in his voice was undermined by the way his fingers pressed just a little harder against Harry’s chest, as if to reassure himself that he was still breathing.

“Nearly,” Harry murmured, his lips quirking. “But not quite.”

Draco wanted to throttle him. Or maybe hug him. Or both. He didn’t know. “You’re disgusting,” he muttered instead, finally looking away, his free hand brushing over the dried blood on his own arm. “We both are.”

“Charming way to start the day,” Harry’s eyes slid closed again, and Draco’s heart jumped.

“Hey.” Draco’s hand shot up to cup Harry’s jaw, his thumb brushing just below the sharp edge of his cheekbone. “Don’t do that.”

Harry’s eyes opened again, sluggish and unfocused. He tilted his head slightly into Draco’s hand, like a cat seeking warmth. “You’re always so warm.”

Draco bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, fighting the urge to shake him. “And you’re insufferable. Don’t fall asleep again. You’ve done enough of that for one lifetime.”

Harry’s chuckle was weak, breathy. “Not going anywhere.”

Damn right you’re not. Draco was still cradling Harry’s jaw like it was the only thing tethering him to this moment. To reality. Harry Potter is here, and Harry Potter is alive—Draco felt like repeating the mantra in his head would somehow comfort him. The tightness in his chest was not easing.

Draco soon decided that he hated mornings. Not just because they were usually cold, bleak, and came with the reminder of their grim reality—but because mornings always seemed to bring Harry Potter’s most irritating tendencies to the forefront.

“Stop squirming,” Draco snapped, his wand hovering just above the gash on Harry’s side, which was starting to close but still looked unnervingly raw.

“I’m fine,” Harry muttered, attempting to shift away. His body clearly disagreed with his words, but Harry being Harry, stubbornness was second nature. “We don’t have time for this.”

“Do you want your intestines falling out mid-drive? Because I assure you, Harry, I will not be scooping them back in. Now sit still.” Draco cast another spell over the wound, watching the faint glow of magic knit the edges of skin together more firmly.

Harry rolled his eyes, wincing as the spell took hold. “You’re dramatic. It’s just a scratch.”

“A scratch? That ‘scratch’ was bleeding all over me last night while you played the noble idiot. Again.”

“You’re worried about me.”

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. “Oh, for Merlin’s sake. You’re intolerable. Do you ever stop talking?”

“I thought you liked my voice,” Harry quipped, his grin growing despite the obvious pain lacing his features.

“I’ll like it better when it stops,” Draco sighed heavily and turned to the bag of potions. Pulling out a vial of vivid green liquid, he shoved it into Harry’s hand. “Drink this. It’ll help with the pain.”

Harry eyed it suspiciously. “Are you sure it won’t turn me into a ferret?”

Draco’s eyebrow twitched. “Do you want me to pour it down your throat for you?”

Harry chuckled, taking the potion and downing it in one go. He grimaced at the taste. “Bloody hell, did Snape brew this with acid?”

“Possibly,” Draco said dryly. “And don’t complain—it’ll keep you upright long enough for us to get out of here.”

Draco turned his attention to Nyx. The car was an absolute wreck. Blood smeared the seats, dirt caked the floor, and some of the runes Draco had etched for concealment were smudged. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I swear, if Nyx could speak, she’d curse us both to oblivion.”

Harry snorted, watching as Draco flicked his wand, sending a stream of cleansing magic over the upholstery. “You treat that car like she’s royalty.”

“She is royalty,” Draco replied curtly, stepping back to inspect his work. “And unlike you, she actually listens to me.”

“Maybe because she doesn’t talk back.”

Draco ignored him, finishing his work on the car and slamming the door shut. “All right,” he said briskly, turning back to Harry. “I’d give us an hour before I think we’ll need to start moving. Can you stand, or do I need to carry you like some tragic damsel?”

Harry grinned lazily. “I’d say carry me, but I think your delicate arms might give out.”

Draco huffed, crossing his arms. “One day, Harry, I’m going to leave you for dead just to prove a point.”

“Sure you are.” Harry pushed himself up with effort, leaning against a wall for balance. His voice softened. “Thanks, though. For… everything.”

Draco rolled his eyes but didn’t respond immediately. He straightened the bag over his shoulder, avoiding Harry’s gaze. “Just don’t make me do it again.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Liar.”

"I can drive," Harry said.

Draco, crouched by Nyx with his wand mid-air, repairing a small crack in the windshield, froze. He stood sharply, wiping his hands on his trousers as if preparing for a fight. "Absolutely not."

Harry blinked. "What do you mean, 'absolutely not'? I'm fine."

"You're not fine, Harry," Draco snapped, crossing the lot in a few sharp strides. He gestured to the faintly healing wound across Harry’s side, the pallor still clinging to his face. "You barely have enough energy to sit upright, let alone maneuver a car. Just… sit down, would you?"

"And what? You're going to drive? You, who didn't know what a clutch was until twelve hours ago?"

Draco rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched with a reluctant smirk. "Yes, me. And for your information, Harry, I’m a quick learner. Last night proved that, didn't it?"

"You were running from death last night," Harry pointed out. "That’s not exactly normal driving conditions."

"It doesn’t matter. I’m driving, and that’s final."

"Why are you so hell-bent on this? It's a car, not your broomstick."

That made Draco pause. He tilted his head, considering his next words. "It’s not entirely unlike flying," he admitted. "The control. The focus. The road stretching ahead—it’s not so different from the sky. And…" He hesitated, his voice dropping as though he hated what he was about to say. "It’s… freeing. For a moment, I can forget about everything else."

Though he’d only driven once—and under the most chaotic circumstances imaginable—Draco had come to realize that driving gave him something he desperately craved: control. The wheel in his hands, the endless road—it was tangible, manageable, unlike the whirlwind of uncertainty and danger surrounding them. These days, with so much slipping through his fingers, he clung to whatever semblance of control he could find.

He could decide the direction, the speed, the distance. Every twist, every turn, every press of his foot on the pedal—it was deliberate. His. For the first time in a long while, Draco felt like he was directing something, even if it was just a battered old Jaguar down an empty, winding road. It wasn’t much, but it was something. And in a life stripped of almost everything else, something had to be enough.

"Besides," Draco added, his usual snark creeping back into his tone, "I’d rather not put my life—or Nyx—in the hands of someone half-conscious."

That earned him a small laugh from Harry. "You’re really taking to this whole driving thing, aren’t you?"

Draco turned on his heel, already heading for the driver’s side. "Don’t make it weird. I’m just… efficient. Now, get in before I leave you behind."

Harry groaned, muttering something about "bossy Slytherins," but there was a faint smile tugging at his lips. He slid into the passenger seat gingerly, wincing at the movement, and watched as Draco settled into the driver’s seat with a surprising ease.

As Nyx roared to life, Draco's hands gripped the steering wheel with purpose. The morning air whipped through the cracked window as they pulled onto the empty road, and for a moment, there was nothing but the sound of tires on asphalt and the faint hum of the engine.

Harry glanced at Draco from the corner of his eye, noting the way the tension in his shoulders eased, the faint concentration pulling at his brows.

"You look like you belong there," Harry murmured, almost to himself.

Draco’s lips quirked into a small, almost-smile, but he didn’t take his eyes off the road. "Of course I do. I belong anywhere I decide to be."

Harry snorted softly, leaning his head back against the seat, his eyes slipping shut. For the first time in what felt like days, he let himself relax—just a little—trusting Draco to steer them forward.

Harry slouched in the passenger seat, head resting back, eyes fixed on the blur of trees speeding past. It was he who finally broke the silence. "It was the neighbor. Had to be. That’s how we were found. Somehow.”

Draco scoffed. "Naturally. Small towns are like that. You buy a loaf of bread, and by the time they’re done gossiping over their supper, you’re suddenly some dark wizard plotting to upend their dull little lives."

"Yeah, well, Obliviating him probably didn’t help our case much either," Harry muttered, voice tinged with guilt. "We weren’t exactly blending in, were we?"

"It’s not like you’ve ever been the picture of subtlety, Harry. The scar on your forehead practically announces you wherever you go."

Harry’s lips quirked upward. "And you think you’re subtle? Wearing designer shoes to a muggle bakery in the middle of nowhere?"

Draco shot him a sharp look, though his mouth twitched as if suppressing a retort. "Fine. Maybe neither of us is particularly inconspicuous. But it doesn’t matter now, does it? They found us, and we’re back to running."

“It wasn’t just the neighbor. Someone must have tipped them off. Maybe it started with the locals, but Aurors don’t send squads unless they’re sure. Someone knew where we were."

"But how? How does the Ministry keep finding us?"

Harry rubbed a hand over his face. "I don’t know. Could be anything—a trace of magic, something we missed. Maybe..." He trailed off, his jaw tightening.

Draco glanced at him briefly. "Maybe what?"

"Maybe I’ve been careless," Harry admitted, his voice almost bitter. "I’ve been using magic without thinking. In public. When we’re panicked. Maybe it’s on me."

Draco shook his head. "If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s the Ministry’s. Not yours. You’re just trying to keep us alive, and frankly, I’d rather have you reckless than dead."

Harry didn’t respond immediately. "We can’t keep going like this. We need to figure out how they’re tracking us. Otherwise, it won’t matter how far we run. They’ll always catch up."

Draco nodded slowly, his gaze fixed ahead. "Fine. But first, we need somewhere safe to stop. And next time—no neighbors." His lips curled into a mirthless smirk. "I’ll hex the first person who tries to bring us a casserole."

Harry's tired face creased into a faint smile. "Deal."

The diner they stopped at was tucked off a quiet road, a relic from a time long past. The flickering sign buzzed like an angry insect, letters half burned out, leaving an unintentional "Diner" above the chipped red door. The sky outside was iron gray, threatening rain that never seemed to come, while a cold wind whipped at the peeling paint on the window frames. The air smelled of wet asphalt and something faintly metallic. Inside, the fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a pale, sickly glow over the cracked vinyl booths and scratched-up countertops.

Harry and Draco slid into the booth farthest from the door. Draco moved stiffly, his back to the wall, eyes scanning the room. His fingers tapped rhythmically against the edge of the table, betraying his nerves.

Harry, on the other hand, slumped into his seat, his body language a sharp contrast. His shoulders were loose, his head tilted back against the worn cushion as he exhaled slowly, like they had all the time in the world. He glanced out the rain-streaked window, fingers idly tracing invisible patterns on the tabletop.

“Relax, Draco,” Harry said, almost bored. “No one’s here but us.”

Draco couldn’t possibly glare harder. “Relax? That’s rich coming from you. This place looks like the setting of a bad Muggle murder mystery. Frankly, I’d rather take my chances with the bloody Aurors.”

Harry smirked faintly. He was about to say something back when his pocket warmed suddenly. The sensation jolted him upright, his hand automatically reaching for the small bronze button nestled deep in his coat. It was like holding a heartbeat.

Draco noticed immediately, his sharp eyes narrowing. “What is it?”

Harry didn’t answer right away. His brow furrowed as letters began to etch themselves across the air in Hermione’s tidy, deliberate script.

Harry, I've just received word from Kingsley that you were ambushed. We didn’t know sooner. I hope you both are alright. It's worse than we feared. Rogue factions have infiltrated everything—even within Muggle infrastructure. They're exploiting every possible means of surveillance: Cameras, tech, digital tracking… anything that can be used to monitor your movements. I don’t understand how they’ve gotten their claws into the Muggle world but… you must be incredibly vigilant. They're actively hunting you, and we can't afford to take any risks. Stay safe, please.

For a moment, Harry just stared. Then he slid the button back into his pocket, his expression grim.

Draco leaned forward. “Well?”

Harry’s eyes flicked to his. “They’re using Muggle technology now.”

Draco blinked, clearly caught off guard. “What? But wizards don’t… They wouldn’t…” His voice trailed off as the realization set in. “They would,” he muttered, more to himself than Harry. “Of course, they bloody would. So what? They’re watching every street, every shop? Merlin, they could’ve tracked us just walking in here.”

Harry’s jaw ticked. “Probably. We need to assume they’re monitoring everything. No more stops like this. No more risks.”

Draco was tired and impatient and frustrated—and Gods, was it too much to ask for a break? Just for a minute or two. “And what’s your brilliant plan, then? Live out of the bloody car? Hide in the woods? Is that it, Potter? Is that our grand future?”

Harry didn’t take it personally. He was just as tired, if not more. “The plan is to survive, Draco. That’s all it’s ever been.”

Draco didn’t like that answer.

Surviving was becoming too difficult. Especially when it was not his life he was worried about—it was Harry’s and that made it a far greater weight to carry.  Every second felt like a noose tightening around his neck. But the alternative wasn’t much better either.

The waitress interrupted then, setting two chipped mugs of coffee on the table. She didn’t linger, her tired smile barely hiding her disinterest. Harry muttered a quiet thanks, wrapping his hands around the mug.

Draco watched him for a moment, the way his shoulders hunched slightly, the tension coiled in every line of his body. “So, what do we do now? If they’re using Muggle tech, how do we stay off their radar?”

Harry sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “We keep moving. Stick to backroads, avoid cameras, avoid shops. And we might need to rethink the glamours.”

“What do you mean?”

“If they’ve got tech, they might have a way to see through them. It’s not a risk I’m willing to take.”

Draco scowled, but he didn’t argue. He was too tired. Instead, he picked up his mug, the warmth seeping into his hands. “Fine,” he muttered, staring into the dark liquid. “But if this goes south again, I’m blaming you.”

Harry’s lips twitched. “Wouldn’t have it any other way, Draco.”

The rain had stopped. Draco was at the wheel, his fingers gripping the steering column a little too tightly, knuckles pale against the dark leather. Nyx hummed along the wet road. Harry, slumped in the passenger seat, watched him with a faint smirk playing at his lips.

"You know," Harry began, "for someone who’s driven, what, twice in his life, you’re taking this awfully seriously."

Draco shot him a sidelong glare. "Forgive me for wanting to keep us on the road and not, say, in a ditch."

"You’re doing fine. You’re even using the turn signals this time."

Draco sniffed, his nose in the air. "Unlike you, I’m capable of mastering new skills without requiring a life-or-death situation as motivation."

Harry grinned, but his smile faltered when Draco suddenly spoke again, his voice sharper. "We need something else. This running—it’s not sustainable. They keep catching up to us. There has to be someone. Someone out there who’s fighting back. We can’t be the only ones."

It sounded like Draco was talking more to himself than to Harry, and Harry didn’t answer immediately, his gaze fixed on the streaks of rainwater sliding down the window. Hope was a dangerous thing, and he had learned long ago not to trust it. "Maybe. But until we know for sure, we stick to what we’re doing. Kind of the only thing we can do.”

Draco’s lips parted for a retort, but then the car jolted slightly as his attention wavered, pulling him back to the present. Harry raised an eyebrow, his grin reappearing. "Careful, Draco. Nyx is sensitive."

Draco muttered something under his breath, but Harry swore he saw the corner of his mouth twitch upward. "Maybe you’d like to take over, Harry. Oh, wait, I forgot—you’re the one who decided I’m the better driver now."

"Debatable," Harry quipped, stretching his legs out and settling back. "But you’re doing great, really. You’ve even got the brooding driver look down."

Draco huffed, but there was a faint pinkness creeping up his neck. "Shut up, Potter. Or I’ll pull over and let you walk."

Harry laughed.

They drove through the night, stopping only briefly to refuel and grab what supplies they could from a run-down petrol station that looked like it hadn’t seen a proper cleaning in decades. The attendant barely glanced at them, his eyes glued to the small TV in the corner, but Draco still pulled his hood up and kept his head low. Harry watched him out of the corner of his eye, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

"You look ridiculous," Harry said, grabbing a packet of crisps from the shelf.

"And you look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards.”

They didn’t linger.

Harry paid in cash, his fingers brushing over the bronze button in his pocket as a reflex. No new messages. No new warnings.

A week passed. Then two.

The nights grew colder as autumn edged closer to winter, frost creeping along the edges of Nyx’s windows in the mornings. They avoided major roads and towns, sticking to back alleys and forgotten lanes, always moving.

Harry had learned to drive in moments like these—moments when staying still felt like an invitation for trouble, a dare to fate. The steady rhythm of the road and the isolation were their only comforts, and even those were fleeting.

Draco had started to pick up driving more often, much to Harry’s surprise. He claimed it was just practical—giving Harry a break—but Harry could see the way Draco’s shoulders relaxed ever so slightly when he was behind the wheel, the way his expression softened just a fraction. There was a quiet sense of control that seemed to settle over Draco whenever his hands gripped the wheel, a fleeting peace that Harry hadn’t seen in him for a long time.

On the third week, as they moved deeper into the countryside, the forests grew thicker. It was on one of those nights, as they were parked near the edge of a dense forest, that it happened.

Harry was leaning against Nyx’s hood, staring up at the sky, the stars barely visible through the haze of clouds. He kept his wand close, his senses always on edge, never fully trusting the quiet. Draco was in the driver’s seat, going through one of Snape’s notebooks by the dim light of the dashboard. The quiet was almost peaceful, broken only by the distant sound of crickets. Harry didn’t trust the peace—it felt too much like a trap, a calm before the storm.

Then, out of nowhere, there was a faint rustle—a snap of a twig in the underbrush.

Harry’s wand was in his hand before he even realized it, his instincts screaming danger. "Draco..." he said quietly, not taking his eyes off the treeline.

Draco looked up, his brow furrowing. "What is it?"

Before Harry could answer, a figure stepped out of the shadows. A man, tall and lean, dark skin blending into the night. His wand was in his hand, but it wasn’t raised. He stood still, his posture almost casual, but there was a sharpness to his eyes that put Harry immediately on edge.

"Zabini," Draco breathed, his voice laced with shock and something else Harry couldn’t quite place. Holy shit.

Blaise Zabini stood with the kind of effortless grace that came naturally to him, his posture elegant, his presence commanding without trying. His dark eyes held a glint of amusement, sharp and knowing, as if he was privy to secrets no one else could guess. A faint smirk curved his lips, equal parts charm and mischief, but there was something else in his gaze—a flicker of recognition, warm and distant all at once, as his eyes landed on Draco.

“Well, well,” Blaise drawled, voice smooth as velvet. “Look who’s alive and kicking."

It wasn’t just the words; it was the way Blaise said them, like he’d been expecting this reunion all along. Like the months apart hadn’t changed a thing.

Draco stepped out of the car, his movements slow and deliberate. "What the hell are you doing here, Zabini?"

Blaise’s smirk widened. "Funny. I was about to ask you the same thing. But maybe we save the catching up for later, yeah? You’ve got company." He jerked his head toward the trees, where more figures were emerging—half a dozen of them, cloaked and armed, their wands at the ready.

Harry moved to Draco’s side, his wand raised. "Friends of yours?"

Blaise’s expression sobered, his eyes flicking to Harry. "Not quite. But if you’re smart, you’ll come with me. Now."

Harry’s jaw tightened as his eyes flicked between Blaise and the approaching figures. There was a distrust etched in his features. Blaise might have been a former classmate, but that didn’t mean anything here, not anymore.

He stayed rooted to the spot, making no move to follow. Friend of Draco’s or not, Blaise Zabini was no exception to the unspoken rule Harry had lived by for months now: trust no one. Not until they’d earned it. And Harry wasn’t in the habit of handing out trust freely—especially not to someone as inexplicable as Blaise.

A flicker of irritation crossed Draco’s features. “For Merlin’s sake, Harry, he’s not going to hex us.”

“Not yet,” Harry shot back. “But forgive me if I don’t roll out the red carpet for the guy who always looks like he’s one step away from double-crossing someone.”

Blaise’s smirk sent a chill crawling up Harry’s spine. “Still as paranoid as ever, Potter. Good to see some things haven’t change.”

“Why would we trust you?”

Blaise was amused, bored even, from the looks of it. He seemed the least bit worried by the footsteps growing louder, closer. “Because if you don’t, Potter, you’re as good as dead.”

Harry’s gaze flicked to Draco, whose lips pressed into a thin line, his silence betraying unease. There wasn’t time to argue, not with the distant sound of pursuit growing louder by the second. No time to second-guess.

“Fine,” Harry muttered through gritted teeth, the word bitter on his tongue. He didn’t bother masking his scowl. “Lead the way.”

Blaise wasted no time. He turned on his heel and vanished into the trees, moving with a practiced ease that Harry did not like. If the world had taught him anything, it was to remain suspicious.  

Draco hesitated for half a beat, his wand flicking in a swift, deliberate motion. The air shimmered faintly around Nyx as the car melted into the background, vanishing from sight. A non-verbal Disillusionment Charm—quick, clean, precise. Typical Malfoy efficiency.

Harry noticed but said nothing, his focus already snapping back to the sound of distant pursuit. He darted after Blaise, Draco close on his heels.

The shadows grew thicker, the forest swallowing them whole, the weight of their hunters pressing like a vice against their backs.

The forest was alive—branches clawing at the sky, leaves whispering secrets in the wind. Shadows twisted in the corners of Harry’s vision, every step cracking twigs that might as well have been alarm bells. He moved ahead of Draco, his wand a steady presence in his hand, his senses stretched too thin. Draco was just behind him, clutching Snape’s notebook like it was salvation itself, his knuckles pale against the leather binding.

"Where exactly are you dragging us, Blaise?" Draco’s voice broke the quiet, betraying just the slightest edge of nerves.

Blaise didn’t break stride. "Somewhere you won’t get yourselves killed," he said smoothly, his voice carrying an air of indifference that only made Harry’s hackles rise. "Unless you’d rather stick around and make friends with whoever’s hunting you."

Harry’s lips pressed into a hard line, green eyes flicking back toward the direction they came from. The crackle of leaves, the distant sound of boots pounding against the forest floor—too close, too organized. The voices were muffled now, but they were gaining. Aurors, or worse. Harry didn’t care to find out.

"And we’re just supposed to trust you?" Harry’s voice was clipped. His wand stayed steady in his grip, as if daring Blaise to step out of line.

Blaise barely glanced over his shoulder, his smirk infuriatingly intact. "Potter, if I wanted you dead, you’d already be six feet under. Now shut up and move. Or don’t—I really don’t care, but I’m not slowing down for you."

Draco, despite himself, almost rolled his eyes. "Would you stop trying to antagonize him?" he muttered at Harry, stepping over a low branch with surprising grace for someone who wasn’t used to slogging through forests. "He’s helping us."

Draco was not someone who accepted help easily—he rarely recognized it even when it was staring him in the face. But Blaise had been one of the few people in his life he had trusted, one of the handful who had earned that rare privilege. That hadn’t changed, not even now.

Harry didn’t respond. The set of his jaw said everything he wouldn’t. His eyes burned into Blaise’s back, suspicion coiled tight in his chest. Draco might trust Blaise—hell, Draco trusted too easily when it came to him—but Harry couldn’t. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

A crack of light splintered through the trees—a bolt of blue magic, streaking too close to Draco. It seared into the bark beside him, leaving a smoking gouge in the wood.

Draco flinched, his breath hitching as he stumbled. Harry’s hand shot out before he could think, gripping Draco’s arm to steady him.

"I’ve got it," Draco snapped, yanking his arm free, though his voice was tight and ragged. He stumbled again, barely catching himself on a low branch. Harry caught the faint tremor in his movements, the too-shallow breaths. Draco was trying to keep up, trying not to let fear dig its claws in, but it was there—in the way his gaze darted, in the way his steps faltered just a hair too long.

Blaise turned briefly, his eyes glinting in the dim light as he called back, "You two lovebirds done back there? Because if not, I’d love to leave you behind."

"Shut up," Harry growled, though he didn’t look at Blaise. His focus was still on Draco, who muttered something inaudible under his breath before straightening, his head held high like he hadn’t just been seconds away from tripping over his own feet.

Another curse flew through the air, fiery red this time, crashing into the ground near Blaise. He didn’t flinch, didn’t even slow down, weaving through the trees with a grace that made Harry hate him a little more.

"Faster!" Blaise barked, his pace quickening as the ground sloped downward.

The incline was sharp and Harry could feel his footing slipping, his boots skidding against the dirt. Draco wasn’t faring much better, nearly losing his balance as his feet slid out from under him. Harry caught him again, this time grabbing his shoulder to keep him upright.

Draco swallowed hard, his fingers clutching the notebook tighter as he forced himself to move. Blaise had better be leading them somewhere real. Otherwise, Draco wasn’t sure if he’d kill Blaise first—or let Harry do it for him.

After what felt like an eternity, Blaise slowed, nodding toward a narrow gap between two gnarled trees. "Through there. It’s warded. They won’t be able to follow."

Harry didn’t wait, grabbing Draco’s sleeve and pulling him toward the gap. The moment they stepped through, the air shifted, carrying with it a faint hum that pressed against their skin. It wasn’t harsh—it was subtle, old magic interwoven with the very fabric of the forest. A ward, ancient and intricate.

Draco’s gaze darted around. “Where exactly have you dragged us, Zabini?”

Blaise smirked faintly, the kind of smirk that set Harry’s teeth on edge. He gestured toward what looked like a crumbling structure half-swallowed by the earth. Vines curled possessively over its jagged stone walls, and a rusted metal door was almost invisible against the darkened exterior, as though the building itself didn’t want to be found.

“Welcome to the den,” Blaise drawled, reaching into his coat. He pulled out his wand and tapped the rusted door in a precise rhythm. The sharp clicks that followed felt more like a ripple in the air than sound itself. The door groaned open, revealing a dark, spiraling staircase that descended into the earth.

Harry glanced at Draco, who returned the look with a raised brow. Harry didn’t speak, just nodded, stepping forward cautiously. Draco followed, fingers brushing over his wand as if ready to strike at the first sign of trouble.

The descent into the underground was tense, the air thick with the scent of damp stone and faint traces of ozone from old wards. Draco’s focus was elsewhere—on the familiar hum of magic that felt oddly comforting despite their circumstances.

The underground space opened before them, sprawling and chaotic, lit by floating glass orbs and buzzing with a strange symphony of magic and machinery. Muggle monitors lined the walls, displaying maps and flickering streams of surveillance footage, while enchanted runes danced across a massive wooden table at the center of the room. Wizards and witches moved between shelves stacked with magical artifacts and Muggle tech, their movements purposeful and hurried.

As they stepped into the light, a figure broke away from a cluster of people by the table.

Adrian Pucey.

His sharp features softened as his eyes landed on Draco, and for the first time in what felt like days, Draco felt something other than tension coil in his chest.

“Well, well. If it isn’t Draco Malfoy, walking into our operation like it’s still the bloody Slytherin common room.”

Draco blinked, caught off guard. “Pucey?” His voice was cautious, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—relief, maybe, or just the comfort of seeing a familiar face that wasn’t trying to kill him.

Adrian strode forward, clasping Draco’s shoulder with an easy familiarity. “It’s been a long time, mate. Didn’t think I’d see you again—not like this, at least.”

Draco let out a faint huff of laughter, though it lacked humor. “Trust me, this isn’t exactly how I imagined it either.”

Adrian’s gaze flickered to Harry, who stood a step behind Draco.

“Potter,” Adrian said, nodding slightly but not extending the same warmth. “I see you’re still dragging Draco into trouble.”

“Funny,” Harry said flatly. “I thought it was the other way around.”

Adrian’s grin widened, but he didn’t press further. Instead, his focus returned to Draco. “We’ve got a lot to catch up on, mate, but first—” He gestured around the room.

Draco looked slightly disoriented by the mix of ancient magic and modern tech. “I see you’re not sitting around twiddling your thumbs.”

“Hardly. Welcome to the resistance—or what’s left of it.” Adrian glanced at Harry again, his expression sobering slightly. “This place is warded, secure. You can rest for now.”

Harry crossed his arms. “We’re not here to rest. We’re here because the Ministry has been on us since day one. And if you know anything useful, now’s the time to share.”

Adrian raised a brow but turned back to Draco. “Still running your mouth, is he? We’ll fill you in. But for now, you’re safe here, Draco. I’ll make sure of it.”

For a moment, Draco didn’t know what to say. The last time he’d seen Adrian, it had been during the war—quick, chaotic moments where alliances blurred and survival came first. Now, standing in this strange underground hub of wires and enchantments, the familiarity of Adrian Pucey brought an ache Draco couldn’t quite name. When had everything shifted so drastically? Once, they’d stood in Quidditch locker rooms, debating game plans and plays. Now—this. Whatever this even was.

“Thanks,” Draco said quietly. Adrian’s grin softened into something genuine.

“Anytime, mate.”

Harry tuned out the banter, his attention fixed on the room and its occupants. He didn't trust anyone—their faces, words, or motives. Life had taught him to be wary, to expect betrayal before loyalty. But Draco's expression was unusual. Gone was his signature sneer, scoff, or air of indifference. Instead, his gaze swept the room, lingering on familiar faces and humming machinery. A flicker of recognition, maybe even quiet hope. For a fleeting instant, Harry glimpsed a glimmer of peace in Draco's eyes.

“Quite the operation,” Harry said finally. He caught sight of familiar faces scattered across the room: Fay Dunbar leaning over a glowing map, an ex-Ministry employee he vaguely recognized adjusting some enchanted cables, even a few Muggle-borns.

“Better than nothing,” Adrian replied. “Not nearly enough, though. The Ministry’s reach is wide, and their resources? Endless. Every day, we’re just trying to stay one step ahead of them.”

Draco crossed his arms, leaning against the edge of the nearest table. “So, what exactly are you doing here? Collecting shiny toys and hoping for a miracle?”

From where he perched on the corner of a desk, Blaise smirked, spinning a quill between his fingers. “It’s called strategy, Malfoy. Something I’d expect you to understand if you weren’t so busy being insufferable.”

“Enough,” Adrian cut in, straightening. His tone was authoritative without being harsh, his gaze falling on Draco. “We’re doing what we can with what we’ve got—using every tool available. Magic, Muggle tech, intel from sympathizers. It’s the only way to stay ahead of them. They’re not just tracking wands and magic anymore. They’re using Muggle systems—cameras, drones, even satellite surveillance. We’ve had to… adapt.”

Harry exchanged a glance with Draco before stepping closer to the table. “Hermione mentioned something like this. She said the Ministry’s rogue factions had begun merging Muggle and magical systems to track people.”

“More than track,” Adrian said grimly. “They’re weaponizing it. They’ve combined enchantments with biometric data and Muggle technology. Street cameras don’t just catch faces anymore; they pick up magical signatures. It’s…” He hesitated, then sighed. “It’s brilliant. And terrifying.”

Draco’s jaw tightened. “And how exactly are you countering this? You’ve got a few glowing cables and maps. What’s your plan? Because if this is it—”

“Draco,” Blaise interrupted smoothly. “We’re not exactly in a position to mount an army. The Ministry is no longer just a corrupt government. It’s a bloody empire. We’re dismantling it piece by piece. Protecting who we can, eliminating their players when we get the chance, unraveling their networks wherever possible. It’s not glamorous, but it’s effective.”

“And what about Kingsley?” Harry asked, stepping closer to the map, his green eyes locked on the flickering markers scattered across it. “Hermione said he’s working with groups like this.”

Blaise's eyes met Adrian's. With a languid smile, Blaise spoke up. "Oh, he's playing the game, all right. Along with Granger and those Weasleys, of course. They're all stuck in the trenches, fighting a war of attrition from the inside. Shacklebolt's doing what he can, but really, it's like trying to win a duel with both hands bound behind your back. And as for Granger and Weasley?" Blaise's smile grew, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "They're being their usual, delightfully subtle selves. Tied up in red tape, just like the rest."

Adrian added, "The Ministry's a farce now. A dictatorship, plain and simple. Every system's been compromised, every loyalty bought or coerced. Anyone still fighting has to do it from the shadows." His gaze darted between Harry and Draco. "We're just trying to keep the resistance alive. It's not much, but it's all we have left."

Draco stared at the map in silence, arms crossed tightly. The flickering runes cast soft shadows on his face. Harry, on the other hand, clenched his fists at his sides. This wasn’t a war anymore. It was a slow, methodical extermination.

For the first time in a while, he wasn’t sure if even survival was enough. Was existing in a world devoid of hope, of freedom, really living at all? What is the fucking point?

Screaming. Noise. A relentless buzz that wouldn’t stop. It was crawling under Harry’s skin, drowning out everything else. He blinked at Draco, Blaise, and Adrian, their voices a blur of indistinct chatter that he knew he should focus on—but his head. His head was so loud. His ears rang with a piercing static, and though he was looking straight at them, they felt like smudged shapes on an oil canvas, their edges running together.

He pressed his palms against the edge of the table, trying to ground himself, but the world tilted anyway. It was like flying—no, falling—clouds suffocating his vision, too thick to see past, too heavy to breathe through. The voices melted further into the background.

The noise shifted, became something else. His own voice. Thoughts ricocheting in his skull. Wondering. Pondering.

What if I just left it all?

The ocean—he kept coming back to the ocean. A place where the waves could erase every part of him, one by one.

What if I disappeared?

The thought wasn’t terrifying; it was peaceful, almost seductive. A life where he wasn’t Harry Potter, wasn’t anything at all. Would it feel like being Obliviated? A clean slate, a blank page. Or worse—what if it was the opposite? What if it wasn’t him erased, but everyone else forgetting him?

He blinked hard, trying to drag himself out of the fog. Draco was speaking, his hand gesturing toward the map on the table, but Harry couldn’t quite catch the words. He forced himself to focus on Draco’s face, the sharp lines of his jaw, the intensity in his eyes.

“Harry,” Draco’s voice broke through the din, cutting through the static.

Harry’s head whipped toward Draco, his breathing uneven.

Draco frowned. “You’re not even listening, are you?”

Harry blinked. “Sorry, what?”

Draco’s lips pressed into a thin line, but there was something else in his expression—concern, maybe, though Harry wasn’t sure. He didn’t have time to unpack it, didn’t have the strength to hold onto anything but the jagged threads keeping him upright.

Let me free.

I have done my part.

Let me out.

I have fulfilled my fucking prophecy, now let me out—

“You all right there, Potter?” Blaise arched a brow, looking between Harry and Draco.

Harry’s hands tightened into fists against the table. “Fine.”

Draco watched Harry for a moment before turning to Blaise. “You said you found us because we’re loud. Because we’re messy. But if the Ministry is following the same breadcrumbs, what’s stopping them from being two steps behind you?”

“Because, while you’ve been out there running blind, we’ve been watching from the shadows. We’ve set up safeguards, misdirections, planted enough false trails to keep them stumbling over themselves. The Ministry might have brute force, but we have precision.”

“And we’re just supposed to trust that you’ve got all this under control?”

Blaise's gaze settled on Draco, and for an instant, a flicker of affinity warmed his typically austere expression. “You think I’d let them get to you, Draco? If I can help it?”

Draco’s lips pressed into a tight line, and though he didn’t answer, the slight slackening of his shoulders spoke volumes.

“Ron and Hermione,” Harry interrupted, tone clipped, “are working with Kingsley. If they’re in the Ministry, shouldn’t they be dismantling this from the top?”

“They’re playing the long game, Potter. They need people like us to do what they can’t.”

“And what’s that?”

“The dirty work,” Adrian said simply. “Sabotage, infiltration, dismantling their networks from the inside out. They can’t risk exposure, but we can’t afford to wait.”

Draco scoffed, though there was no venom in it. “So, we’re pawns in a shadow war, is that it?”

“Not pawns,” Blaise corrected smoothly, his smirk returning. “Symbols. You’ve become the Ministry’s obsession, and that makes you powerful. Dangerous. You’re already breaking their systems just by existing. All we’re asking is that you let us channel that chaos into something productive.”

Harry turned his attention to the map on the table, glowing markers indicating locations scattered across the country. His eyes lingered on a particularly clustered area, his brow furrowing. “And you think this… den of yours is enough to make a dent?”

“It’s not just us,” Adrian replied. “There are other groups—pockets of resistance forming in other places. They’re small, scattered, but they’re growing. We’re coordinating, building a network. It’s slow, but it’s working.”

Draco leaned over the map, his fingers brushing against the edge of the parchment. “And what exactly do you expect us to do? Keep running and hope it disrupts them enough?”

Blaise shook his head. “No. You stay alive. Keep moving, keep them chasing you. But with us feeding you intel, you won’t be running blind anymore. And when the time comes, we’ll make our move.”

Harry looked at Draco, a silent question in his eyes. Draco hesitated, his expression torn, but finally, he nodded.

“If we do this,” Harry said slowly, “it’s on our terms. No strings, no surprises.”

Blaise’s smirk widened, but there was something genuine in his tone as he replied, “No strings, Potter. Just a shared goal.”

Adrian extended his hand. “We’re in this together, whether we like it or not. Might even be fun—being on the same side, for once.”

Harry stared at him for a long moment. Finally, he reached out, gripping Adrian’s hand firmly.

“Fine,” Harry said. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Blaise clapped Harry on the shoulder, his grin infuriatingly smug. “Good to have you on board, Potter. Try not to blow us all up.”

Harry rolled his eyes, but Draco caught the faintest flicker of amusement in his expression. Blaise turned, gesturing for them to follow deeper into the hub, and as they walked, Draco couldn’t shake the strange sensation blooming in his chest.

It wasn’t relief, exactly, and it certainly wasn’t trust—but maybe, just maybe, it was the faintest trace of hope.

Harry had drifted off to a far corner of the underground hub, speaking with Adrian and a few others who seemed to be former Ministry employees. His brow was furrowed as he examined a map spread out over a cluttered table, occasionally nodding as Adrian pointed to various locations. There was something amusing about watching Harry trying to navigate an entirely new kind of battlefield—less wands and curses, more intel and strategy.

Meanwhile, Draco sat in what could generously be called a lounge area, though it was more a mismatched collection of old chairs and a couch that had seen far better days. Blaise strolled over, two glasses in hand, amber liquid sloshing lightly within them.

“Cheers,” Blaise said casually, handing one over.

Draco didn’t ask what it was. He just took the glass and downed half of it in a single go, the whiskey scorching its way down his throat. It was a harsh burn, but not entirely unwelcome. He leaned back into the sagging couch, letting his gaze wander across the room until it landed on Harry.

He was still at the table, head bent low as Adrian spoke, his hand idly rubbing at the back of his neck. Draco didn’t realize how long he’d been watching until Blaise spoke.

“You and Potter, huh?” Blaise’s tone was light, teasing, but there was a sharp curiosity behind his words. “Who would have thought?”

Draco turned his gaze sharply toward Blaise, lips pressing into a thin line. “There is no ‘me and Potter.’”

Draco knew the words were drivel before they even left his mouth.

Blaise’s smirk widened, annoyingly knowing. He sipped his drink, leaning back with an infuriating air of ease. “Sure. And I’m the Minister of Magic. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you look at him.”

Draco bristled, his fingers tightening around the glass. “I look at him the way anyone would look at the idiot constantly risking their life for no discernible reason.”

“Right. Because we all watch people the way you watch him—like he’s the only bloody star in the sky.”

Draco finished the rest of the whiskey in one sharp swallow, setting the empty glass down with a little more force than necessary. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Maybe not. But if you’re going to keep denying it, at least try to be convincing. You’re rubbish at it.”

Draco’s retort died in his throat as his gaze flickered back to Harry, now gesturing toward something on the map with that same determined furrow of his brow. Draco huffed, leaning back into the couch and dragging a hand through his hair.

Draco eventually turned his attention back to Blaise. “And you? I'm surprised, Zabini. I wouldn't have pegged you as the type to get your hands dirty. You've always seemed more… refined than that. Not exactly the undercover operative type.”

Blaise’s smirk faltered, his expression shifting to something more somber. “You missed a lot, mate. After the… incident at the battle, and you being out of commission—well, let’s just say the wizarding world turned to shite pretty fast.”

“How bad is it?”

Draco knew some things, of course—fragments of a larger picture that had been pieced together poorly. Everything after the battle had been a blur: waking up after literally dying, his trial, the Ministry’s targeting of anyone with even a whisper of Death Eater affiliation. But beyond the Ministry’s tyranny and their pursuit of former Death Eaters and their families, Draco realized how little he actually knew. Being on the run with Harry left them grasping for scraps of information while barely managing to find food, let alone insight into the state of the wizarding world.

Blaise rubbed his chin, staring off into dim corners. “Vincent’s dead.”

Draco froze, the words landing like a punch to the gut. “What?”

"Aurors claimed they were attempting to bring him in. Same tired excuses: Death Eater ties, supposed involvement with the resistance… but we all know how these things play out." He trailed off, lips compressing into a thin line. "They killed him, of course. Made it appear accidental, but we're not fools. The Ministry and their Auror lapdogs have no qualms about eliminating anyone who poses a threat to their precious status quo."

The air felt denser. Draco was struggling to inhale. “I… I didn’t know.”

“Hard to know much when you’re running for your life. Wouldn’t expect you to have a copy of the Daily Prophet on hand.”

Draco swallowed. He glanced away, but Blaise’s next words brought his gaze snapping right back.

“Pansy’s in Azkaban.”

“What?” Draco’s voice was sharp, incredulous. “But—what the hell—why? She didn’t do anything! She was neutral during the war. She barely even took a side—”

“Doesn’t matter. They’re saying it’s because of her ‘affiliation with known Death Eaters.’ A convenient excuse. They didn’t give her a chance to defend herself.”

Draco stared at Blaise, his heart pounding. A wave of nausea was rolling through him. “This… it’s insane. She doesn’t deserve that.”

“And Theo…”

“I’ve been expecting Nott to show up somewhere here. Any minute now.”

Blaise's expression turned grave, his jaw clenched in a rare display of tension. "Theo's trial was scheduled just before yours. Same kangaroo court, same predetermined outcome. But he was smarter than that. As usual. He saw the writing on the wall, knew they'd show him no quarter. So, he did the only sensible thing—he disappeared before they could drag him in chains to that farce of a trial."

Draco’s heart gave a heavy thud. “And now? Where is he?”

Blaise hesitated, clearly torn. “The Ministry believes he’s dead. That’s the consensus now. He disappeared before his own trial, and honestly? They didn’t bother following up. No hunting him down. No body. Nothing.”

“Why? Why wouldn’t they—”

“Because they got distracted. Your trial was a spectacle, Draco. You were their trophy case. They had their hands full making an example out of you—then with the stunt you and Potter pulled—well, they had their hands full, didn’t they?”

Draco’s pulse roared in his ears. “Theo’s not… he can’t be—”

“Like I said, it’s what the Ministry believes.”

Draco stared at him, searching. “But you don’t,” he realized. “You don’t think he’s dead.”

Blaise’s lips curved into a faint grin as he reached into his pocket, drawing out a ring. He held it between his fingers, turning it slightly so the faint light caught the gleam of the metal. The ring was unmistakable—Slytherin through and through, forged in a deep silver with intricate, serpentine engravings winding along its band. Four small stones were set into the metal, spaced evenly around the circle. They were a vibrant green, polished smooth, their surfaces catching the light in a way that made them look almost alive.

Draco stared at it. Crafted in their fifth year when everything had seemed so certain, so inevitable. The emerald stones shimmered faintly, but there was an odd imperfection—one of the stones was darker than the others, almost black, its once-vivid green dulled to a lifeless hue.

“I found this after the battle,” Blaise said. “Some of us were helping clean up Hogwarts. It was just… lying there in the rubble. Figured I’d hold onto it. Never had the chance to give it back.”

Draco reached out, his fingers brushing against the cool metal as he took the ring. It felt heavier than he remembered, its weight pressing into his palm. He turned it over, his eyes narrowing as he studied the blackened stone. Memories surged forward—late nights in the common room, whispered plans, and the four of them laughing like nothing could touch them. Blaise, Pansy, Theo, and himself. A makeshift family, bound by ambition and survival, and by this ring.

“What happened to it?”

“When you…” Blaise hesitated. “When you died, your stone fell out entirely. It’s how we knew. A few hours later, it reappeared, but it wasn’t green anymore. Just black.” He tapped the darkened gem with a finger. “I realized then that the stones must be tied to us. They go black when we’re alive but not wearing it. Fall out completely when we’re gone.”

Draco slipped the ring back onto his finger, its fit snug and familiar, as if it had been waiting all this time. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, slowly, the black stone began to shift, its dark surface lightening, green seeping back into its depths until it matched the vibrant gleam of the others.

Blaise watched, a faint smirk playing at his lips. “Guess it still knows its owner.”

Draco’s gaze remained fixed on the ring as realization dawned. All the other stones—still green, still intact. “Theo—”

“Still green,” Blaise confirmed. “That’s how I know he’s alive. If he were dead, his stone would’ve fallen off, like yours did. But it hasn’t.”

“And Pansy—”

“Still green. Azkaban. But alive.”

Draco finally looked up. “This is why you’re doing all of this, isn’t it? The resistance, the sabotage, the spying. It’s not just about fighting the Ministry. It’s about them. About us.”

“Yes. And not just us, Draco. Everyone. The Ministry isn’t just after Death Eaters or their families anymore. They’ve moved on. It’s anyone who doesn’t fall in line. Anyone who questions. It’s all about power. Pure, unrelenting control.”

“Yet, they’re claiming it’s for the greater good. For peace.”

“Peace?” Blaise let out a sharp laugh, brittle and humorless, cutting through the air like broken glass. “There is no peace, Draco. There’s submission. You either play their game, bow to their rules, or you’re eliminated. That’s it. No middle ground. No sides. Just tyranny—or the fight against it.”

Draco’s gaze flicked to Harry, who was still across the room, fingers idly flipping through maps and reports as Adrian filled him in on logistics. There was a heaviness in Harry’s posture, a weariness that Draco recognized but could never fully comprehend. He realized with a sudden, sharp pang that this fight was entirely different for Harry than it was for him—or Blaise, for that matter.

Blaise and Draco clung to the ruins of their world, desperate to salvage what little remained. Because this couldn’t be it. After everything they had endured, they thought—no, they knew—they deserved a softer ending, didn’t they? An epilogue that didn’t bleed, that didn’t ache with the weight of yet another darkness creeping in. They had survived Voldemort, one kind of evil, only to find themselves staring down another. And they weren’t about to let it win. Not after escaping the first by the narrowest of margins.

They fought for the familiar, for some shred of normalcy to cling to, something that could remind them of life before—before the war, before the blood, before it all crumbled beneath their feet. They fought to save what could still be saved, to grasp hold of something—anything—that didn’t feel like another compromise, another sacrifice. Something worth living for. Because if they couldn’t hold on to that, then what had it all been for?

Harry, though, wasn’t fighting for the world. He wasn’t fighting for ideals or a future for Wizardkind. He wasn’t even fighting for himself.

Harry was fighting for Draco.

And that, Draco realized, made all the difference.

Watching him now, Draco understood what true rootlessness looked like. Harry had no home to go back to, no foundation to rebuild, no ties to hold him in place. He wasn’t fighting to save the world because the world had never saved him. He wasn’t fighting for redemption because he didn’t believe he deserved it.

Draco fought to save a world he wasn’t even sure deserved saving, while Harry fought for something far simpler and infinitely more dangerous. It was both terrifying and devastatingly tender, and Draco wasn’t sure how much longer he could bear it.

Because Harry wasn’t just giving up the world.

He was giving up himself.

And Draco wasn’t sure there would be anything left of him by the end.

Not the boy he’d once hated, not the man who had fought for him with fire in his veins and blood on his hands.

It would only be ash. And the thought of it—of holding what remained—was a weight Draco didn’t know how to carry.

Draco’s fingers brushed the cool metal of the ring. He looked back at Blaise. “And Harry? How does he fit into this?”

“Potter’s already in this. He’s been fighting his entire life—against Dark Lords, corrupt institutions, you name it. He just doesn’t realize yet that this fight is different. That it’s not about him anymore. It’s about all of us.”

But it wasn’t, Draco thought, not for Harry. Harry wasn’t fighting for “all of us.”

He was fighting for something that Draco couldn’t entirely grasp. At times, it felt as though Harry was marking items off some invisible ledger, an impossible tally etched into his soul. Each act, each sacrifice, was a line struck through with finality—a desperate attempt to finish a list that no one but Harry could see. It wasn’t a parchment to be laid down gently. It was something frayed and splintered, meant to be crumpled and discarded when the ink ran dry.

Draco wondered if that was what Harry was chasing—not victory, not salvation, but the silence that came after. The freedom of leaving something behind to rot, as though by burning it all, Harry could finally walk away unburdened.

But Draco feared there was no end to it. No final stroke of the quill. No absolution. Only the haunting repetition of a task that would bleed him dry.

“Do you think we can win?”

Blaise shrugged, his smirk fading. “I think we don’t have a choice but to try. It’s either that, or let them destroy everything. And I’m not about to sit back and watch them burn our world to the ground.”

“No sides. Just survival.”

“And freedom,” Blaise added quietly. “For all of us.”

Draco wasn’t sure freedom was the word Harry would use.

Harry wasn’t looking for freedom, not the way they were.

No. Not freedom.

He’s looking for oblivion.

Draco had spent most of his life being told what to think, what to feel, and what to believe.

It wasn’t entirely his fault—it was the nature of his environment, woven into the air he breathed and the walls he lived within. He didn’t know better because he’d never been given the chance. It had always been blind loyalty to a series of untouchable institutions: his house, his family, his legacy, his parents.

Draco Malfoy had never been afforded the luxury of his own mind.

Every decision, every thought, was measured against the looming question: What would his father think? What would his father approve of?

The weight of the Malfoy name wasn’t just an inheritance; it was a prison.

To be a Slytherin meant adhering to unspoken rules, unwritten codes, and expectations so rigid they left no room for doubt. He followed them without question, not because he believed in them, but because he didn’t dare step out of line. Deep down, despite his arrogance, Draco Malfoy had always wanted to be accepted. And in his mind, to be lovable meant fitting the molds others had crafted for him.

When he obeyed the Dark Lord’s orders, when he carried out his father’s will and stood silent in the face of cruelty, it wasn’t out of conviction or belief. It wasn’t because he thought it was right. No—it was because he had no other choice. The walls had closed in on him long before he realized they were there.

Yes, Draco had believed in the inferiority of Muggle-borns because… how could he not? That belief had been sewn into him with every lesson, every word of approval, every offhand remark at the dinner table. It wasn’t an idea he arrived at on his own; it was an inheritance as much as his name. It was doctrine, handed to him by the people he trusted most in the world. To question it would have been to question everything—his family, his identity, his worth.

Draco had never been taught how to think; he had been taught how to follow.

And he followed, blindly and desperately, because the alternative was unthinkable. To step outside the lines meant losing the only version of love and acceptance he had ever known. And at the time, that was too great a price for him to even consider.

It wasn’t until sometime into the war—or perhaps not even until Harry’s curse struck him down and he woke up feeling like a different person—that Draco truly had the time or the space to think about it all. To unravel the tangled mess of beliefs and loyalties he’d been handed without question.

No, he realized, he didn’t care about blood status. Maybe being a pureblood still meant something to some, but to him? It felt almost shameful now, a relic of a past built on arrogance and ignorance. It wasn’t pride anymore; it was a weight, an embarrassing reminder of the stereotypes he’d once embodied without thought.

He didn’t care about the things he’d been told to fight for. The ideals of purity and legacy that had defined his family for generations—they felt hollow now, meaningless echoes of his father’s obsession.

And that was the hardest truth to confront.

He didn’t care about the things his father had believed in, the values Lucius had tried so hard to ingrain in him. What had once felt like gospel now felt like a burden, a lie he’d been complicit in for far too long.

Draco realized he wasn’t angry anymore—not at Muggle-borns, not at the world. He was angry at himself, at the time he’d wasted fighting for a cause that had never truly been his. The war had stripped away everything, and in its aftermath, he was left staring at a version of himself he barely recognized.

Now, in this new kind of war—fighting to overthrow a corrupt Ministry—Draco was discovering what it meant to fight for something he truly believed in.

It was a revelation, a sharp contrast to the blind obedience that had defined so much of his life. This was new and raw and terrifying, but it was also liberating. For the first time, he wasn’t following orders; he was choosing.

And that choice felt like a fragile but powerful thing, glowing faintly in the ruins of who he’d been.

There was a strange comfort in being broken, Draco realized. When the pieces of yourself have shattered, you get to decide how to put them back together. You can shape yourself into something new, something better, if you dare.

It wasn’t that Draco cared about saving the world in some grand, noble way. He wasn’t a hero, and he didn’t aspire to be one.

But he wanted—needed—to save himself.

And if saving the world was the way to do it, if fighting this war was the way to finally scrub the blood and guilt from his hands, then so be it. Because more than anything, Draco wanted to believe he could be better than he’d been. He wanted to believe he wasn’t the puppet from sixth year, dangling helplessly from strings pulled by others. He wanted to know he could do something good. Something right.

It was terrifying, this fragile hope for something better. But it was also intoxicating. The thought of shaping himself into someone who chose to stand for something—not because it was expected of him, but because it was his choice—was a kind of freedom he had never known.

The day dawned in muted tones, the faint glow of morning light barely breaking through the layers of enchantments and underground shadows. The resistance base was alive with a quiet buzz of activity, a rhythm that seemed both chaotic and methodical. Wizards and witches moved between tables and stations, exchanging hurried whispers and passing stacks of parchment or enchanted gadgets. The low hum of Muggle machinery filled the air, blending strangely with the occasional shimmer of spellwork.

Draco stood near the edge of the room, arms crossed, watching the scene unfold.

It was strange, he thought, to see people so determined to fight for a world that felt so impossibly broken. He wondered why he was even bothering. Considering how much bad luck seemed to attract him—

Beside him, Blaise was leaning casually against a nearby pillar, his smirk faint but present as he observed the chaos with a mix of amusement and quiet calculation.

"Adrian’s been at it since dawn," Blaise said, nodding toward the other side of the room. Adrian was hunched over a table, a map spread out before him, glowing runes shifting across its surface. He was flanked by two younger witches, both scribbling furiously as Adrian gestured to different points on the map.

“What’s he doing?”

Blaise shrugged. “Coordination. He’s the brains behind most of the field ops. Surveillance charms, diversion plans, extraction routes—anything to keep people alive out there.” He glanced at Draco, a glint of humor in his eyes. “You know, things you and Potter might want to start paying attention to.”

Draco rolled his eyes, but his gaze lingered on Adrian, watching the way his hands moved with precision, his voice calm but authoritative. For all the tension in the room, there was something steadying about Adrian’s presence, a kind of assurance that reminded Draco why he’d once trusted him so implicitly.

“Potter awake yet?”

Draco’s jaw tightened. “No. He’s still… recovering.”

Blaise gave a low hum. “You should keep an eye on him. Potter’s got a habit of throwing himself into things before he’s ready.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

Across the room, Harry emerged from one of the alcoves, his steps unsteady but purposeful. He was pale, his movements slower than usual, but his green eyes were sharp, scanning the room like he was already trying to figure out where he could be useful. Adrian noticed him immediately, waving him over to the map.

“Here we go,” Blaise said under his breath, straightening. “Watch Potter turn himself into the resistance’s favorite new weapon.”

Draco ignored him, his eyes fixed on Harry as he approached Adrian. They exchanged a few words, their voices low, and then Adrian began pointing to different spots on the map, explaining something with quick, precise movements. Harry nodded, his expression thoughtful, though Draco could see the strain behind his eyes.

Blaise nudged him lightly. “You going to hover over him all day, or are you actually going to help?”

Draco glared at him. “What exactly would you like me to do, Zabini? Reorganize their stacks of parchment? Test their questionable potions?”

“Actually,” Blaise said, his smirk returning, “you’d be surprised how much you could help. Not everyone here has your knack for Defense Against the Dark Arts. They’ve got people out there—rookies, untrained—and most of them wouldn’t last five minutes against the Ministry’s enforcers. Teach them something. Make yourself useful.”

Draco bristled at the suggestion, but Blaise didn’t wait for an answer. He pushed off the pillar and strolled across the room, his easy confidence making Draco’s irritation burn hotter. For a moment, Draco debated following him just to argue, but then his gaze drifted back to Harry.

Harry was leaning over the map now, one hand braced against the table, his head tilted as Adrian explained something. He looked exhausted, his shoulders tense, but that spark of determination never seemed to leave his eyes.

Once a fighter, always a fighter. Second nature, threaded into his very bones.

Draco sighed, running a hand through his hair. Maybe Blaise had a point. Maybe there was something he could do here—something beyond watching Harry push himself closer to the edge.

Reluctantly, Draco stepped away from the wall, eyes scanning the room for any sign of where to start.

If this was the world they were trying to save, he supposed he’d better figure out how to fight for it. Because Harry would. And, whether Draco liked it or not, he wasn’t about to let him do it alone.

The den, as they had come to call it, had carved out a makeshift training area in one of the cavernous rooms. The space was dimly lit by floating orbs of golden light, their glow barely cutting through the haze of dust and spell residue.

Draco stood with a wand in hand, his expression sharp and unimpressed as he watched a young witch attempt a Shield Charm for the third time. The results were… less than stellar.

“Protego!” she shouted, but the flickering shield barely formed before sputtering out.

Draco sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re not dueling your sibling over the last biscuit, Cassandra. Again.”

Cassandra scowled but complied, her wand movements more precise this time. A faint shimmer of a shield appeared before her.

“Better,” Draco said grudgingly, “but better isn’t going to stop a Stunner aimed for your head.”

From the corner, Blaise was watching with undisguised amusement. “You’ve got a real knack for motivational speaking, Malfoy. Ever consider a career as a life coach?”

Draco shot him a glare. “Do you want to take over?”

“Absolutely not,” Blaise said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “I’m just here for the show.”

The witch tried again, this time managing a decent Shield Charm. Draco gave a curt nod. “Acceptable. Now, let’s see if you can hold it under pressure.”

Without warning, he flicked his wand, sending a Disarming Spell hurtling toward her. Cassandra yelped but managed to hold the shield long enough to deflect the spell.

“Not bad,” Draco admitted, though his tone was still more critique than praise.

Blaise smirked from the sidelines, offering a slow, mocking clap.

In the heart of the den, Harry was hunched over a glowing map, his brow furrowed as he listened to Adrian explain the latest intel. The map shimmered with magical overlays—red dots marking enemy strongholds, green for resistance safehouses.

Adrian gestured to a cluster of red dots near the coast. “This is where we’ve seen the most activity. Rumor is they’re moving something big—experimental spells, maybe weapons. Could be nothing. Could be a trap.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “If it’s something, we can’t ignore it.”

“Agreed. We’ll need a team to scout it out. Volunteers only. It’s too risky to send anyone unprepared.”

“I’ll go,” Harry said immediately.

Adrian’s brow arched. “You’ve barely recovered, as Draco so likes to remind us all.”

“I’m fine,” Harry said curtly. His tone left no room for argument, but Adrian gave him a long, scrutinizing look.

From the doorway, Draco appeared, his expression tight. “Harry, if you think I’m letting you waltz into another death trap, you’re more concussed than I thought.”

Harry didn’t bother looking up. “No one’s asking you to let me do anything, Malfoy.”

Adrian wisely stepped away, muttering something about fetching supplies, while Draco crossed his arms, glaring at Harry. “You can’t save the bloody world if you’re dead, Harry.”

Harry finally looked up, green eyes steely. “Who says I’m trying to save the world?”

Draco quirked a brow, almost amused. “Then what is it, exactly, that you are trying to do?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

The mist clung to them like ghosts, wrapping their figures in damp, cold fingers that smelled of salt and decay.

Harry moved ahead, his wand a beacon cutting through the dark, steps steady and deliberate, as though he belonged here, in this ruin of rock and storm. Draco followed, his breath tight in his chest.

Ahead, the Ministry checkpoint pulsed with unnatural light, its wards rippling like a mirage, poisonous and alive. It was a beacon of power, and everything about it screamed danger. Draco’s stomach turned at the sight of it, a visceral reaction to the kind of magic that didn’t just hurt—it corrupted.

“We’ve got ten minutes,” Harry murmured.

Ten minutes. It sounded like nothing. Ten minutes wasn’t enough time to save a life, wasn’t enough time to even take a proper breath. And yet Harry’s words held the kind of finality that promised they’d make it work—or die trying.

Draco hated that about him. Hated the quiet confidence, the reckless determination that Harry carried like armor. Hated the way it made Draco want to believe in him.

But really, he didn’t hate it all.

The first curse came without warning, tearing through the mist with a vicious crack. Red light slammed into the ground at Harry’s feet, the force of it sending dirt and jagged shards of rock into the air.

“Ambush!” someone shouted, but the word barely registered. Everything was noise now—shouts, the sizzle of magic colliding, the unmistakable smell of something burning.

Draco didn’t think. His wand was up, the incantation spilling from his lips as a shield snapped into place around him. “Protego!” The spell shimmered, absorbing a volley of curses before shattering like glass.

He stumbled back, his breath hitching as he caught sight of Harry. His wand was moving in sharp, precise arcs, every spell leaving destruction in its wake. The air around him crackled with magic. Harry wasn’t just defending; he was retaliating. And his spells—they weren’t the harmless disarming hexes Draco remembered from Hogwarts.

These were designed to hurt, to maim, to kill.

A Ministry agent crumpled under the weight of a Sectumsempra, blood spilling across the ground in dark rivulets. Another screamed as Harry’s curse wrapped around their chest, squeezing until the sound stopped abruptly.

Draco’s stomach twisted, a raw, gnawing thing—fear, yes, but tangled with something sharper, something that dug its claws in deep and wouldn’t let go. It wasn’t just fear; it was a storm, wild and unruly. A thousand thoughts—half-formed and splintered—clawed at his insides, leaving behind the ache of something he couldn’t name.

How do you carry the knowledge that someone has given everything for you? Their morals, their peace, their very soul, tossed into the fire because you couldn’t stand the cold? How do you live with that weight? How do you breathe under it?

“This was supposed to be a scouting mission!” Draco yelled, his voice raw as he ducked another curse.

Harry didn’t look back. “Welcome to the fight.”

The words were cold, detached, but Draco saw the fire in Harry’s movements—the kind of fire that consumed everything in its path. It wasn’t bravery. It wasn’t anger. It was devotion, turned sharp and violent, and Draco couldn’t look away.

Harry moved like the universe itself—expansive, relentless, and terrifyingly indifferent to the rules.

And Draco stood at the center of his orbit, the reason for his destruction.

A curse grazed Draco’s shoulder, ripping through his coat and leaving a burning gash beneath. He hissed, stumbling, but before he could even raise his wand, Harry was there.

“Get behind me!” Harry barked, his wand slashing through the air with deadly precision. The spell he cast lit up the cliffside, sending their attackers scrambling.

“Confringo!” Draco shouted, the explosion lighting up the mist as two Ministry agents were thrown back, their cries swallowed by the crashing waves below.

“Fall back!” Harry’s voice rang out.

Draco didn’t hesitate this time. He moved, his legs trembling as he followed Harry’s lead. The path was treacherous, the ground slick with rain and blood. Behind them, curses still flew, their light illuminating the mist in brief, violent flashes.

They reached the edge of the wards, and Harry spun around, his wand raised. “Protego Horribilis!” The barrier sprang to life, crackling with dark energy as it absorbed the onslaught of spells.

For a moment, the world was still.

Just the two of them standing in the dim, eerie glow of Harry’s ward, their breaths coming in sharp, uneven bursts.

“You’re mad,” Draco muttered, his voice sharp but breaking under the weight of it all.

Harry didn’t answer at first. The tension in his frame was palpable, his wand hand trembling, streaks of blood painting his knuckles like war paint. “We’re alive.”

Draco swallowed against the lump in his throat. He wanted to yell, to drag Harry out of whatever madness had possessed him, but instead, his words came quiet, splintered. “At what cost, Harry?”

Harry’s gaze shifted to him then, and Draco wished it hadn’t. There was something in those eyes, something hollow and scorched, something that bore the weight of too much. “If it means keeping you here, breathing, then it doesn’t matter. None of it does.”

Draco stared at Harry—the blood staining his shirt, the bruise blooming along his cheek, the way his shoulders slumped as if the entire world rested on them. And maybe it did.

Draco wasn’t just scared—he was petrified. Because he realized then that Harry wasn’t just willing to destroy himself for this. He was already halfway there. He was offering himself up, piece by piece, as the price for Draco’s survival.

Draco didn’t even know what his own survival meant anymore. What was he running from? What was Harry trying to save him from? The questions looped in his mind, tangled and senseless. None of it made sense—none of it mattered. Not when Harry was bleeding out in front of him, tearing himself apart for a man who wasn’t sure he deserved to be saved.

Draco stepped closer, his breath hitching as he looked at the boy who had once been all light and fury and impossible hope. “Do you even see what you’ve become?”

Harry met his gaze, unflinching, unbroken. "I see it. I see every piece I’ve broken off myself. And I’d break again if it meant you’d never have to."

For a moment, the air between them was heavy, suffocating. Draco couldn’t breathe past the ache in his chest, couldn’t look away from the wreckage that stood in front of him. And yet, there was something devastatingly beautiful in Harry’s unwavering resolve, something that made Draco’s throat burn with unspoken words.

“You’re going to die for this,” Draco whispered.

“Maybe. But not before I make sure you live.”

The den was dimly lit, its usual hum of activity muffled in the late hours. The tension from the mission clung to the air like smoke.

Draco paced near the central table. Blaise and Adrian murmured in the background, their tones clipped, discussing what had gone wrong. But Draco wasn’t listening—not really. His eyes kept flicking toward Harry, who was slumped in a chair across the room, his head bowed and his hands gripping the edge of the table as if it was the only thing keeping him upright.

Draco could feel it—the exhaustion radiating off Harry like a physical force. It was seeping into him through the tether, a dull ache that sat heavy in his chest, in his bones. Harry hadn’t stopped moving since they’d returned, hadn’t even taken a moment to clean the blood off his face. The others had already scattered to tend to their wounds, to rest, but Harry had stayed—pouring over maps, reports, anything he could get his hands on.

“Harry,” Draco said, his voice quieter than he intended. It wasn’t a request; it was a warning.

Harry didn’t look up. His fingers tightened on the paper in front of him, his breathing uneven. “I’m fine,” he muttered.

Draco stopped pacing, his jaw tightening. “No, you’re not.”

“I said I’m fine.”

The words were sharp and cutting, but Draco didn’t flinch. He stepped closer. He took in the dark circles under Harry’s eyes, the way his shoulders sagged.

“You’re bleeding,” Draco pointed out, his voice taut. “You’re exhausted. And you’re pushing yourself like—”

“I don’t have time to stop,” Harry snapped, finally looking up. “You think they’re stopping? You think they’re waiting for us to catch our breath?”

Draco opened his mouth to argue, but before he could, Harry’s body swayed. For a split second, Draco thought he might steady himself, but then his knees buckled, and he crumpled to the floor.

“Harry!” Draco was at his side in an instant, his hands gripping Harry’s shoulders as he knelt beside him. Harry’s head lolled forward, his breaths becoming shallow. The tether between them pulsed painfully, a wave of Harry’s exhaustion slamming into Draco like a physical blow.

“Blaise!” Draco barked over his shoulder, his voice sharp and panicked. “Help me!”

But Blaise didn’t move. “You’ve got him, Draco,” he said quietly. It wasn’t dismissive; it was knowing. “He’ll listen to you.”

Draco’s hands trembled as he adjusted Harry’s weight, leaning him back against his chest. He could feel the heat radiating off him, the dampness of sweat mixing with dried blood. “Idiot,” Draco muttered, his voice cracking despite himself. “You’re going to kill yourself at this rate.”

Harry’s eyes fluttered open, unfocused and heavy-lidded. “I’m fine.”

“You’re a bloody liar. You’re not fine, Harry. You haven’t been fine since the moment this all started.”

Harry didn’t respond. His head tipped forward again, his body too heavy to hold upright. Draco gritted his teeth, his fingers brushing against the damp fringe of Harry’s hair. He glanced up at Blaise, who had finally come closer, watching the scene with unreadable eyes.

“He’s burning himself out. He’s going to—”

“He knows,” Blaise interrupted. “But it’s Potter, we’re talking about. You can’t tell him to stop.”

Draco’s jaw clenched. “Watch me.”

He shifted Harry slightly, one arm supporting him as he reached for his wand. “You’re done for the night,” he muttered, more to himself than to Harry. “Whether you like it or not.”

Draco cast a charm to ease Harry’s breathing, then another to clean the worst of the blood from his face. The tether between them was still thrumming, faint but insistent. Every spell Harry cast, every risk he took, wasn’t just draining him—it was bleeding into Draco, too.

Harry stirred faintly, his voice a weak murmur. “Draco…”

“Shut up. You’re not allowed to talk right now. Just—rest.”

Harry didn’t argue, his head lolling against Draco’s shoulder as his body finally gave in. Draco stayed there, his arms wrapped around Harry like he could shield him from everything—his own stubbornness, the war, the weight of the world.

For a moment, it was quiet. The room faded away, and it was just the two of them, tangled in something fragile and unspeakable.

“You can’t keep doing this,” Draco whispered, his voice breaking. “You can’t keep… killing yourself for me.”

Harry didn’t answer. His breaths evened out, his body going slack in Draco’s hold. And for the first time in what felt like forever, Draco allowed himself to breathe, too.

Draco exhaled slowly, his hand trembling slightly as he adjusted Harry’s weight. He could feel the steady rhythm of Harry’s heartbeat against him, faint but reassuring, and it anchored him in the way nothing else seemed to these days. He hadn’t realized how tightly he’d been holding onto Harry—not just physically, but in every way that mattered—until now.

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

The den around them faded into a soft blur, the quiet hum of magic and distant murmurs of others reduced to static in the background. Draco’s fingers, still ghosting through Harry’s hair, stilled as he caught sight of Harry’s face. The lines of exhaustion etched into it, the way his lips parted slightly with every shallow breath—it was almost too much.

“You’re ridiculous, you know that?” Draco muttered under his breath, more to himself than to Harry. “The world’s falling apart, and you’re still trying to save everyone. Like it’s your responsibility. Like you’re not allowed to rest.”

Harry stirred faintly at that, his head shifting against Draco’s shoulder. His eyes fluttered open, glassy and unfocused, but there was the barest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “You’re talking too much, Draco.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “And you’re not talking enough. Maybe if you said something sensible for once, I wouldn’t have to fill the silence.”

Harry’s smile grew, barely perceptible but there, and it was enough to make Draco’s heart stumble in his chest. “You’re... surprisingly good at this.”

“At what?”

“Taking care of me,” Harry replied, words slurring slightly as he sank deeper into the haze of exhaustion.

Draco froze, his breath catching in his throat. For a moment, he didn’t know what to say. “Yeah, well—someone has to, since you’re clearly incapable of doing it yourself.”

“You like it,” Harry’s eyes slipped shut again. “You like… looking after me.”

Draco’s face flushed, his grip on Harry tightening slightly.  

Harry breathing evened out again, but the faint curve of his lips remained.

Draco let out a slow breath, his hand brushing absently through Harry’s hair once more. It was softer than it had any right to be, and Draco hated the way it made his chest feel too full, like there wasn’t enough room for the emotions clawing their way to the surface.

He leaned back slightly, his head resting against the wall as he looked down at Harry. His features were softer in sleep, the usual sharp edges dulled. Draco’s gaze lingered on him longer than it should have, tracing the curve of his cheek, the faint smattering of freckles he’d never noticed before.

Then, with a soft sigh, he adjusted Harry’s weight again, pulling him closer as if he could shield him from the rest of the world. From himself.

Because for all his sharp words and barbed insults, Draco knew the truth: he would keep doing this. Over and over again. As long as Harry needed him, as long as Harry kept fighting, Draco would be there. He couldn’t explain it, couldn’t rationalize it, but it didn’t matter.

Harry stirred again, his head nestling into the crook of Draco’s neck.

Draco froze, his breath catching in his throat. His hand hovered for a moment before he finally let it settle gently on Harry’s back, his fingers splayed against the fabric of his shirt.

The tether pulsed again, softer this time, and Draco closed his eyes, letting the sensation wash over him.

Harry sat at a small desk tucked into the corner, his fingers brushing over the bronze button Hermione had given him. It glowed faintly as her message etched itself across the surface in neat, familiar handwriting:

We’re still working on the safe house list. Kingsley says to sit tight, but be careful. Ministry’s cracking down harder. Don’t let your guard down. We’ll send coordinates when we can.

Harry read it twice before letting out a quiet sigh.

Across the room, Adrian leaned against a table, arms crossed, his easy smile breaking through the tension.

“She’s right, you know,” Adrian said, nodding toward the button. “You’ve got to stop throwing yourself into every mission like you’re invincible.”

Harry glanced at him, a tired smirk tugging at his lips. “That’s rich, coming from the guy who volunteered to raid a Ministry convoy solo last week.”

Adrian laughed. “Fair enough. But at least I don’t look like I’m trying to carry the weight of the entire wizarding world on my shoulders.”

Draco walked into the room just in time to catch the exchange. His gaze flicked between Harry and Adrian, something tight twisting in his chest. He shoved his hands into his pockets, trying to ignore the heat rising to his face.

Blaise appeared at his side, his smirk sharp as he leaned in. “Jealous, are we?”

Draco scoffed, his jaw tightening. “Of what? Potter making friends with every bleeding idiot who gives him the time of day? Hardly.”

“Whatever you say, Draco. Just try not to hex Adrian when no one’s looking.”

Draco glared at him but said nothing, his attention shifting back to Harry, who was now laughing at something Adrian had said.

The sound was rare, and Draco hated how much he noticed it—hated how it sent an ache curling through his chest.

Bloody fucking hell.

The main room of the den was buzzing with activity. Maps and blueprints covered nearly every surface, enchanted quills scratching away at parchment. Blaise stood at the center table, gesturing animatedly as he explained their next steps to a small group of operatives.

Draco sat off to the side, arms crossed as he watched the chaos unfold. His gaze drifted to Harry, as per usual, who was deep in conversation with one of the tech-savvy members of the group—a Muggle-born who had rigged a series of Ministry communication devices to work against their own networks. Harry looked focused, nodding along as she explained her latest breakthrough.

“He’s good at this,” Blaise said, appearing at Draco’s side with a glass of whiskey in hand.

Draco frowned, his gaze snapping to Blaise. “What are you on about?”

“Potter,” Blaise said, sipping his drink. “He’s a natural leader. People gravitate toward him. Even… say, Adrian.”

Draco’s scowl deepened. “Adrian flirts with anything that breathes. That doesn’t mean anything.”

Blaise’s grin widened. “Oh, this is delightful. You really are jealous.”

“I’m not jealous.”

“Of course not. You just happen to glare daggers at anyone who gets within two feet of Potter.”

Draco didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he stood abruptly and walked toward Harry, leaving Blaise chuckling behind him.

Later that night, the den had quieted, most of the resistance members retreating to their bunks or makeshift workstations. Draco found Harry sitting on the floor by one of the larger maps, his back against the wall and head tilted back as he stared at the ceiling.

“You look like hell,” Draco said, sitting down beside him without waiting for an invitation.

Harry smirked faintly, not bothering to lift his head. “Thanks. Always a pleasure to hear your input.”

Draco reached into his pocket and pulled out a small flask, handing it to Harry.

“What’s this?”

“Something Blaise swiped from the stash. It’s disgusting, but it’ll keep you awake.”

Harry took the flask, his fingers brushing against Draco’s for a brief moment. The contact was fleeting, but it sent a spark skittering up Draco’s spine. He looked away quickly, pretending to study the map as Harry took a sip.

“Thanks,” Harry said quietly.

Draco glanced at him. “Just… don’t die, Harry. That’s all I’m asking.”

Harry’s lips curved into a faint smile. “I’ll do my best.”

The abandoned barn stood at the edge of a frost-bitten field, its roof sagging under years of neglect. It had been the meeting place—the spot where an old contact was supposed to give them information.

Harry and Draco moved in silence, footsteps muffled by the thin layer of snow that covered the ground. The air was frigid, their breath misting in front of them.

“This is it,” Draco murmured as they approached the barn door. He glanced at Harry, his eyes filled with uncertainty. “Are you sure about this?”

Harry didn’t relish the idea of meeting with an unknown contact, even if every precaution had been taken to screen them. Caution, he knew, was a currency they couldn’t afford to waste—especially now, when every step forward felt like walking a knife’s edge. These days, it seemed like the world was poised to betray them at every turn.

Yet, as much as Harry hated it, they needed this. They needed every scrap of intel they could get on the Ministry’s next move—it was the only way to stay one step ahead in a game that was rigged against them.

Harry didn’t answer, his wand already in his hand as he pushed the door open. The hinges groaned, the sound echoing in the emptiness. The interior was dark, the only light filtering through the gaps in the rotting wood.

Harry stepped inside, his senses on high alert, magic thrumming beneath his skin like a coiled snake ready to strike.

Draco followed, his gaze darting around the space. “Where are they?”  

Before Harry could respond, he felt it—the shift in the air, the sudden surge of magic that crackled like electricity. His instincts screamed at him, and he spun around just as the first spell shot through the darkness, missing him by inches.

“It’s a trap!” Harry shouted, shoving Draco behind a stack of old crates. His wand was already raised, body moving on pure instinct, a shield charm deflecting the next curse that came his way.

Figures emerged from the shadows—cloaked, faces obscured, wands raised and ready.

Harry didn’t hesitate.

“Stupefy!” The red light of his spell lit up the dark barn, striking the closest attacker square in the chest. They fell back with a dull thud, but there were more, too many, and Harry could feel the familiar burn of rage igniting inside him.

Draco peeked out from behind the crates, his heart pounding in his chest. He could feel the tether between him and Harry, pulsing with a wild, almost feral energy. It scared him, the intensity of it, the raw power that seemed to spill from Harry like a dam about to burst.

Harry moved like a storm, his wand a blur as he sent curse after curse flying at their attackers. “Confringo!” he snarled, the explosion ripping through the barn, wood splintering and dust filling the air.

One of the cloaked figures fell. Harry didn’t even flinch.

Draco’s chest ached as he watched Harry walk through the wreckage of his own making, a storm carved into human form, dragging ash and flame in his wake as if it were nothing. As if it were everything.

Another spell shot towards them, and Draco barely had time to react, his own wand rising to cast a shaky shield. The force of the impact sent him stumbling back.

“Harry!” Draco shouted, his voice cracking as he tried to break through the haze of violence that had overtaken. “We have to go!”

Harry wasn’t listening, his focus narrowed to the enemies in front of him, his wand slashing through the air with a lethal precision. Another attacker fell, their scream cut short as Harry’s spell hit its mark.

This was wrong—all of it was wrong. Draco hadn’t asked for this, hadn’t wanted Harry to fight for him like this.

There’s a line, isn’t there? A fragile, wavering thread between justice and madness. Well, Harry Potter burned that thread long ago. And Draco Malfoy is the only thing keeping him tethered to what remains of the world.

The remaining attackers were retreating, spells frantic and uncoordinated as they realized they were outmatched. Harry took a step forward, eyes blazing. He was ready to finish it, to end them, and Draco knew, in that moment, Harry would stop at nothing to defend him, that no boundary was sacred, no principle unbreakable.

“Harry, please,” Draco called out, his voice pleading. “We need to go. Now.”

Harry hesitated, his wand still raised, his chest heaving as he stared at the last of the attackers, who had fallen to the ground, scrambling to get away. For a moment, Draco thought Harry would do it—thought he would kill the man without a second thought. And maybe that was what scared him the most—the way a dark, ugly part of him wanted Harry to do it. Wanted the man gone. Wanted the threat erased. Wanted the suffocating weight of fear lifted, even if it came at the cost of someone else’s life.

It would be easy. That’s what struck Draco the most. It would be so easy for Harry to do it, to cross that line. And maybe, just maybe, Draco wouldn’t blame him for it. Because wasn’t this what survival meant? Wasn’t this what they had to do to stay alive?

But something else clawed at Draco, just beneath the surface. A faint, wavering voice that sounded too much like the boy he used to be, the boy who had been told a hundred times that killing was power, that ruthlessness was survival. It wasn’t true, though, was it? Draco knew better now. Or at least, he wanted to believe he did.

The truth was, Draco didn’t just fear what Harry might do. He feared what it would mean if he wanted it. If he needed it. If he could look at Harry, look at the man he trusted with his life, and see someone capable of that kind of darkness—and still feel safe.

That was what scared him the most. Not the idea of Harry killing, but the hollow, desperate part of him that wanted it. That wanted to stop running, to stop looking over his shoulder, to stop feeling like the next curse could tear them apart. Safety. It felt so far out of reach, and in this moment, it felt so tempting to take it, no matter the cost.

Draco’s lips parted, finally finding the voice to speak, but Harry moved first. His wand lowered, the crackling tension dissipating like a flame snuffed out. The man scrambled to his feet and ran, disappearing into the night, leaving only silence in his wake.

Harry didn’t look at Draco. He turned away, his shoulders hunched, his breaths coming in uneven gasps.

And Draco—Draco wasn’t sure whether he felt relief or something closer to disappointment.

Maybe it was both.

And maybe that was the worst thing of all.

Only the flicker of lamplight and the ensuing deep silence remained in the den, the previous commotion having faded into a muted murmur as the resistance members withdrew into their corners.

Under the gentle golden sphere of light that hung overhead, Draco sat on the edge of a makeshift cot, his shirt thrown aside, the gash along his ribs glowing dimly. The slight metallic flavor of blood and the smell of antiseptic potions filled the air, but Harry ignored it. With a damp cloth in his hand and a silent, focused expression on his face, he knelt before Draco.

"You really don’t have to," Draco muttered, his gaze drifting somewhere just over Harry’s shoulder, his voice quieter than usual. "I could… I can manage."

Harry didn’t look up, his brow furrowed in focus as he dabbed gently at the wound, the tenderness of his touch almost more painful than the injury itself. A small smile played at the corners of his lips. "You could, but you won’t. And I'd rather not watch you make a mess of things."

Draco sighed, a sound that aimed for annoyance but landed somewhere closer to surrender. There was something disarming in the warmth of Harry’s hands against his skin, something that Draco wasn’t prepared to face. He felt the words curling in his throat—a familiar instinct to say something biting, to push Harry away just a little—but exhaustion weighed him down, and the sharpness slipped away.

"You’re too gentle for this," Draco murmured, the words slipping free without his permission. "I’ve seen you fight… seen you tear through curses like—like they’re nothing. But here you are… worrying over a scratch."

Harry paused, his hand hovering just above the wound, his gaze lifting to meet Draco’s. For a moment, there was only silence between them.

"Maybe that’s why. Because I know what it means to destroy. And I know what it’s like to want to protect something more. I don’t want to do that here—not… not to you."

Draco, a thousand thoughts tangling together, left him wordless. He looked away, swallowing hard. He wanted to say something—anything—but there were no words for this, for the gentleness that seemed to ache within him. In Harry's gentle hands, Draco found a refuge from the shadows that had long defined him, a soft, warm light that illuminated the contours of a heart he'd never known he possessed.

Harry dipped his head back down, fingers brushing Draco’s skin, impossibly gentle as he worked the healing balm into the cut.

The sting made Draco flinch, just slightly, but Harry’s hand stilled. "Sorry.”

"It’s fine," Draco said, his voice a little unsteady. He cleared his throat, trying for a wry smile. "Just… get on with it."

The silence that followed felt heavier, but not uncomfortable. Draco let his gaze drop to Harry—watching the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks, the faint crease of concentration on his brow. It struck him as strange, how someone so worn, so scarred, could still hold this kind of gentleness, as if all the damage he’d endured had never quite touched the core of him.

"I’m tired, Harry," Draco whispered suddenly, his voice breaking at the edges. "I’m so… bloody tired of running, of hiding, of waiting for the moment they catch up. I’m tired of being… scared."

Harry stilled, his gaze snapping up to meet Draco’s. "Then lean on me. Just for a little while. Until you’re ready to stand again."

Draco closed his eyes for a moment. He was tempted to pull away. But he didn’t.

When Harry finished, he sat back on his heels, hands resting on his thighs, eyes still on Draco. The wound was gone, the skin smooth and unbroken, but Draco’s fingers drifted there, his touch hesitant, as if searching for the place where the pain had once been.

"You’re not half-bad at this.”

Harry gave a small smile, a ghost of one.

Draco’s gaze lingered on Harry, his chest impossibly tight, as if his heart was trying to speak but didn’t know how. "Tell me," he said, the words barely audible, "do you think we could have been something else? Somewhere else?"

“No. I think this—this madness, this ruin—is the only place we could ever find each other."

Harry slowly reached out, his fingers brushing Draco's, and for an instant, the rest of the world seemed to disappear. The flicker of lamplight, the distant murmur of voices—it all faded, leaving just the two of them.

Draco didn’t pull away. Instead, he turned his hand, letting Harry's fingers intertwine with his own. "You’re impossible, you know that?"

Harry looked up at him, green eyes soft, a warmth there that Draco wasn’t sure he deserved. "I’ve been told," he murmured, his thumb brushing lightly over Draco's knuckles. "But you haven’t run yet."

"Maybe I’m just too tired to run.”

"Then rest. Just rest, and let me be here."

Draco closed his eyes, the fight draining out of him, leaving only the exhaustion and the strange, fragile comfort of Harry’s presence. He nodded, barely, and felt Harry shift closer.

And for a moment, just a moment, Draco allowed himself to lean into it, the gentle whisper of Harry's touch keeping the crushing weight of the world at rest.

The next morning came sluggishly.

Draco sat at the long table in the center of the planning room, nursing a cup of something lukewarm and bitter that Blaise had shoved into his hands. Harry leaned against the wall nearby, arms crossed as he listened to Adrian outline the fallout from the ambush the night before.

“So that’s it?” Draco asked, tone sharper than he intended. “It was a trap?”

Adrian nodded grimly, his fingers splayed over a map littered with hastily drawn notes and small, glowing markers. “They knew we were coming. No way they could’ve been that precise without intel. Someone’s feeding them information.”

Blaise leaned back in his chair. “It’s not just information. They’re targeting the people they see as the biggest threat.”

Draco glanced at Harry instinctively.

“Meaning us,” Harry said flatly.

Adrian didn’t argue. “You two have become their symbol—whether you like it or not. Every time you take down an Auror squad, disrupt a Ministry operation, or blow up one of their checkpoints, it emboldens the resistance. People are talking, Potter. Malfoy. They see you as… untouchable.”

Draco frowned. “So what? We keep fighting. We stay ahead of them.”

Adrian shook his head, his eyes dark and serious. “That’s not the problem. The problem is that you’re painting a target on the rest of us just by being here.”

“That’s not fair,” Draco snapped. “We didn’t ask to be some bloody symbol.”

Blaise cut in, his voice calm but pointed. “Doesn’t matter if you asked for it. You are. And as much as we’d love to keep you around, the truth is, you’re too high-profile to stay here.”

Draco opened his mouth to argue, but Harry beat him to it. “He’s right.”

Draco turned to Harry, incredulous. “You can’t be serious.”

“This isn’t about us, Draco. It’s about them. The more we’re here, the more danger we’re putting them in.”

“And what? We leave and just hope for the best? Run off into the wilderness again?”

“No,” Adrian interjected. “Not the bloody wilderness, Draco. We’ve got contacts—places you can go where the Ministry’s reach is weaker. But you can’t stay here. Not after last night, mate. If they were willing to set up a trap like that, it means they know you’re here. It’s only a matter of time before they come in force.”

Draco pressed his fingers to his temple.

Harry pushed off the wall, stepping closer to the table. “So, we go. But we need somewhere secure, somewhere we can still help. I’m not sitting on my hands while the rest of you fight.”

Draco let out a frustrated sigh, his fingers drumming against the side of his cup. “And if they find us again?”

Blaise smirked faintly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Then you do what you do best, Malfoy. Cause chaos and make it hard for them to catch you.”

Draco shot him a glare, but there was no real heat behind it. He glanced at Harry again, searching his face for some hint of doubt, some crack in the resolve. But Harry’s expression was set, his shoulders squared. This wasn’t up for debate.

“Fine,” Draco muttered, setting his cup down with a sharp clink. “But if we’re leaving, we’re taking every bloody piece of intel you’ve got.”

Adrian’s lips quirked into a faint smile. “Wouldn’t expect anything less.”

Harry gave a small nod. “When do we leave?”

“Tonight,” Adrian said. “Under the cover of darkness. I’ll make sure you’re stocked up before you go.”

Draco leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. As much as he hated to admit it, Draco couldn’t shake the feeling that Blaise and Adrian were right. They had to go. Because staying wasn’t just a risk—it was a death sentence. For everyone.

Draco lingered in the makeshift lounge area after. Blaise joined him, leaning casually against the doorway with a glass in hand. He swirled the amber liquid lazily, watching Draco with an expression that was too calm for Draco’s liking.

“You look like hell.”

Draco shot him a glare, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Thanks for the observation, Zabini. Really helpful.”

Blaise smirked, dark eyes gleaming. “Someone’s cranky.”

“Someone’s tired of running. I don’t know where the hell we’re supposed to go, Blaise. There’s only so many places we can hide before the Ministry sniffs us out again.”

Blaise tilted his head, considering him. “You’re resourceful. You’ll figure it out.”

Draco let out a bitter laugh, gesturing vaguely toward the maps strewn across the table. “Right. Because figuring things out has worked so well for us so far.”

Blaise pushed off the wall and sauntered over, dropping into the seat across from Draco. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “What about the rings?”

“What about them?”

“Theo’s ring,” Blaise said, tapping his temple as if prompting Draco to keep up. “It’s still green. That means he’s alive, doesn’t it?”

Draco’s gaze dropped to his hand, where the Slytherin ring sat snugly on his finger. The stones caught the dim light of the den. His own stone, once blackened, had turned green again the moment he put the ring back on. Theo’s stone had never darkened, never fallen off.

“We don’t know where Theo is. Nobody does.”

Blaise’s smirk returned, subtle but knowing. “Theo always was the clever one. If anyone knows how to stay hidden, it’s him.”

“And that helps us how?”

“Because Theo had safehouses,” Blaise said simply, leaning back in his chair. “You know he did. The Nott family owned properties all over the place—most of them unregistered. If we can figure out where he might’ve gone… there’s a good chance it’ll still be secure.”

Draco hesitated. He hadn’t thought about the Nott safehouses in years. They were a well-kept secret, even among Theo’s closest friends, but Draco remembered Theo mentioning them once or twice during late-night conversations in the Slytherin common room.

“How the hell are we supposed to figure out which one?”

Blaise shrugged, the faintest hint of a grin tugging at his lips. “The rings might help. They were tied to all of us, weren’t they? Maybe there’s a connection we can use.”

Draco glanced down at the ring again, his fingers brushing over the smooth surface. The stones seemed to pulse faintly, almost imperceptibly, as if responding to his touch. A memory stirred—Theo’s voice, low and conspiratorial, explaining how the enchantments worked. Something about the stones being bound not just to them, but to the places they’d marked as safe.

“I’ll need to look at Snape’s notes,” Draco muttered, his brow furrowing. “He had a thing for runes and old magic. If there’s a way to use the ring to track Theo, it’ll be in there. Has to be.”

“There you go. A plan. See? You’re not hopeless after all.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Insufferable as always, Zabini.”

“And you love me for it,” Blaise quipped, standing and draining the rest of his drink. “Let me know what you find. And if you need help convincing Potter to follow through with this little idea of ours, just give me a shout. I’d hate to miss the show.”

Draco watched Blaise saunter away.

The idea of Theo’s safehouses being their next destination felt tenuous at best, but it was something. And in this endless game of running and hiding, something was better than nothing.

He reached for Snape’s notebook on the table, flipping through the brittle pages with purpose now. His hands were steady, mind sharp as he searched for anything that might confirm Blaise’s theory.

The sound of footsteps pulled Draco’s attention. He looked up, eyes narrowing slightly, as Harry leaned against the doorframe. His hair was an unruly mess, and the dark circles under his eyes suggested he hadn’t slept—but it was the way those green eyes locked on Draco that made his stomach twist.

“You’re certainly making yourself useful,” Harry drawled, stepping further into the room. His voice was low, casual, but there was something in the curve of his mouth—a faint smirk that sent heat creeping up Draco’s neck.

Draco didn’t bother looking up from the notebook spread across the table. “Unlike some of us, I’m trying to keep us alive.” He gestured vaguely to the scribbled notes, his tone sharp but practiced, like a knife he knew Harry wouldn’t let cut too deep.

Harry moved closer, the quiet weight of his presence filling the room. He perched on the edge of the table. “What’s got you so focused?”

Draco’s jaw tightened. He hated how easily Harry could make him falter. He turned the ring absently, buying himself a moment. “Theo. Blaise thinks the ring might connect to one of his old safehouses. If we can figure out how to activate it, we might finally have somewhere to go.”

Harry’s expression shifted—subtle, but Draco caught it. That flicker of hope, quickly shadowed by wariness. “And you think it’ll work?”

“I don’t know. But it’s the best lead we’ve got. Unless you’ve suddenly developed a talent for miracles.”

Harry huffed a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Not lately. But if there’s even a chance, we should try.”

Draco looked at him then, really looked. The lines around Harry’s eyes were deeper in the low light, his weariness etched into the very way he sat, but there was something else—something heavier. Draco forced himself to glance away, his gaze falling to the notebook. He flipped a page, the scent of old parchment filling the air, grounding him.

Harry didn’t move. His eyes lingered on Draco, his fingers tracing idle patterns against the edge of the table. “What if it doesn’t work?”

“It will.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

Draco’s hand stilled against the page. He met Harry’s gaze, and for a moment, the room felt too small, too quiet. “Then we find another way. But this is what we’ve got, so unless you’d like to keep sleeping with one eye open, maybe stop questioning it.”

Harry’s lips curved into a faint smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m not questioning it. I just… I just don’t want to see you get your hopes up. Not for something that might lead us nowhere.”

“I don’t get my hopes up, Harry. That’s your department.”

After a stretch of silence, Harry’s voice broke through, softer this time, hesitant. “Do you really think Theo’s alive?”

Draco didn’t look up immediately. “He has to be.”

“Well, if Blaise is right, and these rings are connected to more than just us, we’ll figure it out. Together.”

The word—together—settled in the air like a weight. Draco’s chest tightened, an ache that was unfamiliar and unwelcomed. He wasn’t used to this. To someone standing beside him, offering quiet conviction instead of judgment, presence instead of abandonment.

Draco’s lips twisted into a faint sneer, though the bite in it was dulled. “Don’t get sentimental, Potter. I’m not exactly in the mood for heartfelt declarations.”

Harry’s mouth curved. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Malfoy.”

Draco huffed, his attention snapping back to the notebook in front of him. Harry’s presence, infuriating as it was, made the suffocating air just a little easier to breathe.

He traced over the runes in Snape’s notes, feigning concentration, but his focus had splintered. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Harry settle back, his hand absently running through his disheveled hair. It should have been unremarkable. Mundane. But it wasn’t.

Draco forced his voice to steady. “If this goes wrong, it’s your fault.”

Harry tilted his head, eyes glinting with something teasing. “Wouldn’t expect anything less.”

Draco didn’t respond, his fingers tightening slightly around the quill in his hand. Together. The word echoed in his mind, unbidden and stubborn. He didn’t know what to make of it, didn’t know how to hold it without it cutting him.

So, he didn’t.

He focused on the task at hand, ignoring the way the room felt just a little less hollow.

Later, Blaise returned, leaning casually against the doorframe. His gaze swept over the room before settling on Draco, who was bent over Snape’s notebook as he traced over a series of runes with his wand.

“You’ve been at this for hours,” Blaise drawled. “Tell me you’ve cracked the code, Draco. Otherwise, I’ll have to start questioning your intellect.”

Draco looked up, the barest flicker of triumph in his eyes. “Possibly. There’s a spell here—ancient. It’s tied to blood magic and personal connections. If the rings are enchanted the way Theo claimed, this might work.”

“Well, well. All those hours with your nose in books finally paying off. I’m almost proud.”

“Spare me your sentimentality.”

Before Blaise could retort, Harry entered the room with Adrian in tow, green eyes flicking between them before landing on the notebook. “Any progress?”

Draco straightened, closing the notebook with a deliberate snap. “I think I’ve found something. If Theo’s safehouses are still warded and active, this spell should lead us to one.”

Adrian’s skepticism was evident in the arch of his brow. “And if it doesn’t?”

“Then we regroup. Try something else.”

Harry stepped closer, his expression unreadable as he studied Draco. “You’re sure about this?”

“No,” Draco admitted, meeting Harry’s gaze. “But it’s the best shot we’ve got.”

“Then we don’t waste time. Let’s do it.”

Draco moved deliberately to the center of the room. He placed the notebook carefully on the table, fingertips grazing the page as he re-read the intricate instructions for the third time. The runes inked in Snape’s careful script seemed alive, faintly glowing under the dim light as if waiting for the right touch to bring them to life.

Draco extended his hand over the table, the ring glinting faintly. The black stone that had shifted to green seemed to pulse faintly in the dim light, a quiet promise—or perhaps a warning.

With a sharp flick of his wand, Draco murmured the incantation.

The air shifted instantly, a low vibration running through the floor. The stones in the ring began to glow, their colors deepening until they burned like tiny stars. The runes on the notebook shimmered, twisting and rearranging themselves like living things responding to Draco’s command.

“Et nos iter ostende…” Draco’s voice grew steadier, more certain, the ancient Latin rolling off his tongue with eerie precision. “Ad locum tutum. Ostende viam.”

The light intensified, washing over the room in waves. Shadows stretched long and distorted against the walls as the hum grew louder, reverberating through their bones. Draco’s hand trembled, the strain of the magic crawling up his arm, but he kept going.

A sudden, sharp crack split the room, and the magic surged.

Draco flinched as a map materialized on the table, unrolling itself with a snap. The parchment glowed faintly, and a single point began to pulse, marking a location along the rugged northern coast of Scotland.

Draco exhaled shakily, his hand lowering as the glow around the ring faded. His chest rose and fell in rapid breaths. “It worked.”

Harry stepped forward, his gaze fixed on the map. “That’s it? That’s where we’re going?”

“It’s one of Theo’s safehouses. If the enchantments are still intact, it’ll be hidden and warded.”

“Convenient. But how do we know it’s not a trap?”

Draco straightened. “We don’t. But staying here? Waiting for the Ministry to show up again? That’s a guarantee we won’t survive.”

Harry’s gaze shifted to Draco. “Then we go. Tonight.”

Another gamble. Another step closer to survival.

Later that night, the den hummed with a restless quiet, the kind that made every breath feel heavier, every movement slower. Shadows stretched long across the walls, flickering faintly with the glow of enchanted lamps as they gathered their things, preparing to leave.

Draco stood by Nyx, fingers brushing over the car’s sleek frame like it was something fragile, something that might shatter under the weight of all that had been piled onto it. He muttered a series of concealment spells under his breath, each one precise, almost ritualistic.

Harry approached, his bag slung over one shoulder, boots scuffing faintly against the floor. He stopped a few steps away, watching Draco for a moment longer than he should have. The way his jaw clenched, the way his hands lingered against the car’s surface.

“You alright?” Harry asked, his voice quiet.

Draco didn’t look at him right away, his gaze fixed on the runes shimmering faintly along Nyx’s side. When he finally turned, his expression was carefully constructed, like armor he’d perfected over years of being forced to wear it. “As alright as I can be.”

Harry’s hand lingered on the door handle, his fingers curling around it. “We’ll make it,” Harry said finally. “One way or another.”

Draco’s gaze flicked to him, sharp and searching, like he was trying to find something—an answer, maybe, or a lie he could call Harry out on. But there was nothing false in Harry’s tone, nothing uncertain. Just a quiet determination that shouldn’t have been comforting but somehow was.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then Draco exhaled sharply, breaking the tension as he turned back to Nyx. “You’ve sure got a real knack for optimism, Harry.”

Harry’s lips curved into a faint, fleeting smile, but he didn’t respond. Instead, he opened the door and slid into the passenger seat, leaving Draco to his spells and his silence.

The drive to the northern coast of Scotland was tense, the kind of silence that wasn’t comfortable but wasn’t entirely hostile either. The map Blaise had handed over rested in Harry’s lap, the faint glow of its enchanted markings casting shadows in the darkened car.

Draco’s knuckles were white against the steering wheel as Nyx’s tires crunched over uneven gravel. The forest around them grew denser as they neared the coordinates, moonlight barely piercing the canopy above. It wasn’t until the faint outline of an old, sprawling manor came into view that either of them spoke.

“This is it,” Draco said. He pulled Nyx to a stop just beyond the wrought-iron gate that had been left slightly ajar.

Harry glanced up at the structure, its silhouette imposing against the night sky. “Looks… welcoming,” he muttered, sliding his wand from his sleeve as he stepped out of the car.

Draco followed, his steps hesitant. The air around the manor felt heavy with magic, wards layered and intricate—Theo’s work, no doubt. He pushed open the gate, wincing as it groaned loudly in the silence.

“Subtle,” Harry whispered, his wand raised as they moved toward the door.

Draco ignored him, his focus on the faint glow of light visible through the cracks in the curtains. He raised a hand, hesitated for a fraction of a second, then knocked. The sound echoed, sharp and hollow, against the door’s thick wood.

They waited.

The seconds stretched long enough for Draco to start second-guessing everything. What if the safehouse was abandoned? What if Theo wasn’t here? What if—

The door creaked open.

The figure on the other side froze, his hand still on the doorknob, his face illuminated by the faint glow of the enchanted sconces on the walls. He was thinner than Draco remembered, his features sharper, his eyes sunken but no less calculating. The scar across his cheek was new, a stark reminder of how much had changed.

“Theo?”

“The hell are you doing here?” Theodore Nott said, his voice edged with confusion and just a hint of irritation. His eyes flicked to Harry, narrowing slightly before returning to Draco. “And Potter? What in Merlin’s name is going on?”

Draco blinked, still caught between relief and shock. “I could ask you the same question.”

Harry stepped forward. “We were told this was a safehouse.”

Theo’s gaze hardened, his expression unreadable. “It is. But no one said it was open for visitors.” He stepped aside, his movement sharp. “Get inside. Now.”

Draco exchanged a wary glance with Harry before stepping over the threshold. The room was warm, the fire crackling in the hearth casting flickering light across the walls. Books and parchments were scattered across every surface, and the faint hum of protective wards buzzed in the air.

Theo shut the door behind them with a heavy thud, locking it with a flick of his wand. He turned to Draco, his expression unreadable. “You’ve got about thirty seconds to explain why you’re here.”

Draco opened his mouth, but no words came. The sight of Theo—alive, battered but very much alive—made his thoughts stumble over themselves. For once, it was Harry who spoke first.

“Ministry’s after us. We had nowhere else to go,” Harry said simply, his tone clipped but not unkind. “If it’s a problem, we’ll leave.”

Theo’s sharp gaze cut to him, lingering for a moment before shifting back to Draco. “No. Stay.” His voice softened slightly, though his posture remained tense. “I just… wasn’t expecting this.”

Draco swallowed hard. “Neither was I.”

For a long moment, the room was silent save for the crackling fire. Theo’s lips twitched, not quite a smile but close. “Well,” he said finally, his voice dry, “I suppose it’s nice to see you too.”

Draco didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Instead, he just stood there, his heart pounding, as the safehouse’s door rattled faintly under the pressure of the wards—holding strong against the storm outside.

The safehouse was both practical and elegant, a reflection of Theo’s meticulous nature. The main room was lined with towering bookshelves, filled not just with texts but with neatly stacked scrolls and magical artifacts that hummed faintly with enchantment. A massive hearth dominated one wall, its warmth spilling over the space, casting long shadows on the exposed stone. The furniture was mismatched—plush armchairs that looked salvaged from some long-abandoned manor, a sleek coffee table scarred with burn marks, and a sprawling rug whose intricate Slytherin-green pattern had faded with time.

The air was thick with magic, protective wards layered so densely that Harry could feel them pressing against his skin like a second coat.

Theo moved with the ease of someone accustomed to living on the knife’s edge, his wand never far from his hand as he lit sconces with a flick of his wrist.

“Kitchen’s through there,” Theo said, gesturing toward a doorway. “Bathroom down the hall. You’ll have to figure out sleeping arrangements—there’s a spare room, but it’s… not exactly cozy.”

Harry nodded, his gaze flicking briefly to Draco. He caught the faint tension in Draco’s posture, the way his fingers flexed at his sides, as if unsure what to do with them. Theo was watching him, his expression carefully neutral, but there was something in his eyes—relief, perhaps, buried beneath the sharp edges of wariness.

Harry cleared his throat. “I think I’ll… call it a night,” he said, his voice deliberately casual. “Figure out where I’m crashing and get out of your way.”

Draco’s head snapped toward him, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. “You don’t have to—”

“I’m good,” Harry interrupted, offering a faint smile. “You two probably have a lot to catch up on.”

It wasn’t a lie, exactly. But as Harry moved toward the hallway, he admitted to himself that the real reason was simpler. He felt out of place. This camaraderie between Draco and Theo—however strained—was something he wasn’t sure he belonged in.

It was one thing to fight alongside Blaise or banter with Adrian, but this? This felt… personal. And Harry Potter didn’t do personal. Not with Slytherins. Not yet.

He disappeared down the hall, the floorboards creaking softly under his weight. Draco watched him go, his lips parting slightly as if to call him back, but no words came.

Theo raised an eyebrow, arms crossing as he leaned against the back of a chair. “He’s… not what I expected.”

Draco turned back to him, a hint of defensiveness creeping into his tone. “He’s Harry Potter. What were you expecting? A saint?”

Theo’s lips twitched into a faint smirk. “No. But I wasn’t expecting him to leave you alone in the room with me, either. Trust doesn’t seem like his strong suit.”

Draco snorted, moving to the hearth and letting the fire’s heat chase away the chill that had settled into his bones. “He’s just tired. We’ve been on the run for months now.”

“And yet, you’re here. Together.”

Draco stiffened slightly. “We didn’t have much of a choice.”

Theo studied him for a moment. “I’m not judging, Draco. Just… surprised. You and Potter, working together. It’s not exactly the story I expected to hear.”

“Neither did I.”

“Guess the war changes all of us.”

“Yeah, I suppose it does.”

“You look like shit, Malfoy.”

Draco let out a breathless laugh, one that sounded more tired than amused. “And you look like you’ve been living in a cave.”

Theo spread his arms in mock presentation, gesturing at the stone walls around them. “Not far off. This place has its charm, though. Keeps me alive, so I can’t complain.”

Draco shook his head, a small, wry smile tugging at his lips.

“You know,” Theo said after a beat, his tone lighter but still tinged with something heavier, “I thought you were dead. After… everything.”

Draco’s smile faltered, replaced by a flicker of something more vulnerable. “I was. For a moment, I actually was.”

Theo took a step closer. “And now? Are you… alright?”

Draco hesitated, his hand brushing over the edge of the mantel as he glanced away. “Define ‘alright.’”

Theo’s expression softened further, and before Draco could process it, Theo closed the distance between them, pulling him into a rough, almost awkward hug. It wasn’t elegant or composed—just arms wrapping tightly around Draco, as if Theo was afraid letting go would make him vanish again.

Draco froze for a moment, his mind stumbling over the unexpected contact. But then, slowly, he returned the gesture, his hands gripping Theo’s shoulders with a quiet desperation he didn’t realize he’d been holding back.

“You’re still here,” Theo murmured. “That’s what matters.”

Draco let out a shaky breath, his chin brushing Theo’s shoulder. “You’re an idiot, you know that?”

Theo chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through both of them. “Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve heard that.”

They pulled back, and Theo gave him a faint smirk, the familiar glint of mischief returning to his eyes. “I missed you, mate.”

Draco swallowed hard, nodding as he tried to compose himself. “Yeah, well. Don’t get used to me saying it, but… same.”

Theo grinned, clapping Draco on the shoulder.

The night stretched on, the hours bleeding into each other until Draco almost forgot the weight of their reality. For the first time in what felt like years, he was unburdened. It was easy to pretend, in the soft glow of the firelight, that they were back in the Slytherin common room—whispering drunkenly over stolen firewhiskey, the greenish light of the lake casting shadows against the walls. Easy to imagine the war was over, not in the bloody, shattering way it had ended, but cleanly, as if they had walked away unscathed.

Draco leaned back in his chair, glass of whiskey balanced delicately between his fingers. It wasn’t the best—cheap and rough on the throat—but it was warm, and it was enough to dull the edges of everything else.

Across from him, Theo sprawled on the couch like he owned the world, the picture of careless ease. His dark hair was tousled, falling artfully across his forehead, and his shirt was unbuttoned just enough to reveal the faint line of a collarbone. The firelight played across his sharp features, carving out the angles of his cheekbones and jaw. He looked like he had walked out of a wizarding magazine—disheveled but deliberate, like everything about him was an accident designed to be noticed.

One arm draped lazily over the back of the couch, his long fingers brushing the edge of the upholstery. In the other hand, he held his glass of whiskey, his grip loose but purposeful. He swirled the amber liquid absently, his gaze fixed on Draco with a faint, amused smirk.

“Still nursing that one glass?” Theo drawled, his voice tinged with something inherently confident. “And here I thought the war would’ve toughened you up, Malfoy.”

Draco rolled his eyes but couldn’t stop the faint curve of his lips. “At least I’m not trying to drown myself in the stuff.”

“There are worse ways to go.”

Draco snorted, tipping his head back against the chair. “And what would you know about it, Nott? You’ve been hiding out in safehouses like a bloody recluse.”

Theo’s smirk widened. “Not hiding. Waiting. There’s a difference.”

“Is that what you tell yourself?” Draco quipped, but his tone lacked its usual bite. It was hard to summon the energy to be sharp when the room felt so… normal. For the first time in months, he felt like he could breathe.

They fell into a comfortable silence, the kind that only came with familiarity. Theo leaned his head back, exposing the elegant line of his throat as he stared at the ceiling. His shirt hung open just enough to hint at the ink on his chest—a dark, intricate design that Draco couldn’t quite make out.

“You ever think about how it used to be? Before all of this?”

Theo’s arm shifted slightly, his fingers brushing the edge of the couch. “Sometimes. But it’s dangerous, isn’t it? Thinking about what was. Makes you forget what is.”

“Still. It’s nice to pretend, just for a little while.”

Theo’s gaze softened, and for a moment, he looked less like the cool, collected figure sprawled on the couch and more like the boy Draco had grown up with. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “It is.”

Draco raised his glass, a faint smile playing at his lips. “To pretending.”

“To pretending.”

The whiskey bottle on the table was nearly empty, and Draco felt the warm haze of alcohol settle over him like a heavy, albeit comforting, blanket. Across from him, Theo leaned back on the couch, one leg draped over the armrest, the other foot planted on the floor, looking every bit the picture of casual rebellion.

“So,” Draco said, his voice loose from the drink, “you’re just… what? Hiding out here while the world burns? That’s very noble of you.”

Theo snorted, swirling the remains of his whiskey in his glass. “Noble? I’d call it smart, actually. The Ministry thinks I’m dead, and honestly? I’m fine with that. It’s peaceful. You should try it sometime.”

“Peaceful? You’re holed up in this… this hermit’s hut, drinking cheap whiskey and talking to yourself.”

Theo smirked, unbothered. “Cheap whiskey or not, it beats running around the countryside with Potter in tow. Tell me, Malfoy, how’s life as a fugitive? Do you two hold hands while you dodge Aurors?”

Draco nearly choked on his drink. “You’re hilarious, truly. Harry doesn’t need anyone’s hand-holding, least of all mine.”

“Right, right. Just his personal chauffeur, then? Driving a Muggle car, no less. Merlin, if the old Slytherin lot could see you now…”

Draco scowled, though his lips twitched with the threat of a smile. “It’s called survival, Theodore. Not all of us can fake our deaths and live like woodland sprites.”

Theo barked a laugh, the sound loud and unapologetic. “Woodland sprite? That’s rich coming from you, Malfoy. I bet you still moisturize daily, even while on the run.”

“Of course, I do,” Draco replied haughtily, sitting up straighter. “Just because I’m dodging the Ministry doesn’t mean I have to look like a heathen.”

Theo wiped at his eyes, trying to catch his breath. “Merlin’s beard, you haven’t changed a bit. It’s almost comforting.”

“Anyway, how did you manage to pull it off? Disappearing like that?”

Theo’s grin faded slightly. “The Ministry wanted a trial, right? But we all knew it wasn’t going to be a trial—it was going to be a sentencing. No way was I going to let them cart me off to Azkaban or worse. So, I left.”

“Just like that?”

“It wasn’t exactly a well-thought-out plan. I packed what I could, faked a few signs of a struggle, left some blood behind for good measure… you know, the usual.”

“The usual?” Draco repeated, deadpan.

Theo grinned. “What can I say? I’m resourceful.”

“And here I thought I was the dramatic one.”

“Oh, you are. Driving a bloody car, Malfoy. Really? What’s next? Potter teaching you how to use a microwave?”

Draco snorted into his drink, the image both ridiculous and somehow plausible. “I’ll have you know, I’m an excellent driver.”

“Sure. And I’m the next Minister of Magic.”

“Better you than anyone else currently running the show.”

Theo’s smile faded, replaced by something quieter, heavier. “You’re not wrong there.”

The two lapsed into silence for a moment, the crackle of the fire filling the space between them. It wasn’t uncomfortable, though—it was the kind of silence that only old friends could share.

The whiskey bottle was down to its last few swallows, but neither of them made a move to finish it. The haze of alcohol had softened the edges of the world, and the conversation had taken on a different tone—introspective, jagged, heavy.

“You don’t have to feel guilty, you know,” Theo said suddenly, his voice low but clear. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, a shadow of something unreadable crossing his face.

Draco frowned, the glass in his hand momentarily forgotten. “For what?”

“For wanting it.”

Draco straightened, his defenses prickling. “Wanting what?”

Theo’s lips twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “For someone to be the villain for you.”

Draco’s jaw tightened, his fingers gripping the glass harder than necessary. “That’s not what this is.”

“Isn’t it? Come on, Draco, you don’t have to lie to me. Not here. Not now.”

Draco didn’t answer, his gaze darting to the fire as though it could swallow the conversation whole.

Theo sat back, draping one arm over the back of the couch. “It’s fine if it never sees the light of day, but here—between us—you can admit it. It’s selfish and twisted, maybe. But it’s also nice, isn’t it? Satisfying, even. To know someone would burn the world down for you. Literally.”

“That’s not—” Draco started, but the words caught in his throat, tangling with the truth he couldn’t bring himself to say.

“You can’t admit it,” Theo continued, his voice softening but still relentless. “Because that would make you selfish, wouldn’t it? And Merlin forbid Draco Malfoy be selfish about something. But you do want it. Don’t you? Who wouldn’t?”

Draco’s breath caught, the denial on his lips faltering.

“You’d have to be a sociopath not to want it,” Theo added, his gaze steady, almost challenging. “We all want to feel that important. To know someone would choose us—above everything, above everyone. Even if it’s chaos. Even if it’s destruction.”

“I didn’t ask for any of this,” Draco said quietly, his voice tight.

“That’s what makes it all the better, isn’t it? That it was there anyway. That you didn’t have to ask. That he chose it. Chose you.”

Draco's chest constricted, as if the air had been siphoned from the room. His thoughts swirled, a maelstrom of emotions that refused to coalesce. The words he sought to speak tangled on his tongue, leaving him mute. His gaze drifted upward, toward the ceiling, where the firelight danced in lazy whorls, casting shadows that twisted and writhed like living things.

Theo settled back into the couch, an air of quiet amusement dancing in his eyes as his fingers drummed a lazy rhythm against his empty glass. "Pansy was onto something.”

Draco's brow knitted, his head canting to one side as he shot Theo a puzzled glance. "What are you talking about?"

Theo smirked, the kind of smirk that promised something maddening. He waved his hand vaguely in the air, as though conjuring the explanation from thin air. "You and the Chosen One, of course."

Draco nearly choked on his drink. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Theo laughed, low and lazy, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe Draco didn’t see it. "Oh, come on. She used to say it all the time, back in school. How your obsessive rivalry was just one bad day away from turning into some epic, tragic love story."

"That’s ridiculous! She didn’t—she didn’t say that. She—"

"She did. All the bloody time. Blaise and I thought she was completely mental for it, but now..." He gestured toward Draco with a knowing look. "Now, I’m starting to think she might’ve had a point."

Draco stared at him, his jaw tight, fingers white-knuckling the glass in his hand. "You’re drunk."

"Not drunk enough to forget how you used to talk about him. All those rants about how insufferable he was, how he always had to be the hero, how he always bested you at Quidditch—"

"Because he was insufferable," Draco interrupted sharply, his cheeks burning. "And he still is. That doesn’t mean—"

Theo cut him off with a laugh, leaning forward as if delivering some great revelation. "Mate, Pansy always said you were so obsessed because you couldn’t figure out if you wanted to hex him or kiss him. And honestly, you spent so much time staring at him in class, I’m not sure even you knew the answer."

"Shut up!” Draco’s pulse was hammering in his ears.

"Don’t be mad," Theo teased, his grin entirely too smug. "She thought it was cute. Said you two would figure it out eventually. ‘Falling into each other’s arms,’ I think were her exact words."

Draco’s glare could have melted steel. "That’s absurd. She was insane."

"Maybe. But she wasn’t wrong about much, was she?"

Draco didn’t respond, his mind too busy reeling. The room suddenly felt too warm, the firelight too bright, and he found himself staring into his glass like it held the answers.

Theo didn’t press further. He simply watched Draco with the kind of knowing look that only old friends could pull off. "For what it’s worth," Theo said after a moment, his voice quieter, "I think she’d be glad to see you like this. With someone who’d burn the world for you. Rather romantic, isn’t it?”

Draco’s throat tightened, and he looked away, his hand gripping the edge of the couch as if it could anchor him. He didn’t know what to say—didn’t even know how to untangle the knot of emotions Theo’s words had stirred.

In the back of his mind, Draco couldn’t stop thinking about Harry. It wasn’t the first time his thoughts had wandered there, but tonight, they felt different. Sharper. Closer. About the way Harry looked at him sometimes—like Draco was the only thing keeping him anchored, the only thing that mattered in a world teetering on the edge of collapse. About the way Harry’s hand would linger, warm and deliberate, like it belonged there, as if he didn’t know how to let go.

It hit him then, like a breath stolen from his chest: Harry wasn’t just a contradiction, a man who carried the weight of a hero but walked like he’d long since stopped believing in the title. Harry was his. In some strange, unspoken way, Harry had chosen him—not the world, not the cause, but him.

He was all fire and resolve, and somehow, Draco couldn’t bring himself to look away.

It didn’t make sense. None of it did. Harry’s loyalty, his determination to drag Draco out of the rubble of his own life, felt more like punishment than salvation. Because Harry didn’t know—he couldn’t know—that Draco didn’t deserve saving.

Draco carries the weight of Harry in every breath, a ghost he doesn’t know how to exorcise, nor is he sure he really wants to. Every glance, every touch, was like being baptized in fire—burned and cleansed all at once.

And maybe that was the cruelest part of it all: Draco didn’t want it to stop.

Harry, who fought like the world meant nothing, and yet looked at Draco like he was everything.

Draco had no idea what he was meant to do with this. Any of it.

What kind of coward takes someone else's light and lets it guide them through the dark?

“So, what’s the grand plan here, Malfoy?” Theo asked, pulling Draco from his thoughts. “You and Potter planning to shack up in my safehouse forever, or is this just a pit-stop before the next dramatic chase scene?”

Draco sighed, setting his glass on the table with a soft clink. He leaned back, his shoulders stiff with tension he didn’t quite know how to release. “We’re not staying. It’s not safe—for you, I mean. They’re after us, Theo, and they won’t stop. Not until they’ve got Harry locked in some cell and me dragged into Azkaban.” Or dead. They’d probably just prefer us dead at this point. Unless torture-for-life is an option.

Theo raised an eyebrow. “And you’re worried about me? Merlin, you really have changed.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Well, lucky for you, the Nott family was big on contingency plans. My father may have been an absolute bastard, but he loved a good safehouse. Paranoia, you know. And since I’m the last Nott standing…” He gestured vaguely, his tone turning wry. “Consider them yours. Use them up. Burn them down. Whatever it takes.”

Draco hesitated, his fingers brushing the edge of his glass as he mulled over Theo’s words. “Thanks… we’ll try not to make too much of a mess.”

“Please. It’s you and Potter. Chaos is inevitable.”

Draco allowed himself a faint smile, but it faded as he continued. “We’re working with Blaise and the others—an underground resistance, trying to dismantle the Ministry. The Ministry as it is now, I mean. They’re targeting anyone who doesn’t fall in line. It’s not just about us anymore.”

“And what happens if you manage it? If you actually take them down?”

“Then, I suppose we’ll all be free. Including you.”

“Draco Malfoy, the savior of the wizarding world. Didn’t see that one coming.”

Draco snorted, shaking his head. “Don’t start.”

“I’m serious,” Theo said, though his tone held a trace of amusement. “You’ve gone all noble. Fighting the good fight, saving the downtrodden, working with Potter of all people. It’s like you’ve swapped roles.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and undeniable. Draco didn’t know how to respond—didn’t know if he could respond. Because Theo was right. Somewhere along the way, roles had shifted, lines blurred until he could barely recognize himself or the boy he’d once despised.

Theo’s gaze softened, his smirk fading into something almost fond. “Don’t look so scandalized, mate. I think it suits you.”

“I’m not a bloody savior.”

"You're not trying to be, either. But you are trying—and that's what matters."

Draco fell silent. He looked down at the ring on his finger, its stones gleaming faintly in the dim light.

Maybe Theo was right. Maybe he was trying. But it wasn’t for the world.

It was for the people in it—the few he still cared about.

Harry had a way of belonging. Even when he didn’t. Even when he was out of his depth, out of place, or simply out of sorts, he carried himself with a kind of natural, unintentional presence. It wasn’t confidence, not really. It was something quieter, something more like resilience—a stubborn ability to appear as though he was always holding his ground, standing tall, and exactly where he was meant to be.

In truth, he was far from it. Beneath the surface, Harry often felt clumsy, awkward, like his skin didn’t quite fit right—his bones itchy, his steps just slightly offbeat. It was as if he were wearing someone else’s shoes, a few sizes too big, fumbling to make them work. But no one ever seemed to notice.

It wasn’t grace that saved him—it was something else entirely. Dumb luck, Harry thought, or maybe just a cruel joke of fate, one that ensured he could stumble through life looking like he had it all together while feeling like a mess beneath the surface. A contradiction he couldn’t shake, even on the rare occasions when he wanted to.

It was convenient, sure. A neat trick, Harry supposed, to always look like he had it together. But really, it was bloody exhausting. Sometimes, he wished—desperately, achingly—that someone would see through it. Look past the steady facade, the unwavering strength, and just say, it’s okay. Rest your head in my lap. Let me see you—fragile and fractured, and hold you close anyway. Let me cradle you as you tremble beneath the weight of it all—guilt, exhaustion, sorrow—until the pieces stop shaking and settle back into place. Let me be the stillness you can’t find in yourself.

Because Harry was tired.

So, so very tired.

And now, he was standing in a Nott safehouse, staring himself in the mirror and wondering when the hollows in his cheeks had become so prominent. The mirror doesn’t reflect him anymore—it reflects all the ways he failed, all the faces he couldn’t save. He doesn’t recognize the man staring back. There’s a hardness in his eyes that wasn’t there before, a shadow that’s become as much a part of him as his skin.

He drags himself away, his feet heavy, his body heavier. He slept more last night than he had in weeks, yet his bones still ache, filled with a kind of weariness that no amount of rest can touch. He feels like lead, sinking, and somehow still moving.

The kitchen greets him with its muted warmth, a soft hum of conversation breaking through the fog in his head. It smells of coffee and something faintly citrus, and it takes him a second to realize why it feels so foreign—because it feels like a home. He pauses in the doorway, unseen, and the scene unfolds like something from a dream.

Theodore Nott is leaning against the counter, shirtless, his hair an unkempt mess of curls like he’d only just rolled out of bed. His plaid trousers hang low on his hips, arms crossed as he gestures toward Draco, who is standing by the coffee pot with a frown etched on his face. Theo is explaining something—how to properly put on a pot of coffee, Harry realizes—and Draco is watching him with the same intensity he gives to every problem he’s determined to solve.

Draco looks softer here, somehow. He’s wearing a sweatshirt that is worn and a little oversized, the kind of thing you’d find forgotten in the back of a wardrobe or stolen from someone else’s. Across the chest, bold letters spell out: "Yale University".

It’s utterly mundane, completely un-Draco, and yet it somehow fits him perfectly. Harry knows for a fact Draco has never been to America, let alone Yale, but there he is, wearing the sweatshirt like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

It’s probably something he picked up on the road, Harry thinks. A thrift store find or a lost-and-found relic from one of the dingy motels they’d stayed in. But the sight of it—Draco Malfoy in a muggle university sweatshirt, the cuffs frayed and the fabric stretched over his lean frame—makes something in Harry’s chest twist painfully. It feels like a quiet rebellion, like Draco’s way of saying, I’m not who I used to be. I’m not what you think I am.

His hair is damp, still dripping in places, like he’s just stepped out of the shower, and Harry can see the faint flush of warmth on his neck from the steam. His hands move with careful precision as he pours himself a cup, a practiced ease that makes Harry’s chest twist—because it’s something Draco once detested, something he had no taste for until those endless nights at grubby diners and gas stations made it a necessity.

And Harry can’t look away. Because in this ridiculous, ordinary sweatshirt, with his damp hair curling at the edges and his hands carefully steadying the coffee pot, Draco looks human in a way Harry isn’t sure he’s ever seen before.

For a moment, he feels it again—that awful, gnawing ache, the kind that makes him want the ground to split open beneath him and swallow him whole. How did he get here? How is he standing in Theodore Nott’s kitchen, watching Theodore Nott, shirtless, teaching Draco Malfoy how to make proper coffee like it’s the most normal thing in the world?

How is Draco standing there at all, alive, real, warm—looking so achingly human in a way that Harry can’t touch without burning himself?

Harry looks down at his hands, fingers twitching faintly at his sides, and he can still feel the phantom weight of a wand, the rush of curses spilling from his lips, the pull of blood and fire and ruin. And yet here he is, standing in this kitchen, watching this quiet moment unfold like he hasn’t torn himself apart to make it possible. Like he hasn’t razed half his soul just to get Draco here, alive, breathing, pouring coffee into a chipped mug.

And for a moment, just a moment, Harry wonders if it was worth it—if anything could ever be worth this.

But, alas, the ground does not open up and swallow Harry whole.

Draco notices him first, of course, because Draco always notices Harry. His sharp, storm-grey eyes flick up from the coffee pot, catching Harry in the doorway like a deer caught in headlights. For a moment, Draco says nothing, but the slight tilt of his head speaks volumes.

Then Theo turns, casually leaning against the counter with an ease that feels almost rehearsed. His grin is slow, deliberate, like he’s been waiting for Harry to make his appearance. Theo’s shirtlessness suddenly feels like an intentional power move, the plaid pajama pants riding low on his hips adding to his infuriatingly relaxed demeanor.

“Morning, Harry,” Theo says, his voice warm and smooth, like he’s been awake for hours and not in the middle of some fugitive mission against a corrupt Ministry. “Sleep well?”

Harry’s mouth opens, but no words come out. He feels impossibly out of place, like he’s stumbled into someone else’s moment, someone else’s version of a life. His gaze darts between Theo, who seems to radiate this calm, magnetic warmth, and Draco, who has gone back to pouring his coffee but is clearly biting the inside of his cheek to stop from smirking.

Harry swallows hard. “Yeah. Fine.”

“That’s a shame,” Theo continues, completely undeterred. “You look like hell.”

“Thanks,” Harry mutters, stepping fully into the kitchen, though he immediately regrets it. The room feels too small, the space between the three of them too intimate. The safehouse kitchen is nothing special—cracked tiles, mismatched cabinets, a barely functional sink—but Theo and Draco manage to make it look… cozy. Alive, even. There’s a loaf of bread on the counter, a half-empty jar of honey, and a stack of chipped mugs next to the coffee pot.

Draco, now leaning against the counter with his mug in hand, raises an eyebrow at him. “You’re up early. That’s new.”

Harry shrugs, unsure of what to say. He’s painfully aware of how disheveled he must look—hair messier than usual, dark circles under his eyes, clothes rumpled from a restless night. He feels like a ghost in this kitchen, like an intruder in the easy rhythm Theo and Draco seem to have found.

And then there’s Theo, who is watching him with an expression Harry can’t quite place. It’s not pity, exactly, but there’s a softness in Theo’s gaze that makes Harry’s skin prickle. It’s unsettling, the way Theo seems to just… be—calm and steady, as though nothing in the world could rattle him.

Harry wonders, briefly, how he never noticed Theo like this back at Hogwarts. But then again, he was kind of busy fighting a Dark Lord, so noticing things like Theo Nott’s surprising charm and inexplicable warmth hadn’t exactly been high on his list of priorities.

“I made coffee,” Theo offers, holding up a mug like it’s a peace offering. “There’s enough for you, too, if you can manage to drink it without looking like someone’s hexed you.”

Draco snorts into his own cup, and Harry glares at him, but the retort he’s forming dies on his tongue. Instead, he steps forward, hesitating before taking the mug from Theo’s outstretched hand. Their fingers brush briefly, and Harry feels the strangest jolt of something—gratitude, maybe. Or relief. Because as absurd as it is, being here, with Theo and Draco, in this battered little kitchen, doesn’t feel as suffocating as it should. It feels… safe.

For a moment, Harry stands there, mug in hand, the warmth seeping into his fingers. Theo is watching him with that same infuriatingly calm expression, and Draco is pretending not to watch him at all, but Harry knows better. He can feel Draco’s gaze like a weight on his shoulders.

“So,” Theo says after a beat, his voice light. “More running? More chaos? Or are we finally going to sit down and discuss how to stop the Ministry from tearing itself apart?”

Harry doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he takes a sip of the coffee, grimacing slightly at the bitterness, but it grounds him somehow.  “I don’t know,” Harry says finally, his voice quieter than he intended.  

Harry thinks he’d like to just sleep. Or maybe float. Find an ocean to just… float in.

He stays quiet, leaning against the counter like a misplaced piece of furniture, awkward and unnecessary.

Theo’s voice pulls him back, smooth and lilting like he’s never been pressed for time a day in his life. “So, Malfoy,” Theo says, leaning over to inspect the coffee pot with a lazy sort of curiosity, “remind me again why you’re so bloody insistent on drinking it black? It’s practically barbaric.”

Draco, for once, doesn’t rise to the bait. He sips from his mug, unfazed, his sweatshirt slipping slightly off one shoulder as he gives Theo a half-hearted glare. “Because I have taste, unlike you. Besides, it’s not my fault you drown yours in sugar and cream like a toddler who’s just discovered desserts.”

Theo gasps, placing a hand dramatically over his chest. “First of all, I’ll have you know my coffee preferences are sophisticated. Second, sugar is a perfectly valid addition. You should try it sometime, Draco. It might even sweeten you up.”

Harry watches the exchange. Theo’s ease is disarming, and Draco—Draco looks almost relaxed. There’s something in the way his shoulders aren’t hunched, the way his smirk is more playful than sharp, that makes Harry’s chest ache.  

“You’re quiet,” Theo says suddenly, turning his attention to Harry with a quirked eyebrow. “That’s unusual for you, isn’t it? Or are you just too tired to tell me off for existing?”

Harry blinks, caught off guard, and shrugs. “Maybe. Didn’t think you’d notice.”

Theo grins, a crooked, easy thing that makes Harry’s stomach twist. “Oh, I notice everything, Potter. You should know that by now.”

Draco snorts, but there’s no bite to it. “Careful, Theo. He might start thinking you like him.”

“Perish the thought. Though, to be fair, you’re hardly the easiest person to like either, Draco. And yet here we are.”

Draco rolls his eyes, but there’s a faint flush creeping up his neck, and Harry feels like he’s intruding on something intimate, something he wasn’t invited to but can’t quite pull himself away from. He takes another sip of his coffee, letting the bitterness settle on his tongue.

“So,” Theo says. “What’s the plan for today? Besides surviving, obviously.”

Draco shrugs, setting his mug down on the counter with a soft clink. “We’ll figure it out,” he says, and there’s a calmness in his voice that Harry isn’t used to. “We always do.”

Harry glances at him, then at Theo, who’s watching him with that same unreadable expression. He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to insert himself into the rhythm they’ve created.

“You’re thinking too hard,” Theo says suddenly, his tone almost teasing. “Relax, Potter. The world isn’t going to end just because you took a moment to breathe.”

Harry lets out a dry laugh. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

Theo’s grin softens, just slightly, and for a moment, there’s something in his eyes that Harry doesn’t quite recognize. “Maybe it’s time you let it,” Theo says quietly, and there’s no mockery in his voice, no edge. Just warmth.

Draco glances between them, his expression unreadable, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he picks up his mug again and takes a long sip, his gaze fixed on the window, where the morning light filters in through the cracked blinds.

The room falls quiet. It’s not uncomfortable, but it’s not quite comfortable either. It’s something in between, something fragile and tentative, like the space between breaths.

Harry thinks, maybe this is what he’s been running from. The stillness. The quiet. The moments where he has to face himself and the weight of everything he’s done. He swallows hard, staring into his coffee as if it holds the answers he’s too afraid to ask for.

And for the first time in a long time, he lets the silence hold him.

Just for a moment.

The sitting room was quiet, save for the faint hum of magic emanating from the rings they all wore.

Draco sat by the window, his thumb brushing over the dark emerald stone set into his ring. Blaise had been the one to suggest using them. “If the Ministry is going to hunt us like Slytherins,” he’d said, smirking faintly, “then we might as well act like them.”

Harry, however, had never owned such a ring. The one on his hand was borrowed—given to him by Theo, of all people—charcoal-gray with an understated gleam. A perfect disguise for the layered enchantments that allowed them to communicate across distances without detection. It was clever, Draco had to admit. And infuriatingly effective.

Theo was sprawled on the couch, lazily spinning his own ring around his finger while Draco sat stiff-backed, tension radiating from him. Harry leaned against the table, knuckles brushing the edge of the wood. The faintest glow pulsed from his ring, and he felt the whisper of magic against his skin—a message. It unfurled in his mind as if someone had spoken it directly into his thoughts.

Southern route’s compromised. Patrols everywhere. Working on alternatives. Will send details soon.

Harry exhaled sharply, his shoulders tightening. “The southern route’s out. They’re crawling with patrols. Blaise says they’re working on another option.”

Draco’s hand stilled on his ring. “Of course, they are. They’re always two steps ahead.”

“It’s Blaise,” Theo said, his voice casual as he flipped through a battered. “He’ll figure it out. He always does.”

“And if he doesn’t? What then? People are relying on us, Nott. This isn’t a bloody game.”

Theo’s lips quirked into a faint smirk, unbothered by Draco’s sharpness. “And yet, here we are, Draco, playing it anyway. Better hope we win.”

Harry, as usual, ignored their bickering, his focus shifting back to the faint hum of his ring. Another pulse of magic stirred against his skin, and words formed again, softer this time:

Auror meeting set. Neutral ground. Three days.

“They’ve set the Auror meeting. Three days.”

Draco’s expression darkened. “And you trust them?”

“I don’t trust anyone,” Harry replied. “But we don’t have the luxury of being picky.”

The Auror meeting was a calculated risk—one that could either shift the tide in their favor or crush what little hope the resistance had left. Hermione, ever the strategist, had reached out discreetly to a handful of Aurors who had expressed doubts about the Ministry’s increasingly oppressive tactics. These weren’t just low-ranking recruits but seasoned operatives—witches and wizards who had once fought for justice, now disillusioned by the very system they’d sworn to protect.

The meeting was designed to test the waters, to see how deep the fractures in the Ministry’s ranks went. If Hermione’s instincts were right—and they usually were—some of these Aurors might be willing to turn, to lend their skills and resources to the resistance. Even a few allies within the Ministry could provide them with invaluable information, intelligence they desperately needed to stay one step ahead of their enemies.

Theo sat up slightly, his curiosity piqued. “Where’s the meeting?”

“He didn’t say. Only that it’s neutral ground.”

Draco let out a scoff, frustration bleeding through. “Neutral ground. How comforting. That usually means somewhere desolate enough that no one will hear us scream if it’s a trap.”

Theo smirked, leaning back against the arm of the couch. “Always the optimist, aren’t you?”

“Realist. And you should try it sometime. Might save your life.”

“Look,” Theo continued, his tone deceptively light, “we’re outnumbered, outfunded, and frankly, out of our minds. But we’ve also got Blaise whispering into all the right ears, Granger cracking Ministry codes, and Potter here brooding dramatically enough to scare off half the Auror force. I’d say we’ve got a fighting chance.”

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose, the faint warmth of the ring still buzzing against his skin. He didn’t have the energy to mediate their bickering.

Draco was quiet for a moment, his gaze distant as he stared out the window. “And the supplies? What’s the plan there?”

“We wait,” Harry said simply. “They’re working on securing the route, but until then, we keep our heads down.”

“Brilliant. Another waiting game. Meanwhile, the Ministry gets stronger, and we—what? Drink more bad coffee and hope they don’t find us?”

“Theo does make a decent cup.”

Theo huffed a laugh. “Well, this is thrilling. Tell me, Potter—how does it feel to be the savior of absolutely no one at the moment?”

Harry didn’t reply. He couldn’t. Because deep down, he was starting to wonder the same thing.

The silence stretched between them until Draco finally broke it. “We should go over the map again. If the Ministry’s catching onto our movements, we need to figure out where we went wrong.”

Theo broke the silence, standing with a theatrical sigh. “Well, since we’re all destined to die horribly anyway, I’m making another pot of coffee. Anyone else want some?”

Theo had managed to carve out a semblance of a routine for himself—a solitary, fractured existence, but one that worked nonetheless. Officially, he was dead, and in some ways, it was a convenient kind of freedom. It wasn’t the kind anyone would envy, but it allowed him to slip through the cracks.

If he had his way, he’d have fled the entirety of the United Kingdom long ago, disappeared into the anonymity of some far-off country. But they all knew travel was impossible. The Ministry’s eyes were everywhere, its surveillance tightening like a noose around the remnants of the resistance. The risk of getting caught was too great.

Still, Theo had it easier than Draco and Harry. Being officially dead had its perks. The Ministry wasn’t looking for him, and his face didn’t appear on wanted posters. He moved between a network of old family safehouses, never staying in one place too long, always doubling back to cover his tracks. Caution had become second nature, a quiet rhythm to his days.

He’d even figured out how to venture into town without raising suspicion. With a carefully constructed glamour—just enough to blur his sharp features and soften his distinctive presence—he could slip into markets or cafes, picking up supplies or simply existing among people without fear of recognition. He wasn’t invisible, but he was overlooked, which suited him just fine. The Ministry had no tail on him because, as far as they were concerned, Theodore Nott did not exist anymore.

Though, the loneliness remained.

There was no thrill in survival when it came at the cost of connection. Theo moved through the world like a ghost, brushing against the edges of lives he could never touch. It was safer this way, yes, but safety came at the price of living. Sometimes he wondered if this half-life of his was even worth preserving.

The house felt strangely hollow without Theo’s constant dry wit filling the space. He’d gone out earlier that evening, claiming he needed to “check on something” with all the vague mystery he always wrapped himself in.

Theo’s excuses were always cryptic, but Draco knew better than to pry. If Theo said he had business to handle, it was likely tied to the complex web of family assets, safehouses, or the shadowy network he had managed to maintain since the war.

For someone the Ministry thought dead, Theodore Nott was remarkably resourceful.

Still, his absence left a strange quiet behind—a vacuum that only made Draco more acutely aware of Harry’s presence.

Draco stood by the window, staring out into the darkness, his fingers tracing aimless patterns on the glass. The glow of the single lamp in the room cast Harry in soft, golden light where he sat, slouched on the couch with one leg stretched out, the other bent, his hand absently fidgeting with the edge of his sleeve.

Draco’s eyes flicked to him, watching the tension wound tight in Harry’s shoulders. He didn’t look up, didn’t move, but Draco could feel it—the heaviness that clung to. Something was off, and Draco had never been good at leaving things alone.

“You’re quiet,” Draco said finally, his voice cutting through the stillness. He immediately hated how soft it sounded, like an invitation Harry might refuse.

Harry glanced up. “Just tired.”

Draco didn’t believe it for a second.

Draco turned from the window, his arms crossing over his chest as he leaned against the frame. “You’re always tired. That’s not new.”

Harry gave a faint, humorless laugh. “Guess I’m predictable then.”

Draco’s jaw tightened. He didn’t have the words to peel back whatever mask Harry was wearing. Harry was unraveling and still holding on, and Draco didn’t know how to be the one to catch him.

He moved closer without realizing it, steps soft against the floor. “What’s going on?”

Harry’s eyes lifted to his, green like shadows in the dim light, and something in Draco’s chest twisted violently. It wasn’t the kind of look anyone had ever given him—not pity, not judgment. It was belief. Unshakable, raw belief. And it terrified him.

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

“You’re so full of shit, Harry.”

Harry smirked faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He stood then, slow and deliberate, like he was trying to keep himself from breaking. “Why do you care, Draco?”

Draco’s heart stumbled over itself, but he didn’t flinch. “Because you make yourself everyone’s problem.”

Harry took a step forward, and Draco should’ve moved, should’ve said something biting to shatter the tension gathering like a storm between them, but he couldn’t. He was rooted, his body betraying him.

“Do you want me to stop?” Harry asked, his voice like a thread of silk pulled taut.

“Yes,” Draco lied.

“No, you don’t.” Harry’s hand lifted, his fingers brushing against Draco’s arm—just barely, a whisper of a touch. The world was spinning. Draco couldn’t remember how to breathe.

“Don’t,” Draco whispered, his voice trembling. “Don’t do this.”

“Why not?”

“Why?” Draco exhaled. “Why me?”

Harry’s jaw clenched, and for a moment, he didn’t answer. “Because I look at you, and I see the world they promised me but never gave. You’re what’s left of my hope. And hope…” His eyes darkened, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. “Hope doesn’t belong to someone like me.”

“Don’t—don’t say that.” draco shook his head, his hand moving of its own accord, brushing against Harry’s forearm. “You think I’m hope, Harry? I’m ruin. You don’t want this. You shouldn’t want this—”

“But I do.” Harry’s hand slid down from Draco’s shoulder, skimming his arm until it hovered at his wrist. “I can’t stop. I don’t want to.”

Draco shivered at the touch, at the words, at the weight of everything that was Harry pressing against him like the tide. He didn’t deserve this—didn’t deserve Harry’s belief, his devotion, his fire.

But Gods help him, he wanted it. He wanted it in a way that made his lungs burn and his hands tremble.

Harry had a way of looking at him that made him feel exposed, like every brittle, broken piece of himself was laid bare under that unwavering gaze. It wasn’t pity—Draco knew pity when he saw it.

No, this was something far worse. It was belief, and Draco didn’t know how to bear it.

“This isn’t fair,” Draco whispered, his voice cracking. “You—”

“It’s not about fair,” Harry interrupted, stepping closer, their foreheads nearly touching. “It’s about what’s real. And this? You and me? It’s the only thing that feels real anymore.”

Draco’s breath caught, his body betraying him as he swayed closer, drawn into the gravity of Harry. The world around them felt like it was falling away, leaving only the two of them in the quiet, fragile space between their shared breaths.

“I don’t know how to be this,” the confession slipped out before Draco could stop it. “I don’t know how to be enough for someone like you.”

“You already are.”

Draco's defenses crumbled, and for the first time in an eternity, he surrendered to the weight of his own vulnerability. He leaned into Harry's touch, breath catching as the warmth of Harry's skin seeped into his own, a gentle thawing of the frost that had encased his heart for so long. The sensation was both exhilarating and terrifying, a maelstrom of emotions he'd never dared to confront—and yet, somehow, it felt like the only thing that had ever made him feel truly alive.

Harry's thumb was tracing the sharp line of Draco's jaw with a deliberate gentleness. It wasn’t soft, wasn’t tentative. It was deliberate, as if Harry were staking a claim—not to own, but to remind Draco that he was here.

Draco’s chest was constricting, more and more. His lips parted to speak but no words came. What was this feeling—what was it called? Being seen, truly seen, in a way that is making his soul tremble and ache. Green eyes were boring into him, and Draco could feel the weight of a thousand suns.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for, Harry,” Draco’s words came in a broken whisper. “You think you want this—you think you want me—but you don’t.”

Harry’s lips quirked into the faintest smile, but his eyes were anything but amused. “You don’t get to decide what I want. You don’t get to push me away because you’re scared.”

Draco swallowed hard, his throat dry, his pulse thrumming in his ears. His instincts screamed at him to run, to build a wall so high and so impenetrable that even Harry bloody Potter couldn’t scale it. But his legs didn’t move, his hands didn’t push, his heart didn’t listen.

“I’m not scared.”

“Yes, you are,” Harry said, and there was no accusation in his tone, only quiet certainty. “You’ve been scared your whole life, Draco. Scared of your father, scared of your legacy, scared of what it would mean to break away from all of it. But—you have no need for that fear now. Not now. Not with me.”

Draco’s fingers trembled where they brushed against Harry’s wrist. “And you? What are you afraid of?”

“Losing you.”

Harry had it said it so simply, without pause, without any hesitation—and Draco was wondering why the wind was knocked out of him and not Harry too.

“You’re an idiot. If you—Merlin, Harry, if you think for one second I’m worth—”

“You are. You don’t get to decide what you are to me.”

Draco shook his head, taking a step back, but Harry followed, closing the distance between them. His hand reached out, brushing against Draco’s arm. The world was spinning. Draco froze. He couldn’t remember how to breathe.

“You’re the reason I keep going,” Harry said, his voice dropping to a whisper. He spoke as if he were trying to engrave the words into Draco’s soul. “Even when I want to stop. Even when it feels like there’s nothing left of me to give. For fuck’s sake, Draco, I never understood why people fear sharp things. It’s not the teeth that matter—it’s the jaw behind them. The choice to bite or not. And God, you’ve never bitten me, not once.”

Draco wanted to argue, wanted to push him away, wanted to scream that he didn’t deserve this—but he couldn’t. Because Harry was looking at him like he was the sun and the sea and everything in between, and Draco hated how badly he wanted to believe it.

“Harry…” Draco’s voice broke, and he hated himself for it. “Don’t do this.”

Harry’s hand slid up, cupping Draco’s jaw, his thumb brushing against his cheek. “You don’t get it, do you? Your voice echoes in my chest like the last prayer of a dying God. You call me safe, and I want to laugh because there is nothing safe about someone who would destroy the whole bloody world just to keep you standing in it." Harry shook his head, a soft laugh escaping him. Breathy and enamoured. “You whisper my name like a prayer, Draco, and I answer like a curse. Don’t you see? You’re the saint, and I’m the sin that you keep choosing.”

Draco was shaking his head, trembling away from Harry’s touch, yet frozen under it. “We’re not—we can’t—” He was choking for words.

Harry was looking at Draco in a way that Draco had never been looked at before—a way that made his chest tighten and his skin itch with emotions he couldn’t name. And Draco wanted to scream, to cry, to vomit, to run. No. No, no, no. This couldn’t be happening. This was Harry Potter—Gryffindor’s golden boy, the savior of the wizarding world. And he was Draco Malfoy. A former Death Eater, a man who had done things that still made his stomach churn when he thought about them too long.

This wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be possible.

Draco clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as if the pain could anchor him to reason. Because there wasn’t a version of reality—no, not a single one—where Harry Potter looked at him like this. Like Draco was something fragile but worth holding. Like Draco was something beautiful, something necessary, something... good.

No. No, there wasn’t a universe where Harry Potter looked at Draco Malfoy as though he was the last unbroken thing in a shattered world.

And yet, here they were. Harry’s gaze was steady, burning with something Draco didn’t know how to confront. It was too much. Too raw. Too real. Draco looked away, his throat tightening as if the weight of that look was trying to strangle him.

This couldn’t be happening.

But Gods, it was.

Harry’s smile was so tender, Draco could have died right then and there. "You carved yourself into my soul, Draco, left your fingerprints on my darkest thoughts, and now I can’t remember where I end, and you begin."

And just like that, Draco’s resolve shattered.

He leaned into Harry’s touch, his breath hitching as he felt the warmth of Harry’s skin against his own. It was terrifying and overwhelming and everything he hadn’t realized he needed.

Harry tilted his head, his gaze searching Draco’s, and then finally—finally—their lips met.

As their lips touched, Draco felt the sting of redemption, Harry's kiss a benediction that absolved him of all his sins.

The kiss was soft at first, tentative, like a question. But then it deepened, and Draco was drowning, his hands fisting in Harry’s shirt as if letting go would mean falling apart.

Harry’s hand slid to the back of his neck, grounding him, holding him together.

Draco groaned, his hands finding their way into Harry’s hair, pulling him closer, closer, as though the very act of distance was unbearable. Harry’s fingers gripped Draco’s waist, dragging him forward until their bodies were flush, every inch of him alive, buzzing, desperate.

Teeth grazing, breaths stolen, a messy tangle of tongues and gasps that sent Draco’s head spinning.

Harry was like a flame that Draco knew would scorch him if he got too close. But still, he reached, drawn to the way the light flickered in those meadow-field eyes, the way pain softened into something almost gentle in his presence.

Harry’s hand slid under Draco’s shirt, warm and rough against his skin, and Draco shuddered at the contact. He pressed closer, his back hitting the wall behind him with a thud, and Harry followed, caging him in, his body solid and unyielding.

Draco’s knees nearly buckled at the sensation, at the heat of Harry pressed against him, every point of contact sparking like firecrackers.

“Draco,” Harry breathed against his mouth, his voice hoarse and unsteady, as though the name itself was breaking him apart. His lips moved to Draco’s jaw, pressing open-mouthed kisses down the line of his neck, his breath hot and unsteady against his skin. Draco’s head tipped back, his pulse racing as Harry’s teeth scraped lightly against his collarbone, just enough to make him gasp.

Harry kissed Draco like a prayer, like an offering left at an altar. But his hands—his hands betrayed him. They trembled as they touched him, as if even in his devotion, he feared Draco would break beneath him.

It was too much and not enough, all at once, and Draco’s hands fumbled for purchase, gripping the fabric of Harry’s shirt like it was the only thing tethering him to the ground. He didn’t know how to ask for what he wanted, didn’t even know what he wanted, only that he needed more—needed Harry, needed this, whatever this was, whatever it had become.

“Harry,” Draco managed, his voice low and rough, a plea wrapped in a growl. He wasn’t sure if he was begging for him to stop or to never stop. Maybe both. Maybe neither.

Harry pulled back just enough to meet Draco’s eyes. “Tell me,” Harry said, voice rough, almost desperate. “Tell me to stop, and I will. Just—tell me.”

Draco didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Because there was no part of him that wanted to stop. Not now, not ever. Instead, he surged forward, capturing Harry’s mouth in another searing kiss, pouring everything he couldn’t say into the press of their lips. And Harry answered in kind, his hands tightening on Draco’s waist, pulling him impossibly closer.

And his touch—God, Harry’s touch—was agony. Like pressing your palm to a shard of glass, knowing you’ll bleed but craving the cut. Draco held on anyway, hands shaking, and let the sting remind him that he was still alive.

His mouth was sin, sharp and crimson, a ruin Draco willingly fell into. He thought he could taste salvation on his lips, but it was fire—scalding, unforgiving. And he kissed him deeper, knowing he’d burn and calling it grace.

The world outside ceased to exist. There was no Ministry, no war, no resistance. Just this—just them—two people breaking apart and falling together in the same breath.

It was messy and raw and nothing like Draco had imagined it would be, and yet it was everything.

Harry’s lips found their way back to Draco’s neck, and Draco let out a low, broken sound as Harry’s hand slipped under his shirt, sliding up his side, warm and firm. Draco’s own hands roamed restlessly, one tangling in Harry’s hair, the other sliding down his back, gripping the hem of his shirt and tugging it up, desperate for more skin, more contact, more everything.

“Fuck,” Harry muttered against Draco’s skin, the word half-growled, half-gasped, and Draco felt it reverberate through him, a bolt of heat.

“Shut up, Harry,” Draco murmured, but the words came out breathless and unconvincing, and Harry smirked against his throat, the curve of his lips sending another shiver racing down Draco’s spine.

It was intoxicating, the weight of Harry against him, the way their bodies moved together, like they’d been doing this forever. It felt inevitable, like they’d been careening toward this moment all along, and now that it was here, neither of them could stop.

And maybe that was the scariest part. The realization that there was no stopping this. No going back. Only forward, into the fire, together.

Harry pulled back just enough to look at Draco, green eyes dark and wild. “You’re going to be the death of me, Draco.”

Draco’s lips curved into a faint, shaky smile. “Good,” he whispered, dragging Harry back into another kiss, because if they were going to burn, then they were going to burn together.

The door creaked open, and both Draco and Harry froze, breaths still heavy, faces flushed and impossibly close. Draco’s hands were still tangled in Harry’s shirt, and Harry’s fingers had just started to skim the bare skin beneath Draco’s collar.

Theo’s voice cut through the air like a blade—dry, amused, and all too knowing.

“Well, damn,” Theo drawled, leaning casually against the doorframe, a bag of groceries slung over his shoulder. “Took you two long enough.”

Harry practically leapt back, his hand falling to his side as though he’d been burned, and Draco stumbled forward, nearly tripping over his own feet in his rush to appear unbothered. His hair was mussed, his face a deeper shade of pink than Harry had ever seen, and he looked anywhere but at Theo, which only made the situation worse.

“I don’t—this isn’t—” Draco stammered, smoothing his shirt with shaking hands. “Shut up, Nott.”

Harry, for his part, tried to compose himself. His lips, slightly swollen and his hair even messier than usual, which was saying something. He cleared his throat, failing spectacularly at looking unaffected. “You’re back.”

Theo raised an eyebrow, dropping the grocery bag on the counter with a heavy thud. “Yeah, well, I figured if I gave you two any more time, I’d come home to something I really didn’t want to walk in on.” He smirked, his sharp gaze darting between them. “Though it seems I’ve already walked in on… something.”

Draco glared, though the effect was significantly dampened by the way he kept tugging at the hem of his shirt like it could somehow erase the evidence. “You didn’t walk in on anything.”

“Right,” Theo said, drawing the word out as he began unpacking the groceries, his movements deliberately slow. “And the two of you weren’t seconds away from tearing each other’s clothes off just now.”

“We weren’t,” Draco insisted, his voice rising slightly as he shot Harry a frantic look, as if willing him to back him up. Harry, to his credit—or his detriment—only rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, avoiding Theo’s eyes entirely.

“Sure,” Theo said, clearly enjoying this far too much. He pulled out a loaf of bread and set it on the counter, glancing at Draco over his shoulder. “Can’t believe Pansy was right. Blaise and I thought she was full of shit, but—well, look at you now. She’d be insufferable if she were here.”

Draco groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “For the love of Merlin, can you not?”

“What? I’m just saying. I’m proud of you, Malfoy. Really, I am.”

Harry muttered something under his breath about unpacking the rest of the groceries and brushed past Theo, his ears still burning red. He moved toward the fridge with a little too much purpose, clearly desperate for something to do that didn’t involve looking at either of them.

Theo, however, wasn’t done. He leaned closer to Draco, his voice low and conspiratorial. “So, how was it, then? Worth the years of denial?”

Draco’s face burned hotter than ever, and he shoved Theo’s shoulder, though it was more of a shove-lightly-and-die-inside gesture than anything with real force. “Shut up, Nott. Please.”

Theo laughed, loud and unapologetic. “Relax, Draco. I brought groceries. That should buy me some credit for having to deal with all the sexual tension that’s been suffocating this place.”

Draco groaned, running a hand through his already-messy hair as Harry pretended not to hear anything, busying himself with the contents of the fridge. Theo, meanwhile, smirked to himself, clearly pleased as he reached for an apple from the bag.

“Don’t mind me,” he said, biting into it with a wink. “I’m just here to provide food and moral support. And, apparently, to walk in at the worst possible moment.”

Draco shot him a glare, but the corner of his mouth twitched despite himself.

It was going to be a long night.

Theo found an endless source of amusement in the evolving, if not entirely defined, relationship between his “roommates.” It was like watching a hilariously bad Muggle sitcom, the kind with over-the-top gestures and painfully obvious romantic tension that everyone but the characters themselves could see. Maybe it was the isolation of the last few months that made it so entertaining—after all, Theo had spent ages with nothing but silence, dust, and books he'd already read twice over. Having actual people to observe, especially ones as hopelessly unaware as Draco and Harry, was an unexpected delight.

It wasn’t exactly clear what was going on between them. None of them had given it a name, least of all Draco and Harry themselves, and with everything they had on their plates—the resistance plans, tracking Ministry movements, coordinating with Blaise and Hermione—it wasn’t like they had the time or the luxury to figure it out.

But to Theo, it didn’t need a label. The signs were all there, plain as day, no matter how much Draco tried to scowl through it, or Harry pretended not to notice.

Watching them was like watching two clumsy animals trapped in an elaborate dance neither of them knew the steps to. They reached for the saltshaker at the same time, their fingers brushing and both pulling back too quickly. They bumped shoulders as they rounded the table, muttering awkward apologies that carried far too much weight for such simple collisions. And then there were the stolen glances, the lingering touches when one thought the other wasn’t paying attention. It was as adorable as it was nauseating.

You’d think, Theo mused, that after months of running together—sharing cramped quarters, mending each other’s wounds, bandaging bare torsos by firelight, leaning on each other when exhaustion hit like a tidal wave—they’d have learned some level of composure.

But no. Instead, they flailed, stumbled, and fumbled their way through every interaction, as though the tension between them wasn’t a living, breathing thing occupying all the space they tried to avoid.

Theo smirked as he leaned back in his chair, sipping his tea and watching the latest awkward exchange unfold. Draco muttered something sharp under his breath as Harry brushed past him, their shoulders grazing. Harry blinked, stammering something incoherent in response, and Theo had to bite back a laugh.

"Honestly," Theo muttered to himself, setting his cup down with exaggerated flair. "It’s like watching a couple of bloody Nifflers fighting over the same shiny trinket. Utterly hopeless."

Draco shot him a glare from across the room, and Theo grinned, entirely unrepentant. "What?" Theo asked innocently, his tone dripping with mock sincerity. "Don’t let me interrupt your riveting dance of denial."

Draco looked like he wanted to throw something, but Harry—ever the peacekeeper—just ran a hand through his hair, muttering something about needing to check the map.

Theo chuckled to himself, shaking his head. Whatever this was between them, it was only a matter of time before it all came to a head. And frankly, Theo couldn’t wait.

Harry had gone off to occupy himself—with what, Draco didn’t know. Something purposeful, no doubt, because Harry Potter never did anything without purpose. He’d left the room in that frustrating, almost graceful way he had, with his shoulders stiff and his jaw tight, but his footsteps deliberate.

Theo, seated comfortably on the worn couch, his long legs stretched out in front of him, squinted at Draco like he was trying to solve some ancient riddle.

“What’s your deal, Draco?”

Draco’s expression flickered somewhere between a wince and a scowl. “What ever do you mean, Nott?”

Theo didn’t even blink, his stare steady. “You and Potter—you finally seal the deal, and now you two are… what, exactly? Dancing around like third-years at the Yule Ball?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Draco muttered crisply, though the slight hitch in his voice betrayed him.

Theo snorted, leaning forward with an almost feline grace, his elbows resting lazily on his knees. “Oh, come off it, Draco. The tension between you two could set the whole bloody continent on fire. It’s exhausting just watching you. Honestly, I’m amazed I haven’t charged you both rent for the emotional space you’re taking up.”

Draco couldn’t have glared harder. “If you’ve got nothing useful to say, Nott, feel free to crawl back into whatever hole you came from.”

“Touchy, aren’t we? That blush says otherwise.”

Draco groaned, leaning back against the chair as he dragged a hand down his face. “It’s not like that.”

“Oh, really? Because the way he looks at you says otherwise. And let’s not forget the way you look at him. Like he hung the bloody fucking moon, all on his own.”

“I don’t—” Draco started, but Theo cut him off with a raised hand.

“Spare me the denial, Draco. It’s painfully obvious. You’re like a bloody novel, and I’ve read enough of you over the years to know when there’s something you’re not saying.”

Draco sighed, slumping back into his chair. “It’s complicated.”

“Complicated, sure. But when isn’t it, with Potter? The man is complications incarnate.”

Draco let out a dry laugh despite himself, shaking his head. “You don’t get it, Theo.”

“Try me. What’s the worst that could happen? You admit you’re terrified, and I tell you that’s normal?”

Draco didn’t respond right away. Instead, he stared down into his glass, watching the way the light caught the surface of the liquid. “It’s not just him,” he admitted quietly, his voice barely audible. “It’s me. It’s what I’ve done, who I’ve been. I don’t—” He cut himself off, swallowing hard. “I don’t deserve it.”

I don’t deserve him. Not him. He’s… well, he’s fucking Harry fucking Potter, for fuck’s sake.

“Draco,” he started, deliberately slowly. “You deserve more than you think. And if Potter’s stupid enough to see that in you and not run screaming? Maybe it’s time you started believing it too.”

Draco glanced at him, his lips pressing into a thin line. “You’ve been reading too many of those Muggle self-help books, haven’t you?”

“Maybe. Or maybe I’ve just seen you suffer long enough to know you’re your own worst enemy.”

Before Draco could respond, the sound of a door opening echoed through the room. Harry reappeared, his gaze flicking between them with faint curiosity.

“Everything all right?”

Draco straightened, his walls snapping back into place. “Fine,” he said briskly, standing and brushing past Theo, his voice steady but his heart anything but. “I’m going to bed.”

As Draco disappeared down the hall, Theo turned to Harry, his grin returning full force. “Well, Potter. Seems you’ve got your work cut out for you.”

Harry frowned slightly, confused. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, nothing. Just don’t let him slip away, yeah? Would be a shame.”

Harry watched him retreat. Whatever Theo had meant, Harry didn’t know exactly, but somehow he knew Theo was right anyway.

Harry thought too much. He doubted too much. His mind was an endless, restless loop, a carousel of second-guesses and regrets and what-ifs. Every moment spun faster than the last, threatening to spiral out of control, but nothing haunted him more than that kiss.

That godforsaken, wonderfully brilliant, aching, brutal kiss.

Draco Malfoy’s presence was oppressive and intoxicating all at once. Like lilies at a funeral—beautiful, overwhelming, and utterly suffocating. He was a man composed entirely of contradictions—grace wrapped in jagged edges, beauty carved from ruin. An angel, perhaps, painted in the ashes of a war neither of them had truly survived.

And Harry couldn’t get enough of him. He knew he shouldn’t. Knew that whatever this was—whatever they were—would only lead to more pain. More destruction.

But logic had stopped being his guiding principle long ago.

Not that Harry knew anything anymore. His thoughts barely made sense, fragmented and nonsensical, one crashing into the next.

Draco’s gaze felt like poison—sweet at first, cloying, before the bitterness settled in the back of Harry’s throat. And he drank it down anyway. Let it seep into his veins, daring Draco to destroy him. He would smile that faint, crooked smile, and Harry could swear he heard the crack of his own foundation, crumbling beneath the weight of whatever the hell this was.

And Merlin, Draco’s hands.

Slender fingers that left imprints on Harry’s skin long after they’d been removed. Warmth that burned rather than soothed. The way he always smelled—mahogany, teakwood, and something else Harry couldn’t quite place, something sharp and clean and utterly, maddeningly Draco.

Harry couldn’t stop thinking about that kiss.

He couldn’t stop thinking about Draco’s lips—soft, yes, but demanding too, like they had been waiting for this moment all along. The way Draco had pressed into him, chest to chest, their breaths tangling in the small space between them. The way time seemed to stop, everything else blurring until it was just Draco, just them, suspended in something fragile and terrible and perfect.

And then it was over.

Just like that. Over, but not really, because the ghost of it lingered, heavy and suffocating, every time Draco so much as looked at him.

Harry wanted to scream. Or run. Or—Gods help him—kiss Draco again until there was nothing left of either of them.

Draco was becoming his every waking thought—no, he already had been every thought for the past several months. There was nothing beyond Draco Malfoy anymore, not to Harry.

He whispered promise of his every breath. The sharp edge of his longing had honed itself into an all-consuming ache, one that threatened to devour him whole. Harry was drowning in the depths of Draco's eyes, lost in the undertow of his touch. And he couldn't help but wonder: did he want to be rescued, or did he want to succumb to the darkness, to let it pull him under, where the only truth was the thrum of Draco's name on his lips?

The memory of that kiss had taken root within him, its tendrils wrapping around his heart, squeezing tight. The ache it left in its wake was a palpable thing, a hollowed-out space that echoed with every beat.

Harry couldn't help but crave more—to peel back the layers of Draco's reserve, to expose the intricate, damaged beauty beneath, and to lose himself in the process. A siren's call to surrender to the chaos.

Because Draco wasn’t just a man. He was a storm. And Harry?

Harry was standing in the eye of it, waiting to be consumed.

Now, Harry decided he was done with thinking. Done with analyzing. Done with doubting. Gryffindor bravery surged through him like wildfire, consuming every hesitation, every fear. He no longer cared—could no longer afford to care. Not when every glance between them threatened to drown him whole.

Quietly, he pushed open the door to the guest room, the faint creak of the hinges breaking the stillness. The sight that greeted him stopped him in his tracks.

Draco was sitting on the bed, back propped against the headboard, one long leg stretched out lazily while the other was bent at the knee. The dim light of the bedside lamp cast golden shadows over his face, illuminating the sharp planes of his cheekbones and the curve of his jaw. His hair, a little longer now, fell messily into his eyes, strands catching the light like spun silver.

He wore only a thin white shirt, and dark sweatpants, the fabric clinging just enough to make Harry’s throat go dry. The shirt was unbuttoned halfway down, revealing a pale expanse of collarbone and the faintest hint of his chest. His sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, exposing slender, elegant wrists that moved with quiet precision as he turned the page of the book in his lap.

Harry’s gaze flickered to the book. Of course—it was one of Snape’s, its cracked spine and faded cover unmistakable. Draco’s fingers trailed idly over the page, brushing against the text like it was something sacred. His brow was furrowed in concentration, his lips slightly parted as he read, and Harry thought, not for the first time, that Draco Malfoy was the most frustratingly beautiful thing he had ever seen.

The air felt heavier now.

Draco hadn’t noticed him yet, too engrossed in whatever arcane passage had caught his attention. Harry’s pulse hammered in his ears as he took a step closer, unable to stop himself, drawn in like a moth to a flame.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Harry’s voice was low, quiet, but it still broke the silence like a shattering spell.

Draco’s head snapped up, gray eyes narrowing for a moment before recognition softened the sharp edges of his expression. “Harry. Do you ever knock?”

Harry shrugged, leaning casually against the doorframe, though there was nothing casual about the way his chest tightened under Draco’s gaze. “Didn’t think I needed to. What’s so fascinating it’s keeping you up?”

Draco sighed, closing the book with deliberate care and setting it aside. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I was trying to decipher one of Snape’s more... cryptic notes. And you?” He arched an eyebrow. “What’s your excuse for barging in here like some insomniac knight?”

Harry pushed off the doorframe, his feet carrying him closer, though he wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was the way Draco’s eyes lingered on him a moment too long. Or the way his voice curled around the words, smooth and sharp like silk laced with glass.

Or maybe it was simply that Harry was tired—tired of running, tired of doubting, tired of pretending he didn’t want this.

He stopped at the edge of the bed, his gaze fixed on Draco, who was watching him now with something between annoyance and intrigue. The air between them felt impossibly tight, as though the room itself was holding its breath.

“I’m done running circles in my head. I’m here because... well, I couldn’t not be.”

Draco blinked, and for a moment, the mask slipped. His lips parted as though to speak, but no words came. Harry took another step closer, his knees brushing the edge of the mattress.

“Draco,” Harry murmured, his voice softer now, almost reverent. His hand twitched at his side, aching to reach out, to touch. But he waited, his gaze locked on Draco’s, waiting for permission, for anything.

Draco’s breath hitched, his chest rising and falling with something Harry couldn’t quite place. His fingers curled slightly against the blanket, his knuckles pale, but he didn’t look away.

“What are you doing, Harry?”  

Harry didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to. He crossed the remaining distance to the bed, and before Draco could formulate a single biting remark or sarcastic question, Harry was pulling back the covers and sliding in beside him.

Draco froze.

Completely and utterly froze.

His spine went ramrod straight as Harry settled in next to him, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like they did this every night. Like they hadn’t spent months ricocheting off each other, too scared or stubborn to acknowledge the pull between them.

“Harry…” Draco said finally, his voice taut, sharp, but not nearly as cutting as he wanted it to be. He turned his head slowly, his gray eyes wide. “What the hell are you doing?”

Harry didn’t look at him immediately. He laid on his side, facing Draco, his arm draped casually—too casually—over the space between them. His face was calm, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of the storm that was always brewing beneath Harry’s surface. He tucked the blanket up around his shoulders and let out a long, slow sigh, like he hadn’t slept properly in years and this was the closest he’d ever come to peace.

“What’s the point?” Harry murmured, his voice like gravel underfoot. His eyes finally met Draco’s, unwavering, and Draco swore the intensity of them could burn through steel. “The couch, the bed. Switching back and forth every night like it matters. Like it changes anything. This bed’s big enough for the both of us, isn’t it? May as well use it.”

Draco blinked, utterly dumbfounded. “That’s your excuse?” he asked, his voice pitched slightly higher than usual. “You’re taking up half my bed because you’re tired of rotating spots like some tragic divorced couple?”

“Exactly,” Harry said simply, and for the first time that evening, his lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile. It wasn’t a full grin—God, no—but it was there, soft and fleeting, like a rare star in a smog-filled sky. “Besides, it’s not like we ever get more than a few moments of peace before the world sets itself on fire again. Might as well take this while we can.”

Draco opened his mouth, closed it again, and stared at Harry like he’d sprouted another head. He wasn’t sure what to say—or even if he should say anything at all. The warmth of Harry’s body next to his was... disconcerting. Intoxicating. It seeped into him, a slow burn that spread from where their arms were nearly—but not quite—touching.

“You’re mad,” Draco finally managed. “Completely off your rocker.”

“Probably,” Harry agreed, unbothered. His gaze softened as he studied Draco’s face. “But you can relax, you know. I’m not going to bite. Not unless you ask, at least.”

Draco’s cheeks were blazing hot. There was a lump in his throat and his head was spinning a little bit. “I wasn’t worried about that.”

“Then what are you worried about?” Harry asked, tilting his head slightly. There was no challenge in his tone, no accusation. Just quiet curiosity.

Draco didn’t answer.

As if sensing his hesitation, Harry moved closer—just enough to close the remaining distance between them. His arm slid around Draco’s waist, gentle but firm, pulling him in.

The contact was electrifying. Draco’s breath hitched, his body stiff as a board, but Harry didn’t let go. He didn’t press, didn’t demand. He just held him, his hand resting lightly against Draco’s back, his head dipping forward until his forehead brushed against Draco’s temple.

“It’s okay,” Harry murmured, his voice so soft it was almost a whisper. “Just... be still. Just for now.”

And Draco, against all odds, let himself relax.

Slowly, achingly, he allowed his body to ease into the warmth of Harry’s embrace, the steady rhythm of Harry’s breathing grounding him in a way he hadn’t realized he needed.

It was terrifying and comforting all at once, like standing on the edge of a cliff and knowing you were going to fall—but also knowing someone would catch you.

They carved their place out of the shadows, not with light, but with the sharp edge of defiance and the steady grit of survival. The world had no space for them—not for the boy who carried a war on his shoulders and the man who bore a legacy of ashes in his veins.

So, they made their own.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was theirs.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” Draco mumbled after a long silence, his voice muffled against Harry’s shoulder.

Harry chuckled softly, the sound reverberating through Draco’s chest. “Sure, Draco. Whatever you say.”

But neither of them moved.

And neither of them let go.

The morning came quietly, the kind of stillness that felt like a fragile truce with the world.

Draco woke first, his head heavy, his body still tucked against Harry’s side. He slipped from the bed carefully, his thoughts tangled in the remnants of the night before. There was something unsettling about the ease of it all, how Harry’s warmth lingered on his skin like an unshakable spell.

Draco was not used to this. Comfort. Touch. Tenderness. Someone so blatantly protecting him—choosing him. And he didn’t know how to process it. The weight of it pressed against his chest, unfamiliar and suffocating in its gentleness, like wearing a coat two sizes too big. It didn’t fit. He didn’t fit.

So, he shoved it aside. Pushed down the warmth, the softness clinging to him. He dressed quickly, fingers fumbling over buttons as if the act of getting ready could shake loose the thoughts circling his mind.

By the time he made it to the main room, his expression was impassive, his posture rigid.

Theo was already at the table, one hand cradling a mug of tea, the other lazily flipping through one of Snape’s notebooks. He glanced up when Draco entered, his smirk half-formed.

“Morning, sunshine. Sleep well?”

Draco ignored him, pulling the chair out with a loud scrape. “What’s the update?”

Theo raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by Draco’s abruptness. “No new messages on the rings overnight,” he said, gesturing to the faintly glowing band on his finger. “Blaise said they’re laying low for a bit after the last raid. Hermione’s been working on a strategy, but you know her—nothing moves fast unless she’s triple-checked it.”

Draco nodded, his fingers drumming against the table. “We need to move soon. Every day we stay here feels like borrowed time.”

Theo snorted. “And here I thought you were enjoying the quiet life.” His grin faded slightly as he leaned back in his chair. “But you’re right. Blaise mentioned something about a Ministry supply line running through northern Wales. Apparently, it’s tied to their surveillance operations. If we can disrupt it…”

Draco’s ring pulsed faintly, interrupting Theo’s thought. They both froze, watching as the faint green light began to shimmer.

Operation needed. Priority: high. Confirm when secure.

Draco frowned, twisting the ring on his finger. “Looks like we’re not waiting.”

“You think it’s another raid?”

“Could be. Or worse. Granger wouldn’t call a high-priority mission unless something big was happening.”

Harry entered the room then, his hair still a mess, the collar of his shirt skewed. He caught the tension immediately. “What’s going on?”

Draco tapped the ring on his hand, the faint glow catching Harry’s eye. “Granger. She’s calling an operation.”

“Then we move.”

Theo cleared his throat. “You two are just going to waltz off without a plan?”

“Since when have we needed one?” Harry shot back, his tone sharper than he intended. He turned to Draco, his voice softening. “We can’t afford to wait. If she’s calling, it’s urgent.”

Draco nodded. “We’ll use the ring to communicate. Blaise can meet us at the fallback point.”

Theo sighed dramatically, standing to refill his tea. “You’re going to get yourselves killed one of these days.”

“We’ll try not to,” Harry said dryly, already pulling his bag over his shoulder. He turned to Draco, his expression grim but determined. “Let’s go.”

Theo smirked. “Try not to blow up another safehouse, yeah? I’ve only got so many left.”

Draco shot him a glare, but there was a flicker of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t worry, Nott. We’ll bring you back a souvenir.”

Harry and Draco exchanged a glance as they climbed into Nyx, the car’s enchantments already humming to life.

“Do you think they’ve found us?” Draco asked quietly.

Harry didn’t answer immediately, his eyes fixed on the horizon. “I think it doesn’t matter. We’re already in this. And we’ll see it through.”

The road stretched endlessly ahead, the enchantments on Nyx humming softly beneath the roar of the engine. Harry’s grip on the steering wheel was white-knuckled, eyes fixed on the horizon with a lethal intensity. Draco sat beside him, flicking through a hastily-scrawled map Blaise had sent via the ring, the parchment glowing faintly with magical annotations.

"Surveillance outpost here," Draco tapped a marked dot on the map. "If they’re funneling intel through northern Wales, it’ll be heavily guarded. We’re walking into a hornet’s nest."

"Good. Let’s stir it up."

Draco's gaze flicked to Harry, his stomach knotting with a mix of unease and fascination. There was something unnerving about Harry's tranquility in moments like this—like the stillness at the eye of a hurricane, or the hush of a forest on the brink of a wildfire.

"You’ve got a death wish, Harry.”

Harry smirked faintly. "Not yet. You’d miss me too much."

Draco huffed, but the retort died on his tongue as Nyx’s dashboard flickered. A faint green glow appeared, Blaise’s voice crackling through the enchanted communication.

"You’re nearing the target," Blaise’s voice was clipped, all business. "The outpost is hidden in an abandoned Muggle shipping yard. Multiple wards, armed patrols, and we suspect experimental Auror tech—probably a mix of magic and Muggle weaponry."

"What’s the objective?"

"Disrupt their lines. Take out the surveillance tech if you can. And, Harry," Blaise added, his tone pointed, "keep it quiet. We can’t afford another spectacle."

Harry killed the connection with a sharp tap.

Draco folded the map, tucking it into his jacket as Nyx slowed near the outskirts of the shipping yard. The air was thick with salt and decay, the skeletons of rusted containers looming in the dim light like forgotten tombstones.

They stepped out, the crunch of gravel underfoot muted by the spellwork Draco cast around them—a silencing charm that swallowed their footsteps. Harry gestured for him to follow, leading the way toward the sprawling network of containers and machinery.

The first patrol was sloppy. Two Aurors, their movements lazy, their focus elsewhere. Harry moved like a shadow, his wand slicing through the air in precise, silent arcs. The Stupefy spell hit one Auror squarely in the chest, sending him crumpling to the ground. Before the second could react, Harry was on him, his hand clamping over the man’s mouth as he pressed his wand to his throat.

Draco watched, frozen for a moment, as Harry whispered something inaudible. The Auror’s eyes rolled back, his body slumping against the side of a container.

"You killed him?" Draco hissed, his voice barely audible.

"No," Harry murmured, stepping over the unconscious body. "Obliviate. He won’t remember a thing."

As Draco watched Harry, a shiver crept up his spine. It wasn't just the ease with which Harry moved, the fluidity of his actions—it was the complete and utter lack of hesitation. The absence of doubt. The seamless transition from one moment to the next, without any visible qualm or remorse.

Draco's mind recoiled from the implications. He had always known, on some level, that Harry was capable of… things. But to see it, to witness the evidence of it in Harry's very demeanor… it was a different matter altogether.

Draco didn’t have time for his existential, morality dilemma. Not now.

They pressed on, weaving through the maze of containers until they reached the heart of the outpost. A sprawling array of machinery and glowing runes dominated the space, cables snaking across the ground like veins. Several figures moved around the area, voices low but urgent.

"Six guards," Draco whispered, his wand at the ready. "Maybe more inside."

Harry nodded, his gaze sharp as he scanned the perimeter. "We’ll draw them out. You handle the tech."

Draco hesitated. "Harry—"

"Trust me. I’ll cover you."

Before Draco could argue, Harry was moving. He cast a Disillusionment Charm over himself, his form fading into the shadows as he crept toward the guards. Moments later, a flash of red light illuminated the area, followed by shouts and the crackle of spells. Harry had engaged them, his movements precise and unrelenting, drawing the guards away from the machinery.

Draco didn’t waste time. He slipped into the shadows, his wand tracing the runes etched into the machinery. They pulsed faintly, feeding into the cables that stretched out like a web. With a deep breath, Draco began casting, his incantations soft and deliberate as he worked to unravel the enchantments.

A sharp explosion echoed behind him, followed by a shout of pain.

Draco glanced over his shoulder, his heart lurching as he caught sight of Harry, blood streaking his face, his wand moving like a blade as he deflected another curse. He was relentless, his spells darker, more destructive—an Incendio that engulfed two guards, their screams piercing the air.

"Harry!" Draco called, his voice breaking through the chaos. "We need to go!"

"Finish it!" Harry shouted back. "I’ll hold them off!"

Draco swore under his breath, his hands shaking as he pushed through the final enchantment. The machinery sputtered, sparks flying as the runes collapsed in on themselves. The cables snapped like whips, the glow fading into darkness.

"Done!" Draco yelled, turning to run toward Harry.

Harry was bloodied but standing, his wand raised as he faced the last of the guards. Without hesitation, Draco cast a stunning spell, hitting the man squarely in the back. He grabbed Harry’s arm, pulling him toward the edge of the yard.

"Time to go!" Draco snapped, voice shaking.

They sprinted toward Nyx, the sounds of pursuit fading as they activated the car’s concealment spells. Harry collapsed into the passenger seat, his chest heaving as blood dripped onto the leather.

Draco stared at him, his own hands trembling. "You’re insane," he muttered, starting the car. His hands wouldn’t still.

Harry smirked faintly, his head lolling back against the seat. "You’re welcome."

The morning brought a chill that crept through the cracks in the old walls, the kind of cold that settled in the bones. Draco stood by the window, watching the pale light filter through the frost-covered glass. Harry was beside him, quiet but alert.

Theo sat at the table, leaning back in his chair with an air of nonchalance that didn’t quite hide the tension in his posture. He was spinning one of the rings between his fingers, the glint of green stones catching in the light.

“So,” Theo said finally, breaking the silence. “You’re moving on.”

Harry nodded, his jaw tight. “It’s safer that way. The Ministry’s still too close, and we can’t risk leading them here.”

Draco glanced at Theo, his expression carefully neutral. “What about you?”

Theo smirked faintly, though there was a hint of something softer in his eyes. “Don’t worry about me, Draco. I’ve got places to go. Family’s safehouses, remember? Not like I’ve been sitting here twiddling my thumbs all this time.”

“Are you sure?” Draco asked, his tone unusually hesitant.

Theo’s smirk softened into something more genuine. “I’ve been on my own for a while now. I know how to stay off their radar. Besides,” he added, flicking his gaze to Harry, “you’ve got bigger things to worry about.”

Harry stepped forward. “You’ve helped us a lot. If you need anything—”

“Save the heroics, Harry,” Theo interrupted, though his tone lacked its usual bite. “I’ll be fine. You two, on the other hand…” He trailed off, glancing between them with a knowing look that made Draco bristle. “Try not to get yourselves killed, yeah?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

Theo pushed back his chair, standing and slipping the ring onto his finger. “Where are you heading?”

Draco hesitated, but Harry spoke up. “One of Blaise’s leads. It’s not far, but it’s off the grid.”

“Good. Blaise is sharp—if he says it’s safe, it probably is.”

Draco stepped closer to Theo, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Take care of yourself.”

Theo grinned, leaning in to clasp Draco’s shoulder. “You too, mate. And, for Merlin’s sake, keep Potter here out of trouble., would you?

Harry raised a brow. “I’m standing right here.”

Theo hesitated for a fraction of a second, his sharp, calculating demeanor softening just enough for Draco to catch it. Without warning, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Draco in a firm, grounding hug. It wasn’t rough or careless—it was deliberate, like Theo was anchoring him for a moment, letting the weight of the gesture speak what words couldn’t.

Draco stiffened at first, caught off guard, but then something in him eased. His hands came up, hesitant, before settling against Theo’s back. For a moment, he let himself lean into it, let himself feel the quiet reassurance of an old friend who understood too much without asking.

“Stay alive, Draco,” Theo murmured against his shoulder. “Just…”

“I know,” Draco spoke, his voice thick. “You too.”

As Theo stepped back, his smirk slid effortlessly back into place. Draco's voice caught in his throat. He nodded instead, a curt, silent acknowledgment, his eyes locking with Theo's in an unspoken understanding.

It was enough.

He turned back to Harry. “We should get moving.”

Harry was already gathering their things. “Let’s go.”

As they left the safehouse, Theo watched them go, his expression unreadable. When they were out of sight, he muttered to himself, “Bloody Gryffindor and Slytherin, saving the world together. Who would’ve thought?”

With a sigh, Theo turned toward the opposite path, disappearing into the shadows with the ease of someone who’d been running his entire life.

The road stretched before them, framed by frost-laden trees that shimmered under the weak winter sun. Harry’s hands were steady on the wheel, though his shoulders carried their usual tension. Nyx purred smoothly beneath them. The world outside was silent, the kind of silence that only came with winter—a muffled, breathless kind of quiet that seemed to swallow everything.

Draco, in the passenger seat, had his head resting against the window, watching the world blur past in a muted haze of white and gray. The cold had seeped into his bones, but there was something oddly comforting about it, something that matched the strange emptiness inside him.

“Do you ever think,” Draco said suddenly, breaking the silence, “that Nyx is the only thing keeping us sane?”

Harry glanced at him. “The car?”

“Yes, the car,” Draco replied, sitting up straighter, his breath misting the window. “She’s reliable. Steady. Doesn’t talk back. Everything you’re not.”

Harry laughed softly, the sound warm. It was the kind of laugh that made Draco’s chest ache—so rare, so genuine, it almost hurt to hear. “You talk about her like she’s alive.”

“Maybe she is. She’s certainly survived enough with us.”

“You’ve got a point. Nyx is indestructible. Unlike us.”

The words hung between them for a moment. They both knew the truth of it. Draco shifted, brushing imaginary lint from his trousers, his gaze falling to Harry’s profile—his jaw set, his eyes forward, the weight of everything pressing down on his shoulders. Always on his shoulders.

“It’s Christmas,” Draco murmured, almost to himself. He wasn’t sure why he said it—maybe just to fill the silence, maybe because the thought of it hurt, and he couldn’t bear to hold it alone.

Harry hummed in acknowledgment, his fingers tightening slightly on the wheel. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

“Nothing does,” Draco admitted, his voice quieter now. He hesitated, then added, almost casually, “But I thought I’d mention it. Just in case you had some absurd Gryffindor tradition you were planning to drag me into.”

A bittersweet smile graced Harry’s lips. “No traditions. Just surviving. That’s the plan.”

Christmas had never held much magic for Harry. Growing up, he'd never experienced the holiday beyond the meager, loveless celebrations at the Dursleys'. It wasn't until the Weasleys welcomed him into their fold that he'd known the joy of a real Christmas. Draco, on the other hand, had grown up with the stifling, loveless opulence of the Malfoy manor, where the holiday season was just another excuse for his father's cruelty and disdain. But this… this was something different. A bleak, nomadic Christmas, spent on the run, in hiding, with no friends to share the laughter, the tears, or the quiet moments of connection that made the holiday somewhat bearable.

Yes, it was bleak.

No, neither Harry nor Draco would want to face it with anyone else.

Harry’s hand left the wheel, reaching out almost instinctively. It wasn’t intentional—or maybe it was—but his fingers brushed against Draco’s knee, lingering there for a moment too long before he pulled back.

Draco’s eyes flickering to Harry’s face, his heart stumbling over itself in the sudden stillness. “What was that?”

Harry didn’t look at him. “Nothing.”

“Harry.”

Harry sighed, his knuckles brushing against the wheel as he adjusted his grip, his gaze still not meeting Draco’s. “It’s Christmas. Can’t we just… not argue? Just for today?”

Draco watched him for a long moment, his heart doing something traitorous in his chest—something warm and aching and dangerous. He shifted closer, his fingers grazing Harry’s arm before retreating, the touch barely there, like a question. “You’re terrible at this.”

“At what?”

“This,” Draco said, gesturing vaguely between them, his voice almost trembling. “Whatever it is. The… being close thing.”

Harry’s lips quirked into a half-smile. “I’m trying.”

Draco huffed. “Try harder.”

Draco sure was one to talk.

Harry pulled Nyx to the side of the road, the soft crunch of snow under the tires breaking the silence. The world outside was still, wrapped in a blanket of frost, untouched and quiet, as if even time itself had paused to watch them.

“Why are we stopping?”

Harry turned to him. He was looking at him—in that infuriating way he always did—and Draco’s stomach wouldn’t stop twisting. “Because… it’s Christmas. And I thought maybe, for once, we could stop running. Just for a little while.”

Draco’s throat was dry and his heart was kicking his ribs. “You’re such an idiot.”

“I get that a lot,” Harry shifted closer, his hand finding Draco’s, their fingers brushing in a tentative, hesitant dance.

Draco didn’t pull away.

“I don’t have anything to give you,” Harry said quietly, his eyes on their hands, fingers brushing, hesitant and unsure. “Except this.”

Harry's forehead came to rest against Draco's, his warm breath dancing across Draco's skin. His eyes fluttered closed, as if he feared what he might see if he dared to look. Draco's entire being froze, his mind a maelstrom—fear and hope and something that felt achingly like desire.

"Happy Christmas, Draco."

The words were accompanied by a whisper of a kiss, soft and tentative, yet devastatingly tender.

It was less a kiss than a promise, a question, a hope that maybe—just maybe—there was something worth holding onto amidst the ruins.

Draco closed his eyes, his hand sliding over Harry’s wrist, his grip. He wondered if Harry could feel it—the frantic rhythm of his pulse, loud and relentless, echoing in his chest. He wanted to dissolve into Harry’s hold, to melt into the warmth of his touch, to freeze that fleeting moment and just—exist there, suspended in something that felt dangerously close to peace.

Harry smiled faintly, his lips brushing against Draco’s again.

The safehouse was nestled deep in the Scottish Highlands, half-hidden by jagged cliffs and shrouded in mist. It was smaller than Theo’s, a modest stone cottage that looked like it could crumble under the weight of the wind.

Harry opened the creaky door, letting Draco step in first. “Home sweet home,” Harry muttered, voice laced with sarcasm.

Draco snorted. “Charming. Do we get a cauldron or is that extra?”

The tension in their bodies melted just slightly as they surveyed the space. It was sparse but functional—a sturdy table in the corner, a hearth that still had the faint scent of burnt wood, and some raggedy old couches.

Draco dropped his bag and turned to Harry, arching a brow. “I assume you’ll take the couch, as a proper gentleman.”

Harry didn’t look up as he shrugged out of his jacket. “Not a chance. We both know you’ll end up in my bed again.”

Draco froze for a beat too long, his cheeks flushing faintly.

“I—” he began, but Harry’s grin told him he wasn’t about to win this particular battle.

The rings glowed faintly as Blaise’s voice crackled through them, his tone businesslike. “We’ve got intel on another supply transport. Magical artifacts. Controlled distribution. The Ministry’s got an armory they’re hoarding in secret, and we need it gone.”

Harry leaned over the table, eyes scanning the map Blaise had enchanted through the rings. “Where?”

“Edge of London,” Blaise replied. “High security. Multiple wards. This one won’t be easy.”

“Good,” Harry said, his tone darker than Draco liked. “Let’s make it hurt.”

A familiar unease curled low in Draco’s chest.

“Harry,” Draco interrupted, his voice firm but quieter. “Don’t turn this into a slaughter.”

Harry’s eyes snapped to his, blazing like green fire. “They don’t deserve mercy.”

“And what about you?” Draco challenged. “How much of yourself are you willing to lose for this?”

The room went still, the only sound the crackle of the hearth.

“I am willing,” Harry said, stepping closer. “To lose just about everything. Except you.”

Draco looked away, unable to hold Harry’s gaze.

The words settled in his chest like a stone.

Harry sat on the floor, his back resting against the edge of the couch. A nearly empty glass of whiskey dangled from his fingertips, forgotten. Draco was perched in the armchair, legs tucked beneath him, his gaze distant.

They had been sitting in companionable silence for a while now, the kind that came from exhaustion rather than peace. Finally, Draco broke it.

“You don’t think about what comes next, do you?”

Harry didn’t look up. “Next?”

“After the Ministry. After all of this.” Draco gestured vaguely, his hand brushing against the book balanced on his lap. “What happens when we win?”

Harry huffed a soft laugh, bitter. “Win? That’s optimistic of you.”

“Don’t dodge the question.” Draco leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. His eyes narrowed, searching Harry’s face. “What do you want? When it’s all over.”

Harry tilted his head back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “Maybe I don’t want anything.”

Draco frowned. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the truth. I’ve spent my whole life fighting for things. People. Causes. And for what? The world’s still broken, and I’m still… me.” He paused, his thumb running along the edge of his glass. “Maybe I’m just tired.”

“So, what? You’ll disappear? Vanish into the ether and let the rest of us deal with the fallout?”

Harry’s lips twitched. “Maybe. Isn’t that what you’d expect from me?”

“No,” Draco snapped. “Not after everything. Not after you dragged me into this mess and made me believe we could actually do something good for once. You don’t get to just—give up.”

Harry finally looked at him. His eyes were heavy. He didn’t say anything for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was hardly audible, “What if… disappearing is the only way I find peace, Draco? What if that’s all that’s left for me?”

Draco shook his head. “Peace isn’t disappearing. It’s not fading into nothingness. It’s leaving something behind that matters. Something that says you existed. That you fought for more than just survival. You of all people—you should know that.”

Harry didn’t respond immediately, his jaw tightening as his gaze shifted to the fire. “And you? What about you, Draco? What do you want to leave behind?”

“Something better. Better than what I was given. Better than what my family left me. I want to prove that I can be more than just… the Malfoy death-eater.”

Harry wanted to believe in that kind of purpose, in the possibility of leaving something behind that was worth the pain and effort it took to build. He did once. But not anymore.

The truth was bitter and unspoken in Harry’s mind, like a wound that never stopped bleeding. The world didn’t care how many times you saved it. It didn’t care how many sacrifices you made. It only demanded more.

Harry clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms as he wrestled with the thoughts. He couldn’t say them—not to Draco, not when Draco still clung to the hope of something better, still believed in the idea of redemption and rebuilding. Harry couldn’t take that from him, not when it was the only thing keeping Draco tethered to this fight.

But Gods, how he wanted to scream it. That the world didn’t deserve their efforts, didn’t deserve Draco’s carefully guarded hope or Harry’s broken, relentless determination. That all Harry wanted—if he could allow himself to want anything—was peace. Real peace. Not the kind that came from leaving something behind, but the kind that came from finally letting go.

And maybe, that’s why he was doing this after all.

Draco deserved to be free. Free of the shackles of his name, his past, the sins that weren’t even his to carry but had been thrust upon him anyway. Draco deserved the chance to rewrite the narrative that had been carved into his skin since birth. And if Harry could give him that—if he could carry this weight just a little longer, fight a little harder—then maybe he’d finally have done something that mattered. Something that wasn’t about the world, but about a single person.

And maybe—just maybe—when Draco was free, Harry could finally let himself go, too.

Not into freedom, not into a future where hope could bloom again, but into the quiet oblivion he’d craved for so long. Into a place where he didn’t have to carry anything anymore. Where he could stop being the boy who lived, the man who fought, the name everyone whispered like a prayer.

Harry didn’t need to leave something behind.

He just needed Draco to move forward, unburdened.

And once Draco had his freedom and redemption, Harry thought, maybe that would be enough. Maybe that would be his peace.

Even if it meant he had nothing left for himself.

Nothingness sounded okay.

Harry sighed, watching the flickering flames. "If you ever find a piece of light in this world, Draco, something untouched and pure, keep it safe… because it’s all I ever wanted, and I lost it somewhere along the way."

The message arrived via enchanted parchment, an unmistakable, sickly shade of pink. Blaise had sent it securely. Harry had been across the room, sorting through maps, but the moment he caught sight of the parchment, he was at Draco’s side.

Draco’s fingers trembled as he unfolded it. Her voice slithered from the parchment like venom, smug and taunting.

"To Mr. Malfoy, wherever you’re hiding: the Ministry does not forget traitors. You’ve made a mockery of your name long enough. Rest assured, we’ll find you. And when we do, the consequences will be… fitting. There are some lessons you missed, dear boy. I’ll ensure you’re taught."

Draco’s knuckles turned white as he crumpled the letter in his hand. “That—” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. “That woman.”

Harry snatched the parchment from Draco’s hands, smoothing it out with deliberate care. His eyes scanned the words, and with every second, the anger rolling off him became more palpable. His jaw clenched so tightly Draco thought his teeth might crack.

“Bitch is a more suiting word, don’t you think?”

Draco couldn’t find any amusement.

Harry sighed. “She thinks she’s untouchable. Her mistake.”

Draco exhaled shakily, trying to keep his composure. “It’s what she does. She thrives on fear. It’s… it’s just words, Harry. That’s all she has. She can’t actually—”

Harry turned to him, cutting him off with a look so intense it made Draco’s breath hitch. “No. She doesn’t get to touch you.”

“Harry—”

“I mean it.” Harry’s hand clenched around the parchment, his knuckles whitening as the paper crumpled under his grip. With a swift, almost violent motion, he hurled it into the fire. The flames erupted, crackling and hissing as they devoured the pink sheet, the edges curling into blackened ash. Shadows danced wildly across Harry’s face, his green eyes burning as fiercely as the flames.

“I will kill her,” he said, low and feral. “Before she so much as breathes in your direction, I’ll end her.” His voice didn’t waver. It didn’t rise in anger or desperation. It was steady—terrifyingly calm, like the quiet before a storm that promised nothing but demolition.

There was no hesitation, no uncertainty. It sent a shiver down Draco’s spine. “You can’t just… say things like that.”

Harry stepped closer. “Watch me.”

Draco was staring at him. “Would you really burn everything for me?”  

“Yes. And I’d smile while doing it.”

Draco opened his mouth to respond, to deflect or argue or push Harry away like he always did, but nothing came. The fire in Harry’s eyes left him speechless. His gaze was no longer that of the boy who sought justice; it was the gaze of a man who had chosen his path—one that led straight into darkness, all for the sake of a love that had become both his salvation and damnation.

“She’s dangerous.”

“So am I,” Harry said simply, his lips curving into a grim smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “She doesn’t scare me, Draco. But the thought of losing you? That does.”

In the depths of Harry's eyes, Draco saw a reckoning—a promise of madness, of wreckage, of a bond that would leave only ashes in its wake.

"You'd really burn the world for me.”

Harry's smile was a thin, razor-sharp line. "I'd reduce it to embers and dance in the flames.”

Draco felt himself being pulled into the vortex of Harry's eyes, into the darkness that lurked within, and he knew that if he took one step closer, he'd be consumed forever.

To hell with it.

The safehouse was quiet. Too quiet.

Theo had informed Draco through the ring that he would be stopping by. It was risky and threw many precautions into the air but if Theo was coming, it had to be for a good reason.

“Theo?” Draco asked, rising from the couch. Harry leaned back against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching.

Theo didn’t answer right away. Instead, he paced, his boots scuffing against the worn wooden floor. His hands flexed at his sides like he was trying to shake off some invisible weight.

“We’ve got a problem,” Theo said, his voice low, clipped.

Harry straightened, his posture shifting instantly into something more alert. “What kind of problem?”

Theo exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I think there’s a mole in the resistance.”

Draco stiffened. “What? Who?”

“I don’t know yet. But there’s been too many close calls. That ambush at the Ministry checkpoint? Blaise’s team losing their safehouse? And now this,” he pulled a folded piece of parchment from his pocket, holding it out.

Harry stepped forward, taking it from Theo’s hand. His eyes scanned the text. “This is Ministry intel.”

“Exactly,” Theo said. “It’s too specific. They’re getting information they shouldn’t have. Someone’s feeding it to them.”

“But who? Blaise? Hermione? Adrian?”

Theo shook his head. “Not Hermione. Not Blaise. They’re too careful. Adrian…” He trailed off, the doubt clear in his voice. “I don’t think so. But it must be someone close enough to know our plans. Someone we trust.”

Harry’s grip on the parchment tightened. “Who else knows about the safehouses? About the rings? About our movements?”

Theo’s lips pressed into a thin line. “That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out. I’m not even supposed to be—” he shook his head. “I’m working with the resistance through the shadows so I can’t exactly do much. Blaise is trying to work it out from the inside. We need to play this carefully.”

“And what if we don’t have time for careful? What if this mole’s already set us up for the next ambush?”

Draco glanced at Harry, catching the flash of raw anger in his eyes. He knew that look. It was the same one Harry had when he made a promise he fully intended to keep, no matter the cost.

“We’ll find them,” Theo said firmly. “But we need to move smart. If they know we’re onto them, they’ll go underground—or worse, lead the Ministry straight to us.”

Draco’s stomach churned at the thought. He looked between Theo and Harry. “What do we do?”

Theo met Draco’s gaze. “Lay a trap. Feed them false information. See who bites.”

Harry nodded. “And then we deal with them.”

Draco didn’t want to know Harry’s definition of ‘deal with them’.

“Fine,” Draco said finally, his voice quieter than he intended. “But if we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.”

A sharp smile graced Theo’s face—a predator ready to pounce, thrilled by the prospect of chaos. Draco couldn’t fathom it. It made sense why Harry and Theo got along so well—they held that same look in their eyes.

“Good,” Theo murmured. “Because if there’s one thing I hate more than being hunted, it’s being played. Let’s see how well they like being on the other side.”

Theo had stayed at the new safehouse with Harry and Draco, seeing as they all had to work together right now. Safe or not, it was easier. He had taken to working late into the night, pouring over messages and decrypting suspicious communications. He hadn’t shared much of his findings yet, but Draco could tell he was holding something back.

Draco found him one evening, hunched over a worn desk in the corner of the main room. The glow of a dim, enchanted lantern cast deep shadows on Theo’s face, making him look older, wearier. A glass of whiskey sat untouched at his elbow, a tell-tale sign of how deeply focused he was.

“You’ll burn yourself out,” Draco said, leaning casually against the doorway. His voice betrayed his concern.

Theo glanced up, his smirk tired but still intact. “And you’ll lecture me about self-care? That’s rich, Draco.”

“I’m serious, Theo. You can’t fix this on your own.”

Theo's eyes narrowed, his gaze slicing through the air like a scalpel. "I'm not playing catch-up, Draco. Not when the stakes are this high. Blaise is doing what he can, but he's hamstrung, stuck on the inside with a target on his back. And you've seen how close they're getting—the noose is tightening, and if we don't find that mole soon…"

“Theo—”

Theo's voice dropped to a low, deadly whisper. "It’s death for us all.”

Draco swallowed down the rising tide of helplessness threatening to consume him. Frankly, he was getting really fucking tired of both Harry and Theo’s apparent death-wish. Sure, they claimed to be trying to keep everyone alive, but with Theo’s reckless tendencies, it was a miracle he hadn’t been sorted into Gryffindor.

“They won’t get the chance.”

Theo’s gaze softened. “You don’t get it, do you? You’re not just another target to them. You’re a symbol, Draco. To us, to them. That makes you dangerous.”

Draco scoffed, pushing off the doorway and stepping closer. “Spare me the martyr speech, Theo. I’m not their savior.”

“No,” Theo said quietly, his voice almost gentle. “But you’re ours.”

Draco froze. He didn’t know how to respond, so he didn’t. Instead, he grabbed the glass of whiskey from the desk and downed it in one go. The burn in his throat was a welcome distraction from the burn in his chest.

Harry found Theo the next morning, bent over the same desk, papers scattered around him. The map Theo had enchanted lay open, glowing softly, with several points marked in a jagged red.

“Find anything?” Harry asked.

Theo didn’t look up. “Maybe. It’s too early to tell, but there’s a pattern forming. Whoever the mole is, they’re not careless. They’re feeding the Ministry just enough to keep them close, but not enough to give them everything.”

Harry stepped closer, scanning the map. “And you think they’re close to us?”

“Closer than we’d like.”

“We’ll handle it.”

Theo’s laugh was short, humorless. “You say that like it’s simple, Harry. Like this is just another battle for you to charge into.”

Harry bristled but didn’t argue. He leaned over the map, his fingers brushing one of the glowing marks. “If we don’t act soon, it won’t matter how careful they’ve been. The Ministry will find us. All of us.”

Theo’s gaze flicked to Harry, sharp and assessing. “Including him.”

Harry didn’t flinch. “They won’t touch him.”

Theo leaned back, crossing his arms. There was something very close to awe in his gaze. “You say that with such certainty. Like you can bend the world to your will just to keep him safe.”

Harry met Theo’s gaze, his voice steady. “I will.”

Theo didn’t reply, but the faintest flicker of understanding passed between them.

The table in the corner of the safehouse was cluttered with an assortment of mismatched mugs, crumpled papers, and an old deck of wizarding cards that Theo had produced from Merlin-knows-where. Draco sat with his arms crossed, clearly unimpressed, while Harry leaned back in his chair, eyes gleaming with faint amusement.

“You’re bluffing,” Harry said.

Theo smirked, lazily tossing another card onto the growing pile in the center. “I don’t bluff.”

Draco snorted, reaching for his glass of Firewhiskey. “Oh, please. Bluffing is your entire personality, Nott.”

Harry’s gaze flicked between Theo and the cards. “Alright, if you’re so confident…” He matched Theo’s bet, sliding another sickle into the pile. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Theo revealed his hand with a dramatic flourish. “Royal Wizard’s Flush.”

“Bloody hell,” Draco muttered, sinking back in his chair. “How do you keep winning?”

“Talent. And maybe you two are just terrible at this.”

Draco found Harry and Theo huddled over a map in the kitchen late one night, their voices low but animated. A single lantern cast long shadows on the walls, and the scent of tea—always Theo’s go-to for long nights—lingered in the air.

“What are you two plotting now?” Draco asked, leaning against the doorframe.

Harry glanced up, his glasses slightly askew, a smudge of ink on his cheek. “Just planning the next supply run.”

Theo rolled his eyes. “That’s what he says. But really, he’s trying to figure out how to avoid running into another Ministry checkpoint.”

“Because that went so smoothly last time,” Draco drawled .

Theo grinned. “You’d think a Savior would have a better sense of direction.”

Harry shrugged, unbothered. “You’re welcome to take the lead next time.”

“Please,” Draco interjected. “We’d be in Azkaban in under five minutes.”

Theo laughed, clapping Harry on the shoulder. “He’s got a point, Harry.”

The house was still when Draco stepped into the kitchen the next morning. Theo was lounging on the couch, his legs draped over the armrest, flipping lazily through an old Quidditch magazine. Harry stood by the window, a cup of tea in his hands, gazing out at the frost-covered landscape.

Draco’s gaze flicked between them. The way Theo moved—so casual, so unbothered—it reminded him of Harry in those rare moments when he let his guard down. And the way Harry stood, always alert, always watching, was something Theo did in his own way too, even when he pretended not to.

“What?” Theo asked, catching Draco’s stare.

Draco shook his head, busying himself with the kettle. “Nothing. Just wondering if you’ll ever do something useful around here.”

Theo smirked. “Define useful. I’m keeping morale high, aren’t I?”

Harry chuckled softly, turning back to them. “He’s got you there.”

Draco muttered something under his breath.

In the clearing behind the safehouse, Theo and Harry were sparring, their wands slicing through the crisp air with sharp, deliberate movements. Draco stood off to the side, arms crossed, watching with a mix of irritation and amusement.

“You two realize this isn’t a duel to the death, right?” he called out as Harry sent a stunning spell that Theo narrowly deflected.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Theo shot back, his face flushed but grinning. “Potter fights like he’s trying to win a war.”

Harry smirked, stepping closer. “That’s because I am.”

When Harry finally disarmed Theo, sending his wand flying into the trees, Theo let out a loud, exaggerated groan. “Alright, alright, you win. Happy?”

“Very,” Harry said, offering a hand to help Theo up.

Theo took it, then turned to Draco with a mischievous grin. “Your turn, Malfoy.”

Draco scoffed. “I’ll pass, thanks. Some of us prefer to keep our limbs intact.”

Draco and Theo sat side by side on the worn leather couch, the silence between them more comfortable than it had been in years. Outside, the wind howled, shaking the windows, but inside, it was quiet. Safe. For now.

Theo swirled the amber liquid in his glass, watching the light catch the edges before taking a small sip. He glanced sideways at Draco, who was staring into the fire, his fingers absently tracing the edge of his own glass.

“You’re not as much of a prat as you used to be,” Theo said suddenly, breaking the stillness.

Draco blinked, turning to him with a raised brow. “That’s a glowing compliment, Nott. Shall I inscribe it on my gravestone?”

Theo chuckled, leaning back against the couch. “I’m serious. You’re… softer than you were in school. Not in a bad way, though. Just… different.”

“I’ve had a few life-altering experiences. That tends to change a person.”

“Like dying?”  

Draco’s hand stilled on his glass. He looked down, his voice quieter when he replied. “Like dying. And everything after.”

Theo's eyes locked onto Draco's, a fleeting glimmer of vulnerability visible beneath his usual mask of indifference. For a moment, the only sound was the soft crackle of the fire.

"I thought I'd lost you, mate," Theo said finally, his voice low and rough, like the words were being dragged from him against his will. "And it... it felt like someone had ripped my guts out."

Draco's gaze sliced through Theo's facade, searching for the faintest crack in his armor. Instead, he found a stark, unvarnished honesty that left him winded.

"You’ve never said that before.”

Theo shrugged, a jerky, uncomfortable motion. "Didn't see the point. You were back. Alive. And I... I didn't want to think about it. About how close I came to losing you." He paused, his eyes glinting with a mixture of emotion and defiance. "We're brothers, Draco. In every way that counts. It was just… it was a heavy thing to process.”

Draco’s throat was tight. He looked away, back at the fire, his voice strained. “I didn’t ask to come back. Sometimes, I’m not even sure I should have.”

Theo reached out, placing a hand on Draco’s shoulder. It was a rare gesture from him, and it caught Draco off guard. “Don’t say that. You’re here, Draco. And I’m… well, I’m bloody glad you are.”

Draco hesitated, then finally nodded, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “You’re annoyingly sentimental tonight, Nott.”

Theo grinned, the usual mischief returning to his eyes. “Don’t get used to it. I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

“Merlin forbid anyone think you have a heart.”

Theo nudged him with his shoulder. “Speaking of hearts… what’s going on with you and Harry?”

Draco groaned, sinking further into the couch. “I knew this was coming.”

“Well? Don’t leave me in suspense.”

Draco huffed, staring at the ceiling. “It’s... complicated.”

“It’s always complicated with you. But you’re happy. Aren’t you?”

Draco didn’t answer immediately. “I don’t know if happy is the right word. But... I’m not miserable. And that’s something.”

Theo raised his glass in a mock toast. “To not being miserable. It’s the best we can hope for.”

Draco clinked his glass against Theo’s, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Cheers to that.”

The fire crackled, and for a moment, everything felt simple.  

The message came through, urgent and faintly edged with something Blaise wouldn’t say outright. It was a takedown—an opportunity, a sliver of hope to dismantle another piece of the Ministry’s tyrannical machine.

Theo was already at the table, leaning over the map spread before them. His glamour was softening his sharp features, making him unrecognizable. The lines of his jaw blurred just enough, his hair a shade lighter, his eyes not quite the piercing shade they should’ve been. To anyone else, he’d be a ghost, a shadow of the man he once was.

But to Draco, it was still Theo—the same infuriating, loyal, maddening Theo who was never content to sit still.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Draco said. “This isn’t your fight. Gathering intel is one thing but walking into a takedown—you’re supposed to be dead, for fuck’s sake.”

Theo’s laugh was bitter. “That’s the point, isn’t it? I’m dead. A non-entity. The Ministry’s forgotten about me. What better position to fight from?”

“Don’t,” Harry said from the doorway, his voice sharper than Draco expected. He stepped into the room. “This isn’t a game, Theo. You’re not invincible just because they think you’re gone. If they see through the glamour—”

“They won’t,” Theo interrupted. “I’m careful. More careful than either of you seem to think.”

Draco shook his head. “You don’t have to do this. Blaise, Harry, and I—we can handle it. We’ve been handling it.”

“I’m not risking myself for this,” he said quietly. “I’m risking myself for you. For Blaise. Pansy—who is still rotting away in bloody Azkaban. For every one of us who’s still standing. Don’t you get it, Draco? I can’t just sit around anymore. I’ve been hiding for too long.”

“It’s not hiding,” Draco snapped. “It’s survival. You think I don’t know what it’s like to feel useless? To feel like you’re not doing enough? But this—this isn’t the way. You’re putting yourself in danger for what? To prove a fucking point?”

The truth was, Theo didn’t need to involve himself in their missions, their operations, or whatever name they decided to dress their chaos in for the day. Draco already had his hands full keeping an eye on Harry—watching him teeter on the edge of recklessness, caught between unrelenting determination and the slow erosion of his own sanity. Adding Theo into the mix? It was a distraction Draco couldn’t afford. The last thing he needed was another person to worry about, another variable in an equation that already felt like it was slipping out of control.

“To prove that I still matter,” Theo said steadily. “To prove that I’m not just a damned ghost, Draco. That I can do something more than haunt safehouses and wait for the war to end. I’m tired of waiting, Draco. We all are.”

Draco’s lips parted, but no words came. He glanced at Harry, desperate for him to say something—anything—but Harry was silent, jaw tight and his eyes fixed on Theo like he was trying to see through him, to find the cracks in his armor.

“I’m not leaving,” Theo said firmly, straightening to his full height. “I’m seeing this through. For my friends. For my family. For my freedom. You can’t ask me to do nothing, Draco. Not anymore.”

Draco felt the words bubbling up, sharp and jagged, but when he looked at Theo—at the way he stood there, resolute and unflinching—he couldn’t bring himself to say them. Instead, he stepped forward, his hands gripping Theo’s shoulders with a force he wasn’t sure he could control. “You’re going to get yourself killed, mate.”

Theo’s smirk was faint. “Don’t you know I’m already dead, Draco?”

Draco stared at him. “Not funny.”

Theo winked. “Cut me some slack,” he murmured, waving a hand dismissively. “A man can only sit in the shadows for so long before it gets dull. Sometimes, you’ve got to stir the pot. Call it… fueling my adrenaline addiction. It’s been a while.”

Draco wanted to throttle him.

Instead, Draco pulled Theo into a tight embrace. They’d been doing that a lot lately—more than he cared to admit—and it was ridiculous and soft and entirely un-Slytherin, but Draco didn’t care. The truth was, it wasn’t even for Theo. It was for himself, a selfish, desperate attempt to cling to something solid in a world that constantly threatened to crumble beneath him. Not that he’d ever say it aloud.

Draco had come too close to losing Harry too many times now. Every fight they walked into—big or small—felt like another spin of the roulette wheel. Every morning they woke up, bruised but breathing, brought with it a fresh wave of dread.

He hated the fear, seeping into his thoughts, his dreams. He was tired of it—exhausted by the constant gnawing anxiety that the next time, the next battle, the next day would be the one that took another person from him for good.

All he could do was hold onto Theo for a fleeting moment, a quiet plea caught in the tension of his arms, a silent prayer whispered to a universe that didn’t listen: Let them make it through this. Let no one fucking die.

It was a cheap bargain, and Draco knew it. But it was all he had.

Theo’s arms wrapped around him in return, rough but steady, and for a fleeting second, it felt like they were boys again—untouched by war, untouched by loss.

“Stay alive, Theo,” Draco whispered. “Please.”

Theo pulled back just enough to meet Draco’s gaze. “Only if you do too, Draco.”

Draco nodded, his throat too tight to form words. Harry stood in the corner, silent but watchful. When Theo finally stepped away, the loss of his steady presence felt like a physical blow.

Draco and Harry exchanged a look, a wordless understanding passing between them.

“We’ve got this,” Harry said resolutely.

Theo grinned, slinging his bag over one shoulder. “With Saviour Potter on our side, of course we do.”

Harry rolled his eyes, though a faint smirk ghosted across his lips. He turned to Draco, his expression sharpening with purpose. “Ready?”

Draco let out a sharp exhale. “Never.”

“Good,” Harry said with a wry grin. “Then we’re set.”

As Theo stepped outside to the hum of Nyx’s engine warming up, Harry began gathering their maps and supplies, stuffing them into his bag with a practiced efficiency. Draco lingered by the doorway, his fingers twitching as if they itched to reach for something—or someone.

Finally, just as Harry moved to leave, Draco’s hand darted out, catching him by the wrist.

Harry froze, glancing over his shoulder. “Alright?”

Draco hesitated, his throat working as he tried to piece together the right words. His grip tightened slightly. “Just… this might be hard for you to grasp, Harry, but don’t do something reckless and stupid and rash—”

“Draco—”

“I’m serious,” Draco interrupted, his voice edged with uncharacteristic vulnerability. His grey eyes locked onto Harry’s. “Don’t… don’t die, alright? Don’t you dare fucking die, Harry, or I swear to Merlin—”

Harry’s laugh was soft, warm, and utterly disarming. It cut through Draco’s tension like a spell, leaving him momentarily unmoored. “Draco,” Harry murmured, stepping closer, his free hand lifting to cup Draco’s jaw. His thumb brushed gently over Draco’s cheekbone, a featherlight touch against the delicate porcelain skin. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily, alright?”

Draco’s breath hitched, his grip on Harry’s wrist loosening but not letting go entirely. He swallowed hard, his heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with fear or adrenaline. Harry’s gaze held his and for a moment, the world outside their little bubble felt very far away.

“You better not,” Draco managed. “Because if you do… I’ll find a way to drag you back just so I can kill you myself.”

“Duly noted.”

Without another word, he turned and headed for the door, leaving Draco standing there, his hand falling to his side. He followed a beat later, his footsteps echoing as he braced himself for whatever lay ahead.

The convoy appeared under the shadow of midnight, lanterns casting flickering light against the mist-cloaked ground. The resistance had taken positions in the dense treeline, wands drawn, breaths visible in the icy air.

Draco crouched beside Harry, the faint glow of his wand tip illuminating the determination etched on his face.

“It’s quiet,” Theo muttered from Harry’s other side, his voice barely audible over the wind. “Too quiet.”

Harry’s hand tightened around his wand. “Stay sharp. If this goes sideways—”

“Understood,” Theo cut him off, adjusting his hood to hide the glamour concealing his identity.

The caravan moved slowly, the lead cart pulled by two enchanted Thestrals. Harry’s eyes scanned the area, his instincts prickling with unease. Something was off. The Ministry wasn’t careless, and this setup was too exposed.

Blaise’s voice crackled through the enchanted rings. “Go on my mark. Disrupt the wards first, then move on the convoy.”

Harry nodded, giving Draco a brief glance. “Stay close.”

“I’m not the one who needs reminding.”

Theo leaned closer, his grin faint. “Try not to get yourselves slain, yeah? I hate being the responsible one.”

The plan went into motion as Harry sent a silent Finite Incantatem toward the glowing wards around the convoy. The air shimmered and broke apart like glass under pressure. The resistance forces moved, a coordinated attack surging forward from the shadows.

But before they reached the convoy, a deafening explosion rocked the ground beneath them.

Draco was thrown backward, his head slamming against the base of a tree. Dazed, he struggled to make sense of the chaos unfolding around him. Spells erupted from all sides, streaks of green and red light cutting through the darkness.

“It’s a trap!” Theo’s voice rang out as he deflected a curse aimed at his chest.

Harry didn’t hesitate. He dove forward, using the wreckage of the lead cart for cover. His wand flicked sharply, and a barrage of blue flames engulfed the nearest Ministry guards. “Fall back!” he yelled over the din, but the resistance fighters were scattered, their formation already broken.

Draco scrambled to his feet, his wand slicing through the air as he sent a barrage of hexes at the approaching enemies. He caught sight of Theo holding his ground, a blur of motion as he disarmed one attacker and sent another flying with a brutal Depulso.

“Harry!” Draco shouted. His head was simultaneously throbbing and spinning.

Harry was in the thick of it, his movements fluid and remorseless. He conjured a shield just as a blade hurtled toward him—a blade aimed too high and too fast to block conventionally. Without thinking, Harry caught it with his teeth, the cold metal biting into his lip as he yanked it free from the attacker’s grip. Blood dripped onto his chin as he spat the blade to the ground, his wand already trained on the assailant. “Stupefy.”

The attacker crumpled, but there was no time to regroup. Another explosion ripped through the area, scattering debris and cutting off Theo’s path to Harry and Draco.

“We’re surrounded!” Blaise’s voice came through the rings, panicked and strained. “They knew we were coming. Get out of there! GO NOW!”

Theo’s glamour flickered for a moment as he cast a massive shield charm. “Draco, get to Harry. Now!”

Draco hesitated, torn between the chaos around him and the sight of Harry fighting off three guards with a ferocity that was both terrifying and awe-inspiring.

Something flickered in the corner of his vision—Adrian. He was nearby, too close to the Ministry guards, his movements strange, his wand angled just slightly off. For a moment, Draco’s mind stalled, but then Harry’s voice broke through the haze.

“Draco!” Harry yelled, green eyes ablaze. “Move!”

Draco turned just in time to deflect a spell aimed directly at him, the force of the impact sending him stumbling into Harry’s side.

“We need to go,” Harry growled, his voice ragged with exertion.

Draco grabbed Harry’s arm, dragging him toward the treeline. Theo was still holding his position, his wand slashing through the air as curses rained down on him.

“THEO!”

The sound tore from Draco's throat like a physical thing, leaving him breathless and shattered. The battlefield dissolved into chaos—a mad whirlwind of spells and screams and shattering stone.

But Draco didn't hear any of it. Didn't see any of it.

All he saw was Theo.

Crumbled on the ground, his glamour shattered, his skin deathly pale. Blood everywhere—pooling beneath him, soaking the earth, dripping from his lips. His chest jerked in shallow, erratic gasps, his eyes….

His eyes were wrong. Glassy. Unfocused.

Draco's mind fractured. He felt himself moving, stumbling towards Theo, but his legs were leaden, unresponsive. His voice was gone, lost in the void of his own horror.

Theo's name echoed through his mind.   

"No... no... no..." Draco's voice shattered, splintering into a million jagged shards of despair as he collapsed to his knees beside Theo. "Theo, please... stay with me... don't leave..."

The world around him dissolved into chaos. But Draco was oblivious to it all, his entire universe condensed into the fragile, broken form in his arms.

Theo's eyes flickered open, a faint, agonized smile twisting his lips. "You're… such a drama queen," he whispered, his voice a barely audible rasp, a dying ember of sound.

Draco's hands trembled, his fingers slick with Theo's blood as he pressed against the wound, desperate to stem the tide of life ebbing away. "Shut up, Theo! Shut up and hold on—just hold on—"

Theo's gaze drifted, his eyes glazing over as his head lolled back. "Don't... waste your magic... on me," he whispered, his breath hitching, catching on the jagged edge of pain. "It's—” cough, “—too late..."

“Don’t you fucking dare, Theodore Nott—I swear to—FUCK!”

You don’t get to do this. You do not get to do this. Don’t—

Harry’s voice cut through the chaos. He didn’t know what was going on beyond the number of attackers that were coming his way. “Draco, we have to move! More are coming!”

Draco couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. The world had narrowed to the crushing weight of Theo’s blood on his trembling hands and the unbearable stillness in his friend’s eyes, a stillness that shouldn’t be there. Not yet. Not now.

“Theo,” Draco choked. “Theo, stay with me. Come on. Come on—”

Theo’s lips curved faintly, a ghost of the smirk that had once lit up every room. “You—” he coughed, the sound wet and terrible, “take the world back, Mal—Draco—”

“Don’t. Don’t say it. Just—stay. Please, just fucking stay.”

“You better take it,” Theo rasped, his breath hitching as another cough rattled through him. Blood flecked his lips, bright and cruel against the pale canvas of his skin. “Take it back. All of it.”

Draco’s vision blurred, tears spilling unchecked as he gripped Theo tighter, as if sheer force of will could tether him here, keep him from slipping away. “Theo, you don’t get to leave,” he said, his voice cracking with anguish. “You don’t get to leave me. Do you hear me? You bastard, you don’t—”

But Theo’s eyes, dark and sharp to the very end, softened, his gaze locking with Draco’s as if to say it’s already done.

A curse slammed into the barrier Harry had conjured, shattering it. Harry turned, a deadly light in his eyes as he deflected another attack with a nonverbal spell. He shot a quick glance at Draco, speaking through his eyes, hold him as long as you can, I’ll fight them off.

Draco’s fingers dug into Theo’s shoulders, his nails biting into the fabric of his shirt as if sheer force could anchor him to this world. Spell after spell spilled from his lips, frantic and desperate, each one more broken than the last. None of them worked. Nothing worked.

“Theo, please. Don’t do this. Please.”

The words cracked in the air between them, a plea, a command, a prayer—but the universe remained cruelly indifferent.

Theo’s lips twitched, his smile wobbling. “Always… such a softie,” he murmured, his eyes slipping shut for a moment before fluttering open again. His hand twitched, weakly gripping Draco’s wrist. “Draco… listen.”

Draco leaned closer, his breath hitching as Theo’s voice dropped to a whisper.

“Adrian…” Theo coughed violently, blood spilling from his mouth, his body shuddering with the effort. “Adrian’s… the mole. Saw him… in the shadows. I should’ve—” His words broke off into a gasp, his eyes widening with pain.

Draco’s stomach plummeted. “What are you saying? No—Theo, stay with me. YOU CAN’T FUCKING LEAVE ME—”

“Don’t… let him… win,” cough, “Promise me.”

“I—I promise—”

Theo exhaled shakily, the sound rattling in his chest, and for one long, heart-stopping moment, everything stilled. His eyes fluttered half-closed, his breath faltering as he summoned the last of his strength.

“You’re… my brother, Draco,” he murmured, his voice barely a thread of sound. “Always.”

And then he went still.

Too still.

His body went slack, the faint spark in his eyes flickering once before it extinguished, leaving nothing but a hollow silence in its wake.

“No,” Draco whispered, his voice trembling, his hands gripping Theo’s shoulders, shaking him gently, then harder. “No, no, no—Theo, don’t do this. Don’t leave me. Please, come back. Come back!”

There was a hand on Draco’s shoulder. He couldn’t entirely feel it. It was Harry.

“Draco—I’m so sorry—we have to—”

Draco’s ears were ringing.

He was blinking. He thinks he was blinking. Was he still breathing?

Theo’s body was heavy on top of Draco’s legs.

Why isn’t his chest moving?

Theo?

“Draco—”

Draco was being pulled up. Not on his own. His legs weren’t working. Harry’s hands were under his arms, lifting him. Dragging him.

It’s so cold. Of course, it’s winter. Why didn’t Draco wear gloves? He should’ve.

Was Theo wearing gloves? It’s so cold. He should’ve been.

Draco should have checked to make sure Theo was wearing gloves. Maybe a scarf. Or a hat. Theo always hated hats, but maybe this once, he would’ve worn one. It’s so fucking cold.

Harry was rushing them away. Draco could see the frantic look in Harry’s eyes. For a moment, he couldn’t understand why. Why was Harry panicked?

Quidditch.

Why was Draco thinking about Quidditch?

Theo was always the best Quidditch player in their year. Better than Draco, better than anyone. Better than Harry even. Theo knew it. Draco knew it. Theo knew that Draco knew it. It was fine. Theo was Draco’s best friend—no, his brother—and it was fine.

Draco sees someone.

People are still fighting.

There’s so much light. Flashing. Bright and sharp. Spells. He realizes. Buzzing through the air.

His ears are ringing. Static.

Someone is coming closer.

Harry is pulling Draco harder now. Dragging him toward the jaguar. Why?

Someone is getting closer.

Draco blinks.

There’s a wand aimed at Harry, just over his shoulder. He sees it vaguely.

A masked Auror.

Coming closer.

Why isn’t Harry paying attention?

Fucking look out, Potter. He’s right there.

Harry fucking Potter isn’t paying attention. Why is he so dumb, Draco wonders? He’s not dumb. Not really. Draco knows this. But right now, why is he being so stupid? Watch out, you idiot, Draco wants to say. But he can’t.

The Auror’s wand flicks. A spell flies toward Harry.

Draco flicks his wand faster.

When did he pull out his wand?

“Avada Kedavra—”

Harry moves, darting, and Draco is thrown to the side. Harry is staring at him, his face close, so close. His lips are moving. Words. Urgent.

Draco looks past Harry. The Auror is on the ground. Not moving.

Harry’s eyes are wide and frantic, fixed on Draco.

Why is Harry looking at him like that?

Draco looks again past Harry’s shoulder.

The Auror is still not moving.

Did Draco do that?

Fuck you.

Why wouldn’t Theo wear gloves in the winter? Is he immune to the cold? Frosty the fucking snowman.

Draco is on his feet. Harry is mumbling something, words Draco can’t hear over the ringing in his ears. The jaguar comes into sight, her dark frame emerging from where she had been concealed. Draco hadn’t done that. Harry must’ve. When had Harry had the time? How could Draco forget something so important?

Draco is being sat in the passenger seat.

Harry smells like—ash, burnt wood, and something else. Something faintly citrusy. Harry is leaning over him, buckling the seat belt across Draco’s chest. His hands are trembling, fumbling with the latch.

Harry’s mouth is moving. He’s saying something.

Draco doesn’t know what.

He can’t hear it.

His ears are still ringing.

The car is moving. Draco doesn’t know where they’re going.

His hands rest limply in his lap.

Blood.

It’s not his blood.

The nausea rises sharply, twisting in his gut. He thinks he might vomit, but it doesn’t come. It just sits there, heavy and choking, like everything else.

His gaze drops to his fingers.

The ring on his hand catches the faint light, its polished surface smeared with a splatter of blood. He stares at it for a moment, his mind blank. Then his eyes drift lower.

One of the stones is missing.

There are only three now.

The last conscious act Draco Malfoy was willing to perform before becoming a ghost of himself was killing Adrian Pucey.

Days after the mission—the godforsaken, gut-wrenching trap that had stolen Theodore Nott from him—Draco was a man unmoored. Harry was chasing him now, boots slamming against gravel as he sprinted toward Nyx, shouting, pleading, desperate to make Draco stop.

"Draco! Where the hell are you going? Draco—wait!"

Draco didn’t wait. He didn’t pause, didn’t flinch, didn’t acknowledge Harry’s voice cutting through the cold morning air. His mind was a roar of white noise, drowning out the world.

He reached Nyx before Harry could close the distance, slammed the door shut, and locked it with a flick of his wand.

Harry reached the car just as Draco’s pale, empty gaze met his through the glass. He pounded on the window, his fists reverberating against the sleek frame of Nyx. "Open the damn door, Draco! What the hell are you doing? Where are you going?"

Draco stared back, but it was like looking at a shell. His face was a mask of cold resolve, his expression so empty it made Harry’s heart twist painfully in his chest. He shouted again, but the sound barely registered.

Then Draco’s foot hit the gas.

Nyx roared to life and disappeared down the road in a blur of black, leaving Harry standing there, helpless and winded, his fists clenched at his sides.

Harry had spent days watching Draco unravel. From the moment Theo’s blood had soaked through his hands, Draco had gone utterly, terrifyingly silent. He hadn’t spoken a single word since—not to Harry, not to Blaise, not to anyone.

He wouldn’t eat. He wouldn’t bathe. He barely moved. Harry had stayed close, checking on him incessantly, sometimes even crouching by his bedside in the dead of night to confirm that Draco was still breathing.

But this… this was something else. Something Harry didn’t know how to fix.

By the time Harry turned back toward the safehouse, his chest heaving, Blaise’s voice was already filtering through the ring. "I know where he’s gone."

Wards shimmered in the damp, early evening light as Draco approached the hidden entrance to the den. He could barely feel his own magic as it pushed against the protective barriers. His fists pounded on the heavy steel door, knuckles bruising against the enchanted metal.

He didn’t care. The pain was grounding—something to tether him as the memories of Theo’s blood, his shattered voice, and his dying breath played on an endless loop in his head.

The door cracked open, and Blaise appeared, his expression a mix of anger and concern. "Draco, what the hell—"

But Draco shoved past him before he could finish, his steps frantic, his mind singular in its purpose. Blaise caught his arm, spinning him around.

"What do you think you’re doing?" Blaise snapped, his sharp voice reverberating through the quiet space. "You can’t just—"

"Where is he?" Draco’s voice was a rasp torn from days of disuse. His grey eyes burned with a ferocity that made Blaise falter for a moment.

"Draco—"

"Where is he?" Draco repeated, louder this time, his voice cracking like a whip. "Tell me where Pucey is."

Blaise released Draco’s arm, his voice dropping low. "You don’t want to do this."

Draco’s lips twisted into something that might have been a smile if it weren’t so broken. "You don’t get to tell me what I want."

Blaise didn’t move to stop him as Draco stormed past, the weight of his grief trailing behind him like a cloak of lead.

Blaise himself had no idea how to handle Adrian Pucey after the truth came to light. It wasn’t Adrian’s hands that had directly killed Theodore Nott, but it didn’t matter. Adrian had been the architect of the ambush, the one who whispered their plans into the ears of their enemies. For Blaise—and for Draco—it may as well have been Adrian who wielded the blade that ended Theo’s life.

In the days that followed, Blaise locked Adrian in a room deep within the den. The walls were enchanted with wards so thick not even the air could move freely, and glass windows lined one side, offering a cruel view of his isolation. Adrian sat on a single chair, bound by magical restraints. His face was bruised from the scuffle that had followed his capture, but his expression remained maddeningly calm.

Draco stood outside the room, staring through the glass.

A maelstrom of fury erupted within Draco, a tempest of unbridled rage that seethed and churned like a living entity. His fists clenched with a violence that made his knuckles ache, the tendons in his hands standing out like whipcords. His silver eyes blazed with an unholy intensity, burning with a fire that seemed to consume him from the inside out.

Blaise felt a shiver run down his spine as he beheld the transformation. The Draco he knew—the one with the sharp tongue and the quick wit—was gone, replaced by a force of nature that was both captivating and terrifying.

Blaise approached silently, coming to stand beside him. He looked between Draco and Adrian.

“What—” Draco’s voice was low, trembling with restraint. “What are you planning to do with him?”

Blaise sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. “I don’t know, mate. Not exactly sure what I’m meant to do with him.”

“I have some ideas,” Draco’s gaze never wavered from Adrian, his body taut with the effort it took not to storm into the room and unleash everything he felt.

Before Draco could move, Blaise’s hand shot out, gripping his forearm and forcing him to turn. “Look, mate… I know you want to tear him apart. Hell, I want to as well. But you need to think this through. What happens when you do?”

Draco jerked his arm, but Blaise held firm.

“Theo is dead,” Draco spat, his voice breaking on the last word. “Because of him. Because he sold us out. What am I supposed to do, Blaise? Just let him bloody sit there and rot?”

“No. But you don’t get to lose yourself in this, either. Theo wouldn’t—” He stopped, his voice catching before he forced himself to continue. “He wouldn’t want that.”

Draco pulled away, pacing a few steps before turning back to Blaise, his chest heaving. “Don’t tell me what Theo would want. Don’t you dare.”

“I’m not telling you anything,” Blaise said, his voice softer now, tinged with something that might have been grief. “I’m just saying… if you cross that line, Draco, you don’t come back from it. And I don’t think you’re ready for that.”

Draco stared at him, his face pale and drawn, his emotions warring behind his silver eyes. Finally, he turned back to the glass, his gaze boring into Adrian’s calm, detached expression.

“He doesn’t deserve to breathe. Not after what he did.”

“And he won’t,” Blaise said firmly. “But it has to be done right. We don’t just end him, Draco. We make him answer for what he’s done. Every last bit of it.”

Draco didn’t respond, his jaw tightening as he continued to stare through the glass.

Blaise stepped closer, resting a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll make it right. For Theo.”

Draco’s shoulders sagged slightly.

For a moment, Blaise thought he might lunge forward anyway, but then Draco let out a shuddering breath and stepped back.

“For Theo,” he whispered, the words tasting like ash on his tongue.

“For Theo.”

Harry stepped into the den looking utterly ridiculous. A Slytherin scarf was wrapped haphazardly around his neck, clashing comically with the red toque pulled snug over his unruly hair. His glasses were fogged, his breath puffing in visible clouds, and his nose was so red it looked like it belonged on a Christmas card caricature. He wouldn’t have been surprised if it had fallen off—he could barely feel it from the cold.

Blaise glanced up from where he lounged against a chair, his expression one of practiced nonchalance, though the corners of his mouth twitched. “Do I even want to know how you got here?”

Harry shot him a look as he yanked off one mitten, blowing warm air into his cupped hands. “Maybe if Draco didn’t steal the bloody car—”

His irritation was cut short as his gaze landed on Draco, pacing furiously across the main room. The movement was so relentless it made Harry’s head spin. Draco’s hands were buried deep in his coat pockets, his expression locked somewhere between frustration and an impending breakdown.

“How long has he been at it?” Harry muttered, not taking his eyes off the sight.

Blaise didn’t bother looking up, lazily stretching out his legs. “An hour. At least.”

Harry sighed, rolling his shoulders and tilting his neck to the side with a faint crack. His body ached from the cold and the endless tension that had become their existence.

Blaise motioned him toward one of the back rooms, a quieter space with a desk and a pair of recliners set up before a low-burning fire.

The moment they entered, Harry made a beeline for the warmth, peeling off the toque and scarf with a muttered curse as heat prickled his frozen skin. He all but collapsed into one of the chairs, shoving his hands out toward the flames.

Moments later, Blaise appeared at his side, a steaming mug in his hand. He placed it on the small table beside Harry with a smug flourish.

“Hot cocoa?” Harry raised an eyebrow, glancing between the mug and Blaise. “Thoughtful.”

Blaise ignored the remark, sinking into the chair opposite with the air of someone long accustomed to Draco’s dramatics. “You might need it. If Draco burns a hole in the floor, at least you’ll have something warm to drink while you contemplate his unraveling.”

Harry grunted, wrapping his fingers around the mug. He took a sip, letting the warmth seep into his bones, though his gaze drifted back toward the doorway. His mind was already half in the other room, wondering what had set Draco off this time and how long it would take for him to snap out of it—or, failing that, how long before Harry would have to step in and drag him out of his spiral.

“We can’t just sit here,” Harry said finally. “Draco’s going to do something reckless. You know it.”

Blaise’s gaze flicked up. “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t feel the same urge to burn Pucey to ash for what he did?”

“Then why stop him?”

“Because Draco won’t survive it,” Blaise said bluntly, his words landing like a blow. “You think he can carry Theo’s death and the weight of Pucey’s blood on his hands? He’s barely holding himself together as it is.”

Harry didn’t respond immediately “I could do it,” he said quietly. “Draco doesn’t have to. I could—”

“No,” Blaise interrupted, his tone cutting. “That’s not who you are, Potter. Don’t start pretending it is.”

Harry’s lips pressed into a thin line.

In truth, he thought, maybe that was who he’d become. Was it okay to take a life if it was for the sake of someone you loved? Well—

Harry understood the moral dilemma his life had turned into. He just didn’t know how to explain to Blaise that, actually, it might not be a dilemma for him at all. The truth was, Harry didn’t know who he was anymore. But—well—it wasn’t like Adrian didn’t deserve it. And Harry was so tired of assuming the light was the answer to everything.

The light hadn’t saved Cedric, or Sirius, or Remus, or—

The light had been a lie—a cruel, blinding joke that left him hollow and scarred. Now, Harry let the darkness seep into his soul, feeding the part of him that ached for justice, for wrath.

The point wasn’t whether it was right to end Adrian’s life. The point was that the so-called "goodness" he’d once clung to had failed him—failed everyone.

If goodness had failed, then he’d make sure fear didn’t.

“We can’t just let him go.”

“And we won’t,” Blaise said. “But what do you propose? Send him to the Ministry? The same Ministry he’s been working for? They’ll pat him on the back and shove him into some cushy position while we’re left picking up the pieces.”

“So, what, then? We lock him up here? Drag him around with us like some prisoner of war?”

Blaise exhaled heavily, leaning back in his chair. He looked older somehow, the lines of grief etched deep into his face. “I don’t know. But we need to think, not react. If we kill him now, it’s not justice. It’s rage.”

“Maybe rage is all we have left,” Harry muttered.

“No, Potter. That’s not all we have left. We still have each other. We still have the resistance. We have something worth fighting for. Theo believed in that, and I’ll be damned if I let his death turn us into the same monsters we’re fighting against.”

Harry’s throat tightened at the mention of Theo. He looked down, his hands trembling slightly. “He didn’t deserve this.”

“None of us do,” Blaise said, his tone softening. “But Theo wouldn’t want us to destroy ourselves over this. He wouldn’t want… his death to turn his best friend into a murderer.”

Harry didn’t say anything. He couldn’t tell Blaise it may already be too late for that.

"I wasn’t his best friend,” Harry countered. “I could carry it.”

Blaise looked at him. “You’d do that for him, wouldn’t you?”

Harry’s nod was curt. “Yeah. I would.”

The door slammed down the hall, and Draco’s footsteps grew louder, his pace frantic and uneven. Blaise and Harry exchanged a glance.

“We need a plan,” Blaise said. “Something that doesn’t involve Draco doing something he can’t take back. Or you. And we need to do it fast. Before he makes the decision for us.”

The flickering glow of the enchanted parchment cast a dim light over the room as Harry and Blaise stared at the message scrawled in Hermione’s distinct handwriting. It was short, succinct, and utterly Hermione.

Don’t kill him. I have an idea. Give me a minute.

Harry sighed, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. “I don’t know what she’s thinking, but it’s got to be better than what Draco’s planning.”

Blaise, lounging against the edge of the table, arched an eyebrow. “You mean ‘murder in cold blood’ doesn’t seem like a sustainable long-term solution to you?”

Harry shot him a look.

The parchment flickered again, Hermione’s next message appearing, crisp and clear.

There’s an old research facility near Dartmoor. Abandoned but warded. It was used during the war to contain... problematic individuals. If we can modify the wards, it’ll hold Pucey. Safely. Permanently.

Harry exhaled sharply. “She wants to imprison him.”

Blaise tilted his head, considering. “Not the worst idea. Keeps him alive, keeps Draco from committing murder, and keeps him out of the Ministry’s reach.”

Harry stared at the message. “Draco’s not going to like it.”

“No,” Blaise agreed. “But he’ll survive it. Which is more than I can say for the alternative.”

“We’ll need to move him tonight. Before Draco makes up his mind to do something irreversible.”

“Good luck convincing him of that.” Blaise’s smirk was faint but laced with grief. “I’ll try to talk him down. You figure out how to handle Pucey.”

Harry nodded, already dreading the conversation ahead. He looked at the parchment one last time, Hermione’s plan etched into the surface like a lifeline. It wasn’t justice. It wasn’t vengeance. But maybe it was enough.

Maybe it was the best they could do.

Draco had spent the past several months on edge, torn between wary concern and a gnawing fear when it came to Harry and his increasingly dark, homicidal tendencies. Part of him couldn’t reconcile the Harry Potter he’d grown up knowing—the sainted, golden-boy Chosen One—with the man standing beside him now: sharper, harder, and capable of killing without hesitation.

The other part of him—the part that lurked in the back of his mind during quiet moments—was even more unsettling. It whispered doubts, fears wrapped in bitter self-loathing. Why would Harry Potter—hero, savior, a beacon of light—descend into this moral abyss for him? For Draco Malfoy, whose name still tasted bitter on so many tongues? Was Harry really doing it for Draco’s sake? Partly. Mostly.

Yes, Harry’s resentment for the world played a role. Draco wasn’t naive enough to ignore the years of hurt and betrayal etched into Harry’s being. But at the heart of it, Draco couldn’t deny that a great deal of this rage—this willingness to abandon the light—was tied to him.

And it terrified him. It weighed on him like chains wrapped around his ribs, heavy and suffocating.

Draco didn’t want to carry the weight of Harry’s actions, even if they were born out of a twisted kind of protection for him. It made him feel… complicit. Like the darkness creeping into Harry’s soul was something Draco had unwittingly fed.

But now… well, now Draco was starting to get it.

He was beginning to understand the weariness that had settled into Harry’s bones, the bitterness that came with years of losing—friends, mentors, family—and receiving nothing but scars in return. Draco had been raised in privilege, but even he couldn’t ignore the truth: the world had never been fair.

And Harry?

Harry had spent his life fighting for fairness, for justice, for a light that refused to shine on him in return. How exhausting it must have been to hold onto hope in a world that only took.

Draco had tried to fight the idea that murder could ever be justified. Murder was bad. It was cruel and final, and Draco didn’t think he could ever forgive himself if Harry slipped too far into that darkness. But then…

Draco clenched his fists, his thoughts racing.

But then he thought of Theo’s blood, pooling in his hands.

He thought of the way the Ministry sent their dogs after him, after Harry, after anyone who dared to defy them. He thought of Adrian’s betrayal, the poison of it dripping into the cracks of their already fragile existence. He thought of the countless times they’d fought tooth and nail to survive, only to feel the world pulling them under once again.

If murder could stop that, even for a moment? If ending one life meant sparing dozens of others, meant giving them one more day to breathe, to fight, to hope? Was it so wrong to want that?

Draco exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair.

He hated that he could understand it now. He hated that, deep down, a part of him didn’t just understand—it agreed. He hated that he could feel the beginnings of that same exhaustion, that same resentment bubbling in his chest.

Because the world wasn’t fair. It didn’t care about light or goodness or hope. And maybe, just maybe, Harry had been right all along.

Draco looked over at Harry, whose jaw was tight, his eyes distant as he stared at the fire. He looked so young and so old all at once. Draco wanted to shake him, to yell at him for giving up on the light—but he also wanted to reach out, to tell him he wasn’t alone in this, to promise that he understood.

He didn’t do either. Instead, he whispered, almost to himself, “It’s exhausting, isn’t it?”

Harry didn’t respond right away, but his eyes flickered, and his voice, when it came, was soft. “What is?”

“Fighting for a world that doesn’t care if you survive it.”

Harry’s lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Yeah. It is.”

Draco hesitated, then stepped closer. “But you keep doing it. For me.”

Harry’s gaze met his. “I’d burn the whole damn world down for you, Draco.”

“Why?”

Harry’s shoulders lifted in a small shrug. “You’re the last piece of magic I believe in,” he murmured. “The last thing in this world that feels real. Everything else just… burns. That’s why.”

The room felt impossibly still.

Draco wanted to speak, to respond, but his throat was too tight.

Draco’s fingers curled into fists, the tremor in them betraying the rage boiling just beneath his pale skin. His knuckles gleamed white, and his nails bit into his palms, crescent moons carved in flesh. Pucey’s name burned on his tongue, venomous, acidic, threatening to spill out in a roar, a curse, anything that would puncture the suffocating silence between them.

“You’re not going to do it,” Harry said finally. It wasn’t mocking, but it wasn’t kind, either.

Draco snapped his head up. “Don’t you dare tell me what I will or won’t do. You don’t know a damn thing about—”

“I do,” Harry interrupted, calm but cutting. He stepped forward, his presence swallowing the space between them. He wasn’t taking Draco’s anger personally, he knew better. “You want to, but you won’t. Not because you’re weak. Because you still care about what’s left of yourself.”

The words landed like a blow, and Draco took an unsteady step back, as if the force of them had knocked the air from his lungs.

“Don’t you dare stand there like you’re better,” Draco spat, but the venom had lost its edge, cracked open by the tremor in his voice. “Like you’ve never wanted someone dead. Like you’re not already—”

“I have,” Harry said flatly, cutting through the protest. His eyes gleamed in the half-light, unflinching and unrepentant. “I have wanted it. And I’ve done it. Because I didn’t care what it made me. But you do.”

Draco flinched, the truth of it sinking into him like barbs. His anger hadn’t cooled, but it twisted now, sour and sharp, aimed more at himself than anyone else. He felt the weight of his own morality pressing down, heavy and suffocating.

“You think that makes you stronger than me?” Draco shot back, though the words came weaker now, like a child throwing stones at an unmovable wall.

Harry shook his head slowly. “No. It just makes me… something else. But don’t stand there and pretend you’re like me. You’ll never let yourself become what I am.”

Draco didn’t respond. He didn’t have to. Somewhere in the silence that followed, the truth burned brighter than all the words they could have said. He wouldn’t kill Adrian. No matter how much he wanted to, no matter how deeply his grief hollowed him out and filled him with the urge to destroy, he couldn’t do it.

He hated himself for both the desire and the restraint.

Harry offered a weak and hollow smile. “It’s a good thing, Draco. You think you know darkness? I live in it. Every corner of me is painted in shadows you’ve never touched." Harry turned towards the door. “Trust me, you don’t want to become what I am.”

Blaise stood near the far door, arms crossed as he exchanged terse instructions with the others. They were few—just enough to keep Adrian in check but not enough to draw attention. Trusted faces. No room for mistakes.

Draco hadn’t spoken much since the plan was set, pacing like a caged animal, tension coiled tight beneath his skin. Harry leaned against the doorframe, watching him, a shadow in the periphery. His gaze never strayed from Draco.

Adrian was shoved forward, his hands bound, his face bruised and pale. He stumbled, but no one offered to steady him. Blaise gave a clipped nod, signaling the others to take him out, but before Adrian could be dragged away, Draco moved.

It was fast, violent.

One moment Adrian was standing, coughing blood onto the floor, and the next his back slammed against the wall with a sickening crack. The room froze. Draco’s hand was at Adrian’s throat, pinning him in place, his fingers trembling with restrained force. His face, usually a mask of irritation or cool disdain, was twisted with something venomous.

“You think I’ve forgotten,” Draco hissed. His pale eyes burned with something wild. “Think I’ve forgiven?” He pressed harder, and Adrian choked, his feet scrabbling against the floor.

Harry straightened, his breath catching. There was no hesitation in Draco’s movements, no guilt in his eyes. This was the Draco that had once stood beside Voldemort, the Draco who had commanded fear with a single glance. And it was utterly intoxicating.

“You’re not leaving here thinking I’m weak,” Draco continued, his voice soft now, almost too soft, a predator’s whisper. “You don’t get to believe for a second that I won’t find you again. That I won’t finish this if you give me a reason.”

Adrian gurgled something unintelligible, his face turning a blotchy red, but Draco didn’t ease the pressure. His other hand came up, brushing Adrian’s jaw with almost a cruel gentleness, nails scraping against his skin as if weighing what it would take to snap him apart.

“Draco,” Blaise said quietly. “We don’t have time for this.”

Draco’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t look away from Adrian, his grip tightening before he finally, slowly, released him. Adrian crumpled to the floor, coughing violently, but Draco didn’t so much as flinch. He loomed over him, gaze burning into the broken heap at his feet.

“You’re alive because I decided so,” Draco spat. “Don’t forget that.”

Adrian didn’t reply. He was too busy trying to suck in air, his hands clutching his throat.

Draco turned abruptly, his steps measured, purposeful, as if he hadn’t just crushed a man into submission. But when his eyes met Harry’s—still and unblinking, vivid green against the dim light—he paused.

Harry didn’t speak, but he didn’t look away, either.

There was something electric in the air between them, something thick and heavy, and it wasn’t just the tension. Harry felt it—the faint shiver at the base of his spine, the pull in his chest. He should’ve been alarmed by the ferocity he’d just witnessed, by the darkness curling behind Draco’s calm exterior.

Instead, it was like he couldn’t breathe. Like he couldn’t look away.

“Are you coming or not?” Draco asked sharply, his voice cutting through the haze.

Harry blinked, straightened, and nodded. He pushed off the doorframe, following Draco as Blaise and the others hauled Adrian to his feet and dragged him out.

Harry didn’t say anything, but the image of Draco—sharp, lethal, and so utterly alive—was branded into his mind. And deep down, in the quietest part of himself, he knew it wouldn’t leave him.

The days blurred into weeks, a constant hum of tension and motion.

Draco was unyielding now, his resolve forged in steel and tempered in grief. The loss of Theo hung over him like a shadow, ever-present but never spoken of.

His face grew sharper, his frame thinner, the hollowness beneath his eyes a testament to too many sleepless nights. He looked ghostly—almost inhuman—like someone who had stepped out of a battlefield and hadn’t quite returned.

Harry watched him change.

It wasn’t sudden, the way Draco shifted. At first, it was the small things: a refusal to speak unless necessary, the tight lines of his mouth, the way his hands didn’t shake anymore—not even when blood was on them. Then it became the way he carried himself: harder, colder, like someone who had buried his heart with the man he’d lost.

Harry had seen grief consume people before. He’d watched it rot them from the inside out until there was nothing left but anger and regret.

But that wasn’t what was happening to Draco.

The grief didn’t drown him. It hardened him into something else entirely.

Theo’s name never left Draco’s lips, but Harry could see the ghost of him in every move Draco made. The way he threw himself into the fight, relentless and unwavering, like a man with nothing left to lose but everything left to prove.

Redemption had once been his tether, his guiding star. But now, there was something deeper driving him. Something more visceral.

Draco would fight because Theo had asked him to. He would fight because Theo had told him to take back the world, to tear it from the claws of those who had destroyed it, and Draco would die trying if it meant fulfilling that last wish.

This wasn’t just about being better or doing better anymore. It wasn’t just about himself.

It was about Theo.

Harry saw it in the way Draco never hesitated anymore. The walls he had built were ironclad, cutting off whatever softness had remained. There were no arguments, no doubts, no faltering.

And yet, Harry could see the cracks beneath it all. They were small, almost imperceptible—an unsteady breath when Draco thought no one was looking, the way his fingers brushed over the pendant he now wore beneath his shirt, always hidden but never forgotten.

It wasn’t weakness. It wasn’t despair. It was the weight of love and loss, carried quietly and without complaint.

“You’re different,” Harry said one night, his voice low as they sat in the silence of their makeshift camp. The firelight flickered, throwing shadows across Draco’s face.

Draco didn’t look up. He was sharpening his wand holster with a precision that bordered on obsessive. “Good. The old me wasn’t enough.”

Harry frowned. “Enough for what?”

Draco paused, the blade of his knife stilling against the leather. For a moment, Harry thought he wouldn’t answer. Then Draco exhaled, a sound heavy with something Harry couldn’t name.

“To win.”

Harry couldn’t shake the sense that Draco wasn’t just talking about the war.

“You’re going to get yourself killed,” Harry said quietly, green eyes boring into Draco’s pale face.

“If that’s what it takes.”

Grief had carved them into opposites, as if the weight of loss had chosen to split along the jagged edges of who they were and what they could bear.

Draco’s grief was fire. It burned sharp and hot, welding his broken pieces together into something harder. It filled the hollow spaces with resolve and purpose, made him stronger—not because he was immune to pain, but because he had given it direction.

The loss of Theo had stripped away everything unnecessary, every fragile wall he had once used to protect himself. What was left was terrifying in its clarity: a man who would not stop, who would not yield, because to do so would be to betray the last words of someone he loved.

Theo’s death had turned Draco into a weapon. Controlled. Precise. Purposeful.

Harry’s grief, on the other hand, was a storm. It churned inside him, relentless and chaotic, pulling him in a thousand directions at once. Where Draco found purpose, Harry found only fury. His grief had no focus; it consumed everything indiscriminately, leaving behind a man who was reckless, dangerous, and raw. It was not the kind of pain that could forge something new. It was corrosive, eating away at the edges of who he had been until there was little left to recognize.

Harry didn’t wield his grief; it wielded him. That was the difference between them.

Where Draco sought meaning, Harry sought vengeance.

Draco would die for the world Theo had dreamed of, no matter the cost.

Harry would burn that world down to keep Draco alive.

And that, more than anything, was the tragedy of their grief: they would destroy themselves for what the other had left to protect.

Several weeks passed, and spring crept in slowly, its warmth and color a cruel contrast to the cold, relentless rhythm of their lives.

Harry and Draco were always moving—one safehouse to the next, sometimes dingy motels, other times barren campgrounds. It didn’t matter where, so long as they stayed ahead of the trail that could too easily lead back to them.

Draco’s determination didn’t falter. If anything, it had sharpened, refined into something colder, harder. He still had a purpose, and though the weight of it pressed on him constantly, he carried it with a quiet resolve. Fear no longer ruled him; it had been replaced by something steadier.

On missions, Draco was a force of precision and control. Hexes and shields came silently from his wand, wordless but devastatingly effective. He moved like a blade honed to perfection—cutting, deliberate, never wasting a motion.

Yet, no matter how sharp he became, no matter how tempting the darkness loomed just over the edge of his resolve, he never stepped over the line.

Even when the images came—Theo’s face, his voice, the sharp pang of memory clawing at his chest—Draco couldn’t do it. Even when his gut screamed for him to give in, to let the rage and grief swallow him whole, he froze. He would falter, just for a moment, caught between the pull of who he was and the weight of what he’d lost.

There were words he could never bring himself to say, curses too final, too cruel to pass his lips. And in those moments, it wasn’t redemption that held him back. It was Theo.

Theo had asked him to fight for a better world, not to drown in the worst parts of it.

And so, Draco remained tethered to the line he refused to cross, no matter how much it hurt.

Meanwhile, whatever had been building between Draco and Harry seemed to come to an abrupt and undeniable halt after that fateful day.

Draco wasn’t himself, and Harry could feel the shift like a crack in the foundation of something fragile. Draco moved like a ghost, his once biting sarcasm replaced with silence, his presence colder.

Grief had hollowed him out. But it wasn’t resilience, not really. It was a shell, brittle and dangerous, threatening to splinter if pressed too hard. Harry wanted to say something, to close the widening gulf between them, but every time he tried, Draco would brush him off with a glance so distant it felt like a physical wall.

They still moved together, fought together, but it was mechanical now—a dance of necessity, not connection.

And Harry, for all his recklessness, couldn’t figure out how to bridge the space between them without breaking what little of Draco still seemed intact.

Their current safehouse was hardly a house at all. It was more of a crumbling shack—a single, dimly lit room with walls that looked ready to collapse under the weight of a strong wind. There was no electricity, no running water. The only light came from the flickering glow of a lantern and the weak flames of a makeshift fire.

Harry stepped inside, his boots scuffing against the uneven floorboards, and leaned against the splintered doorframe. Arms crossed, he watched in silence, eyes fixed on Draco.

Under the firelight, Draco was crouched low, sharpening the edge of a blade with slow, methodical strokes. His focus was razor-sharp, his movements precise, the steel glinting faintly with each pass. There was something almost hypnotic about the way he worked—controlled, deliberate, like the blade wasn’t just a weapon but a piece of himself he needed to perfect.

Harry tilted his head. “Sharpen that any more, and it’ll cut through the air just sitting there.”

Draco didn’t look up. “Good. Maybe it’ll do the job I can’t seem to finish.”

“That what this is about?” Harry asked quietly. “Finishing the job?”

Draco’s hand paused mid-stroke, the sharp edge of the blade catching the firelight like a sliver of molten steel. For a moment, Harry thought he wouldn’t answer. Then Draco exhaled, a sound so hollow it might as well have been carved out of stone.

“It’s about being ready,” Draco said, resuming his work, the rhythmic scrape of metal on metal filling the silence. “For when I don’t freeze. For when it’s not… Theo’s face in my head, telling me to stop.”

Harry sank into a nearby chair, the old wood creaking under his weight. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, studying Draco through the dim light. “You think Theo would want you to keep doing this to yourself?”

Draco’s hand stilled again. “What I think doesn’t matter,” he snapped, finally looking up. His eyes burned, the grief behind them untamed and unguarded. “Theo’s dead. And what he’d want doesn’t change that.”

Harry didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. He’d seen that kind of pain before—felt it, lived it—and he knew better than to press too hard. “No,” he said quietly. “But it might change what you do next.”

Draco let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head as he set the blade aside. “What I do next is survive. Isn’t that the game, after all? Stay alive long enough to make it matter?”

“Surviving isn’t the same as living.”

Draco’s laugh was sharp, almost cruel. “Rich, coming from you,” he bit out, his eyes narrowing as he finally looked up at Harry. The firelight threw jagged shadows across his face, sharpening the edges of his expression into something almost hostile. “You, of all people, lecturing me about living. What exactly do you call what you’re doing, Potter? Some grand, heroic existence?”

Harry didn’t react at first, just sat there with the weight of Draco’s words hanging in the air. He tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable, the faintest flicker of something—hurt, maybe, or just exhaustion—crossing his face before it disappeared entirely.

“I’m not trying to lecture you,” Harry said finally, his voice quiet, almost too quiet against the crackle of the fire. But there was no anger in his tone, no bite. Just a weariness that made Draco’s next retort catch in his throat.

Draco turned back to his blade. The tension in the room felt like it might snap, but Harry didn’t push it further. He leaned back in his chair, let out a long sigh, and shook his head.

“You take the bed tonight,” Harry said after a long moment, rising to his feet with a deliberate slowness. He gestured toward the single twin bed in the corner of the room, its mattress sagging and worn, its frame battered and rusted.

Draco blinked, caught off guard. “What? I don’t—”

But Harry was already moving, dropping onto the makeshift bed on the ground without another word. It wasn’t a bed at all, really—just a collection of blankets haphazardly piled on the floor, offering little in the way of comfort.

Harry stretched out on his side, his back to Draco, and let out a soft, almost imperceptible groan as his muscles relaxed.

Draco stared at him, the sharp words he’d been ready to hurl dissolving into the heavy air. His gaze lingered on Harry’s back, the way his shoulders rose and fell with each slow breath. The sight of it stirred something in him—not pity, exactly, but guilt. A weight in his chest that refused to budge.

He glanced at the bed, its sagging mattress and threadbare sheets, then back to Harry. “Harry—”

Harry made no move respond. He didn’t even turn his head, just shifted slightly, his silhouette motionless in the dim light.

Draco sat there for a long while, the blade forgotten in his lap, guilt gnawing at him as he stared at the man who had given him the bed without a second thought.

The safehouse was another hollowed-out ruin, a forgotten relic of a world that no longer existed. The walls were peeling, the windows covered with thick blankets to block out any light that might give them away. The air was damp, heavy with mildew, and the silence between them was as oppressive as the stifling stillness of the room.

They had barely spoken since the mission.

Harry dropped his bag with a dull thud near the door, his movements sluggish, weighed down by exhaustion. His face was smeared with dirt and blood—not all of it his—and his shoulders slumped as he sank into a battered chair that groaned under his weight. He ran a hand through his tangled hair, smearing the grime further, and exhaled a breath that seemed to empty him completely.

Draco didn’t collapse, not yet. He stood in the middle of the room, his wand still clenched in his hand, eyes darting around as if cataloging their surroundings for potential threats. His face was pale, save for the streaks of dried blood along his jawline. His hands trembled, just barely, and he didn’t seem to notice or care.

The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy.

Harry leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his head bowed. “Another glamorous victory,” he muttered, voice hoarse and dripping with sarcasm. “Can’t wait for the book deal.”

Draco snorted softly, but there was no humor in it. He turned toward the corner of the room, where an old sofa leaned precariously against the wall. With a flick of his wand, the dust scattered into the air, and he dropped onto the sagging cushions, his head falling back with a quiet groan.

“You’re bleeding,” Harry said, not looking up.

“So are you,” Draco shot back, his eyes closed.

Harry didn’t argue. He leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes for a moment as the aches in his body pulsed in time with his heartbeat. The quiet stretched out again, broken only by the faint creak of the walls and the distant drip of water somewhere outside.

“We need to stop,” Harry said eventually.

Draco’s eyes opened, sharp and cold. “Stop what? Running? Hiding? Surviving? Pick one, because none of them are optional.”

“I meant,” Harry started, his eyes flicking toward Draco, “that we need to stop pushing ourselves like this. We’re burnt out. You know it. I know it.”

“And what would you suggest? A holiday? Maybe a spa day while they catch up to us?”

Harry glared at him, but he was too tired to argue. “Forget it,” he muttered, leaning back again. “Forget I said anything.”

Draco sighed, the sound more resigned than irritated, and let his head fall back again. The tension in the room didn’t dissipate, but it softened, just slightly, frayed edges loosening but not quite giving way.

For a while, they just sat there, too exhausted to care about the silence or the dirt or the way their minds churned with things neither of them were ready to say. It wasn’t peace, not even close. But it was something. Something like survival. For now.

The room was dark, the faint glow of moonlight seeping through a gap in the blanket-covered window. Harry lay on the makeshift bed on the floor, staring up at the cracked ceiling, his body aching and his mind restless.

Sleep wasn’t coming. It hadn’t for hours.

He sat up, running a hand through his hair, frustration prickling at his skin. He didn’t think about it—he didn’t want to think at all. His body moved on instinct as he stood and crossed the room to where Draco was sprawled on a narrow twin bed.

Draco stirred as Harry approached, his groggy voice slicing through the quiet. “What the hell are you doing?”

Harry didn’t answer, just sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. Draco shifted away, his voice low and bitter. “Go back to your spot, Harry. This isn’t—”

“Shut up,” Harry muttered, his voice hoarse, and before Draco could respond, Harry slid into the narrow space beside him.

Draco froze, his body stiff as Harry pressed close, the bed creaking under the added weight. “Are you serious?” Draco hissed. “There’s barely enough room for one person here—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Harry snapped, his voice breaking on the edges of the words. He turned toward Draco, his forehead nearly brushing the other man’s shoulder. “Just—shut up! Stop being a bloody tosser and hold me. For one fucking minute. Would you?”

Draco’s mouth opened, a sharp retort ready to fire, but something in Harry’s voice stopped him. It wasn’t anger—it was desperation. Harry’s breathing was uneven, shallow, and for a moment, Draco swore he could feel the weight of whatever storm was churning inside him.

“Harry,” Draco started, his voice quieter now, but Harry cut him off.

“Please, Draco.” The words were hardly even a whisper and Draco was sure the crack of his heart was audible. “Just… please.”

Draco let out a slow, shaky breath, his body still tense, but he relented. With a begrudging sigh, he shifted, his arms awkwardly wrapping around Harry’s shoulders. The gesture was stiff, uncertain, but Harry didn’t seem to care. He sank into the touch like a man drowning, his head resting against Draco’s chest, the frantic rhythm of his breathing slowly beginning to even out.

They didn’t speak.

The silence between them was heavy, charged, but it wasn’t unbearable. Draco’s arms loosened slightly, his grip becoming less mechanical and more natural as the minutes stretched on. He felt the tension in Harry’s body start to ease, the weight of his exhaustion finally winning out.

“This is ridiculous,” Draco muttered, but there was no venom in his tone, only a quiet acceptance that made the words feel more like an observation than a complaint.

Harry didn’t answer. His breathing had softened, the tension in his shoulders melting away as he pressed closer, his warmth bleeding into Draco’s skin. For the first time in what felt like years, the noise in Harry’s head quieted, just a little.

And for the first time in forever, Draco didn’t push him away.

Draco lay there, unmoving, as Harry’s breathing steadied against him. The weight of Harry’s head on his chest, the warmth of his body pressed so closely—it should have felt suffocating. It didn’t. Instead, it pulled at something deep inside Draco, something fragile he’d thought he’d buried months ago.

His arms relaxed slowly, curling around Harry in a way that felt too natural, too right. He hated how easy it was to let himself sink into this moment, hated how much it hurt. His chest felt heavy, too full, like it might crack.

The last few months had been a blur of running, fighting, and grief—a cycle that never seemed to end. They were together every day, fighting the same battles, sharing the same spaces, but it didn’t feel like it used to. There was a distance between them now, an invisible wall built brick by brick since Theo.

Draco couldn’t pinpoint exactly when it had gone up, only that it was there.

And it hurt. Merlin, it fucking hurt.

Draco closed his eyes, his fingers twitching against Harry’s back as he tried to steady his breathing. Harry was here, right now, close enough that Draco could feel his heartbeat against his ribs, but it wasn’t enough. It hadn’t been enough for a long time.

He missed him.

The ache of that realization was sharper than any wound he’d ever taken in battle. He missed the way Harry used to look at him, like Draco was something worth holding on to. He missed the way they used to talk—not just about missions or survival, but about everything and nothing. He missed the small moments, the quiet laughter that had once felt like their own secret language.

But alas, grief had changed everything. It had hollowed Draco out, left him brittle and cold, and he hated that Harry had seen it. He hated that Harry had felt it too. Because Harry wasn’t the same, either. He was quieter now, more distant, like something inside him had splintered and never quite fit back together.

Draco tightened his arms around Harry, his throat burning with words he couldn’t say. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, so softly he wasn’t even sure if Harry could hear it. His chest ached, his grief and guilt tangled together in a knot he couldn’t untie. “I’m so sorry.”

Harry stirred slightly but didn’t lift his head, his voice muffled against Draco’s chest. “For what?”

Draco hesitated, his fingers digging into the fabric of Harry’s shirt. He wanted to say everything—wanted to apologize for Theo, for the distance between them, for the way he’d shut himself off.

“For this,” he said finally. “For how different things are now. For… for losing you. Even though you’re right here.”

Harry didn’t respond at first, and Draco wondered if he’d said too much, if he’d just made things worse. But then Harry shifted, his arms wrapping around Draco’s middle, holding him tightly. It wasn’t an answer, but it was something.

“I miss you too,” Harry said finally. “Even when you’re right here.”

Harry shifted again, lifting his head, his eyes meeting Draco’s in the dim light.

The way Harry looked at him was a naked, soul-deep revelation—a glimpse into the very marrow of his being. It was as if the armor had been stripped away, leaving only the tender, pulsing vulnerability beneath. Draco's heart stumbled, faltered, and then began to beat anew, as if awakened by the gentle touch of Harry's gaze.

His fingers trembled against Harry's back, the whisper of his breath a soft caress against the shell of Harry's ear.

“Harry…”

It was all he managed before Harry leaned in, his breath warm against Draco’s lips. There was a hesitation in the moment, a pause that stretched out as if both of them were waiting for the other to pull back, to stop this before it could go too far.

Neither of them moved.

Harry closed the gap, his lips brushing against Draco’s—soft at first, tentative, as if testing the fragile boundaries between them. Draco froze for half a second, his body tense, before something inside him snapped. His hand came up, tangling in Harry’s hair, pulling him closer as he kissed him back with a desperation that felt like it might swallow him whole.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t slow.

It was months of grief and longing and anger and yearning crashing together in a way that left them both gasping. Harry’s hands gripped Draco’s sides, his fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt as if he was afraid Draco might slip away.

Draco didn’t care—didn’t care about anything except the way Harry’s lips felt against his, the way the tension between them shattered into something raw and consuming.

When Harry pulled back, his chest heaving, his forehead pressed against Draco's, the air was charged with tension.

Draco's eyes fluttered open, his heart racing like a wild animal in his chest. For the first time in months, the walls he'd built around himself cracked, ever so slightly. A glimmer of hope, of desire, of need.

Harry's voice was low, husky, his eyes burning with a question that seemed to hold his very soul. "Are you sure about this?"

Draco's response was instantaneous, a whispered promise that seemed to tear itself from his very soul. "Yes." The word was a vow, a pledge, a surrender. “God, yes.”

Their lips met in a clash of hunger, a kiss that was both urgent and tender. Harry's hands, rough and calloused, cupped Draco's face, tilting his head at the perfect angle, as if he couldn't get enough of the taste of him.

Draco's lips parted eagerly, inviting Harry's tongue to dance with his own. The kiss was a storm of sensation, a release of pent-up emotions that had been building for months.

Draco's hands, once hesitant, now found their purpose as they slid under Harry's worn shirt, exploring the familiar territory of his back. He traced the scars that marked Harry's skin, reminders of battles fought and won. Each scar a story, and Draco's fingers memorized them, his touch both reverent and possessive.

Harry arched into the caress, a soft moan vibrating against Draco's mouth, sending shivers down his spine.

The kiss deepened, becoming a battle of tongues and teeth, a surrender of control. Harry's hands traveled down, gripping Draco's waist, pulling him closer, as if he wanted to merge their bodies into one. Draco's fingers dug into Harry's shoulders, his nails scraping against the fabric of his shirt.

Breaking away for air, they panted, their breath mingling in the heated space between them. Harry's eyes, usually bright and mischievous, now held a dark, smoldering intensity. He stared at Draco for a moment, as if seeking permission once more, before his hands moved to the hem of Draco's shirt. With slow, deliberate movements, he lifted the fabric, baring Draco's torso to his hungry gaze.

Draco's skin was pale, a canvas of flawless ivory, marred only by a few faint scars. His chest rose and fell rapidly, his nipples tightening in the cool air. Harry's eyes trailed down, taking in every inch of Draco's body, before his fingers gently traced the lines of Draco's collarbones.

"You so bloody beautiful," Harry whispered, his voice hoarse.

Draco shivered. It was not due to the cool air coming into the room.  

His hands found Harry's again, and this time, he was the one to initiate the kiss. It was a gentler exploration.  

Harry's hands became bolder, roaming over Draco's exposed skin. He mapped the planes of Draco's chest, his thumbs brushing over the tight peaks of his nipples, eliciting a gasp from Draco's lips. Draco's head fell back, exposing the long line of his neck, as he surrendered to the pleasure coursing through him.

Harry's lips trailed down, leaving a trail of kisses along Draco's jaw, down his neck, causing Draco to arch into the sensation. Harry's hands moved lower, unbuttoning Draco's pants with skilled fingers, his touch both reverent and eager.

"Wait," Draco breathed, his voice hoarse as he tried to regain his composure. "I want..." He paused, searching for the right words to express the depth of his desire. "I want all of you, Harry.”

Harry’s name fell like something holy from Draco’s lips.

With renewed urgency, they shed the last of their clothing, letting it fall to the floor in a forgotten heap. Their bodies were a study in contrasts—Draco's pale skin against Harry's tanned complexion, the lean muscles of Draco's frame contrasting with Harry's more rugged build.  

Draco's legs entwined with Harry's, their bodies aligning as if they had done this a thousand times before.

Harry was committing every sensation to his memory, every taste, every feel of Draco’s skin.

His fingers trailed down Draco's spine, eliciting a shiver, before dipping lower, caressing the curves of Draco's buttocks. Draco arched into the touch, a silent plea for more. Harry obliged, his fingers sliding between Draco's cheeks, teasing the sensitive skin, before dipping lower to find his entrance.

A gasp escaped Draco's lips as Harry's finger breached him, a foreign yet exquisite sensation. Harry's touch was gentle, his finger stroking and circling, preparing him with a patience that surprised even Draco.

"Just… please, Harry—fuck—”

Harry’s eyes, heavy with emotion, held Draco’s in the quiet, flickering light. Their movements were careful, deliberate, every touch and shift of weight charged with meaning.

Draco’s breath hitched as Harry moved, his motions slow and measured, as though afraid of breaking the fragile intimacy between them. There was a moment of hesitation, a silent question hanging in the air, and Draco responded with the slightest of nods, his eyes never leaving Harry’s.

They found a rhythm together, a steady cadence of connection and need. The small room seemed to shrink around them, filled with the soft rustle of sheets, the hitch of breath, and murmured words that carried more weight than they dared to acknowledge.

Draco’s hands clutched at Harry’s back, his fingers tracing the tension in Harry’s muscles, grounding them both.

“You’re incredible,” Harry whispered against Draco’s skin, his voice rough, filled with something deeper than mere desire.

Draco’s breath caught, his chest tight. “You… you’re everything,” he managed, his voice low and trembling, and the words seemed to snap something in the air between them.

Harry’s movements became more urgent, his head dipping to press his lips to Draco’s collarbone, his touch seeking both comfort and closeness. Draco responded with the same fervor, his arms wrapping tighter around Harry, as if he could hold the world together in this single moment.

When the crescendo came, it was quiet but profound, their bodies tensing in unison, their breaths mingling as the wave of emotion washed over them. They clung to each other, trembling, the world outside fading into nothingness.

When it was over, the room fell silent, save for the sound of their ragged breaths and the faint creak of the bed beneath them.

Harry collapsed against Draco, his face buried in the crook of his neck, his body trembling faintly with exhaustion. Draco’s hands hovered for a moment, unsure, before settling on Harry’s back, his fingers splaying across the ridges of scars and muscles.

Draco stared at the ceiling, his chest still heaving as his mind raced with everything he couldn’t say. He felt Harry’s breath against his skin and the ache in his chest tightened further.

Harry shifted slightly, lifting his head just enough to look at Draco. His green eyes were heavy-lidded, but there was something searching in them.

Draco held his gaze, his gut feeling heavy, but neither of them said a word.

Instead, Harry let his head fall back onto Draco’s chest, his arms wrapping loosely around him, as though afraid to let go. Draco stayed still, his heart pounding in his ears, his fingers brushing absently against Harry’s shoulder.

Draco closed his eyes, his fingers tightening their hold just slightly, his lips pressing together to keep the words he couldn’t afford to say from spilling out.

Harry didn’t move, didn’t push. He just stayed there, holding on like he needed Draco to keep him grounded.

The resistance moved slowly, fragmented but resolute, each act chipping away at the Ministry’s control.

Trusted infiltrators fed critical information from within, using enchanted quills, listening spells, and even Muggle-inspired tools to expose weaknesses. Sabotage was precise—disabling wards, corrupting supplies, and targeting surveillance—leaving the Ministry scrambling.

Allies were recruited from disenfranchised groups—Muggle-borns, goblins, centaurs, and house-elves—united by shared grievances. Coordinated strikes spread the Ministry’s forces thin, hitting key outposts and propaganda hubs.

Kingsley Shacklebolt worked as a double agent, shielding resistance efforts while undermining operations. Hermione Granger dismantled the Ministry’s legal framework from within, while Ron Weasley destabilized from the shadows.

Harry and Draco were on the ground not because it was the safest or smartest choice, but because they were two of the resistance’s most capable operatives. Both possessed a sharp, tactical mind and an uncanny precision in combat, their natural talent for Defense and dueling making them indispensable on the front lines.

So, they spent their days on missions, moving through shadows and leaving chaos in their wake, their reports shared with Blaise or Hermione through discreet channels.

In the rare moments when the night stretched long and quiet, they found slivers of stillness.

Sometimes it was in front of a flickering hearth, the flames casting soft, uneven light on their worn faces as they sat in companionable silence. Other times, it was at the edge of a forest, the chill of the air biting at their skin as they stared into the vast, starless sky.

In those moments, words didn’t come easily—they rarely did these days—but the quiet was enough.

Their current safehouse was a step above the usual, more intact and welcoming than the half-ruined shacks they were used to. It was spacious, with furniture that, while aged, hadn’t been battered by time or war.

According to Blaise, it was an old wizarding estate, abandoned for decades but still humming faintly with residual magic. Ancient texts lined dusty shelves, spines cracked but their contents untouched.

It was a place they could stay—briefly, of course—until the inevitable need to move again.

Draco was stretched across the couch, one leg hooked over the armrest, a book balanced loosely in his hand. He wasn’t really reading; his eyes flickered across the words, but there was a distracted tension in the way his fingers drummed lightly against the spine.

The firelight gilded his profile, casting his pale features in sharp relief—the elegant curve of his jaw, the faint shadow beneath his eyes, and the delicate arch of his brow that knitted slightly in thought.

Harry stood at the entrance to the drawing room, leaning against one of the carved pillars, a glass of amber liquid swirling lazily in his hand. He wasn’t watching the fire or the soft play of shadows on the walls. His eyes were fixed on Draco, caught by the way the golden glow flickered against his skin, illuminating the sharp planes of his face and the slight dip of his collarbone where the neckline of his shirt hung loose.

Draco didn't radiate a soft, ethereal glow; instead, he blazed with an unyielding intensity, like a razor-sharp flame that seared the air around him. His body was a masterful sculpture of light and shadow, each angle and curve chiseled with deliberate precision.

His presence was a palpable thing, a force that drew the eye and held it captive, refusing to let go.

Harry could vouch for that.

Harry’s fingers tightened briefly around the glass, his throat dry despite the drink. He knew it wasn’t the firelight or the ambiance of the room that made Draco seem so untouchable and yet so unbearably magnetic. It was just him—Draco Malfoy, all jagged edges and distant stares, a contradiction that Harry could never quite reconcile but couldn’t stop wanting to.

Draco shifted slightly, the book dropping to his lap as he looked up, catching Harry’s gaze across the room. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then, Draco raised a brow. “Are you going to stand there all night, Harry, or do you have something useful to say?”

Harry smirked faintly, taking a slow sip from his glass, the warmth of the liquid doing little to steady the sudden, restless energy in his chest. “Just admiring the view.”

Draco scoffed, but the flicker of something unreadable in his eyes gave him away. He leaned back further into the couch, his posture languid, but his gaze lingered on Harry a moment longer than it needed to.

Harry crossed the room with deliberate slowness. The air felt dense, charged, and his gut twisted with a weight he couldn’t quite pinpoint. He didn’t feel his limbs moving—only the growing proximity between them, a pull he couldn’t resist.

Closer. And closer.

He sat down next to Draco, his movements fluid but tense, taking a long gulp from his drink before setting the glass down on the scratched coffee table. There was plenty of space on the couch, more than enough for Harry to keep his distance.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he chose the spot right beside Draco, close enough that their thighs pressed together, the faint friction sparking like static in the quiet room.

Draco quirked an eyebrow, a single, elegant arch that conveyed amusement, curiosity, and skepticism all at once. “Bold of you,” he murmured, his voice low and edged with dry humor.

Harry didn’t respond. He exhaled a slow, steady breath, his chest rising and falling as he leaned back into the worn cushions. His gaze flicked briefly to the fire, but the warmth there wasn’t what was heating his skin.

Draco’s arm, draped casually over the back of the couch, shifted just slightly. His fingers brushed against Harry’s shoulder—not quite a touch, more like the ghost of one, deliberate in its delicacy. The contact was so light it could have been dismissed as accidental, but it wasn’t.

Harry could feel it, the faintest press of skin that sent a ripple of sensation through him, settling somewhere deep in his chest.

Harry tilted his head slightly, enough to catch Draco’s profile out of the corner of his eye.

They sat in silence for a while.

Draco, a book in hand, his eyes moving over the text, though Harry couldn’t tell if he was actually reading or just pretending to. Knowing Draco, it was probably the latter—his shoulders were too tense, his grip on the pages too light.

Harry, for his part, wasn’t really doing anything. He was staring at the fire, his gaze unfocused, distant, like he was trying to piece together a puzzle that wasn’t even in the room. His hand, though—that had a mind of its own. Without realizing it, his fingers had drifted to Draco’s knee, tracing slow, absentminded circles against the fabric of his trousers.

Draco hadn’t said anything about it. His focus stayed stubbornly on the book—or at least aimed in that direction—but Harry could feel the faintest shift in his posture, the way his muscles tensed beneath the soft press of his hand.

It wasn’t resistance, though. Not really. More like he was trying to decide if he was going to let it happen or call Harry out on it.

Over the last two weeks since they’d ended up naked and tangled under the sheets together, things had shifted—subtly, but undeniably. It wasn’t a miraculous fix, not by any stretch, but it was… better than it had been.

Draco had been different ever since Theo. It was granted, really—expected. Harry couldn’t blame him. He didn’t rush him or push him, even though it was agonizing at times, that quiet distance between them. They butted heads, bickered like they always had, and sometimes felt achingly far apart even when they were in the same room.

Harry didn’t say anything about it. He figured Draco needed space to find his footing, and maybe Harry wasn’t ready to force the conversation either.

And then that night happened. Ever since, things had shifted again. They weren’t quite like they had been before, but they weren’t worse. They were… different. Softer, somehow. More deliberate.

Yes, they were still the same in many ways. They still argued about who got to drive Nyx, and bickered over breakfast when one of them burned the eggs or charmed the coffee pot wrong. Draco still rolled his eyes at Harry’s morning crankiness, and Harry still teased Draco about his inability to admit he actually liked Muggle books.

It wasn’t in the things they said, but in the pauses in between. In the way Harry’s hand would linger on Draco’s back when they passed each other in tight spaces, or the way Draco’s knee would press a little closer to Harry’s under the table without him even seeming to notice.

Draco shifted slightly.

Harry’s gaze flicked down to where his hand rested, still moving on Draco’s knee, before darting back up to the fire. He didn’t stop, though. Couldn’t, really. The touch was grounding him in a way he hadn’t expected. Or maybe he just liked touching Draco. Yes, Draco was his to touch, Harry thought. Was he? Harry didn’t know. Still, he liked the prospect.

Draco finally closed his book with a soft snap. He set it down on the arm of the couch, leaning back into the cushions as his eyes fixed on Harry.

“You’ve been doing that for ten minutes,” Draco said, his tone holding a slight edge. “Do you even realize?”

Harry’s hand froze mid-circle. He glanced at Draco, meeting his gaze for a fraction of a second before looking away. “Didn’t mean to,” he mumbled, though it wasn’t entirely true. He started to pull his hand back, but Draco’s voice stopped him.

“I didn’t say you had to stop.”

That made Harry pause. He swallowed hard, his fingers twitching slightly before settling again. His hand lingered, warmer now against the fabric, but he didn’t move it. Instead, he tilted his head slightly.

Draco’s face was calm, but his fingers—drumming lightly against the couch’s armrest—gave him away. There was something brewing behind his steady expression, something Harry could feel without needing to hear it.

“Alright. Spit it out, then.”

Draco scoffed, but it was faint. His gaze flickered to the fire for a long moment before he exhaled, leaning forward slightly.

“I just—”

Draco’s voice wavered, and for a moment, it seemed like he might stop altogether, the words crumbling before they could leave his mouth.

“How are you still—you—you’re the strongest bloody person I’ve ever known, and you’ve—” He faltered, dragging a hand through his hair, his frustration turning inward before he could rein it in. “You’ve lost more than anyone should have to bear and you’re still standing. Still… you.”

Harry squinted. “What are you talking about?”

Draco let out a hollow laugh, shaking his head. His hand clenched into a fist against his knee, the tension in his shoulders pulling him taut. “Harry… three out of five of my childhood friends are dead. Dead. One is rotting in Azkaban, just like my father. And as for him—well, he's gotten exactly what he deserved. But that doesn't change the fact that he's still gone."

Harry stayed silent. His gaze was steady but there was a knot unraveling in his stomach. He already knew where Draco was going with this.

“And you. You, who've lost an entire lifetime's worth of loved ones, of innocence, of sanity. Your ability to just be. More than any one person should ever be able to lose. And yet you’re still—you’re still standing. Still fighting. Still…” Draco’s voice cracked slightly. “Still Harry.”

Draco wasn’t looking at him now. He couldn’t really bare to.

“I can barely breathe most days,” Draco’s voice dropped to a murmur. He leaned forward, his elbows digging into his knees, his eyes fixed on the flames as though they could consume him entirely if he just stared long enough. “His face, his voice—it’s always there, and it doesn’t stop, and I feel like I’m losing my mind and I want to die and kill someone in the same breath, and I don’t know which urge is worse.”

Harry didn’t speak. His lips were pressed into a thin line, his expression carefully blank.

“And you—you’re just… here. Still here. Standing. And I don’t understand how. I don’t.”

Draco's tirade faded, his shoulders sagging. A heavy sigh escaped his lips, and slowly, he turned to face Harry. His gaze met Harry's and for an instant, his mask slipped. His eyes were a ravaged landscape, a desolate and tragically beautiful vulnerability that seemed to hold a world of pain within its depths.

“How?” Draco asked, his voice barely a breath.

Draco wasn’t obtuse.

He could see it clearly—Harry was strong. Not in the unbreakable way people assumed, but in the way he kept going despite everything. Endurance and resilience.

Harry, who carried all that loss and grief but somehow remained so alive, wielding magic like it was part of him, like it was something he commanded rather than the other way around. Harry, who was still soft, still tender. Still full of love to give, even if it sometimes came out in strange and destructive ways. It was love all the same, just raw and unpolished, but real.

He was still Harry—cranky before his first coffee, scowling at his shoelaces as if tying them was some grand injustice. Harry, whose eyes still lit up at the mention of Quidditch or flying, or some random magical creature that caught his attention.

Perfect in ways that mattered. Frustratingly strong in ways Draco didn’t think he could ever be.

But Draco also knew Harry wasn’t invincible. The nightmares that left him shaking and sleepless, the fuse that burned too quickly some days, and the guilt—God, the guilt—it clung to him like a second skin. Harry wasn’t whole, wasn’t certain, and was more tired than anyone could see. The grief and loss had scarred him, left him simmering with anger and resentment buried beneath layers of guilt so deep it seemed impossible to untangle.

No, Harry wasn’t untouchable. Draco knew this.

But Harry was still standing, and Draco didn’t know how. Because these days, just breathing felt like a battle. Most mornings, he could barely hold himself together. And yet Harry… Harry was still here. Still upright. Still moving.

Draco wanted—needed—to know how. Because right now, he couldn’t even imagine it.

And Harry—well, Harry knew exactly what his life had turned him into. He saw it clearly, painfully, and he knew that Draco saw it too, even if they never said it aloud. And now, with the way Draco was looking at him, Harry knew what he was asking—how he lived with it. How he managed to carry it all without breaking.

The truth was, he didn’t—carry it so easily, that is.

Frankly, Harry had never dealt with his grief. Not after Cedric. Not after Sirius. Not after any of it. There was no time. Voldemort had been a constant presence, always there, always threatening, leaving no room for mourning. Harry hadn’t had the luxury of stopping to grieve, to process, to even sit with the enormity of it. He just kept moving because what else was there to do when the fate of the Wizarding World was thrust into his hands?

In the rare, quiet hours of the night, when there were no battles to fight and no one to save, Harry had told himself that after the war, it would all make sense. That the pain and the deaths and the sacrifices would add up to something—a reason, a purpose, a bigger picture that would make it bearable. Something that would finally let him breathe.

But it never came.

The war ended, and instead of peace, Harry felt worse. The losses weren’t justified; they were senseless. Cruel. All the deaths, all the heartbreak—they didn’t mean anything. They left nothing behind but holes in people’s lives, wounds that never closed. There was no meaning. No closure. Just an endless, gnawing ache.

And slowly, all of it—the grief, the anger, the guilt—changed him. It twisted into something bitter, something vengeful. He became a knot of resentment and self-loathing, every part of him bound up in that scarred his psyche like a branding iron, leaving an indelible mark of shame.

Beneath it all burned a quiet, seething hatred—at the world for what it had taken, at the people who had hurt him, and most of all, at himself.

Harry carried it because he didn’t know how to set it down. He wasn’t strong—not the way people thought he was. He was just angry enough to keep going and too tired to let himself stop.

Harry carried his life like a string of tangled questions—maybes and what-ifs that never stopped haunting. Maybe if he hadn’t been born, his parents would still be alive. Maybe if he’d acted faster, Sirius wouldn’t have fallen. Maybe if he’d been kinder and less stubborn, the Dursleys wouldn’t have hated him.

And maybe—this one always lingered the longest—if he’d taken Malfoy’s hand that first day at Hogwarts, none of this would have happened. Maybe Draco wouldn’t have faced that trial or walked the path that led them both here, into the ruins of what their lives had become.

The maybes were endless.

No, Harry had not moved on. Nor had he found a healthy way to carry his grief—which is exactly what Draco was asking to learn. The darkness in his life wasn’t something he’d conquered—it was something he’d learned to merely live with.

So, was Harry still standing? That depended on how you defined it.

If standing meant being this—a hollowed-out, fucked-up excuse of a man who couldn’t keep food down, couldn’t look himself in the mirror without flinching, who hated sleeping almost as much as he hated waking up—then sure. Harry was still standing.

If standing meant dragging himself through each day with nothing but resentment and remorse and the faint, burning desire to watch the world burn as a kind of penance for everything it had done to him, then fine. He was damn well bloody standing.

Now, Harry can’t really answer Draco’s question—not in any way that matters. Because none of the thoughts running through his head are comforting, and none of them are what Draco needs to hear. Not right now.

Draco wants to know how to go on.

And Harry? Harry doesn’t know the answer to that. Because his version of ‘going on with life’ isn’t exactly the kind anyone should aspire to. It’s not the neatly tied-up, white-picket-fence edition. It’s more like stumbling through a storm blindfolded, hoping the lightning doesn’t strike too close.

Draco deserves more than that. He deserves more than the mess Harry has turned himself into—the bitter, resentful shitstorm of an existence.

Draco deserves a real answer. And Harry doesn’t have one.

Thus, Harry settled for a different answer. One that didn’t quite match the storm of thoughts in his head, but one he thought Draco might need to hear.

“Time,” he said quietly. “Time does heal. Not everything, but enough.”

“That’s it? Time?”

Harry shrugged, his gaze flicking briefly to the fire. “Every day you wake up, and it gets just a bit easier to breathe. Their memory hurts a little less. You keep moving through days—just surviving at first—but eventually, the pain dulls. Not entirely but enough. It becomes… quieter. Softer.”

Draco’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he didn’t interrupt.

“If you’re lucky,” Harry continued, his voice measured but distant, as if he were reciting someone else’s story, “you might even find meaning in it. You might learn to accept it, to carry it without it crushing you. Maybe you’ll even find comfort in the memories—happiness in what was, instead of bitterness in what isn’t.”

Harry fell silent, his words hanging in the air between them. He wasn’t sure if Draco believed him, and honestly, he wasn’t sure if he believed himself.  

“Is that what happened for you?” Draco asked, his voice low but edged with something almost knowing. “When you think about… all the things that caused you pain? All the losses?”

Harry’s lips curved into a faint, bittersweet smile. “No,” he said quietly. “I just found another reason.”

“Another reason?”

Harry tilted his head slightly. “When everything’s gone, when there’s nothing left… sometimes acceptance isn’t enough. Sometimes you have to find something new to hold on to. Another reason to keep moving.”

Draco hesitated, studying Harry’s face like he was trying to piece together a puzzle. “You found that?”

Harry didn’t answer right away.

His eyes softened, his gaze steady as it settled on Draco.

He didn’t say anything. He simply smiled. Small and knowing.

He was looking right at it.

Through their enchanted rings, parchment, and other discreet charms, Harry and Draco had found an efficient way to stay in constant communication with Blaise and Hermione. Hermione kept them updated on the resistance’s progress from the inside—detailing the latest moves from Kingsley, her own work with Ron, and the Weasleys’ efforts to disrupt the Ministry’s grip. Even Arthur, still publicly loyal to the Ministry to protect his family, was subtly feeding them critical information when he could.

Blaise, meanwhile, used the network to send them safehouse coordinates, assign missions, and relay intelligence on where and when they were needed most. But Blaise didn’t just deal in logistics; he kept them informed on the Ministry’s propaganda machine too. Updates on the latest lies and fear-mongering from Umbridge, DAMOS, and anyone else wielding power found their way through his messages, often laced with his biting commentary to keep the mood from sinking entirely.

Between the two, Harry and Draco were rarely out of the loop—a lifeline in a world that seemed constantly on the verge of collapsing.

The parchment flickered faintly as the enchanted ink scrawled across it, Blaise’s crisp handwriting forming lines of text. Harry leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, reading it with an expression of utter disinterest, his jaw working a piece of gum he’d found in the bottom of his bag.

Another statement from yours truly, Umbitch. This one’s particularly charming. Another call for Draco immediate capture—“a fugitive who poses a clear and present danger to the Ministry and the sanctity of our world.” Her words, not mine.

Harry snorted, tilting the parchment slightly toward Draco, who was sprawled on the couch with a book he clearly wasn’t reading. “Sanctity of the world,” Harry drawled. “Creative.”

“There’s more,” Blaise’s message continued, and Harry read aloud for Draco’s benefit, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “She went on to call you a ‘betrayer of noble bloodlines’ and claimed that your capture would ‘restore order and dignity’ to the wizarding world. Oh, and my personal favorite—she said your ‘treachery is only rivaled by Harry Potter’s fall from grace.’”

Harry yawned, barely suppressing his boredom. “They really need to hire a better speechwriter. This is getting repetitive.”

Draco let out a soft scoff, turning a page in his book with exaggerated casualness. “Oh no, not my grace,” he said dryly. “How will I ever recover?”

Harry smirked, tossing the parchment onto the table. “Apparently, I’m dragging you down with me.”

“You?” Draco closed his book and leaned back, leveling Harry with a look that was equal parts amused and sharp. “Harry, you’re the Ministry’s favorite cautionary tale. They probably tell children you’ll come steal their biscuits if they don’t behave.”

“Better than their latest spin on you. You’re apparently the dark wizard reincarnate, all because you told Umbridge to shove her decree up her—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Draco cut in, though his lips twitched slightly.

There was a pause, the faint crackle of the fire filling the space between them. Draco tilted his head, his tone turning thoughtful but edged with bitterness. “Do you ever wonder if she gets tired of this? All the posturing. All the... taunts. I mean, at some point, you’d think even Umbridge would have the sense to stop poking bears. Especially when one of them”—his pale eyes flicked to Harry, deliberate and pointed—“has a habit of burning down forests.”

Harry shrugged, pushing off the counter and stretching lazily. “Let her poke. She can say whatever she wants. Doesn’t change anything.”

“Such profound wisdom. Truly, Harry, I’m in awe.”

Harry rolled his eyes but didn’t reply, instead grabbing a mug of lukewarm tea from the counter and taking a long sip. Draco watched him for a moment longer before picking up the parchment, scanning the rest of Blaise’s update with an expression that turned thoughtful, then dark.

“She’s ramping it up. This whole thing—they’re trying to make us look desperate. Dangerous. More than we already are.”

“We are dangerous,” Harry pointed out, setting the mug down with a dull thud.

“That’s not the point.”

Harry tilted his head, watching Draco for a beat before shrugging again. “Point or no point, it’s all noise. We keep doing what we’re doing, and eventually, they’ll realize they can’t spin their way out of this.”

Draco leaned back, his gaze drifting to the fire. “I hope you’re right. But in the meantime, I suppose I should start practicing my ‘betrayer of noble bloodlines’ speech. Wouldn’t want to disappoint.”

Harry snorted. “You’re untenable.”

“And yet, you still can’t seem to keep away.”

Harry didn’t bother denying it. He just grabbed the parchment and tossed it into the fire, watching the flames curl around the edges of Blaise’s neat handwriting. The ink vanished in seconds, leaving nothing but ash.

The storm rolled in sometime after midnight, a quiet rumble at first, distant enough to blend into the usual creaks and groans of the safehouse. But it grew louder, closer, until the rain lashed against the windows and the wind howled through the cracks in the old walls.

Draco was still by the window, pale face illuminated by the occasional flash of lightning, watching the chaos outside.

Harry sat on the floor near the hearth, his back against the wall, knees drawn up. The fire had burned low, the air thick with the smell of smoke and rain. His hands rested loosely on his knees, but his eyes were on Draco.

“You’re going to make yourself sick standing there,” Harry said. It wasn’t sharp, just matter-of-fact.

Draco didn’t respond right away. He stayed where he was, the faint glow of the storm painting his profile in shades of blue and gray. “I like storms.”

“That supposed to be poetic, or are you just being contrary?”

Draco turned slightly, his lips quirking. “Can’t it be both?”

“Suit yourself.”  

After a moment, Draco moved, stepping away from the window and crossing the room. He didn’t go far—just to the worn armchair near the fireplace, sinking into it with a soft exhale. He stretched his legs out in front of him, his boots scuffing against the uneven floorboards, and rested his head against the back of the chair.

“Blaise will be in touch tomorrow,” Draco said, almost absently. “Safehouse rotation, probably. Maybe another mission.”

“Same as always.”

Draco’s eyes flicked to Harry, searching. “Doesn’t it ever feel like we’re going in circles?”

Harry shrugged, his fingers tapping idly against his knee. “Circles are better than standing still. At least we’re moving.”

Draco leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees. “You ever wonder if we’ll actually win? Or if we’re just… delaying the inevitable?”

“I don’t know. I used to think we’d win just because we had to. Like the universe owed it to us after everything. But now…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Now, I think it’s less about winning and more about not letting them have it all.”

“Not exactly inspiring, Harry.”

“It’s honest.”

“Fair enough.”

Harry leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes briefly. “For what it’s worth, we’ve come this far. That’s something. Has to be.”

“Yeah… I suppose it is.”

The fire crackled low between them. Draco had moved to sit cross-legged on the rug, his fingers absently tracing patterns in the worn fabric while his thoughts drifted. He hadn’t spoken for a while, and Harry didn’t push him, his own gaze locked on the embers.

When Draco spoke again, he voiced a question that had been swimming around in his mind for weeks now. His voice was not entirely audible. “Why… why didn’t Pucey sell us out? We were at the Den for weeks.”

Harry glanced at him, his brow furrowing slightly. “Draco, I think… I don’t think Pucey fancied seeing his friends harmed. Let alone captured or killed.”

Draco frowned, turning the words over in his head. “That doesn’t—But why?”

Harry sighed, rubbing his temple as if the question itself was exhausting. “He was just—well, this might be far off, but I’ve thought about it. And you’re right; he had every opportunity to sell us out. For weeks, he could’ve handed us to the Ministry on a silver platter. But he didn’t. Maybe because the Ministry didn’t fully realize how deeply we were involved with the resistance. If they had, Adrian would’ve had no reason not to turn us in. I think the only reason we managed to stay as long as we did was… well—it was because of him.”

Draco’s eyes flashed, a vein in his neck pulsing visibly. “How can you say that, Harry?”

Harry met his gaze, unflinching. “Because it makes sense, Draco. If he wanted us dead or captured, there were a million chances for that to happen. It didn’t. Even after we left the Den, even when we were in contact with Blaise and keeping the location from the rest of the resistance, Adrian could’ve used our communications—our rings, anything—to lead them right to us. But he didn’t.”

“But how—”

“Maybe he was just another Peter Pettigrew,” Harry said suddenly, his voice dropping a notch.

Draco blinked, caught off guard. “Pettigrew? He was—he was a Death Eater.”

Harry nodded grimly. “And he was also my parents’ friend. He sold them out to Voldemort. It wasn’t about wanting them dead—it was about self-preservation. Pettigrew joined the side he thought would win, even if it meant betraying the people who trusted him. Maybe Pucey was the same. Maybe it wasn’t loyalty or hatred. Just… pathetic, self-serving cowardice.”

Draco’s face twisted in anger. “That’s fucking bullshit.”

“I’m not saying it’s right,” Harry sighed. “I’m not saying it’s justifiable or excusable, or that Pucey doesn’t deserve every ounce of fury you want to rain down on him. I’m just saying—he didn’t sell us out when he could have. You asked why, and I’m giving you a plausible answer.”

Draco stared at him for a long moment, his hands clenched into fists. Then he let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Or maybe he’s just a grimy, idiotic prick who doesn’t know his feet from his arse.”

“That sounds more likely.”

The fire crackled again, filling the brief silence between them. Harry exhaled slowly. He wasn’t looking at Draco anymore. “Look, Draco—take it from me. Looking for answers to everything… it doesn’t make the ache go away. We think it’ll give us some sort of closure, but it doesn’t.”

“Where’s that coming from? Why—”

“Why did Voldemort have to exist in the first place? Why was I the Chosen One? Why did Cedric die when he wasn’t even supposed to be there? Why did Sirius, Remus, Tonks—why any of it? What was the point of me spending my entire childhood fighting Voldemort, only for the world to end up just as fucked without him? We’re not better off, are we? The Ministry is still a bloody disaster, the resistance is barely hanging on, and we’re no closer to anything that resembles peace.”

Draco opened his mouth to reply, but Harry kept going, his voice rising slightly. “My point is, there are endless questions we could ask about everything that’s happened to us. Maybe we get answers. Maybe we don’t. But either way, it doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t fix it. It doesn’t… it doesn’t bring anyone back.”

Draco was watching Harry carefully. “Maybe we just need some semblance of understanding. Maybe that’s what helps.”

Harry shook his head. “Will it, though? Why did we spend years at each other’s throats, only to end up here? We could’ve been this all along, couldn’t we?”

Draco hesitated. “Maybe it was because—”

Harry cut in. “That’s exactly my point. The questions are endless. The ‘maybes’ are endless. There’s always so many fucking maybes and possible answers, and none of it changes anything. It just… it is what it is.”

 “That’s how you see it now? Just ‘it is what it is’?”

Harry shrugged. “Sure. Beats the hell out of having an existential crisis every other day. Why is anything?”

Draco blinked. “Why is anything?”

“Yes.” Harry gestured vaguely, as if the answer was hanging in the air somewhere. “Why is anything?”

“I don’t know.”

“Exactly,” Harry said with a faint, humorless smirk. “Maybe there’s a reason. Maybe there isn’t. Does it matter?”

Draco hesitated, frowning. “Sometimes.”

“And sometimes it doesn’t. Because sometimes, no matter how much you twist yourself into knots over it, it just… it is what it is. It always is what it is.”

Draco stared at him for a moment. “That’s a remarkably bleak outlook, Harry.”

Harry gave him a lopsided grin, though his eyes stayed serious. “Maybe. But it keeps me sane. Most days.”

Draco didn’t respond.

Draco stood at the small wooden table, meticulously charming a set of enchanted mirrors for their next mission. His concentration was razor-sharp, his lips moving faintly as he whispered incantations under his breath.

Harry leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching him. “You know, most people would take a break at some point.”

Draco didn’t look up, though his fingers stilled briefly over the mirror. “I’m not most people.”

“No,” Harry agreed, pushing off the doorframe and walking closer. “You’re… something else entirely.”

Draco snorted softly, the corner of his mouth twitching in what could almost be called a smile. “And yet, here you are. Hovering.”

“I’m not hovering,” Harry leaned in to peer over Draco’s shoulder. “I’m observing.”

“Hovering.”

Harry grinned, his chin brushing Draco’s shoulder as he leaned closer. “You missed a spot.”

Draco turned sharply, his glare entirely ineffective when their faces ended up inches apart. “Say that again, Harry, and I’ll hex you into next week.”

“You’re cute when you’re threatening me.”

Draco blinked, clearly caught off guard, and for a moment, he looked as if he might actually make good on his threat. Instead, he huffed and turned back to the mirror, his ears faintly pink. “Go away.”

“Not a chance,” Harry said softly, his hand brushing against Draco’s lower back before resting there lightly.

Draco froze for a split second before letting out a soft sigh, leaning into the touch just enough to acknowledge it.

Later, on a mission, they moved like shadows through an abandoned Ministry outpost, dismantling wards and siphoning documents with wordless precision. Draco handled the magical security while Harry sorted through a pile of files, green eyes scanning for anything useful.

“Third one this week,” Draco muttered, his wand flicking to disable another trap. “I’d say they’re catching on, but this is laughably rudimentary.”

“Don’t get cocky,” Harry replied, stuffing another stack of papers into his enchanted bag. “That’s how people end up cursed.”

“I’m not people.”

Harry rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched.  

When they regrouped outside, Draco leaned against the car—Nyx’s features illuminated by the glow of a streetlamp. Harry caught himself staring, his breath hitching slightly at the sight of Draco’s silver-blond hair tousled from the wind.

“What?” Draco asked, his tone somewhat defensive.

Harry shrugged, leaning next to him and bumping their shoulders together. “Nothing. Just thinking how ridiculous you look next to Nyx. She’s got character. You’re too—”

“Regal?” Draco interrupted with a smirk.

“I was going to say ‘uptight,’ but sure. Let’s go with that.”

Draco laughed—soft and genuine—and Harry felt something warm unfurl in his chest.

Back at the safehouse, Draco lay on the couch, his legs draped over Harry’s lap as he skimmed through a report from Blaise. Harry absently traced patterns on Draco’s ankle, his other hand holding a mug of tea.

“Your toes are freezing,” Harry muttered, pulling a blanket over them both without shifting Draco’s legs.

“I wasn’t aware this came with a spa treatment,” Draco quipped, but he didn’t move, his gaze flicking up from the report to study Harry. “You’re oddly domestic tonight.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Who says I haven’t already?”

Harry blinked at him. He tilted his head, searching Draco’s expression for the familiar walls he always kept up, but they weren’t there—not tonight. Instead, there was something warm and unguarded, and Harry couldn’t help himself.

He leaned in, pressing a soft, unhurried kiss to Draco’s lips. It wasn’t their first, not even close, but something about it felt different—calmer, less desperate. It seemed they'd chanced upon a brief, shining interlude of calm, a still point at the eye of the hurricane.

When Harry pulled back, Draco’s cheeks were unmistakably flushed bright red.

Harry grinned to himself.  

The night was silent save for the hum of wards being dismantled. They were in the backroom of a Ministry supply depot, its shelves lined with enchanted objects that glimmered faintly in the dark. The mission was simple: disrupt the Ministry’s resources, siphon what was useful, and leave behind chaos. It wasn’t their first raid, but it carried the same tension as all the others.

Draco crouched by a set of locked crates, his wand held loosely in one hand as he murmured a series of non-verbal incantations. The locks glowed briefly before clicking open, one after another, in neat succession.

“Don’t take anything you can’t carry,” he said softly. “We’re not here to make a scene.”

Harry, on the other hand, wasn’t nearly as quiet. He moved through the room like a predator, his presence electric, crackling with a magic that seemed to ripple around him. His wand was nowhere to be seen, but his hands were alive with energy, faint trails of light swirling through his fingers as he manipulated the wards around the vault in the corner.

“You’re really leaning into the whole ‘silent menace’ thing,” Draco remarked, glancing over his shoulder as the crate opened to reveal a stash of confiscated potions. “It’s unsettling.”

Harry didn’t look at him. “Unsettling’s useful.”

Draco frowned but didn’t argue. He turned back to the crate, his movements methodical as he pocketed only what was essential—vials of healing draughts and rare ingredients that could be used for the resistance. He worked quickly, efficiently, but there was a tension in the set of his jaw, a silent refusal to take more than what was absolutely necessary.

Harry, meanwhile, approached the vault, its door now glowing faintly with an intricate web of magical traps. He held out his hand, and the energy around his fingers surged, latching onto the magic in the air like it was alive. The room dimmed slightly, the wards flickering as Harry pulled them apart thread by thread, his movements almost lazy but undeniably deliberate.

“That’s a bit overkill, don’t you think?” Draco said, watching the display with a mixture of irritation and something he wouldn’t admit was awe.

“Overkill’s effective.”

The vault door creaked open, revealing an array of confiscated wands and enchanted objects. Harry stepped inside, gaze sweeping over the collection before he reached out, his fingers brushing over a wand with an odd, jagged shape.

“Harry,” Draco warned, his voice sharp.

“I know,” Harry pocketed the wand and stepped back, his movements smooth and unbothered.

“You’re playing with fire.”

“Good thing I’m cold then, innit?”

As they left the depot, the sound of distant footsteps reached them—Ministry patrols, too close for comfort. Draco tensed, his wand ready, but Harry raised a hand, his magic flaring to life without a word. The shadows around them shifted, pooling unnaturally as they cloaked the two of them in darkness.

Draco watched, his pulse quickening as the patrol passed without even glancing their way. Harry’s magic wasn’t loud or obvious, but it was dangerous.

“Do you always have to be so dramatic?” Draco muttered once they were in the clear.

Harry grinned. “It works, doesn’t it?”

Draco didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he grabbed Harry’s wrist, pulling him to a stop. “You’re playing too close to the line, Harry.”

“And you’re too afraid of it.”

“I’m not afraid. I just know what happens when you cross it.”

Harry stared at him. “And I know what happens when you don’t.”

They stood there for a moment. Draco sighed, releasing Harry’s wrist, though his fingers lingered for a fraction of a second too long. “Just… try not to get us killed.”

Harry smirked, leaning in ever so slightly. “You worry too much.”

“And you don’t worry enough.”

“Guess we balance each other out, then.”

Draco rolled his eyes, his lips twitching as if to fight back a smile. “Merlin, help me.”

Before Draco could fully step away, Harry closed the distance quick as a thought. He pressed a kiss to Draco’s lips—soft, fleeting, infuriatingly unsullied. It caught Draco off guard, his breath hitching as Harry pulled back just as quickly, his grin lopsided and undeniably smug.

“You—” Draco started, his voice caught somewhere between a reprimand and disbelief, but he couldn’t finish. His cheeks flushed a deep pink, betraying him entirely.

“Come on,” Harry said, his tone breezy as he turned toward the night. “We’ve got a world to burn down, Draco.”

“For fuck’s sake. We’re meant to save it—not burn it—”

Harry had already started walking away, grinning like a madman.

The knock on the safehouse door was soft but insistent, cutting through the quiet of the evening. Draco, sitting at the table with a book, froze. Harry was in the other room, rummaging through the stash of supplies Blaise had sent last week, oblivious to the sound.

Draco’s wand was in his hand before he even moved. No one was supposed to know this safehouse existed. No one knocked.

He opened the door carefully, wand at the ready, only to find Blaise standing there, drenched from the rain and looking far more disheveled than Draco had ever seen him.

Blaise Zabini didn’t show up at their safehouses. That was the first thing that made Draco’s stomach twist. They’d agreed to communicate exclusively through the enchanted rings or the secure magical channels they had painstakingly crafted. Meetings in person were rare, and only ever at carefully vetted, neutral locations—and even then, only if it was absolutely necessary for a mission. Blaise appearing here, unannounced, broke every protocol they had.

Showing up meant something was wrong. Something big.

“Blaise?” Draco’s eyes scanned the dark behind him for signs of pursuit.

“Can I come in?” Blaise asked, his tone clipped, lacking its usual smoothness.

Draco didn’t move for a moment, then stepped aside, shutting the door quickly once Blaise was inside. Harry appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, his expression instantly shifting from casual curiosity to alarm. He’d seen the look on Draco’s face.

“What’s going on?”

Blaise didn’t answer right away. He ran a hand through his rain-soaked hair, his jaw tight as he looked between them.

Draco’s grip on his wand tightened. “What happened?”

Blaise exhaled, his gaze settling on Harry. “It’s Weasley—Ron.”

Harry’s entire body stiffened. “What about Ron?”

“He’s been taken. DAMOS has him.”

The room seemed to freeze. Harry didn’t move.

“How?” Draco asked sharply. “How did they get him?”

“Ambush,” Blaise said. “He was in the field with a small group. DAMOS must’ve had intel. They overwhelmed them, but they only took Ron. The others escaped, but they didn’t follow. They wanted him specifically.”

Harry’s voice was quiet, dangerously so. “Why?”

“You know why. It’s a trap, Harry. They’re using him to draw you out.”

Harry’s hands curled into fists, his knuckles white. “Where is he?”

Blaise hesitated. “We don’t know for sure yet. DAMOS is being careful. But we’re working on it. Hermione’s already—”

“Blaise,” Harry interrupted, his voice hard, “where is he?”

“I said we don’t know yet,” Blaise snapped, his usual composure cracking. “You think I’d be standing here if we did?”

Draco stepped forward, placing a hand on Harry’s arm. “We need to be smart about this. Rushing in blind is exactly what they want.”

Harry’s eyes flicked to Draco, the tension in his body vibrating like a coiled spring. “We’re not leaving him there.”

“No one said we were,” Draco replied calmly. “But you running off half-cocked isn’t going to help him. It’s going to get you killed. Or worse, captured.”

“Worse than killed?” Harry bit out, his tone scathing.

“Yes. Because if they get you, they get everything. You think you’re the endgame here? You’re just another move on their board.”

Harry looked away, his jaw tight, his hands still clenched at his sides. Blaise stepped forward, his voice softer now but no less serious.

“We’ll get him back, Harry,” Blaise said. “But we have to do this right. DAMOS wants you to act impulsively. Don’t give them the satisfaction.”

Harry's boots pounded the floor in a relentless rhythm, his magic spitting tiny, venomous sparks that died in the air. His hands flexed, fingers curling into claws that relaxed only to curl again.

“This is bullshit,” Harry muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “They think they can just—just take him? Use him like that? Like he’s some bloody pawn?” Just like we always are. Pawns. That’s all we’ve ever been to them. Disposable. Expendable.

“Harry,” Blaise said, his tone measured. He was leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, trying to project calm—though it wasn’t really making much difference to Harry. “You need to get a grip on yourself. We need to think this through, not indulge in dramatics and hysterics. Unless we aspire to be dead—your Weasley included.”

Harry whirled on him, his eyes blazing. “A plan? A plan? You think DAMOS is sitting there politely waiting for us to come up with a fucking plan while Ron—while Ron is—” His voice cracked, and he stopped, dragging a hand through his hair.

“Harry,” Draco stepped into Harry’s path and planted himself firmly in place. “Stop. Look at me.”

Harry's entire being seemed to vibrate with tension as he locked eyes with Draco. The air around him shimmered with the promise of unleashed magic, before slowly, incrementally, calming. Draco's face was a mask of serene intensity, his hands closing around Harry's shoulders.

“We are going to get him back, do you hear me? But Blaise is right. If you rush in there without thinking, you’re not saving him. You’re handing yourself to DAMOS on a silver platter.”

“I don’t care. They’re not taking someone else from me. I can’t—Draco, I can’t.”

Harry wasn’t seeing straight. In fact, he wasn’t seeing anything but sheer red. Draco—well, Draco could see it all too clearly: the desolation etched into Harry’s eyes, the way his face flushed darker with every pounding heartbeat, the blood rushing hot under his skin. Harry was a man untamed, molded by a world that had beaten him senseless time and time again. And to hell with—well, to hell with mankind itself if that same world thought it could take one more thing from Harry Potter.

Because frankly, Harry didn’t have much left to give—and even less left to lose.

Draco’s grip on Harry tightened. “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t understand what it feels like to lose people? But we have to be smarter than them, Harry. They’re counting on you losing your head—which is exactly why you need to breathe right now. Don’t give them what they want.”

The tension in Harry's shoulders began to seep away, his anger transmuting into a cold, hard willpower. Draco's hands slid down his arms, a slow, soothing motion that seemed to draw the heat from his skin. His voice was a low, husky whisper, a gentle prod that struck at the heart of Harry's resolve. "You're better than this. Stronger. You know it, Harry."

“I just—he’s my family, Draco.”

“I know,” Draco said softly. “And we’re going to save him. Together. I promise it, Harry. We—I am going to get your Weasley back for you, alright?”

As Harry exhaled, his magic began to settle, calming like a wild animal soothed by a gentle touch. He leaned into Draco, their foreheads brushing together in a soft, fleeting caress.

“You two,” Blaise said, breaking the moment with a dry tone, “are going to give me cavities.”

“Shut up, Zabini,” Draco muttered, though there was no real bite in his words. He turned back to Harry, hands still resting lightly on Harry’s arms. “Now, sit down. We need to figure out where they’ve taken him and how to get him back without all of us ending up in DAMOS custody.”

Harry hesitated for a moment, then let Draco guide him to the couch. He sat heavily, his head dropping into his hands as Draco perched on the edge of the coffee table in front of him. Blaise joined them, pulling out a map charmed with glowing points that flickered and shifted.

“This is where Ron was last seen,” Blaise said, pointing to a cluster of glowing dots. “Hermione thinks they’ve moved him here, but it’s not confirmed. DAMOS is keeping their movements tight.”

Draco studied the map, his brow furrowing. “If they’re holding him here, we’ll need to disable the wards first. But we can’t risk tripping an alarm—they’ll relocate him before we even get close.”

“I’ll take care of the wards,” Harry said, his voice steadier now. “You two just make sure I have the time.”

“No heroics, Harry,” Draco warned. “I mean it. Don’t go play bloody hero again. We do this as a team.”

Harry glanced at him. “I promise.”

Draco held his gaze for a moment longer, then nodded, turning back to Blaise. “Fine. Let’s work out the details. If we’re going to pull this off, we need to be perfect.”

Blaise smirked faintly. “When have we ever been anything less?”

The plan came together faster than Draco liked, a patchwork of strategy and gut instincts stitched with a threadbare margin for error. Blaise worked the maps, Harry simmered with restless energy, and Draco did what he always did—tried to keep everyone alive and focused.

The next night, they moved.

It was a Ministry outpost, deep in DAMOS-controlled territory, the kind of place where hope went to die. The sky was a choking black, clouds hanging heavy and threatening rain. Nyx rumbled low and steady beneath them as they approached, her headlights cutting through the dark.

Hermione was waiting for them.

Harry hadn't seen Hermione in months. The difference was striking. Her face was sharper, her eyes darker and shadowed. Her hair, once a wild tangle, was now pulled back in a severe ponytail. Her combat gear was worn and scuffed, her wand strapped to her forearm like an extension of herself.

She was tired, Harry realized. The fatigue that had taken up residence on Hermione's face was more than skin-deep; it was a soul-deep weariness, born of the crushing weight of her own expectations, and the unending struggle to meet them. Her eyes, once bright and burning with purpose, had faded, like stars eclipsed by the dark tide of despair.

“Harry,” she said softly when she saw him. She looked like she was going to cry. Hell, she looked she had already been doing plenty of it.

Harry froze for a moment, taking her in. “Mione,” he exhaled.

He looked at her like he was seeing a ghost—or maybe it was himself, reflected back. He hadn’t realized how much she’d changed because it was so easy to forget how much he had.

They didn’t hug. They didn’t need to. Their silence spoke volumes.

"Fifteen minutes," Hermione whispered, her eyes wild with fear. She handed Draco the map, her hands shaking. "Ron's on level three. Northeast corridor. I... I don't know how they're keeping him, but I know it can't be good. Security's everywhere, but I'll take the north entry with George. We'll find a way, we have to. Oh God, we have to."

“George?” Harry asked, catching the familiar flicker of red hair through the shadows.

George Weasley stepped into view, and for a moment, Harry barely recognized him.

“Don’t look so surprised, Harry,” George said, his voice rougher than Harry remembered. “People do crazy things when their little brother’s in trouble.”

Harry stared at him, something catching in his throat. He hadn’t seen George since long before the world had fallen apart again, and now, up close, the changes hit harder. The George he remembered, the one with the mischievous glint in his eye and the quick, easy smile, had been replaced by a harder, leaner version. His face was a map of fine lines and deep creases, etched into his skin by the trials and tribulations of the past few years.

But there was something else—a brotherly protectiveness radiated off him as he stepped forward and clapped Harry on the shoulder. His grip was firm but there was a hesitance in it too, like George wasn’t sure if Harry would break apart or lash out.

“George,” Harry said quietly, and there was so much packed into that single word—apology, gratitude, guilt.

George gave him a quick nod, his grin softening into something almost genuine.

Harry opened his mouth, but Draco cut in. “Focus. We don’t have time for nostalgia.”

Hermione turned back to the map, tracing a glowing line. “Disable the wards first. They’re layered—physical, magical, and blood-bound. George and I will handle the physical entry point. Draco, you’ll dismantle the magical barriers. Harry…” She hesitated, her eyes narrowing. “You’ll need to deal with the blood ward.”

Draco frowned. “The blood ward? That’s a suicide risk.”

“We don’t have a choice,” Hermione said quietly. “The blood ward is keyed to resistance members. Harry’s the only one with magic strong enough to burn through it without triggering an alert.”

Draco swore under his breath. He turned to Harry, his stormy grey eyes blazing. “Don’t be reckless. For fuck’s sake, Harry, I am—I’m going to bloody beg you right now—don’t—”

“I know,” Harry interrupted. He stepped closer, their faces inches apart, his green eyes locked onto Draco’s. “I promise, alright? I won’t.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. Draco’s jaw tightened, his lips parting slightly as if he wanted to argue, to push, but something in Harry’s gaze stilled him.

“You’d better keep it,” Draco muttered.  

“I will.”

Draco had no choice but to believe him.

The outpost was as grim as expected—stone walls slick with moisture, the air heavy with the scent of damp and iron. They moved through the corridors in silence, their footsteps muffled by Disillusionment Charms.

Draco was faster than the others, his mind calculating every potential trap, every possible counterspell. He worked quickly, his wand slicing through the air as he unraveled layers of wards with sharp precision. When one of the spells surged back at him, snapping like a viper, he deflected it without missing a beat.

“Move,” he hissed at Harry, who lingered too long behind him, his gaze flickering toward a Ministry insignia on the wall. “Now’s not the time for sentiment.”

Harry muttered something under his breath but obeyed, following Draco down a narrow hallway. The blood ward loomed ahead, a faint crimson glow pulsing across the door. Harry stepped forward without hesitation, his magic surging in his hands, raw and volatile.

“Careful,” Draco warned, his hand brushing briefly against Harry’s arm.  

Harry nodded. His breath left him in a sharp exhale. His palms pressed against the ward, heat building under his touch. The air shimmered, alive with his magic. Too alive. It stung, crackled, bit at the edges of his control. Draco felt it too. He didn’t have to look to know—his skin prickled with it.

The ward held. Too strong. Unyielding. For a second, Harry’s chest tightened. What if it doesn’t break? He pushed harder, his jaw clenching, magic flooding outward.

A crack. Small at first, then spreading like splintered glass. The glow faltered, wavered—shattered.

The cell stank of blood, damp, and despair. The sight of Ron, slumped in the corner, sent a ripple of nausea through Draco’s usually unflinching demeanor. His lip was split so wide it looked barely attached, one eye swollen shut, his ribs visible beneath the torn, bloodied shirt he wore. Cuts marred his arms and face, some deep, oozing sluggishly, others barely closed. His breathing was shallow, each inhale rattling with something wet and ominous.

“Harry,” Ron croaked, his voice so hoarse it seemed painful. But his gaze lifted, and somehow, despite everything, his eyes lit up. “Took you long enough, mate.”

Harry froze, his breath catching in his throat. His chest tightened painfully, the world narrowing until all he could see was the wreckage of his best friend. Fury surged, molten and volatile, threatening to claw its way out of him.

“Stay there,” Draco snapped, moving past Harry before he could act. He knelt by Ron, his wand already in hand. “Let me look at him before you start tearing down walls, Harry.”

“Always bossy, aren’t you?” Ron rasped, wincing as Draco’s fingers brushed his wrist. “Don’t worry about me, Malfoy. Just—” cough. “Just a scratch.”

Draco raised an unimpressed eyebrow, his wand moving with precision as he muttered a string of healing incantations. The deeper gashes on Ron’s arms began to knit themselves together, the skin mending with a faint shimmer of light. A sharp crack of magic realigned Ron’s ribs, and he let out a guttural groan, his head snapping back against the stone wall.

“Scratch?” Draco said dryly, his wand moving to the bruises along Ron’s face. “You look like a troll stepped on you.”

“Must’ve been one of your relatives,” Ron shot back weakly, though the corners of his mouth twitched in a faint smile.

Draco didn’t rise to the bait. His focus stayed razor-sharp, his hands steady as he moved to the worst of the cuts on Ron’s chest. The blood slowed, then stopped, the flesh pulling itself back together. “I’m not patching you up so you can make second-rate jokes, Weasley. Shut up and sit still.”

Ron blinked at him, a flicker of disbelief cutting through the pain. “You’re… not half bad at that.”

Draco gave a curt nod, his wand dipping lower as he checked for signs of internal damage. “Don’t sound so surprised. Some of us can multitask.”

Ron glanced at Harry, his good eye narrowing. “Since when is Malfoy a walking St. Mungo’s?”

“Since he decided not to let you die on my watch,” Draco muttered, casting another charm to close a wound on Ron’s shoulder. “Hold still. The last thing we need is for you to keel over in the middle of this.”

Harry stayed silent, but his hands were clenched into fists at his sides. The sight of Ron—bloody, bruised, barely holding together—fanned the fire in his chest into something uncontrollable. The rage simmered low and dangerous in his stomach, tightening with every hiss of breath Ron took. He couldn’t stop staring at the fresh scars that lined his friend’s arms, at the way Ron flinched involuntarily under Draco’s careful hands.

“Harry,” Draco said sharply, breaking Harry’s trance. “Don’t lose it. He needs you steady.”

Harry exhaled sharply, forcing the rage back down, though it didn’t dissipate. His magic prickled at his skin, desperate to lash out, to destroy, but he swallowed it. For now.

Draco finished with a final wave of his wand, stepping back and surveying Ron with a critical eye. “That’s the best I can do here. Don’t move too much. You’re still held together by a thread.”

Ron flexed his fingers experimentally, then gave Draco a faint smirk. “Never thought I’d say this, but… thanks, Draco.”

Draco blinked at the sound of his first name, his lips twitching. “Don’t get sentimental. You’re still insufferable.”

Ron chuckled weakly, turning his gaze back to Harry. “You alright, mate? You’re looking… murderous.”

“I’m fine. Let’s get you out of here.”

Draco caught the crack in Harry’s tone but didn’t press. Instead, he stepped aside, his wand still raised as he scanned the corridor. “Let’s move. We don’t have time for your heart-to-hearts.”

Harry helped Ron to his feet, steadying him as he stumbled. “Stay with me, Ron. We’re getting you out of here.”

“I know,” Ron said, leaning heavily against him. “Let’s go raise some hell.”

Draco’s lips curved into the faintest smirk. “Try not to die halfway there, Wea—Ron. I don’t fancy carrying you.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Ron quipped as they started moving. “I’ll make sure you earn it if you do.”

It wasn’t long before the fight found them.

The first curse didn’t just hit—it screamed through the air, slicing past Draco’s head and exploding against the wall, sending shards of stone flying. DAMOS operatives poured into the corridor, their wands alight with lethal intent. The flickering torches caught the gleam of their masks, which distorted their faces into monstrous shapes.

Harry didn’t hesitate. His magic erupted, wild and unrestrained, the air around him pulsing with an electric charge that made the hair on Draco’s arms stand on end. Harry didn’t fight like a wizard anymore; he fought like something untamed, a storm given human form.

A spell surged toward him—a dark, coiling mass that hissed as it flew. Harry didn’t duck. He leaned into it, his hand snapping out to catch the magic mid-air. It writhed like a living thing in his palm, trying to escape, but Harry twisted his wrist sharply, and the curse shattered, its fragments dissolving into nothing.

An operative lunged at him from the side, wielding a jagged, serrated dagger glowing faintly green with poison. Harry didn’t even look. He turned his head just slightly, and with a flick of his fingers, the man’s blade stopped in mid-air, hovering inches from Harry’s throat. The operative froze, terror flashing in his eyes as the blade slowly turned, point-first, toward his own chest. Harry gave a small, almost imperceptible smile before the dagger plunged forward, burying itself with a sickening squelch.

Draco cursed sharply from behind Harry, his voice cutting through the chaos. “Harry! Watch your left!”

Harry spun just as a heavy chain, charmed with brutal strength, arced toward him. Instead of dodging, he let it wrap around his arm, the enchanted links biting into his skin. He yanked hard, pulling the masked operative off balance and sending him crashing into the stone wall with enough force to crack his mask. Before the man could recover, Harry snapped his arm free, the chain slithering to the floor like a defeated serpent, and launched a non-verbal curse that sent the operative flying, his body slamming into two of his comrades with bone-crunching force.

The fight was chaos, a blur of spells and screams. Every swing of Harry’s wand was brutal, the kind of magic that didn’t leave room for survival. An operative lunged toward Ron—Harry didn’t think. He slammed his hand forward, raw magic bursting from his palm, and the man crumpled, his body hitting the stone with a sickening thud.

“Stay close!” Harry barked, his grip on Ron tightening as they moved.

Draco was just ahead, his wand a blur of movements as he dismantled wards and dispatched curses with surgical precision. His voice cut through the noise once or twice—sharp commands, warnings—but Harry didn’t look up. He couldn’t. Ron was barely standing, his breaths rattling, his weight slumping heavier against Harry with every step.

Another wave of operatives poured in, dark shapes in dim corridor, spells painting the walls in bursts of green and red. Draco didn’t hesitate. He turned, casting a wide, arcing shield that deflected three curses at once, his jaw tight as he called over his shoulder. “I’ve got this—move!”

Harry tightened his hold on Ron and surged forward, his wand snapping upward to break through the next ward. The magic around him crackled, volatile and alive, tearing at the fabric of the air itself.

They were so close—so close—to the exit.

He didn’t notice when Draco’s voice stopped.

When they finally burst through the last set of wards, the night outside was chaos. Rain lashed against them in sheets, the storm swallowing the sound of the fight still raging inside the outpost. The ground was slick with mud, the air cold and biting. Hermione and George were waiting near Nyx, their faces pale and drawn as they rushed to steady Ron.

Harry didn’t stop moving. His magic still crackled faintly around him. His chest heaved, his grip on his wand tight enough to make his knuckles white. His eyes darted across the shadows, scanning for familiar pale hair, for sharp grey eyes.

“Move!” Hermione shouted, her voice barely audible over the storm. “We don’t have time—”

But Harry wasn’t listening.

“Draco?” he called, cutting through the noise. His gaze swept the darkness, his breath quickening. “Draco!”

The others froze. Hermione’s hand tightened on Ron’s arm, her face twisting with confusion that quickly turned to dawning horror.

Harry’s chest rose and fell in harsh, uneven breaths as he turned in a full circle, his eyes darting frantically. The realization hit him like a blow to the gut, cold and brutal. He turned back toward the outpost, the rain streaking down his face, and shouted again, louder this time. “Draco!”

Hermione stepped forward, her voice trembling. “Harry, I—he was just behind you—”

“He’s not here!” Harry snapped, his voice cracking. His magic surged dangerously, raw and wild, radiating outward like a force of nature. The rain hissed and evaporated where it hit the energy pulsing off him. “Where the fuck is he?”

No one answered. The words died on Hermione’s lips, her eyes wide as they flicked to George, whose face was grim, his jaw tightening. Even Ron, bloodied and barely upright, looked stricken.

The silence was suffocating.

Harry turned toward the outpost, his mind racing, the storm around him bending as if pulled by the sheer force of his rage. He took a step forward, his wand vibrating with the pressure of the magic building inside him.

“Harry,” Hermione tried again, her voice breaking, “we can’t—we don’t know where—”

“They took him.” Harry’s voice cut through her words like a blade. “They took him.”

The words echoed, swallowed by the storm.

His magic surged again, the ground beneath him trembling. He didn’t move, his gaze fixed on the shadows of the outpost like he could will Draco back into existence.

“They have no idea what they’ve done.”

They took what was Harry’s.

And Harry—well, Harry was going to annihilate everything in his path until he reclaimed it.

“Harry—”

Hermione barely got the word out before he cut her off.

Rain pattered relentlessly, drenching him to the bone, but Harry didn’t seem to notice. A sinister smile twisted his lips, something cold and baleful in the curve of it. “No… no, this—this is good.”

“What—” Hermione’s voice wavered, confusion and fear flickering in her eyes.

“They’ve finally given me the catalyst for carnage.” Harry’s voice was low, almost a whisper. Green eyes burned, wild and untamed. “And I’m going to bathe in the blood of those responsible.”

Harry’s foot slid in the mud as he spun back toward the outpost. Rain streaked down his face, dripping from his hair, but it couldn’t extinguish the fire burning in his eyes.

“Harry, stop!” George’s voice was sharp, cutting through the storm. Before Harry could take another step, George grabbed him by the arm, yanking him back with a force that made Harry stumble. “You can’t go in there.”

“Let go of me!”

“Think, Harry!” George barked, his voice harsher than Harry had ever heard it. His usual levity was gone, replaced with something cold and desperate. “You storm in there, and you’re dead! Do you hear me? Dead.”

Harry twisted again, the rage boiling under his skin so potent it felt like it might split him in two. “They have him!” he shouted, his voice cracking. “I’m not going to stand here while they—while they—”

“They will kill you,” George interrupted, his face set in grim determination. “And if they don’t, they’ll drag you to whatever hellhole they dragged Draco to, and then you’re both gone. Do you think he’d want that? Do you?”

Harry froze for a second, his breath hitching, but then the fury surged again. “What do you expect me to do, George? Stand here? Wait while they—”

“We get a plan,” George said firmly, his eyes locking with Harry’s. “We regroup. We gather what we need, figure out what we’re up against, and then we get him back.”

“There’s no time for that!” Harry shouted. His magic surged again, and George’s grip faltered as the air between them crackled. “Every second I waste, he’s—he’s—”

He choked on the words, his fury suddenly fracturing into something far more fragile. For a moment, the fire in his eyes dimmed. Rain ran down his face, indistinguishable from the tears threatening to fall.

George’s grip on his arm softened, though it didn’t release. “Harry, I get it. Believe me, I do. But if you go back in there now, you’ll never make it out. And neither will he.”

Hermione shifted uncomfortably, Ron leaning heavily against her, his arm slung over her shoulders. His weight wasn’t the issue—it was the stillness around them, the kind of silence that shouldn’t exist after the chaos they’d just escaped. The rain pattered relentlessly, but beneath it, there was nothing. No shouts. No spells ricocheting through the corridors. No hurried footsteps of DAMOS operatives.

It was too quiet.

“Wait,” Hermione said suddenly. She glanced at the outpost, her brow furrowing, her instincts flaring. “Something’s wrong.”

Harry eyes narrowed as he followed her gaze. “What do you mean?”

Hermione adjusted Ron slightly, her wand slipping into her free hand, the grip tight. “Listen. There’s… nothing. It’s quiet. Too quiet.”

Harry’s head tilted slightly, his expression darkening as he realized she was right. The storm hadn’t abated, but the sounds from the building—agents regrouping, curses being shouted, the telltale hum of magic being cast—were gone. The outpost felt eerily lifeless, as if the storm itself was the only thing left alive.

George shifted, his wand already drawn. “That’s not good. Not good at all.”

“Stay here,” Harry said abruptly, his tone cold and commanding as he turned toward the entrance.

Hermione bristled. “Harry—”

“Stay here with Ron. George and I will check it out.”

“No,” Hermione said firmly, her wand raised now. “I’m coming. I can hold my own.”

Ron, still leaning against her, managed a faint smirk. “Stubborn as ever,” he rasped, though the faint shake in his voice betrayed the pain he was still in.

Harry didn’t argue. He couldn’t—not when Hermione was right. She always was.

The four of them moved back toward the outpost, wands drawn, their steps quiet and deliberate. The heavy rain muffled their movements, the storm wrapping around them like a veil as they slipped through the shattered doorway. The stench of blood hit them first, sharp and metallic, mingling with the damp and the charred remains of magic that still lingered in the air.

Inside, the silence was deafening.

Harry’s jaw clenched as his eyes scanned the scene. The corridor was littered with bodies—DAMOS operatives sprawled in grotesque angles, blood pooling beneath them. Some had their masks shattered, revealing wide, lifeless eyes. Others were barely recognizable, their forms twisted by curses or broken in the chaos. The floor was slick, the smell enough to make Hermione’s stomach churn.

“They’re gone,” George said grimly, stepping over a body. “They’ve cleared out.”

“Not just cleared out,” Hermione murmured, her voice trembling slightly. “They… they Apparated. Look.” She pointed to a faint scorch mark on the stone floor, the residue of recent Apparition magic.

“With Draco,” Harry muttered, the words so quiet they were almost lost to the storm outside.

Hermione’s eyes darted around the room, taking in the grim scene. “They left everything. The supplies. The bodies. They didn’t care about cleanup. They just… left.”

Harry’s chest heaved, his mind racing as his gaze swept the corridor, searching for any sign of Draco—anything. But all he found was blood, bodies, and silence. “They took him,” he turned to Hermione. “Why? Why take him but leave everything else?”

“To bait you,” Hermione said softly, her voice steady despite the terror in her eyes. “They didn’t care about the fight. They didn’t care about us escaping. They just wanted him.”

The storm outside raged on, but the silence inside was heavier, thicker. The only sound was the faint drip of blood pooling in the cracks of the stone. And the unspoken promise that this wasn’t over—not by a long shot.

Harry was holed up in an underground safehouse with Ron, Hermione, and Blaise, who had secured the location for them. It should have felt like something—relief, maybe, or the smallest flicker of comfort—being with his best friends again after all this time. But it didn’t. Instead, it felt like the cruelest kind of irony, being on the run with them again, years after they thought they’d left this life behind.

The safehouse was better than the damp forests and ragged campsites they’d once called refuge during the war. The walls were sturdy, reinforced with layers of magic, the space lit dimly by enchanted lanterns. There was food, warmth, safety—for now.

But none of it mattered. Not really.

Harry leaned back against the cold stone wall, his gaze distant, his arms resting on his knees. There was no comfort here. Not in the flicker of lanterns. Not in the low murmur of Ron and Hermione talking quietly across the room. Not even in the faint smell of coffee that Blaise was brewing as if this were all just some normal day.

Yes, it was nice—mildly, distantly nice—to see their faces again. To be reminded of a time when things were simpler, when battles were fought side by side and victories, however small, still tasted like hope.

But did any of that matter now? Did anything matter beyond the fact that Draco Malfoy was not standing beside him in this very moment?

The ache in his chest was constant, a dull, grinding thing that made it hard to breathe. His thoughts circled endlessly, looping back to Draco—where he was, what DAMOS was doing to him, if he was even still—

Harry stopped the thought before it could take root. He couldn’t think like that. Not yet.

But the memories wouldn’t stop. He saw Draco’s sharp smile, the way his eyes lit with fire when he was arguing a point Harry didn’t even care about. The way Draco fought, and the rare moments when he was soft, like the nights they sat in front of a fire, sharing words that didn’t need to be spoken.

And now—now there was only an empty space where Draco should have been.

His fingers curled into fists, his nails biting into his palms.

Here he was, sitting in the shadow of another war, with Ron and Hermione once again at his side, and it wasn’t comfort he felt. The weight of despair settled. It was a bleak and barren landscape, devoid of comfort or consolation, a harsh reminder that the passage of time had brought no respite from the shadows.

The world had taken everything from him before. His parents. His childhood. His peace. But Draco? Losing Draco wasn’t something Harry could come back from.

Draco wasn’t just someone he’d lost—he was the line between what Harry could endure and what would finally destroy him.

Fuck you, world.

In all honesty, Harry was going kind of fucking mental.

Not in the angsty, sixth-year, “I’m-being-watched-by-Voldemort” kind of way, but in the my-magic-is-literally-trying-to-set-the-world-on-fire kind of way. It was shooting off him in unpredictable bursts, like a storm he couldn’t control, and Hermione—Hermione was looking at him. Like she was genuinely afraid. Which was saying something, because Hermione Granger did not scare easily. Not when they were running from Death Eaters. Not when she found out he was a Horcrux.

She had always remained head-strong and upright, resolute. But now? Now she watched him like he might explode at any second. And honestly, she wasn’t wrong.

Harry couldn’t sit still. His body thrummed with restless energy. He didn’t sleep, not really, and he was pretty sure the sleep deprivation was only making the descent into madness worse. He caught himself muttering under his breath—half-formed plans, fragments of rage, all the cruel, crass things he was going to do to the Ministry when he got Draco back. If he got Draco back.

That was the thought that undid him.

Every time it crossed his mind—accidentally, like a dagger slipping through his ribs—his magic reacted. It lashed out, cracking through the safehouse, making the walls tremble and the air thrum with barely-contained violence.

Gods help the fucking universe if Draco Malfoy is dead.

Harry couldn’t even let himself think about it. Not fully. Because if Draco was gone—if Draco was dead—there wouldn’t be a Ministry left. There wouldn’t be anything left.

Harry vowed that much.

And that was the crux of it, wasn’t it? Harry wasn’t just losing it. He was unraveling, thread by thread, and everyone around him knew it. But no one dared say a word. Not Hermione, whose eyes followed him warily. Not Ron, who winced every time Harry’s magic flared too close. And certainly not Blaise, who kept his distance, watching Harry like he was a ticking bomb that couldn’t be disarmed.

Because he was.

Hermione was pacing, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, muttering half-formed plans under her breath. Ron sat slumped in a chair, his injuries still visible despite Draco’s quick healing spells. Blaise leaned against the far wall, his dark eyes flicking between the three of them as though he were cataloging their next moves.

And Harry—Harry was a tempest.

He stood near the hearth, his magic practically vibrating in the air around him, the embers in the fireplace flickering erratically as if responding. His fists were clenched and every so often, his wand would spark faintly in his hand, like it wanted to lash out even if he didn’t.

“They’re using the people closest to me,” Harry said suddenly. “They think they can just—just dangle you in front of me like bait. First Ron. Then—” His voice cracked. “Then Draco. Like I’m some kind of bloody puppet they can pull strings on.”

“Because it worked,” Hermione said softly, her pacing stopping as she turned to him. “They know it worked, Harry. That’s why they’re not going to stop. They don’t need anyone else to draw you out now—not when they have Draco himself.”

Harry’s magic flared again, making the fire hiss.

“They don’t have him,” Harry growled. “They’re borrowing time, that’s all. Borrowing time before I burn everything they’ve built to the ground.”

“Harry,” Hermione started cautiously, stepping closer, her hands up as though approaching a wild animal. “We need to think. Rushing into this—”

“Think?” Harry snapped, rounding on her. “What else is there to think about, Hermione? They have him. They have him, and every second we stand here doing nothing, they’re—” He broke off, his hands running through his hair, tugging hard as he let out a sharp, frustrated breath.

“You think we don’t get that?” Ron cut in. He winced as he shifted in his chair. “You think Hermione and I don’t know what’s at stake? You’re not the only one who’s angry, mate. But you losing your head isn’t going to help Draco. It’s not going to help any of us.”

“I don’t care about any of this. The totalitarianism. The resistance. The Ministry. The whole fucking world can rot for all I care. The only reason I haven’t burnt it down already is because he’s in it.”

There was something deeply unsettling—desolating—about Harry’s admission. His friends had seen him grow distant and detached after the Battle of Hogwarts, but this was something else entirely.

They hadn’t seen it get this bad—not really. Not after he’d gone on the run, not after hiding in one dilapidated safehouse after another. Not even after Theo’s death. But now? Now they were staring at someone unrecognizable.

No, it wasn’t comforting. It wasn’t supposed to be. Hearing Harry—their Harry, the same boy who once couldn’t even cast a Patronus without clinging to the tiniest sliver of light—now speaking so plainly, so brutally, about burning the world to the ground wasn’t just unsettling. It was a knife to the chest.

And yet, it wasn’t incomprehensible. Because who could understand the kind of loss Harry carried better than the people who had walked beside him through so much of it?

If anyone had the right to hate the world this much, it was Harry.

It was selfish, Harry knew that. It was selfish to want to reduce the world to rubble for everything it had taken from him. But fuck it. He didn’t care. Not anymore. Not when they had Draco.

“I mean it,” Harry said. “The second he’s not in it anymore… it all goes to hell.”

There was no apology in his tone. No softness. No guilt.

Hermione flinched slightly. “And if you burn it all down, Harry? What happens to him then? To us? You think Draco would want to come back to a world you’ve turned to ash?”

Harry opened his mouth, but Blaise spoke before he could.

“She’s right,” Blaise said calmly as he pushed off the wall. “Draco’s alive. If they wanted him dead, we’d already know. That means they’re holding him for leverage. They want you reckless, Harry. They want you exactly like this.”

Harry turned to Blaise. “And what would you suggest? That we sit here and wait for them to send another message? Another piece of him?”

“I suggest you stop thinking like a martyr and start thinking like a strategist. You want Draco back? Fine. But you can’t bring him back if you are dead.”

“Blaise,” Hermione warned softly.

But Blaise kept going, his tone turning harder. “You hate the world? So what? Join the club. But you can’t fix or destroy a damn thing if you let them tear you apart.”

“Harry,” Hermione said quietly after a moment. “We’ll get him back. But we need to be smart about it. We need a plan.”

Harry was tired of hearing that line. Plan, plan, plan—it all goes to shite either way.

“They haven’t won,” Hermione stated. “We’re not going to let them.”

“No,” Harry said. “They haven’t won. But by the time I’m finished, they’ll wish they never even tried.”

Papers and maps were strewn across the table, Blaise and Hermione pouring over ancient texts and scraps of information like their lives depended on it. Harry stood apart, his hand hovering near his wrist, his fingers brushing over the tattoo-like mark etched into his skin.

It pulsed faintly, a dull ache that made his stomach twist.

The tether wasn’t working—not the way he needed it to.

He closed his eyes, focusing, willing it to give him something.

But it remained frustratingly silent, like shouting into a void.

Harry slammed his fist into the wall. The stone didn’t budge, but the magic behind the blow cracked through the room like a thunderclap. “You’re telling me this tether, this fucking thing I let bind us together, isn’t doing anything?”

“It’s doing what it’s supposed to do,” Hermione said, her tone tight with restrained patience. “It’s protecting him.”

“Protecting him,” Harry repeated bitterly, his hand trembling as he raked it through his hair. “It’s protecting him by making it impossible for us to find him?”

“No,” Blaise cut in. “It’s protecting him from being tracked by anyone. Including us. That’s why you two did it, isn’t it? To make yourselves untraceable. It’s the whole point.”

“Well, it’s a shit point!”

Harry couldn’t sit. Couldn’t breathe.

Where are you?

His hands shook as he braced himself against the wall, the firelight casting shadows across his clenched jaw and bloodshot eyes.

If there’s something out there—anything, anyone—take me instead. Bring him back, and take me. I’ll pay the price a thousand times over if it means I don’t have to live in a world without him.

The memory was sharp, vivid. Back at Snape’s safehouse, Harry and Draco had tested the mark left on their wrists. Hermione had asked, ever-curious, “How did you find him?”

Harry had shrugged, his fingers brushing the faint scar. “It just… guided me. I could feel him. It’s like I just knew.”

Harry sat in the corner of the safehouse, his leg bouncing impatiently, his fingers tracing the mark over and over as though he could force it to respond.

Hermione paced the room, her brow furrowed. “It’s untraceable to everyone. That was the point of the ritual,” she muttered, half to herself. “But not to you, Harry. Your magic and blood are tied together. That connection should—”

“Then why isn’t it working? If it’s supposed to guide me, why the fuck can’t I find him?”

“Proximity, maybe,” Hermione said quickly, her tone more careful now. “If DAMOS has moved him far enough—”

“Or their wards are interfering,” Ron offered from where he leaned against the table. “They’ve probably got layers of them. Wouldn’t be DAMOS if they didn’t.”

Harry scoffed. “So, what? They’ve managed to block me? My own blood? That’s bullshit.”

“Harry—” Hermione started, but he was already standing.

“This isn’t helping. If you’re going to give me reasons why it might not work, don’t bother. Just figure out how to make it work.”

The room fell silent.

Hermione placed the book down carefully. “We’ll need to channel the tether through you,” she said, looking up at Harry. “It’s still tied to your blood, Harry. That’s our way in. If we can focus it—”

“Then do it. Whatever it takes.”

“It’s not that simple,” Blaise warned, his expression grim. “If we misstep, even slightly, the bond could snap. And if that happens—”

“Do it,” Harry growled, his tone brooking no argument. “If there’s even a chance it’ll lead me to him, then do it.”

You do not get to take him from me.

You’ve taken enough. Haven’t you?

Too much.

Too fucking much.

But not him. You don’t get to take him.

Not him.

Take me instead. Rip me apart. Burn me down. Drag me through whatever hell you’ve got waiting—but not him.

Fucking world, take me, you bastards.

Give him back and take me.

“I can’t lose him,” Harry whispered, his voice breaking. He stared at the tattoo on his wrist, tracing it with his thumb, the mark that felt so alive and yet so infuriatingly useless. “I can’t.”

“You won’t,” Hermione said quietly, stepping beside him, her hand resting lightly on his arm. “We won’t let that happen, Harry.”

Ron’s voice cut through the moment. “Come on. We have work to do.”

Harry sat at the edge of the table, his leg bouncing uncontrollably, the relentless tapping of his boot echoing in the small room.

Come back to me, come back to me, come back to me.

“This isn’t working,” Harry growled, slamming his hand against the table. The room shuddered faintly with the force of his magic. “I don’t care what the books say—it’s not working!”

Hermione sighed, rubbing her temples as she paced in front of him. “It’s not that simple, Harry. This is ancient blood magic—what the two of you did to become untraceable. It responds to intent, to emotion. You can’t brute force it.”

Harry stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor as he turned toward her. “I’m not trying to brute force it! I’m trying to bloody find him!”

Blaise leaned against the wall, his arms crossed. “You’re pushing too hard. The bond can snap if you don’t ease into it.”

“Ease into it? While they’ve got him—doing God knows what? You want me to ease into this?”

Ron rubbed his temples, looking like he was about to get a headache. "Alright, alright, let's just... calm down, shall we? We're not going to get anywhere if we're all shouting and carrying on. Take a minute, have a butterbeer, and then we'll have another go, yeah?"

Harry could only glare.

There’s a dent in the pillow where Draco’s head used to rest.

Harry runs his fingers over it every night, as if touching the ghost of him might bring him back.

Blaise sat in the corner of the room, his posture unnaturally still. His fingers turned the heavy Slytherin ring on his hand, the green stones glinting faintly.

His thumb brushed over the emerald surface, searching for any sign of change, of fracture. The stone was still whole. Still there. Still shining.

Draco was alive.

For now.

Across the room, Harry was hunched over the edge of the couch, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. His eyes were dark, hollowed by sleepless nights and endless failures.

“You’re sure it still works?” Harry’s voice cut through the silence.

“Yes,” Blaise said quietly, though his gaze didn’t lift from the ring. “The stone is still there. He’s alive.”

Blaise continued to turn the ring slowly, the movement repetitive, almost desperate. He wasn’t sure if it was a reassurance or a curse, knowing Draco was still alive but no closer to being found. The stone gleamed faintly under his touch, and Blaise clenched his jaw.

“Alive isn’t enough,” Harry muttered finally, his voice a low, broken thing.

Blaise didn’t answer. There was nothing he could say that would make it better.

Hermione crouched in front of Harry as she gestured to his wrist. “You have to focus. It’s not just about anger or desperation, Harry. You must reach for him. Think about him. Where he might be. What he might feel.”

Harry exhaled shakily, his fingers brushing the scar again. “He’s… cold. I think. It feels like—like I can feel the cold he feels. He doesn’t like the cold.”

Draco always made a point to keep an extra jumper in Nyx, just in case. He never liked being caught unprepared, always wore layers when the cold set in. When they were on the run, staying in less-than-ideal conditions, Draco was the one who made sure the hearth was always burning steady. Sometimes, discreetly, he’d find an excuse—brushing past Harry, sitting just a little too close—to steal a bit of his warmth.

Hermione nodded, encouraging. “Good. That’s good. Keep going.”

Harry hadn’t slept in—days? Weeks?

He couldn’t tell anymore.

Draco Malfoy was gone, and with him, any sense of time Harry might have had.

Blaise had found them a lead.

The air was sharp and cold when they arrived. Too cold. The kind that bit at your skin and stung your lungs, but Harry didn’t notice. Didn’t care.

Blaise led them through the crumbling building, his wand raised, steps careful. Too careful. Hermione and Ron stayed close, scanning the shadows with quiet focus. But Harry—Harry was ahead. His wand gripped tight, his body coiled like a spring. He felt it in his bones. Something was wrong.

The first curse came from nowhere.

A flash of green. Too fast. Harry twisted, his body reacting before his mind caught up. The curse missed him by inches, scorching the wall behind him. Then came the second, the third. The air erupted into chaos.

DAMOS.

Harry’s magic surged. Wild. Untamed. The first agent lunged at him, wand raised, and Harry didn’t hesitate. His wand flicked once. The man’s wand exploded, shards embedding in his face. Blood sprayed across the stone floor.

Another came from his right. Harry didn’t look. He swung his arm, raw magic snapping like a whip. It struck the agent’s chest, and the man crumpled, smoke rising from where his ribs had caved in.

“Harry!” Blaise shouted, his voice distant, drowned out by the roar in Harry’s head.

More agents poured in. Harry didn’t flinch. Didn’t falter.

One of them hurled a curse—silent, lethal, hungry. Harry caught it mid-air, his magic snapping around it like jaws closing on prey. It hissed and writhed, the dark energy crackling against his hold.

Harry didn’t flinch. He smiled—a wicked, feral thing that didn’t touch his eyes. No, those burned cold, sharp with something far more terrifying than rage.

The curse shivered in his grip, alive with malice, but Harry didn’t just return it. He twisted it. Warped it. Poured something of himself into it—something darker, something sharp and broken. And then he sent it back, a jagged arrow laced with death.

The spell struck the agent dead center, carving through him like a knife through flesh. The body dropped to the ground, heavy and still, and for a long moment, Harry just stood there, his breath fogging in the cold air.

He didn’t look away. Didn’t blink. If anything, his smile widened, teeth bared like a wolf scenting blood.

"You should’ve aimed better," he muttered under his breath, meant for no one but himself.

His wand lowered, and his shoulders relaxed like this was routine, like he hadn’t just turned death itself into a weapon in his hands.

Another blade came for him. Steel. Sharp. Close. Too close.

Harry ducked, his hand snapping out to grab the agent’s wrist. He twisted. A crack. The blade dropped. Harry caught it mid-fall and drove it upward, fast and unrelenting. Blood soaked his hand.

“Harry, stop!” Hermione’s voice cut through the haze.

An Auror fired a binding spell. Harry dodged, his wand slicing through the air. The spell snapped back, rebounding in a flash of red. It caught the Auror’s legs, twisting them unnaturally. A scream echoed, but Harry was already moving.

Another agent closed in, their wand raised.

Blood on the floor.

Blood on his hands.

He didn’t care.

Another came for him, trying to flank him, but Harry spun. His magic lashed out like a blade, slicing through the air. It hit the agent’s arm. Severed it cleanly. A howl of pain, a spray of crimson.

Harry’s expression didn’t change.

“Harry, stop!” Hermione again. Louder this time. Desperate.

He paused. Barely. Just enough to look over his shoulder.

“They took him,” he snarled, guttural. “They don’t get to live.”

More agents. More Aurors.

Harry moved through it like a storm. One spell. One motion. One life extinguished after another.

When it was over, the silence was suffocating—a heavy, choking thing that pressed against the walls and filled the spaces between the fallen. Bodies lay scattered like broken toys, limbs twisted, eyes wide and empty. Smoke curled lazily in the aftermath, the ghost of destruction.

Harry stood in the center of it all, a grim monument to the carnage, his chest heaving with each ragged breath. His hands dripped red, the blood pooling at his feet, and his wand hung loosely at his side like an afterthought. His gaze swept over the scene, unblinking, as though cataloging every lifeless form, every twisted body, every ounce of annihilation he had unleashed.

He should have felt something—remorse, regret, disgust—but all he felt was the echo of power humming beneath his skin. Power and vengeance. A dangerous alchemy brewed in the hollowed-out heart of a man with nothing left to lose.

He who dared lay a hand on Draco Malfoy would come to know the fury of a man scorned—no, more than scorned. Disembodied. A man beset by darkness.

He’d promised once, quietly and fiercely, in a voice only Draco could hear: I’ll keep you safe.

And now, whoever dared to test that vow would find out exactly what wrath incarnate was.

Blaise was near the doorway, his face blanched. Hermione stood frozen, her gaze locked on Harry. Her lips moved, forming words she couldn’t quite say.

Harry’s wrist burned again. The tether pulsed weakly, faintly.

“He’s not here,” Blaise said finally, his voice hoarse. “They—this was a trap.”

Harry turned away from the wreckage he had left behind, stepping over the bodies like they were nothing more than obstacles on his path.

The safehouse walls trembled as Harry stormed inside, his magic lashing out in volatile bursts. Books toppled from shelves, papers scattered, and the dim lanterns flickered wildly.

“Harry, stop!” Hermione shouted.  

His fists against the table, his wand clattering to the floor.

“He wasn’t there. He wasn’t—” His words faltered, his hands gripping the edges of the table so tightly the wood groaned in protest. “We were so close—so close—and there was nothing.”

Blaise stepped forward cautiously. “Harry, you need to—”

“Don’t,” Harry snapped, rounding on him. “Don’t tell me to calm down, Zabini. Don’t act like you understand what this is—what it feels like—”

“I do understand. But tearing the place apart isn’t going to help us find him. You want Draco back? Then keep it together!”

Harry’s hand twitched, his magic flaring brighter, but Hermione stepped between them. “Harry, please. Blaise is right. This isn’t helping. You’re not thinking clearly.”

“I don’t want to think clearly!” Harry shouted, his voice breaking as he turned away from them, his hands clutching his hair. “I want him back. I just—I need him back.”

Ron, leaning heavily against the wall, spoke up quietly. “Mate, we’ll get him. You know we will. But this—this isn’t you.”

“You don’t get it. You don’t—he’s all I have left. If they—if he’s gone—”

His voice broke entirely, and before anyone could stop him, he punched the wall. The sound was sickening, a dull crack that made Hermione flinch, but Harry didn’t seem to notice. He just stood there, his breathing ragged, his hand bleeding.

“Harry, stop,” Hermione reached for his arm. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“I don’t care,” Harry whispered. “I don’t care if I burn. If the whole world burns. I don’t care—”

“You would,” Hermione’s eyes had gone glassy, glistening. “If it meant getting Draco back, I know you would. But he wouldn’t want that. You know he wouldn’t.”

“I can’t do this. I can’t—I can’t lose him. Not him, Hermione. Not him.”

Hermione pulled him toward her, her arms locking around him with a desperation that mirrored his own unraveling. Harry collapsed against her, his knees buckling. She sank to the floor with him, cradling his shaking form, her fingers threading into his hair as his sobs tore through the silence like shrapnel.

“It’s okay,” she whispered, though her voice trembled under the weight of her own breaking heart. Her tears spilled unchecked, tracing paths down her cheeks as she rocked him back and forth, a futile attempt to keep him from shattering completely. “We’ll find him, Harry. I swear it. We’ll bring him back.”

Harry didn’t respond. He couldn’t.

His cries were guttural, the heart-stopping shudder of a soul being torn asunder. His face was buried in her shoulder, his hands clutching at her.

Ron stood by the window, his hand pressed to his mouth, his eyes suspiciously red. He couldn’t bear to look too long, couldn’t stomach the sight of Harry—unshakable, invincible Harry—on the floor like this. It was too much.

The room was heavy with grief, but none of them spoke.

There was nothing to say.

Because the truth was as stark and as simple as it was devastating: Harry Potter refused to live in a world without Draco Malfoy.

It had been nearly two months since Draco Malfoy was taken from Harry—and while Harry hadn’t stopped searching for him, not for a single moment, he had become… empty.

Not the way he was before, when guilt and resentment festered beneath his skin, bleeding out in sharp bursts. No, this was different. He wasn’t empty like he was after the Battle of Hogwarts, or even in the months that followed, when he and Draco were on the run. Back then, it had been hopeless and tiresome. Grueling, yes—but there was something grounding about it. Something tethering.

Because then, Draco was still there.

It had been easier to bear the rage and resentment when Draco was around. Harry preferred the running and hiding with Draco, because Draco was so… unmistakably himself. His wit sharp enough to slice. His quips dry and relentless, drawing faint, begrudging smiles from Harry even in the worst of times. Draco always laughed when Harry stumbled over some ridiculous plan and always scowled when Harry put an obscene amount of sugar in his coffee.

“Do you drink it for the caffeine or to rot your teeth, Harry?” Draco would mutter, shaking his head as he stirred his own meticulously prepared brew.

Harry had loved those moments. The simple ones. The ones where Draco sat in the driver’s seat of Nyx, fingers drumming on the steering wheel. Harry would watch him, pretending to focus on something else, but his gaze always came back to Draco—lean, stubborn, unflinchingly present.

And then there were the quieter moments. The ones where Draco stopped pretending to be confused when Harry curled up beside him after long, brutal missions. When Harry buried his face in Draco’s neck, letting the tension of the day melt away as Draco’s warmth seeped into him. Draco smelled like firewood and something faintly herbal. Even battered and bruised, Draco would sit there, letting Harry rest against him without a word of complaint.

Harry could live with the hiding, the running, the bruises, and the blood, so long as Draco was beside him. It made it all—oddly enough—feel worthwhile.

It wasn’t peace—nothing so soft or forgiving. But it was steady, a fragile thing that held him together when the world threatened to rip him apart. Draco Malfoy: temptation and absolution, undoing and salvation all at once. A thrall he couldn’t help but surrender to.

But now?

Now, Draco was gone, and Harry wasn’t sure he knew how to live at all.

The rage hadn’t faded—it had only grown, twisting into something bleaker, louder. But it wasn’t enough. None of it was.

Because rage didn’t smell like firewood. And it didn’t quip at him over sugar in his coffee. And it didn’t pull him close in the dead of night.

Rage wasn’t Draco.

And that made it useless.

When Harry made the decision to overthrow Draco’s trial and throw both their lives into the chaos of running and hiding, he hadn’t fully understood why he did it. Not then. Yes, he believed Draco deserved better. Malfoy had changed, and it was unfair—but it wasn’t just that. A bigger part of it was the sheer control it gave him. For once, Harry could make a choice that was his, free from the hand of destiny that had turned him into a puppet for so long.

But somewhere along the way—hell, Harry wasn’t blind. He knew. He’d always been tied to Draco Malfoy, even if it had started with enmity. It didn’t matter. Thoughts of Draco had haunted him for as long as he could remember, lingering in the back of his mind, impossible to ignore.

The truth of it was simple, even if Harry refused to name it for a long time: he was utterly, unflinchingly in love with Draco Malfoy.

Maybe it had been building since the moment Draco outstretched his eleven-year-old hand. Maybe that was the beginning of it. Somewhere along the way, his world had narrowed, collapsing in on itself until it consisted of one thing and one thing only: Draco Malfoy.

And the truth was, Harry didn’t mind. How could he, when Draco was so breathtakingly, painstakingly beautiful? Those storm-cloud eyes that never failed to pierce through Harry’s defenses. The sharp cut of his cheekbones, framed by hair so pale it seemed to shimmer. The fire in Draco, a flame that matched Harry’s own. Draco kept him on his toes, met every one of his sharp edges with a sharper one of his own.

But there was more to it, wasn’t there? The way Draco looked at him—not as a savior or a saint, but as a boy. Just a boy. And over time, Draco had become so damn humble, so quietly self-assured in a way that never felt performative. He didn’t demand redemption; he simply lived it.

And his touch—Gods, his touch. It burned like fire and soothed like balm, a contradiction that was so Draco. It had burrowed beneath his skin, settled into his bones, until Harry couldn’t imagine a world where he didn’t crave it, didn’t need it.

Somewhere between the razor-sharp arguments, the breathless escapes, and those stolen moments of fragile, aching quiet, Harry had fallen. It wasn’t gradual. It wasn’t hesitant. It was a freefall, violent and absolute, a surrender so complete it left him breathless.

Draco Malfoy wasn’t just the anchor Harry hadn’t known he needed. He was the wreckage Harry clung to, the tide that pulled him under and the shore that saved him all at once. His undoing. His salvation. His everything.

Draco had been the one filling the cracks left by a lifetime of loss and grief—a fragile patchwork that held him together. Maybe it wasn’t fair to put that burden on him, to let Draco carry the weight of Harry’s shattered pieces. But fairness didn’t change the truth. It didn’t matter if it was right or wrong. It simply was.

The safehouse was eerily quiet.

Harry sat by the window, staring out at the endless stretch of trees bathed in the faint glow of moonlight. His scarred hands rested on his knees, unmoving. His gaze was distant, fixed on nothing at all.

Hermione stepped into the room. She hesitated for a moment, watching him, her heart breaking at the sight. His shoulders were slumped, his face gaunt with exhaustion and grief. He hadn’t said much in days—not to her, not to anyone.

“Harry,” she said softly, her voice careful.

He didn’t turn to look at her. “If you’re here to tell me to rest, don’t bother.”

Hermione crossed the room, pulling a chair close to his. She didn’t sit, not yet. Instead, she stood over him, searching his face for any sign of the Harry she used to know. “I’m not here to tell you to rest,” she said gently. “I’m here to talk.”

He let out a hollow laugh. “Talk about what? How we’re no closer to finding him? How I’ve failed him?”

“About you. About what you’re feeling.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I know,” she said quietly, finally sitting down beside him. She paused, letting the silence stretch between them before she spoke again. “You’re in love with him.”

That got his attention.

His head snapped toward her, his green eyes wide, but there was no denying the truth in them. He didn’t argue, didn’t deflect. He just stared at her, his throat working as if he wanted to speak but couldn’t.

“You haven’t said it yet, have you?” Hermione pressed delicately.

Harry looked away, his gaze dropping to his hands. “What does it matter?” he whispered. “What good would it have done?”

“It matters because it’s the truth. It’s your truth, Harry. And you’ve been carrying it alone.”

Harry shook his head, his hands trembling now. “I should’ve told him,” he choked out, his voice breaking. “I should’ve said it—fuck, Hermione, I should’ve told him.”

Hermione reached for his hand. “You’ll get the chance. We’re going to find him, Harry. You’ll get the chance to tell him.”

“But what if we don’t?” Harry turned to her, his eyes glassy with unshed tears. “What if I never get to—what if he never—” He couldn’t finish the thought, the words breaking into nothing.

Hermione didn’t hesitate. She pulled him into her arms, her hand cradling the back of his head as he broke. The tears came in heavy, shuddering waves, wracking his body as he clung to her.

“I can’t lose him, Hermione,” he whispered between gasps, his voice muffled against her shoulder. “I can’t—I don’t know how to—”

“You won’t,” she said fiercely, holding him tighter. “We won’t let that happen. Do you hear me? We’re going to find him. We’ll bring him back.”

“It hurts,” he choked out. “It hurts so much.”

“I know,” Hermione whispered, her own tears falling now. “I know it does, Harry.”

The two of them sat there in the stillness, the only sound Harry’s broken sobs echoing through the room. Hermione held him as if her arms alone could shield him from the pain, whispering quiet reassurances that felt fragile in the face of his devastation.

Hermione pulled out a small, charmed pocket watch from her bag. The watch wasn’t ordinary; its glass face shimmered faintly with magic, the hands glowing in a language only she could decipher. It was her secret channel to Kingsley.

Harry was slumped on the couch, his head in his hands. Blaise sat at the far end of the room, flipping through a stack of old Ministry documents, while Ron cleaned his wand with precise movements.

Hermione’s voice broke the silence. “I’m going to check in with Kingsley.”

Harry looked up, his expression dark and tired. “What for? Unless he’s found Draco, I don’t see the point.”

Hermione shot him a look, her patience stretched thin but intact. “He might have information. About DAMOS. About their movements. About anything that could lead us to Draco.”

“Or it’s more of the same,” Harry muttered, sinking back into the couch.

“Then let me find out.”

She moved to the corner of the room, sitting at the desk as she tapped her wand against the pocket watch. The shimmering face glowed brighter, and then, like ink spilling onto parchment, words began to form on the glass. She leaned closer, her eyes scanning the message that appeared in Kingsley’s neat, methodical script.

Hermione,

No updates on Malfoy’s location. DAMOS has gone quiet—too quiet. They’ve pulled resources back to key outposts, likely anticipating retaliation after the trap. Keep Potter contained; his temper is a liability.

We’ve uncovered a list of potential sites DAMOS is using for their “extractions.” Sending locations soon. Keep eyes open for movement.

Stay safe.

 

Hermione frowned. She cast a spell, her wand glowing faintly as she scribbled a response directly onto the glass with her fingertip.

Kingsley, we’re running out of time. DAMOS knows they have the advantage.

If you find anything—anything at all—let me know immediately.

Harry’s not going to wait much longer.

The message vanished as quickly as it appeared, the watch dimming once more. Hermione exhaled sharply, closing it with a snap before turning back to the room.

“Well?” Harry asked, his voice sharp with impatience.

“Nothing on Draco yet,” Hermione admitted, her tone clipped. “But they’ve uncovered potential sites DAMOS is using for their operations. Kingsley’s sending the list soon.”

Harry stood abruptly. “That’s not good enough.”

“Harry,” Hermione said carefully, her gaze steady but tired. “We’re doing everything we can. Kingsley is stretched thin—”

“I don’t care about Kingsley!” Harry snapped, his voice rising. “They’ve had him for two months, Hermione. Two fucking months. Do you know what that’s like? To wonder every second if he’s—”

Ron looked up from his wand, his expression grim. “Kingsley’s right, though. DAMOS pulling back means they’re bracing for something. They’re expecting us.”

“Let them,” Harry said darkly, his back still to them. “They can expect me all they want. It won’t stop me.”

Hermione rubbed her temples. “This isn’t just about you, Harry. If you go charging in without a plan—”

“Then what?” Harry interrupted, spinning back to face her. “I’ll die? Fine. But I’m not sitting here waiting for them to kill him.”

“Kingsley said he’d send locations,” Blaise interjected, his tone calm but cutting. “That’s more than we had yesterday. More than we had an hour ago. You need to let us work, Potter.”

Harry glared at him, but the exhaustion in his eyes dulled the edge. He sank back onto the couch, his head falling into his hands again. “Just tell me when we have something,” he muttered.

Hermione exchanged a glance with Ron, her mouth pressing into a thin line. “We’ll find him, Harry,” she said quietly, though her voice was tinged with the same uncertainty that haunted all of them.

She turned back to the watch, tapping it again to check for updates.

Harry was never really the brains behind the operation. That had always been Hermione’s role—the strategist, the researcher, the one who could untangle the chaos and make sense of it all. Harry had been the action, the impulse, the one who dove headfirst into danger while the plans unfolded behind him.

But now, there was no time for someone else to figure it out for him.

He couldn’t wait for answers to fall into his lap, not when it was Draco’s life on the line. So, Harry sat amidst a sea of books—ancient tomes with fraying spines, pages yellowed and brittle. Some were stolen from the remnants of Snape’s personal collection, a cruel irony Harry couldn’t dwell on for too long. Others were borrowed from Blaise’s own carefully curated stash, texts far older and darker than anything Harry had ever dared touch before.

He was researching, something he’d never had the patience for. His fingers were ink-stained, his eyes bloodshot, scanning through text after text on blood magic, tethers, rituals, anything that might give him the answer he needed.

The tether—it was still there, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat just out of rhythm. Harry could feel it, faint and elusive, but it wasn’t enough. He needed it to be more. Needed it to guide him the way it had before, to pull him to Draco like it had that first time.

But something was wrong. DAMOS had done something, layered wards that even this ancient bond couldn’t seem to break through.

The answers were elusive, the pages filled with cryptic runes and half-formed spells that only seemed to taunt him. He flipped another page, then another, the words blurring together as exhaustion clawed at him.

Hermione had said the ritual made them untraceable to the world—but not to each other. Their magic and blood were tied, bound in a way no one else could interfere with. That was the point of it. So why wasn’t it working now? Was it proximity? Was it DAMOS’s wards? Or had something else gone wrong—something Harry couldn’t even begin to understand?

He didn’t know, and it was killing him.

The room was silent except for the faint rustle of pages and the occasional muttered curse under Harry’s breath. His hand brushed over the mark on his wrist again. It pulsed once, weakly.

“Where are you?” he whispered. The question wasn’t for Hermione, or Blaise, or anyone else. It was for Draco. For the tether. For the magic that had never failed him before and now felt like a cruel joke.

But there was no answer.

So, Harry kept reading, his desperation growing with every passing second, his thoughts looping endlessly back to one truth: I have to find him. I have to.

Harry sat at the edge of a chair near the hearth. His hands dangled between his knees, fingers twitching like they couldn’t decide whether to grip the tether on his wrist or lash out at the world. He hadn’t spoken in hours, maybe days, save for the occasional guttural exhale that sounded more like a growl than a breath.

Hermione was sitting across from him, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.

“Harry,” she said softly. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself.”

He didn’t look up. His eyes were trained on the floor.

“Draco was the only light I had left,” he murmured, barely more than a whisper. “And now, with him gone… even the darkness feels hollow. What’s left when you lose the thing you burned the world for?”

Hermione leaned forward, her hands twisting together. “We’ll find him, Harry. We will.”

He shook his head, a bitter, broken laugh escaping him. “You don’t get it, Hermione. The world—it just—it doesn’t feel real without him. It all just shapes and colors and noise, but none of it matters, none of it fits. He—he was the thing that made it all make sense after such a long time, and now—now—” Harry laughed. Hollow. “Well, now he’s gone.”

“He’s not gone,” she insisted. “He’s out there, Harry. It’s just a matter of finding him—which we will. It’s taking some time, I know—but we’re trying. He’s not gone—”

“Not gone,” Harry echoed. His eyes lifted to meet hers for the first time, and the sheer devastation in them made her chest ache. “You’re right—he’s not. Everywhere I look, I see him. The way he stood in the moonlight. The way his hair curled at the ends when it was wet. The way he’d smirk—like he knew a bloody secret no one else did. But—well, it’s not real, Hermione. Is it? It’s just memories.”

“You have more than memories, Harry,” Hermione was desperately trying to reach him but even she, in all her intellect, knew that it was hardly grazing the surface. “You have—you have the tether. You have us. You have—”

“None of it’s enough.”

“Harry—”

Harry slunk back, his gaze faraway. “It’s strange, I know. Draco Malfoy was never supposed to be anyone’s succor—anyone’s damn asylum. Least of all mine. It’s bloody ironic, really. But—here it is. Without him, I’ve… I’ve forgotten how to breathe.”

Harry didn’t speak with sadness anymore—not really. What lingered in his voice now was desolation, like the hollow echo of a bell long since cracked.

The very thing that had once anchored him, the force that had tethered him through the storm and stitched his soul back together, was now the undertow pulling him apart, thread by thread.

Hermione reached for his hand, but he pulled away, his fingers curling into fists. “I thought I was saving him, Mione,” he said, his voice trembling. “Thought I was doing the right thing, the noble thing,” he laughed sourly. “But—but what if I was just dragging him down with me? What if I was the weight around his neck, and not the hand pulling him to shore?”

“Harry, stop. You can’t think like that. You’ve both saved each other in ways no one else ever could.”

Harry let out a ragged breath, his eyes glassy as they turned back to the fire. “There’s something almost… exquisite in how we destroy each other, though, isn’t there? How each kiss feels like the end of the world. How every embrace feels like both salvation and damnation. It’s like—this love—if that’s what you want to call it—it’s a fucking knife, Hermione. The softest damned blade, slipping between your ribs. And the worst part? You hold it there. You press harder, just to keep the other close.”

Hermione’s tears spilled over now, silent. She couldn’t find the words to comfort him. She wasn’t sure any existed. All she could do was sit there, trying to hold herself together while the boy she loved like a brother unraveled before her.

Harry leaned back in his chair, his head tilting to rest against the wall. “He has to be alive, Hermione. Because if he’s not…” He trailed off, swallowing hard. “If he’s not, there’s nothing left for me. Nothing. And I—I can’t—I won’t…”

Harry closed his eyes.

I won’t live to bear it.

The room was cold—colder than it had any right to be. Why do these places always have to be so cold? Well, perhaps it’s better than scorching hot fire. There was no comfort in that thought.

Stone walls slick with dampness loomed around Draco. There was a single flickering torchlight. The moving shadows it casted against the walls seemed to be taunting him. Chains rattled as Draco shifted, the metal biting into his wrists, bloodied from struggling.

He couldn’t tell how long he’d been here. Days? Weeks? Time didn’t matter anymore.

There was only pain and cold—an endless cycle of one feeding into the other. Pain, cold, and more pain, until nothing else existed. No clarity, no reason—Draco’s mind was consumed, every thought drowned beneath pain.

“Comfortable, Malfoy?”

The voice was dripping with mockery. DAMOS agents closed in, faceless masks gleaming ominously. One advanced, their wand savoring the promise of violence. Another brandished a jagged blade, its edge slick with something dark—something Draco refused to dwell on.

“Still got that sharp tongue of yours?” the voice sneered. “Or have we finally silenced you?”

Draco met their gaze—or where their gaze should have been—with a defiance that didn’t quite reach his hollowed-out eyes. His lips were cracked, bloodied, but they still quirked into a faint smirk. “You’ll have to—” cough. “—Try harder.”

The first blow came without warning. A curse hit his chest, sending a jolt of searing heat through his body. The cold that had been wrapped around dulled, if only for a moment—that was the only thought running through Draco’s mind.

He gasped, choking on the air as his head snapped back against the stone wall. It wasn’t the kind of pain that screamed through the nerves—it was deeper, insidious, like fire coursing through his very veins.

Another blow. This one was a knife, carving shallow but deliberate lines into his arm. They weren’t trying to kill him—no, that would be too kind. Bastards, the lot of them. This was meant to hurt. To draw out the agony. To break him slowly.

Draco almost wanted to laugh—not from humor, no, because there wasn’t a shred of it to be found here—but from the bitter absurdity of it all. This was where he always imagined he’d end up. Back when he stood on the wrong side of the war, beside the Dark Lord, or worse, beneath his touch—clammy and cold, vile—Draco had thought it fitting. Disgusting, yes, but perfectly aligned with the universe’s cruel sense of order.

And now? Now it felt eerily the same. Where else could Draco Malfoy have landed? The boy whose father was rotting in Azkaban, whose friends were scattered or dead, whose mother a hollow, grieving shell. The boy who had aimed a wand at his headmaster and spat threats of death like they didn’t curdle in his throat.

Yes, Draco thought with grim finality, all was exactly as it should be. The universe, ever unkind, had once again proven it knew exactly where to place him.

Draco differed from Harry in that way. While Harry raged against the universe, railing at its cruelty, Draco simply accepted it. The universe was a shitshow, yes, but for Draco, it was no less than he deserved. Harry’s despair was unfair, unlucky, a burden he hadn’t earned—but Draco? Draco had spent his whole life being a loathsome bastard, and no amount of blaming his father or his upbringing could change that. In the end, it was still him. Every sneer, every cruel word, every spineless choice. It was his.

He figured he should own it at some point.

What better time than now?

The universe wasn’t punishing him; it was merely giving him what he was owed. And if the weight of it crushed him? Well, he figured that was fair.

Blood trickled down his skin, staining the floor beneath him in dark, viscous pools. Draco’s breath came in shallow gasps, his vision swimming, but he refused to scream. Not for them. Not for anyone.

“Still so quiet,” another voice hissed. “I wonder how long that’ll last.”

A wand pressed against his ribs, and the Cruciatus curse tore through him like lightning. This time, he couldn’t hold it back. His body arched violently, the chains clattering as he convulsed. His scream echoed off the walls, and for a moment, he didn’t even realize such a sound was coming from him.

“Better,” the voice was almost pleased.

Draco collapsed forward, the curse finally releasing. His head hung low, hair clinging to his sweat-drenched forehead, his entire body trembling. The pain didn’t fade.

He couldn’t focus. Couldn’t think past the haze of it all. His ribs ached, his lungs burned, his vision swam. There was no relief, no reprieve—only the hollow sound of his own breaths echoing in his ears.

Weak. That’s what he was. That’s what he’d always been. His fingers clawed at the ground, desperate to find something to hold onto, something solid, but the world felt as if it were tilting beneath him.

Not again. Not this. He couldn’t do this. His father’s voice, cruel and cutting. “Weakness is death, Draco.” But wasn’t that the point? Maybe this was it. Maybe the universe was finally evening the score.

Draco couldn’t move. Couldn’t summon the strength to lift his head, to force his broken body off the ground. His fingers twitched uselessly, scraping against the dirt as shame and despair twisted in his chest.

The tremors wouldn’t stop. His skin felt cold, his heart too fast, too loud, like it was trying to escape his chest. Breathe, Malfoy. Just breathe. But why? What’s the point?

“Why so quiet now, Malfoy?” the voice mocked again. “You were full of fight before. What happened?”

Draco didn’t answer. His head lolled to the side, his vision. It may have been tears, it may have just been the pain or lack of food and water—he didn’t know. Somewhere, through the haze, he felt the tether on his wrist pulse faintly. Just once. So, faint he thought he might have imagined it.

But it was enough.

He dragged his gaze upward, his eyes locking onto the masked figure before him. His lips parted, bloodied and trembling, but his voice came out calm. “You… should be worried.”

“Oh?” The figure leaned closer, their laughter sharp and cruel. “Why’s that?”

Draco’s eyes flickered with something—not defiance, not anger, but a twisted kind of certainty. “Because you’ve just made the biggest mistake of your life.”

The figure hesitated, their wand faltering for just a moment. Draco didn’t care if they believed him or not. He could feel it now, faint but growing—the tether pulling taut, alive with a magic they couldn’t understand.

Harry would come.

And the world was going to corrode.

The walls press in closer with every breath, as if they know him, know how small he really is. How breakable.

But then there’s Harry. Always Harry. A wildfire somewhere beyond the horizon, smoldering, waiting to consume everything. Draco knows—knows in the marrow of his bones—that Harry is out there. Hunting. Tearing the world apart to find him. Harry, who would move mountains with his bare hands, who would call down storms just to hear the echo of Draco’s voice. And yet…

And yet, the thought makes him sick. Makes his chest clench. Because this is what he deserves, isn’t it? Not Harry’s rage, not Harry’s determination, but this—this silence. This punishment.

Harry deserves someone better. Someone whole. Not the fractured, useless thing left behind in this cell.

But Harry will come. Of course, he will. Draco can see it already, clear as a dream: the door will splinter, Harry’s voice will thunder his name, his eyes will burn like molten gold when he sees Draco crumpled on the floor.

Harry will come. And Draco will hate himself for it.

He doesn’t deserve the rescue. Doesn’t deserve the way Harry’s going to look at him—as though the whole bloody world revolves around him, as though Draco isn’t just another broken thing Harry insists on trying to fix. But even as the guilt festers, as the weight of it crushes his chest, Draco feels it—this pulse of something wild in his veins, the tether of certainty he has no right to hold onto.

Because Harry will come.

And this time, he won’t let Draco go.

Even if he should.

Draco’s head lolled forward, the bite of the chains cutting deeper into his wrists with every shuddering breath. The cold stone floor beneath him was slick with his blood—spilled in rivers that had dried in streaks down his chest and arms. They had taken his shirt hours ago, maybe longer, leaving his skin exposed to the chill, to the knives, to the curses that licked across his body like fire.

The silence between bouts of torture was worse. It gave him too much space for his thoughts, and Draco wasn’t sure he could handle them anymore.

You deserve this.

Every sin he’d committed, every word he’d spat, every time he had chosen the coward’s path—this was the reckoning he’d always known was waiting for him. The sharp cold burrowed deep into his skin, a fitting punishment for the sharpness of his own past.

Draco bit down hard on his lip, the taste of copper flooding his mouth. He couldn’t allow himself to think about him—about Harry—couldn’t allow that wildfire to take root in his chest. Harry was somewhere—out there, chasing, his magic searing through anyone who dared stand in his way.

The thought of Harry finding him made Draco’s stomach twist.

Don’t come for me. Please.

They would use Harry against him. DAMOS had made that clear enough. Every time they dragged him to his feet, battered and barely breathing, they whispered venomous promises.

“Potter’s coming,” one of the masked figures said earlier, their voice a silken sneer. “We’ll have him soon. We’ll break him in front of you.”

Draco had laughed, though it came out cracked and bitter. “Good luck with that.”

They hadn’t liked that.

The Cruciatus curse had taken over then, sharp and violent, sending him writhing on the floor until his body was too exhausted to move.

Now, they were back. The door groaned open, heavy boots scraping against the stone. Draco didn’t lift his head, didn’t give them the satisfaction of his attention. The sound of something metallic scraping across the floor made his stomach lurch. He forced himself to look up.

A branding iron. Glowing red. The mark of DAMOS.

“Let’s see how well Potter loves you with this seared into your skin,” the masked figure said, their voice cold, clinical.

Draco’s heart hammered, but he refused to let them see his fear. “He’ll love me just fine,” he drawled, though his voice cracked at the edges. “The question is—” sputtering blood being coughed up interrupted. “How many of you will be left alive when he comes?”

The first touch of the iron against his ribs ripped a scream from his throat. The pain was blinding, searing through every nerve like molten metal. His body twisted instinctively, the chains digging further into his flesh, but he couldn’t escape it.

Burning flesh.

Acrid.

Nauseating.

His screams were distant to his own ears.

The pain—Gods, the fucking pain—there were no words.

It didn’t stop—not until Draco blacked out.

The room was drenched in shadows, the flicker of torchlight illuminating the blood pooling at Draco’s feet. His arms were suspended above him, chains biting into his wrists, the iron digging through skin to raw flesh. The ache in his shoulders was distant now, a dull throb compared to the sharper, more creative pain DAMOS inflicted.

A curse hit his chest like a mallet, and he doubled over as much as the chains would allow. His ribs screamed in protest, but Draco didn’t cry out.

He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction—not if he could help it.

His mind drifted, seeking something—someone—to anchor him.

He closed his eyes and pressed into the tether, the mark on his wrist burning faintly. It wasn’t an ache but a warmth, steady. Harry. He could feel him like a heartbeat, pounding through his veins.

At least Harry was alive.

There was a comfort in that.

Draco bit down on his lip until he tasted blood, clinging to that knowledge like a lifeline.

A fist slammed into his stomach, and the air left his lungs in a violent rush. He wheezed, coughing, spitting blood onto the floor. The masked figure in front of him stepped back, wiping their knuckles as if disgusted by the contact.

“Still so defiant,” the agent sneered. “Let’s see how much more you can take.”

Draco’s laugh was bitter, hollow. “Oh, I can take a lot,” he rasped. “You should ask my father.”

The next blow came harder.

The tether pulsed, and Draco’s head fell back, his breathing ragged. He didn’t reach for it often, afraid they would somehow sense it, sever it.

The tether was a fractured thing now, like a two-way street with one side crumbling into a chasm. Draco could reach the edge of the rift, could feel Harry—faint and distant, like the echo of a heartbeat carried on a dying wind. The pull was still there but it was weaker than it should have been, muffled as though a barrier had been thrown up between them.

He pressed into the tether again, focusing on the pulse of Harry’s magic. It was there, yes, but dulled, muted. Draco could feel the rage humming beneath the surface, the desperation, the exhaustion, but it was like trying to hear a symphony through a wall of static.

His hand curled over the mark on his wrist, his bloodied fingertips tracing the scarred skin. “You’re there,” he whispered hoarsely, his voice cracking in the stillness. “I know you’re there.”

Draco closed his eyes and held onto it.

The blade was cold, its edge sharp enough to slice through fabric, skin, muscle. Draco hissed through clenched teeth as it carved into his arm, the DAMOS agent working with an almost clinical detachment.

“Beautiful work,” the agent murmured, tilting the blade to inspect the deep cut. Blood poured down Draco’s forearm, pooling in the creases of his palm. “Maybe Potter will appreciate the craftsmanship when he sees you.”

Draco’s vision swam, the edges darkening. He smirked through the haze. “Potter is going to rip your throat out before you can brag.”

The agent drove the blade deeper.

The chains were surely leaving imprints in Draco’s flesh, their enchantments pulsating faintly, a sickly green glow that sapped at his magic like a leech. Every time he tried to summon it, to pull even the faintest wisp of power, the metal would burn hotter, searing his skin until he was forced to relent.

But Draco Malfoy would be damned before he gave in. Malfoys mustn’t show weakness.

The DAMOS agent standing before him leaned closer, sneering as they inspected his bruised face. “Still got some fight in you, eh?” the agent drawled, their wand tracing an idle circle in the air. “That’s good. Makes it more fun.”

Draco spat blood at their feet. “You wouldn’t know fun if it cursed you in the face.”

He knew that comment would earn him another Cruciatus. He didn’t care.

Alright—in hindsight, it wasn’t ideal. But defiance was all he had left, and if they thought for a second he’d give them the satisfaction of breaking, they were sorely mistaken. No, Draco Malfoy wouldn’t give them that. Not now. Not ever.

The agent’s smirk twisted into a snarl, and they raised their wand, casting a slicing hex that tore and left a shallow cut along his collarbone. He hissed in pain but didn’t flinch. Instead, he tilted his head, his lips curling into a faint, taunting smirk.

“Is that all you’ve got?”

The agent’s temper snapped, and they lunged forward, hands finding Draco’s throat. That was their mistake.

Draco moved fast, far faster than they expected. His head snapped forward, the sharp crack of his skull slamming into the agent’s nose echoing in the room. The agent stumbled back with a howl, their hands flying to their face as blood gushed between their fingers.

It hurt. Draco didn’t stop.

He twisted his body, the chains clinking loudly as he kicked his leg out. His boot caught the agent in the knee, forcing them to collapse to the floor with a strangled cry.

The chains flared, their magic searing into his wrists, but Draco ignored the pain. He wrenched his body to the side, the movement clumsy but forceful enough to bring his shoulder into the face of a second agent who had stepped too close. They staggered back, cursing loudly, wand clattering to the floor.

Draco reached for it instinctively, but the chains tightened, yanking him back. The air was knocked out of him as his body slammed against the chair, the enchantments surging with brutal intensity.

A third agent stepped forward, expression murderous. They flicked their wand sharply, and Draco’s body arched against the chair as a shock of pain coursed through him. His vision blurred, black spots creeping in at the edges, but he forced himself to hold onto consciousness.

“Enough!” a voice barked from the shadows.

The agents froze, wands lowering slightly as they stepped back. Draco slumped in the chair, his breathing labored, his chest heaving as the pain subsided to a dull roar.

The figure stepped into the light.

“You’ve got spirit, Malfoy. But it won’t save you.”

Draco’s head lifted slowly, silver eyes sharp despite the exhaustion etched into every line of his face.

“Maybe not,” he rasped. “But I’m still standing. And that’s more than you can say.”

His gaze flicked to the first agent, still clutching their shattered nose, and his lips twitched into blood-tainted leer.

The figure’s eyes narrowed, and with a sharp flick of their wand, the chains tightened further, biting into Draco’s skin until he could feel the warmth of his own blood trickling down his arms.

“Crucio.”

This time, Draco couldn’t fight the unconsciousness.

He drifted in and out of consciousness. The cold floor beneath him, the burning in his veins, the smell of blood—it all blended into a blur.

He reached for the tether again, needing it more than breath. Harry was there, a steady presence that surged through the bond. He let it wash over him, let it fill the cracks in his resolve.

But the guilt always came back.

He’ll come for me.

And that terrified him.

Draco opened his eyes to the dull throb of pain in his ribs. He wasn’t sure if he was alive or dead until he felt the faint tug of the tether.

I don’t deserve this, he thought. Not Harry’s determination, not his rage, not his love.

But it didn’t matter what Draco deserved.

Harry would come anyway.

“Potter won’t save you,” one of the agents snarled, their wand tip pressed to Draco’s temple.

Draco smirked, his voice weak but biting. “You really don’t know him, do you?”

The Cruciatus curse hit him like a tidal wave, ripping a scream from his throat.

Draco curled his fingers into the stone beneath him, blood smearing onto the floor as his body trembled with exhaustion.

He pressed into the tether one last time, whispering into the bond like Harry could hear him.

Find me. Please. I can’t—I can’t do it much longer—

And for a moment, he swore the tether tightened in response.

Draco blinked his eyes open, the dim light blinding in its harshness as the room spun around him. Everything was a haze, a blur of smudged edges and shifting shapes that refused to form into anything coherent.

For a few agonizing seconds, his mind swam in confusion, disoriented. But then, like a wave crashing down, clarity returned—and with it, the pain.

Draco wished, not for the first time, that he was dead.

The safehouse was stifling, walls pressing in on Harry. Everyone was asleep—or trying to be. Harry couldn’t stay there, not another second. His chest felt tight, his thoughts circling endlessly, and the tether on his wrist pulsed faintly like it was mocking him.

He needed air.

Well—he needed a hell lot more than air but air was the only thing reachable.

Harry slipped out quietly, careful not to wake anyone. The cool night hit him the second he stepped outside, sharp and biting against his skin. It wasn’t enough to clear his head, though. Nothing was. He ran a hand through his hair, his gaze falling to where Nyx was parked under the cover of a spell, her dark, sleek body blending into the shadows.

Draco’s car. Their car.

He didn’t think; he just moved. The door creaked faintly as he climbed inside, the familiar leather seat cradling him in a way that felt like home. Nyx smelled like Draco, faintly of cedar and something sharper, cleaner. Harry let his hands fall to the wheel, his fingers brushing over the worn grooves where Draco’s grip had left its mark.

It was stupid. Reckless. Dangerous. But he didn’t care. Not tonight.

The engine purred to life with a low growl, the sound vibrating as he pulled onto the empty road. The wards surrounding the safehouse shimmered faintly as he passed through, dissolving behind him. He knew it was a risk to drive around—especially now, especially here. DAMOS agents could be anywhere, and the Ministry’s surveillance stretched far.

But Nyx was the one thing that still felt like Draco, and Harry couldn’t stay away from her.

The road stretched out endlessly before him, headlights cutting through the dark. He didn’t have a destination in mind; he just drove, the miles slipping away beneath Nyx’s tires.

Draco loved this car. The way his hands fit the wheel like they were meant to be there, the way his voice carried when he cursed at other drivers—even though most of the time there weren’t any. Harry could picture it so clearly: Draco sitting beside him, legs crossed casually, one hand draped over the wheel as if he had all the time in the world.

“You’re shit at driving, Harry,” Draco would say, smirking as he nudged Harry’s knee with his own. “Let me take over before you crash us into a tree.”

“Like I’d trust you with her,” Harry would shoot back, grinning despite himself.

The memory hit him like a blow. The mark on his wrist pulsed again, faint and frustratingly distant, and Harry exhaled shakily, his breath fogging up the windshield.

The road ahead blurred, the edges of his vision smudging with exhaustion.

Harry slammed the brakes, the car skidding to a halt on the desolate road. The engine idled as he leaned back in the seat, his chest heaving. His eyes caught the faint shimmer of moonlight on the dashboard, the outline of something half-visible wedged beneath the passenger seat.

He frowned, leaning over and reaching under it. His fingers brushed against something rough and heavy. When he pulled it free, he froze.

It was one of Snape’s old books.

The leather cover was frayed, the spine cracked, but Harry recognized the dense scrawl etched into the margins. He hadn’t noticed it before, probably because it had slipped under the seat at some point during their frantic moves. He flipped it open, his breath catching as he scanned the pages.

Rituals.

Blood magic.

And then, a note in Snape’s unmistakable, sharp handwriting: Anchoring through agony: The tether’s strength will falter unless forced. Magic seeks balance; blood demands pain.

Harry’s stomach twisted. His eyes darted over the diagram of runes etched on the page. The instructions were specific. Ancient. Dangerous.

And unforgiving.

He closed his eyes, the tether pulsing faintly against his wrist like a heartbeat struggling to stay alive. Balance. Pain.

“I don’t have time for fucking balance,” he muttered, flipping to the next page. And I’ll take the pain if it gets me to him.

The instructions were brutal: cut the tether open, expose the blood bond, and force the magic to yield. It wasn’t designed to be done without a partner. It wasn’t designed to be done alone. But—Harry was well past caring.

Harry's wand sliced through the air, the runes on the page twisting into grotesque, sadistic grins. The edges of the symbols were razor-sharp, carving into his skin with merciless precision. The wand tip dug deep, flaying the flesh from his bones, the agony erupting into a maelstrom of torment that seared his vision into a blur of tears and blood.

His hand convulsed, trembling like a leaf as blood smeared over the lines, but he refused to stop.

The symbols pulsed with a malignant glow, dark magic igniting as they seared into his arm, the heat coursing through his veins like liquid fire. Harry's teeth sank into the flesh of his cheek, hard enough to draw blood, to stifle the screams that clawed at his throat. His jaw locked, muscles bulging, as the pain ripped through him like a serrated blade, tearing him apart from the inside out.

The tether flared.

The mark on his wrist detonated into a blinding radiance, a light so fierce it seared his retinas and sent his head recoiling against the seat with a sickening crunch. Harry's breath shattered into ragged, wheezing gasps as the bond convulsed inside him, its presence thrashing like a wild animal caught in a snare. The ancient magic was a crushing weight, a physical force that threatened to snap his bones and incinerate his soul.

His wrist had become a furnace, the scar tissue crackling with an otherworldly energy that seemed to be clawing its way free from his very flesh. The skin was stretched taut, glowing with an eerie, malevolent light that seemed to pulse with a life of its own.

Draco.

The pain intensified into a tornado of suffering, a clamor of piercing sensations that ripped through his body with ruthless accuracy. As the link exploded into a flurry of power, the magic tearing into every synapse with taloned fury, his muscles gripped, and his back bowed against the seat. It was destruction, not just anguish. Every atom, fiber, and cell in his body was ablaze with uncontrolled, chaotic magic, and the car's little interior threatened to collapse under the weight of this untamed power.

He could feel it now, clearer than before.

The tether pulled, not faint or hesitant, but insistent, dragging him forward like it had a will of its own.

Harry doubled over, his hands clawing at the dashboard as the car shook under the force of magic. Sparks danced around him.  

“Where?” he hissed. “Where the fuck are you?”

The runes on his arm throbbed in time with the raging, primordial rhythm of his heart, and the tether flashed with an unearthly savagery. The night air was broken like a fractured scream as he let out a savage, bestial cry as a final, cataclysmic surge tore through him.

A painful tremor went through his skull when his head crashed on the steering wheel. The darkness drew in, shadows crawling like grabbing fingers into the boundaries of his vision.

And then it hit.

Not like a revelation but like a wound tearing itself open. It wasn’t an image, not exactly, but a sensation—a cold that crept into his bones.

Darkness wrapped around the feeling, not just the absence of light but a suffocating void, swallowing air and sound. It was distant, buried somewhere unreachable except through this agonizing pull. It clawed its way into Harry’s consciousness and settled there.

A name rose out of the void, unbidden. Blackstone Quarries.

It wasn’t a guess. It wasn’t a question. It was a certainty, seared into his mind like a brand. Cold. Dark. Underground. He didn’t know how he knew, but he did.

Harry exhaled shakily, his body trembling violently as he slumped back into the seat. Blood dripped from his arm, pooling on the leather, the faint glow of the runes now dull and lifeless.

He’d found him.

He fucking found him.

Harry’s hands shook as he reached for the steering wheel, the faint light of the book still casting Snape’s warning into sharp relief: Magic seeks balance; blood demands pain.

“Well,” Harry muttered, his voice hoarse. “You’ve got both.”

His jaw tightened as he turned Nyx toward the north, his bloodied hands leaving smears on the wheel.

Hold on, Draco. I’m coming.

In hindsight, driving headfirst into what was surely his own grave wasn’t the smartest move—but it was the most quintessentially Harry thing to do. It wasn’t the first time, either.

He wasn’t entirely suicidal. Not yet, at least. Before he floored the accelerator, he’d informed Blaise through the ring where he was headed—Blaise, who no doubt would wake Hermione and Ron the moment he received the message.

It didn’t take long for the responses to flood in.

Hermione’s frantic warnings came first, sharp and urgent, her desperation practically vibrating through the connection. “Harry, don’t! We need to regroup. This isn’t smart!”

Then Blaise’s more subdued yet cutting voice came through, the calm in his tone doing nothing to hide the blade beneath it. “Turn around, Potter. Right now. You’re going to get yourself killed—and that is damn well not going to save Draco, is it? At least give us time to prepare.”

Harry didn’t respond to either of them.

They were right. Of course, they were. Getting Draco back wasn’t going to be easy. Hell, it was probably going to be impossible. DAMOS wasn’t going to roll over and let their prize go. And Harry? Harry knew this better than anyone.

But patience wasn’t something Harry had ever been particularly good at.

Each passing moment with Draco out of his reach felt like a knife twisting in his gut. Every second wasted was another second Draco suffered, another second that bond on his wrist burned, taunting him.

So no, Harry wasn’t going to wait. Not when he could feel Draco out there, close enough to touch, and yet still so achingly far away.

The rain lashed against Nyx’s windows.

The safehouse was already far behind him. The warnings from his friends were static in his mind now, drowned out by a singular, relentless thought: I will get Draco Malfoy—or die trying.

­

The others arrived just as Harry did—leave it to Blaise and his endless supply of resources. This time, it was a car. Harry had long since stopped questioning where Blaise managed to procure these things. Whether it was the black-market wizarding underground, or some other shady channel only Blaise Zabini could navigate, Harry didn’t know—and frankly, he didn’t care. Running half the resistance apparently came with its perks.

Still, he couldn’t help but be almost impressed by how quickly they’d gotten there. When the car pulled up beside Nyx, its sleek, vintage frame glinting under the stormy sky, Harry let out a breathless, bitter laugh.

Of course. Blaise had shown up in a bloody Aston Martin.

Harry couldn’t help the snicker that escaped him. “You’d show up to a suicide mission in a car fit for a Bond film.”

Blaise stepped out, unbothered by the comment—mostly not understanding the reference—his expression sharp and unimpressed. “If I’m going to die for your reckless arse, Potter, I’m doing it with style.”

Despite himself, Harry’s lips twitched into a faint smirk before reality crashed down around him again, Draco was still waiting.

Nestled deep within a rocky, desolate expanse, it was far from anything remotely resembling civilization. The jagged cliffs surrounding it loomed high. The facility itself was a grim testament to DAMOS and its Ministry roots—a sprawling complex carved into the earth, dark stone walls slick with rain and layered in wards strong enough to keep an army out.

From their vantage point in the tree line, Harry could see the armed guards patrolling the perimeter, wands at the ready. They moved in pairs, their faces grim and expressionless, their movements rigid. Occasionally, a wand tip would spark faintly in the gloom, a reminder that these weren’t your average grunts—they were trained killers, and they knew it.

“Blackstone Quarries,” Blaise muttered, crouching beside Hermione as he spread a set of blueprints across the damp ground. “Black site for DAMOS. Ministry never officially acknowledged it, but we’ve known about it for years. No one’s ever made it out alive.”

“Reassuring,” Ron quipped, leaning against a tree as he eyed the ominous facility. “Really inspiring confidence, Zabini.”

“Do you ever think before you speak, Weasley?”

“Sometimes. But where’s the fun in that?”

Harry tuned them out, his eyes fixed on the guards below. Every muscle in his body was coiled tight, ready to spring, his wand clutched in a white-knuckled grip. He was already calculating the quickest route to the main entrance when Hermione’s voice cut through his haze.

“Harry,” she said sharply. “We’re not going in without a plan.”

“I have a plan.”

“No, you have a death wish,” Blaise snapped, straightening to his full height. He gestured to the guards. “There are at least twenty of them outside alone. Inside? Who knows. I’m guessing wards that’ll fry us on the spot if we’re not careful. So, unless your plan is to die spectacularly, maybe sit down and listen for five fucking minutes?”

Harry glared but grudgingly crouched beside the others as Blaise tapped the blueprints with his wand.

“This is the facility layout—or as close as we’ve got. The main entrance is here.” Blaise pointed to a section at the edge of the blueprint. “Heavily guarded, obviously. But there’s a secondary access point—a service tunnel for moving supplies.”

Hermione frowned, tracing the lines with her finger. “That’s our best bet. If we can disable the wards here,” she pointed to a marked section near the tunnel’s entrance, “we can slip through undetected.”

“And what happens when we’re inside?” Ron asked.

“Good question,” Blaise said, his tone dry. “The main detention area is likely underground. If Draco’s here, that’s where he’ll be. Problem is, DAMOS doesn’t exactly label their facilities for easy navigation.”

“Wards, guards, and no map of the interior,” Harry muttered. “Brilliant. Let’s go.”

“No,” Hermione said firmly. “We’re not done. Blaise and I will handle the wards at the service tunnel. Ron, you’ll cover the perimeter. Harry…” she hesitated, looking at him with a mix of sympathy and exasperation. “Just try not to get us all killed.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “I’m going in as soon as we’re inside.”

“Of course you are,” Ron muttered. “Because that’s worked out so well for you in the past.”

“Do you have a better idea?”

“Actually, yes.” Blaise cut in before Ron could retort. He pulled a sleek Muggle device from his pocket, its screen glowing faintly. “Cameras. We use them. Hermione’s been teaching me a few tricks, and between this and a few charms, we can track patrol movements. Minimize encounters.”

“Minimize,” Harry repeated, his voice flat. “That’s comforting.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Hermione said sharply. “Now, move. We don’t have time to waste.”

Harry’s grip tightened on his wand, but he followed the others as they descended toward the facility. The tension in the air was palpable, the storm clouds above threatening to break.

The plan was sound.

But plans didn’t matter. Not to Harry.

All that mattered was Draco.

The storm broke as they reached the edge of the service tunnel, rain slicing down in ruthless sheets. Harry’s jaw clenched, water dripping into his eyes, but he didn’t flinch. Blaise crouched beside the entrance, his wand casting a faint glow over the rusted metal grate.

“Give me a minute,” Blaise muttered. His wand tapped against the grate, a series of quick, deliberate movements. A faint shimmer appeared, the wards sparking like fireflies in the rain.

Hermione crouched beside him, already pulling a sleek Muggle device from her bag. “Don’t rush,” she whispered, fingers moving rapidly over the screen. “The wards are layered. One mistake and we’re… fried, for lack of a better word.”

Harry didn’t wait. His fingers wrapped around the edge of the grate, pulling hard. It didn’t budge. Blaise swatted his hand away.

“Do you mind?” Blaise hissed. “I’m trying not to get us blown to bits.”

Harry didn’t answer. He scanned the perimeter. The rain helped—visibility was low—but it wouldn’t take long for someone to notice.

“Any day now,” Ron grumbled. He was keeping an eye on the guards, his free hand hovering near the knife strapped to his thigh. “They’re getting closer.”

“Almost…” Hermione’s voice was tense. The device in her hand beeped softly, and Blaise’s wand flashed green.

“Done,” Blaise susurrated. The shimmer over the grate faded, and he gestured sharply to Harry. “Now you can play the fucking hero.”

Harry yanked the grate free, tossing it aside with a loud clang. Blaise winced. “Subtle, Potter. Very subtle.”

“Move,” Harry barked, crawling into the tunnel without waiting for the others.

The tunnel was cramped, the air thick and damp. The sound of water dripping echoed off the walls. Harry’s wand cast faint light ahead, illuminating the slick, uneven floor.

“Which way?” Ron whispered from behind him.

“Straight,” Hermione answered. “There’s another ward at the end. It’ll be harder to break.”

“Perfect,” Ron muttered.

The second ward didn’t just shimmer—it roared. The moment Hermione’s wand touched it, the air around them sparked, heat rippling through the tunnel.

“Shit,” Blaise muttered, his wand moving frantically to counter the flare. “They’re going to feel that.”

“We don’t have time,” Harry growled. He shoved past Hermione, ignoring her protests, and slammed his wand into the center of the ward. Magic surged, crackling like thunder as the ward shattered.

The force sent them all stumbling back, dust and debris raining from the tunnel walls. Harry’s chest heaved, his hand pressed to the tether on his wrist. The pull was stronger now. Closer.

“Subtle as fucking ever,” Blaise muttered, pulling Hermione to her feet. “Good Gods, Potter, are you trying to—”

A distant shout echoed down the tunnel.

“They heard that,” Ron said grimly.

“No shit,” Blaise snapped.

“Move,” Harry ordered, his voice sharp. He didn’t wait for an answer, pushing forward into the darkness as the sound of boots grew louder behind them.

The building wasn’t far.

The chaos was closer.

And Draco—

Draco was waiting.

The tunnel opened abruptly into a maintenance corridor, the shift from damp stone to industrial concrete jarring. Flickering fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting harsh, uneven shadows across the narrow hallway.

Harry stepped out first, wand raised, body tense. The tether on his wrist pulsed faintly, guiding him like a whisper in the back of his mind. He couldn’t hear the guards anymore, but he knew better than to think they’d gotten lucky.

Blaise and Hermione followed quickly, their wands drawn. Ron brought up the rear, pausing only to glance back into the tunnel.

“Do we even know where we’re going?” Ron asked, his voice low but edged with irritation.

“Yes,” Harry said flatly, his steps quick and purposeful.

“Brilliant. Just following Potter’s instincts now, are we?” Blaise muttered, scanning the walls for traps or additional wards.

“It’s working, isn’t it?” Hermione countered. She was still holding the Muggle device, the screen flickering faintly as she tracked the facility’s systems.

Ahead, the corridor split into three paths, each one equally uninviting.

“Left,” Harry said without hesitation, already moving.

“How do you—?” Ron started.

“I just do.” Harry didn’t slow down, didn’t look back. The tether was stronger now, pulling him forward. Draco was close, he could feel it, thrumming inside his veins.

Hermione hesitated, glancing down at the device in her hand. “There’s a warded door down that way. It’s likely guarded.”

“Good,” Harry said, his grip tightening on his wand. “Let them try.”

The warded door was reinforced steel, its surface etched with glowing runes that hummed faintly with power. Two guards stood in front of it, stances rigid, wands held loosely but ready.

Harry didn’t stop to think. He was already moving, his wand raised, his magic flaring to life with a violent crack.

“Stupefy!” he shouted, the spell slamming into the first guard before they could react. The second guard raised their wand, but Harry was faster, his next curse ripping it from their hand and sending them crashing into the wall.

“As I said—subtle,” Blaise muttered as he joined Harry at the door, his wand already working on the runes.

“You’re welcome.”

Hermione and Ron kept watch as Blaise muttered under his breath. He was moving as quickly as he could, but detail was a necessity—and Harry was growing more and more impatient.

“Hurry up.”

“These wards aren’t made for speed,” Blaise shot back. He didn’t hide the tenseness in his voice anymore. “Unless you want to blow the whole place up, let me work. In silence, preferably.”

Harry pressed his fingers to his opposite wrist, as though holding onto the mark that connected him to Draco would somehow keep Draco from slipping away. He was just so close. Damn if Harry lost him now.

It only took—what felt like—forever. The runes faded with a final spark, and Blaise stepped back. “It’s done.”

Harry didn’t wait. He shoved the door open, stepping into the unknown without hesitation.

The room beyond was dim with the usual scent in the air—damp stone, swamp like almost, and blood—distinctly metallic. Though, the first thing Harry noticed was how cold it was. Colder than the rest of the building.

And then, the unmistakable sound of footsteps.

This wasn’t going to be easy.

But nothing was going to stop him now. Harry was ready for anything, really.

Harry’s jaw was locked, his hands curled into fists. He wanted names. He wanted faces. He wanted the entire world to know that if they hurt Draco Malfoy, they were signing their death sentence. He didn’t care what lines he had to cross; there were none left anymore.

He was ready for anything—or rather, anyone. Whoever dared to step in his path—this path, the one leading to Draco Malfoy—would be dead soon enough. Of that, he was certain.

The promise solidified the moment his eyes locked onto those of Dolores fucking Umbridge.

The others were spread thin, tackling parts of the mission Harry had ignored in his single-minded venation to find Draco.

Blaise and Hermione were dismantling wards, working in tandem to create an escape route that wouldn’t leave them trapped like rats. Ron, meanwhile, had stationed himself at a guard checkpoint further out, ensuring reinforcements couldn’t follow. He’d insisted on taking the position, his wand steady and his quips sharper than ever, masking the tension in his jaw. “You’re not running headfirst into this alone, mate,” he’d told Harry before they split. “But someone’s got to watch your back while you play hero.”

It was all supposed to work like clockwork—Harry leading the charge to find Draco while the others cleared their path out. But DAMOS had known he was coming. The trap had been set, the moment carefully orchestrated to isolate him.

And now, Harry stood alone, staring down Umbridge, while his friends worked frantically to finish their tasks, unaware of the horror waiting for them at the center of it all.

The problem was, the room was silent. Too silent.

Harry’s footsteps echoed off the stone walls as he entered. The tether on his wrist burned faintly, a reminder that Draco was nearby.

Nearer than he had been—in what felt like forever. There was comfort in that.  

But the scene before him didn’t make sense.

Draco was there.

Chained to a chair in the center of the room, his head tilted downward, blond hair falling into his face. His wrists were raw where the shackles bit into them, clothes torn and bloodstained. But it was the stillness that struck Harry the most. The way Draco didn’t flinch, didn’t react. Not even to the door slamming shut behind Harry.

Something was wrong.

“Draco,” Harry called, his voice cautious. His steps slowed as he moved closer.

No response.

What the fuck is going on?

The faint glow of the runes on the chains caught Harry’s eye, sickly green light pulsing like a heartbeat gone wrong. His chest twisted until it was hard to breathe. His heart pounded against his ribcage, wild and erratic, and for a brief, disorienting moment, he thought he might be sick right there.

Blood had dried in dark, crusted streaks. His face was a ruin—bruises painted his pale skin in sickly shades of purple and black, one eye swollen nearly shut. A gash ran along his temple, blood trickling sluggishly down his cheek to his jaw. The shirt he wore was torn, hanging in tatters, exposing ribs that jutted sharply under his battered chest.

“Draco,” he said again, louder this time. His voice echoed in the empty room, but still, nothing. Harry wondered for a moment if Draco, sitting there with his head hanging low, was even conscious at all.

Come on. Look at me.

And then, a voice.

“You’re quite the predictable little hero, aren’t you, Potter?”

Harry’s blood ran cold.

From the shadows at the edge of the room, Dolores Umbridge stepped forward, her saccharine smile as twisted as it had ever been. Her pink cardigan looked obscene in the dim light, the bright color clashing violently with the dark aura of the room.

“You’ve come all this way,” she simpered, clasping her hands in front of her. “How brave.”

Harry's wand flashed up, his magic erupting into a crackling force that seemed to seethe and writhe around him like a living thing. "Let him go," he growled, the words trembling with the effort of restraint.

Dolores Umbridge's voice was a sugary poison. "Oh, I don't think so," she purred, her eyes glinting with a sadistic light. "Draco and I have been having such a… productive time together."

Harry's rage detonated into a maelstrom of fury, his mind consumed by a single, burning imperative: Umbridge was going to die. He could vow it, swear it on his very soul. The woman was a cancer, a plague, and she would pay for every moment of suffering she'd inflicted on Draco.

Draco… oh, Draco.

Harry's heart shattered anew at the sight of him, so still and hollow. He didn't even look at Harry, didn't even acknowledge his presence. It was as if he'd been extinguished, snuffed out like a candle in the wind.

Harry's emotions rioted, a chaotic tangle of grief and anger and desperation. He wanted to cry, to scream, to shatter the world into a million pieces. He wanted to wrap his arms around Draco, to hold him close and never let him go. He wanted to set the building ablaze, to watch as Umbridge burned to ashes, to dance in the flames and laugh with a mad, savage joy.

But most of all, he wanted to make it stop. To make the pain stop, the suffering, the endless fear. He wanted to make it all go away, to erase it from existence, to rewrite the very fabric of reality itself.

And he would. Oh, he would.

Harry’s gaze flickered to Draco again, his gut twisting. Something wasn’t right. Draco’s breathing was steady but shallow, his body rigid in a way that wasn’t natural. His head lifted slightly, and Harry froze when he saw his eyes.

Vacant.

No spark. No fight.

The Imperius Curse.

“You bitch,” Harry snarled. The air around him shimmered in response, the magic under his skin hardly contained.

Dolores Umbridge's laughter dripped like honeyed venom. Harry wanted to throttle her—just to rid the sound. "Oh, Potter… how delightfully… predictable. Charging in here alone, like a bull in a China shop. How… quaint. How foolish. Really, Potter, you should have brought your little… entourage along. The Chosen One, after all, is so much more… formidable with his minions by his side."

“If you think for a second—”

“Think?” she interrupted, her voice lilting with false innocence. “Oh, Potter, I don’t have to think. You see, Draco here is mine now. Isn’t that right, dear boy?”

Draco stirred, his head tilting slightly. His lips parted, and when he spoke, his voice was soft. Empty.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Harry’s heart shattered.

Oh, Draco.

The tether burned, each pulse a sharp, angry stab in Harry’s chest. It wasn’t just pain—it was Draco. Trapped. Buried. Fighting. Harry could feel him—just barely. A spark, faint and flickering, buried deep under layers of that cursed spell.

"Draco," Harry whispered. "It's me. Fight it. Please, fight it."

Umbridge's laughter was a rusty gate, scraping against Harry's raw nerves. "Oh, he won't be doing that. He's quite obedient, you see. Isn't he, Mr. Malfoy?"

Draco's head swiveled toward Harry. "Yes, ma'am," he parroted, his voice a hollow echo, a mere puppet's recitation of scripted lines.

Harry's magic detonated outward, a blast of fury that cracked the stone beneath his feet and sent shards of rock flying in all directions. His wand thrummed with energy, begging to be unleashed, but he held back, his heart heavy with the knowledge that one misstep could condemn Draco to eternal slavery.

"Undo it," Harry growled. "Now."

Umbridge smiled—a thin, cruel line; a gash in the doughy flesh of her face. "Oh, Potter. You're in no position to make demands."

Harry lunged forward, wand raised, the air around him crackling with untamed magic. He was ready to unleash everything, to burn the room down if he had to.

But he didn’t get the chance.

From the shadows, two DAMOS agents moved like phantoms, swift and brutal. Before he could react, they were on him.

One agent twisted his wand hand backward, the bones of his arm screaming in protest as his shoulder threatened to shatter. The other clamped a hand around his throat, their fingers constricting like a noose, cutting off his air and silencing his rage.

“Get your filthy hands off me!” Harry spat, his body thrashing against their hold.

"Stay put," one of them growled.

Harry snarled in response, his body a coiled spring of resistance. "Like hell I will!”

“Temper, Potter,” Umbridge crooned. “I do so love watching you squirm. So theatrical. So… hmm… predictable.”

“You think this is going to stop me? You think a couple of your thugs and your pathetic little tricks are going to keep me from tearing this place apart?”

The agent holding his throat tightened their grip, cutting off his words for a moment. Harry’s vision blurred, black spots dancing at the edges. Hell, if he’d let that stop him.

“You’re a coward, Umbridge,” he snarled. “Hiding behind curses and sycophants like the spineless little rodent you’ve always been. It’s pathetic. You’re pathetic.”

Umbridge's smile twitched, a faint, fleeting flicker of irritation, before she regained her composure. "Oh, Harry… still so spirited. But let's see how long that… bravado lasts when you're whimpering at my feet, begging for mercy. You defiant little boy."

Harry’s laugh was sharp, bitter. “Begging? For you? You don’t know me at all, do you? I’ll make you beg, you miserable—”

The agent wrenched his head back, the sudden, brutal motion cutting off his words once more. Yet, even as his body was restrained, his eyes blazed with fury, boring into Umbridge.

And then, in a movement almost imperceptible, his gaze slid sideways—to Draco.

Draco was marble carved under a moonlit haze, every line of his body etched with cruelty. The chains around his wrists bit deep, their metallic scars branding him like some grotesque artist's signature. His face, sharp and gaunt, was a portrait of exhaustion, his skin pale as if drained of all life.

But it was his eyes—Gods, his eyes—that stopped Harry cold. They weren’t blank, not truly. The curse tried to hollow them, to empty them of meaning, but something burned beneath the surface. A flicker. A spark. Recognition.

Harry had come to know those eyes like he knew his own scars—every storm they had weathered, every flash of fire, every trace of life. And now, despite the grip of the Imperius Curse, Draco was there, fighting. Screaming silently behind the mask of compliance, his defiance like a thread pulled taut, threatening to snap.

Harry’s breath hitched. He could see it—the war raging inside Draco. The boy who had been forged in sharp edges and biting words, now bound and bleeding but still, somehow, refusing to be broken. And it struck Harry, with the force of every battle he’d ever fought: even now, even like this, Draco was devastating. A ruin built on fire and fury, still beautiful in his refusal to surrender.

"Draco," Harry whispered. He was desperate.

There was no reaction, no discernible response, yet Harry knew he wasn't imagining it. Draco's fingers twitched, just barely.

"You're still in there."

Harry’s world narrowed, collapsing into a single, all-consuming point—Draco. The chaos around him dissolved: the faceless agents, Umbridge’s twisted, triumphant grin, even the crushing grip at his throat that stole the air from his lungs. None of it registered. None of it mattered. All that existed was the faint, fragile flicker of life buried behind Draco’s hollow eyes—a flicker Harry would burn the world to keep alive.

"I see you, Draco," Harry choked out. "I know you're fighting. Don’t give up. Please, don’t give in."

His chest burned, his lungs screaming for air. He had to get through to him. Draco had to hear him.

Umbridge’s laughter shattered the moment. “Oh, how touching,” she sneered. “Poor little Harry, still clinging to hope. How sweet.”

Harry's head jerked toward her, his eyes blazing with a fury that seemed to incinerate the very air around him. "You're fucking dead," he spat, his voice a low, deadly promise.  "Do you hear me? I'll tear you apart, piece by piece, and make you beg for every agonizing second of it. You'll scream, you'll plead, you'll pray for death, but it won't come. Not quickly, not cleanly. You’ll wish you were never born by the time I’m through with you."

"Such… vehemence. You're so quick to make threats, Potter. You'll be nothing but a mere shadow of your former self, a broken, sniveling little boy, long before you ever dare to lay a hand on me."

“You’ve made one mistake,” Harry spoke a dangerous, menacing whisper. “You’ve underestimated him. And you’ve underestimated me.”

Umbridge’s smile faltered again, but she covered it quickly. “We’ll see about that, Potter.”

Harry’s magic crackled, a storm on the verge of breaking. The agents’ grip dug into his skin, binding him, but they couldn’t extinguish the inferno within him. No, they sure as hell couldn’t.

As his gaze locked onto Draco’s, Harry knew one thing with absolute certainty: they hadn’t won. Not yet. Not while he still drew breath. Not while Draco still fought, even in the smallest, quietest way.

Draco was still fighting.

And so was Harry.

Draco had never realized how many forms of torture truly existed. Sure, there was the Cruciatus—unbearable in its own right—and the more conventional means of physical abuse: fists colliding with flesh, blades carving through skin, the metallic tang of blood coating everything. Those, he had expected.

But then there was Umbridge.

Draco had always known she was unhinged—her time at Hogwarts had made that abundantly clear—but this? This was something else entirely. Being reduced to a caged animal, subjected to her twisted creativity, was a horror he hadn’t imagined even in his darkest moments.

Her methods weren’t just cruel; they were methodical, calculated. Twisted, inventive. She turned pain into art, and Draco was her canvas. Some days it was physical—carving runes into his skin with precision so precise it made his stomach turn. Other days, it was mental—the whispers of curses that clawed at his mind, breaking him down piece by piece.

The worst of it, Draco deduced, was when she would Polyjuice one of her agents into Harry. She’d force Draco to watch as the Harry-lookalike was beaten, cursed, and brutalized in ways that made Draco want to die, pure and simple. There was no other escape. He knew it wasn’t really Harry—of course, he knew. But with the lack of food, water, and sleep, the constant blackouts, and the blood loss that left his head a swirling haze—sometimes, it was hard to hold onto that certainty.

Sometimes, it was too easy to believe it was Harry.

And even when he reminded himself that it wasn’t, that didn’t make it any easier to watch. The sight of "Harry" crumpling to the ground, blood pooling around him, the screams that echoed off the walls—it didn’t matter that it wasn’t real. It still tore at something vital inside of Draco.

But no. That wasn’t the worst.

The worst, Draco thought bitterly, was when she put him under the Imperius Curse and made him torture the Harry-lookalike himself.

The curse dulled his senses, left him in a fog of forced compliance, but he was still there—aware. Behind the vacant expression, behind the mechanical movements of his body, he was still there. Watching. Witnessing.

Every flick of his wand. Every scream the Polyjuiced figure let out. It was his hand doing it. His magic.

And even when the curse released him, the weight of what he’d done—what he’d been made to do—didn’t leave. It sat heavy in his chest, clawing, tearing him apart. Because no matter how much he reminded himself it wasn’t real, he couldn’t shake the thought: What if it had been?

It was still him. Always him.

And always, always, there was her voice, dripping with that sickly-sweet venom, reminding him that he was nothing, that he was hers to destroy.

Draco had known pain. He’d thought he’d known cruelty.

But Umbridge had made it into something else entirely. Something far worse.

Yes, death was far too merciful a fate.

The chains around Draco’s wrists clicked open with a sharp sound that echoed in the room. His arms dropped limply to his sides, the sudden release sending a fresh wave of pain shooting up through his shoulders. He looked down at his wrists—raw, swollen, the flesh torn and bloodied. Deep grooves marred the pale surface, some of them oozing faintly, others crusted over with dried blood. The skin was split in places, the edges jagged and angry.

Not that it mattered.

Draco couldn’t feel his hands anymore; they hung useless at his sides, his fingers twitching faintly as if trying to recall their purpose. He couldn’t move—not on his own.

Whatever Umbridge was saying, didn’t register. It wasn’t his will making him stand, his legs dragging him upright with mechanical precision.

His eyes lifted, almost against his will, and found Harry.

Harry strained against the agents holding him back, his body. His face was a canvas of fury and despair—jaw set so tight it looked as though it might shatter, blood painting a streak down his cheek like warpaint. His lips parted, just slightly, trembling as though the words he wanted to scream had turned razor-sharp, cutting him from the inside.

But it was his eyes that stole everything—his Gods-damned eyes. They burned with an unholy fire, emerald and incandescent, like the heart of a dying star. A storm bottled up and threatening to detonate. They weren't just looking—they were consuming, pulling everything into their orbit, a chaos so devastating it felt as though it would drag the entire room into ruin. Harry was the eye of the storm, silent and still only because it was the moment before destruction. He looked like war itself—beautiful, tragic, and untouchable in its devastation.

And Draco—helpless, hollow, caught in the puppet strings of the curse—couldn’t look away. He didn’t want to. Even through the numbing haze that dulled his mind, through the weight of the magic forcing his will, he saw him. Harry. Harry, rage and grief wrapped in flesh. Harry, an unstoppable force of defiance against a world that had always demanded too much.

Draco’s thoughts fluttered, desperate, scattered. He wanted to tell him. Merlin, he wanted to tell him to stop. Stop looking at him like that, like Draco was worth saving. Like Harry could undo this, could shatter the curse, could salvage whatever was left of him. He wanted to scream through the cage of magic, wanted to beg Harry to stop before he broke himself on Draco’s jagged edges.

Because Draco wasn’t fixable. He wasn’t salvageable. He was already gone. And yet, Harry looked at him like he was everything. And that—that—was the cruelest thing of all.

Go. Run. Now. You can fight them—the agents, the guards, all of them. I know you can. Just go. Turn around and escape. Get as far away from here as you possibly can. JUST FUCKING GO!

The words screamed in Draco’s mind, over and over. But they didn’t leave his lips.

They couldn’t.

His mouth wouldn’t move. His body wouldn’t obey. The curse held him, silencing him, chaining him in ways even the metal around his wrists hadn’t managed.

Draco’s wand quivered in his blood-slicked hand, shaking so violently it looked like it might snap. His silver eyes, wide and glassy, locked onto Harry’s—pleading, desperate, agonized. But his arm moved against his will, the curse yanking him forward.

“Do it,” Umbridge hissed, her wand trained on him like a leash. “Hurt him. Make him scream. Show me how obedient you can be.”

Draco’s arm twitched, his wand rising shakily. “No—no—” he choked out, his voice strangled. Tears streaked his face, falling freely now. His body was trembling, fighting with every ounce of strength he didn’t have, but it wasn’t enough. He wasn’t enough.

“Draco,” Harry’s voice broke through, even as his body sagged against the agents restraining him. “It’s okay.”

Draco’s wand flicked toward him, the curse jerking his arm higher. His breath came in shallow, panicked gasps. “Harry—” he whimpered. “I can’t—I can’t stop—”

“I know. I know you’re trying. I know it’s not you.”

“I can’t—” Draco’s voice cracked, breaking open like the fissure in his heart. “I can’t stop it, Harry. Please—” His knees buckled, and his wand jerked forward again. “Please—make it stop.”

“It’s okay,” Harry repeated, louder this time. “Do it, Draco. If it has to happen, let it be me. Let it be you.”

“Harry, get away. Please—go—”

Draco’s wand flared to life, the curse building at the tip, and he screamed. It was a sound ripped from his soul but he couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t stop any of it.

“Crucio,” the word left his lips like a blade but Draco felt the cut deeper than anyone.

The spell hit Harry square in the chest, and his body arched against the pain, his knees buckling. But his eyes—his eyes, they never left Draco’s. Even as his body convulsed, even as a guttural groan of pain tore from his throat, he held Draco’s gaze.

“I’m here,” Harry gasped. “I’m—it’s still me. And it’s still you.”

Draco sobbed, shaking his head violently as the curse forced his wand to twist and dig. It felt like his very soul was being pulled apart, every piece of him screaming in defiance while his body betrayed him. “I don’t want to!” he cried. “I don’t—I can’t—”

“You can. I’d rather feel this a thousand times over than see you break.”

The curse surged, and Harry fell to his knees, his head bowing under the weight of it. “If this is what it takes—if this is what—ergh—it takes to save you, I’ll—I’ll endure it.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Harry. I’m—please. Please, someone—stop me. Stop—” Draco’s knees finally gave out.

“Every second. Every drop of blood. You’re—” Harry bit his tongue from crying out in pain. “—worth it.”

Draco screamed, agonized, the sound reverberating through the room like shattering glass.

“Please, Harry,” he begged, his voice barely audible, words broken by sobs. “Forgive me.”

Harry’s lips moved, but no sound came out. His body convulsed one last time before the curse broke, leaving him crumpled on the ground, breathless and trembling.

All Draco could do was watch, powerless, as the boy he loved bore it all for him, willingly, selflessly.

Because that was Harry. Always Harry. Breaking, bleeding, sacrificing everything—but never leaving. Never turning away. Not even now, when Draco was nothing more than a weapon wielded by someone else’s hand.

And it was killing him.

“Harr—”

The sound was faint, broken, but unmistakable. Harry’s heart surged, his grip on his own magic nearly slipping as he saw it—saw him—trying to break free.

But before the syllable could become a name, Umbridge’s wand flicked sharply.

Draco’s body jolted, his head snapping back slightly as the curse reasserted itself with brutal force. His jaw clenched, and the light behind his eyes dimmed, though it didn’t extinguish entirely.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Umbridge cooed. “None of that, Mr. Malfoy. You’ll do as you’re told.”

“Let him go, you—you twisted bitch!”

Umbridge didn’t flinch. Her grip on the curse tightened, her wand glowing faintly as she maintained control over Draco’s every move.

“Draco!” Harry shouted. “Keep fighting! I see you! I see you!”

Harry’s love had always been fierce, but now it was feral—a beast with no chains, unleashed to tear down anything that dared touch Draco. It was love as a weapon, sharp and unapologetically deadly. It had turned him into something unrecognizable, and he reveled in it, because if darkness meant Draco would live, then darkness was home.

The agents holding him didn’t stand a chance.

“Depulso!” Harry bellowed, his voice reverberating through the room. The blast of raw power that followed wasn’t just a spell; it was a force of nature. The agent flew backward, slamming into the wall with a thud. The other let out a strangled cry as the shockwave sent them skidding across the floor, their wand clattering uselessly from their hand.

Harry didn’t stop. His eyes snapped to Umbridge as she moved toward him, her wand already raised.

“Don’t,” he snarled, his voice lethal.

But she didn’t stop. Her smile was a grotesque twist of pride as her wand flicked toward Draco, reinforcing the curse holding him captive.

“Incarcerous!” Harry roared, the word tearing from him like a battle cry. Magic surged forward, coiling around Umbridge’s body like a python. Ropes snapped into place, locking her arms, legs, and wand hand in place. She froze mid-step, her expression twisting from smug confidence to pure, unbridled fear.

She toppled backward, hitting the floor with a dull, immobilized thud. Her wand rolled from her grip, useless on the cold stone as she glared at Harry.

The room fell silent except for Harry’s ragged breathing. His chest heaved as he turned toward Draco.

“Draco,” Harry rasped. He stepped forward. “I’ve got you.”

Draco’s fingers twitched again, faint but enough. He’d felt so far away, but now—now Draco was here. And Harry wasn’t leaving without him.

His wand is steady in his hand. Too steady. It feels foreign, like it doesn’t belong to him anymore—like he doesn’t belong to himself anymore. His own body is an instrument he doesn’t recognize, a weapon wielded by a stranger.

Draco’s breath catches in his throat as he takes a step forward, every muscle in his body screaming at him to stop. To drop the wand. To run. But he can’t. He’s a marionette pulled by invisible strings, and the hands pulling them are cruel.

“Draco,” Harry says, his voice soft, too soft. It cuts through Draco like a knife. He doesn’t look afraid. He never does. He just looks at Draco the way he always does—like he’s human. Like he’s worth something. Like he isn’t just a collection of jagged edges and hollow spaces.

Harry takes a step closer, and Draco feels the curse tighten its grip, a cold thing that coils around his mind and drags him forward. His arm lifts, his fingers curl, and the words are there, waiting on his tongue, foul and heavy. They taste like ash, like rot, like betrayal. He can feel them clawing their way to the surface of his throat, words he never wanted to say, never wanted to think. He tries to swallow them, tries to choke them back, but they’re not his anymore. They belong to the curse. They belong to the monster who cast it.

“Stop,” Draco manages, his voice strained like it’s been dragged out of him with barbed wire. “I—I can’t—”

You’re free. Nobody is holding you. Umbridge is immobile. Turn around. Go. Run. Run as fast as you can. Go, Harry. GO.

But Harry does not stop. He’s so close now, close enough that Draco can see the green of his eyes, bright and intoxicating, the kind of green that burns through every wall Draco’s ever put up. It’s unbearable. It’s salvation.

“You can,” Harry says, calm and steady, like it’s a fact, like it’s the only truth in a world made of lies. “You’re stronger than this. You’ve always been stronger than this.”

Draco’s chest twists violently, his heart pounding so hard it’s a wonder it doesn’t crack his ribs. He wants to scream, wants to tear himself apart, to wrench free from the invisible chains binding him, but the curse digs deeper. It fills every corner of him with poison, whispers in his ear like a cruel lover. Kill him. Kill him. Kill him. It doesn’t stop. It doesn’t stop.

Draco is certain the only way out of this is to claw his own heart from his chest with trembling, bloodied fingers and hurl it into the fire.

And then Harry does the unthinkable. He steps closer, so close that Draco can feel the warmth of him, and presses his forehead gently to Draco’s, his hands rising to cradle Draco’s face like he’s something precious. Something fragile. Something that isn’t already broken.

Draco thinks that if he were in a rational, controlled state of mind, he would yell at Harry—curse him, maybe even punch him—because what the fuck is Harry doing? He can’t be this stupid, can he? Well, maybe Draco had thought that once—back when they were in school and everything Harry Potter did felt infuriatingly reckless. But this… this isn’t the same. Harry isn’t the same.

And Draco isn’t the same, either.

Draco just wants to scream, to do anything to get Harry out of here before he gets himself killed. But he can’t. His body isn’t his own right now, and it terrifies him in a way he doesn’t have words for. The curse is twisting his movements, dragging him. His wand-hand shakes violently, a mockery, and the weight of it crushes him more than any spell ever could.

And Harry—oh, Harry—the way he’s looking at Draco right now is somehow worse. It’s not anger, not fear, not even pity. It’s something deeper, something terrifying, and Draco doesn’t know if it’s for him or because of him.

He wants to shout at Harry, to tell him to leave, to run. But the words won’t come. His lips won’t move. His body isn’t his, and the horror of it is almost unbearable. And still, Harry won’t look away. His green eyes burn with something so gentle, it makes Draco’s chest ache.

Please leave, Draco begs silently, the words echoing in the chaos of his mind. But Harry doesn’t move. Of course, he doesn’t. Harry Potter never fucking runs, even when he should. Especially when he should.

And that’s the most terrifying thing of all.

“I’m not afraid of you, Draco,” Harry whispers. “And you’re not afraid of you either. Not really.”

His wand was still raised, his arm pulled forward. He fought to keep his lips pressed shut, but his jaw trembled, the curse pushing him closer to the edge.

Harry wasn’t afraid.

Not even a flicker of fear crossed his face, despite the wand aimed at his chest, despite the quiver in Draco’s hand that spoke of impending disaster.

“I—can’t—” Draco forced out, painfully so. His wand tip wavered, but it stayed pointed at Harry’s heart. His vision blurred with tears. “I can’t stop it—Harry, I can’t—”

“You can.”

He was so close, his hands cradling Draco’s face with a tenderness that felt like it might shatter them both. If Draco could melt into his hold, he would—he would sink into Harry’s touch and let it anchor him, let it pull him out of this nightmare. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t do anything but shake and tremble and choke on the sobs clawing their way out of his throat.

He wanted to lean into Harry, but the trembling overtook him. He was shaking so violently it felt like he might splinter apart. Tears streamed down his face, hot and relentless, stinging the open cuts on his cheeks. His breaths came in short, ragged gasps, and he couldn’t—wouldn’t—look at Harry.

Because Draco was supposed to kill him. The curse writhed through his body like a serpent, dragging him toward an unthinkable inevitability. Draco was going to do it. He could feel it in the way his hand jerked, his wand trembling but inching forward all the same.

He’d rather—Merlin, he’d rather—hurt himself. Shatter every bone in his body, rip his own chest open, stop his own cursed heartbeat. He wanted the earth to open up beneath him and swallow him whole, to snuff him out before he had to do this. He was praying—desperately, frantically—for any higher power to intervene. For some cruel, merciful God to end him here and now.

Because this was unbearable. Inconceivable.

And Draco would gladly fall at the feet of any deity, any monster, and beg them to take him—take him—before he was forced to take Harry. To destroy Harry with his own sin-stained hands.

But Harry’s voice cut through the chaos, steady as ever. “Draco. Look at me.”

Draco’s head shook frantically, the tears coming faster now. “I—I can’t—”

“You can,” Harry said, his thumbs brushing softly over the sharp curve of Draco’s cheekbones, smearing blood and tears together like some kind of violent absolution. “You’re stronger than this.”

“I’m not!” Draco choked. “I’ll—I’ll kill you. I can’t stop it. Harry, I can’t stop it!”

“You can,” Harry repeated, his green eyes burning into Draco’s like they were the thing left in this world to see. “You won’t hurt me. I know you won’t.”

“I’ll do it—I’ll—”

“Draco,” Harry interrupted, his forehead pressing gently against Draco’s. “If you can’t fight it for yourself, fight it for me.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Please. Stay with me.”

“I can’t—”

“No,” Harry said. “I know you can fight this… because I love you.”

The words were quiet, but they struck like a thunderclap, breaking through the haze that had consumed Draco’s mind.

The world stilled.

The world had quieted.

The world—hell, the world stopped orbiting altogether—at least Draco Malfoy’s world did.

“I love you, Draco,” Harry repeated. “I know you can fight it, because I love you—and I know you love me too.”

Draco froze and this time, it had little to do with the curse holding him.

“You—”

Fuck. He loves me? Draco—fucking hell, if Draco Malfoy could manage to utter a word now.

“Yes. And I know you love me too. That’s why you can do this. That’s why you’ll fight. Because you’re mine, Draco, and I’m yours, and no curse will ever take that away from us.”

Draco’s chest twisted viciously, the spell clawing at him, screaming in his veins, but the sound of Harry’s voice drowned it out.

Harry adjusted his grip on Draco. Draco’s body felt too light, too fragile, and there was a terrifying stillness in the way he hung there, as though even his will to fight had been bled dry.

“Draco,” Harry murmured. He shifted his grip, his hand sliding down to hold Draco’s wrist, guiding it upward. Draco’s fingers twitched faintly, but they didn’t move on their own, so Harry pulled it the rest of the way, pressing Draco’s palm flat against his own chest, right over his heart.

“I’m here,” Harry said, his other hand still cradling Draco’s face, his thumb brushing against the edge of a fading bruise. “I see you. I feel you. You’re not alone, Draco. You’ve never been alone.”

Draco’s eyes fluttered, the faintest flicker of something sparking behind the dull silver.

“It’s just us, alright? Feel me. See me. I’m here. Always.”

The tether on Harry’s wrist pulsed faintly, a weak but steady beat that mirrored the rhythm beneath Draco’s palm. For a moment, Harry thought he saw it—a faint light returning to Draco’s eyes, a tiny spark of life amidst the exhaustion and pain.

Then, the tension in the air snapped like a live wire as a sudden crack of magic echoed through the room. Umbridge staggered to her feet, her immobilization spell shattered by sheer force of will. Her face twisted into a grotesque grin, her wand already raised.

“Impressive, Potter,” she sneered, her voice dripping with venom. “But this ends now.”

Before Harry could react, she flicked her wand toward Draco. The curse strengthened. Draco’s body convulsed, his limbs jerking violently, his eyes dulling once more as the curse dragged him back under.

“Draco!” Harry roared, the word tearing from his throat as he turned, but he was too late.

The doors burst open, guards flooding in, heavy boots echoing like the pounding of war drums. Wands were drawn, curses already flying, and Harry felt the storm inside him ignite into a wildfire.

They were going for Draco.

That was all it took.

Harry moved before thought, magic crackling like lightning, body a blur of motion. A curse screamed toward him, but he ducked low, his wand slicing through the air as he bellowed, “Reducto!”

The first guard exploded backward, their chest caving in with the force of the spell. Blood sprayed the walls, painting the room. Harry didn’t stop to watch. Another guard lunged at him, but Harry was faster, grabbing a shard of shattered metal from the ground and driving it upward into their throat.

They fell, gurgling, their wand clattering uselessly to the floor.

Two more charged, and Harry turned, magic surging through him as he shouted, “Confringo!” The explosion ripped through the room, one guard’s body crumpling as flames consumed them. The other stumbled, their wand raised, but Harry was already there, his fist connecting with their jaw in a brutal crack that sent them sprawling.

Through it all, his eyes kept darting to Draco, unmoving, his body trembling under the influence of the curse.

A guard aimed for Draco, their wand raised.

“No,” Harry snarled, grabbing a broken chair leg and hurling it with deadly precision. It struck the guard square in the chest, the force sending them flying into the wall.

The last guard charged, but Harry didn’t even bother with his wand. He caught the man mid-stride, slamming his shoulder into him and tackling him to the ground. His fists rained down, blood splattering his knuckles as the man’s face became unrecognizable.

Harry stood, panting, knuckles dripping with blood—some his, most not.

And then his eyes turned to Umbridge.

She was still standing, her wand raised, her expression a mixture of fury and disbelief as she took a step back.

“You—” she began, but Harry cut her off, his voice low and deadly.

“Not another word.”

She flicked her wand, a curse flying toward him, but Harry deflected it with a flick of his own.

“You put that curse on him. You made him hurt. You watched.”

Umbridge tried to retreat, her wand wobbly in her hand, but Harry was already on her. He disarmed her with a sharp twist of magic, her wand snapping in two as it flew from her grip.

“You don’t get to run,” Harry’s hand shot out, grabbing her by the throat. He slammed her against the wall. The sound of her head hitting the stone was dull, unremarkable, but the way her eyes widened with fear sent a sick thrill through him.

“I’m going to kill you,” he said, a crooked smile spreading across his bloodied face. The dim light of the room caught the sharp glint in his eyes, a predator’s gleam. He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “But—oh, not yet.”

His hand twitched, bloodied knuckles curling into a fist. His gaze lingered as though weighing the moments he had left to deliver the kind of pain that couldn’t be undone.

It wasn’t mercy. It was patience.

Because killing wasn’t enough. Not yet.

She clawed at his hand, her nails digging into his skin, but Harry didn’t let go.

“First, you’re going to feel what it’s like to be powerless. Helpless. Just like you made him feel.”

Panic was overtaking Umbridge, Harry could see that in the widening of her eyes, her smug façade dropping. It was a rather satisfying sight, he had to admit.

Draco’s body jerked violently in the chair; his limbs contorted into harsh, unnatural angles by the curse. His silver eyes darted to Harry, wide with something desperate—something that begged for rescue.

“Do it,” Umbridge commanded, hissing. Her eyes flicked between the two of them, her twisted smile curling further with sadistic delight. “Kill him, Malfoy. Obey me. Do what you are told.”

Draco’s arm convulsed, the curse forcing his wand to lift. His teeth clenched, the muscles in his neck straining. The wand wavered in his bloodied hand, hovering in the space between him and Harry. “I… I won’t.”

Harry’s grip on Umbridge’s throat tightened. “You’re done,” he snarled. “He’s not yours. He was never yours.”

“Do it!” Umbridge shrieked. “Do it now!”

Draco’s entire body shook with the effort to resist.

“You don’t get to hurt him,” Harry said, low and steady, the kind of quiet that heralded storms. “Not ever again.”

Harry loomed over Umbridge, his shadow swallowing her small, trembling figure. There was no mercy in his expression, no hesitation. “You should have run,” he murmured, his tone deceptively soft, almost tender—a tenderness that promised nothing but devastation. “But now you’ll learn what it feels like to choke on your mistakes.”

She whimpered, scrambling to plead, but she didn’t move fast enough. Didn’t beg quickly enough.

Harry didn’t wait.

The spell on his lips burned with finality.

“Crucio.”

The chamber seemed to collapse in on itself as the curse struck, the force of it reverberating in the air. Umbridge screamed. Her body quivered violently, her nails clawing at the stone floor.

“You thought you could touch him?” Harry hissed, each word a dagger. “You thought you could take Draco from me? You don’t know fear, not yet. Let me teach you.”

The scream that tore from Umbridge’s lips was inhuman, a wail that echoed off the walls. She clawed at the floor, her nails scraping uselessly against the stone.

Harry stood over her, his expression carved from stone. There wasn’t a flicker of remorse in his gaze, no hint of regret or humanity. His eyes burned with a cold, detached wrath.

Every movement Umbridge made, every agonized contortion of her body, was met with the same brutal indifference. Harry didn’t blink. He didn’t flinch. This wasn’t vengeance. It was extermination.

“You deserve this,” he said. The words weren’t for her—they were for him. A quiet justification. A bitter truth. Harry’s voice dropped, soft, intimate, as though he were sharing a secret just for her. “You’re nothing. Less than nothing. And yet you thought you could hurt him.”

His wand shifted, a new spell forming on his lips.

“Incarvus Epistula.”

The magic lashed out, carving into her skin with an unnatural precision. Letters bloomed, etched into her flesh, glowing red before settling into angry welts. ‘I must not be a bitch.’ The words stood stark against her pale, trembling skin, branding her.

Umbridge’s screams turned to choked sobs, her body crumpling as the pain overwhelmed her. But Harry wasn’t finished.

But then—through the red haze of his ire, Harry saw him.

Draco. Slumped, body trembling, pale, streaked with blood. His silver eyes, hollow and heavy, locked on Harry. And there it was—raw, unguarded. Fear. Pain. Fracture.

Draco was afraid.

Draco was tired—so fucking tired.

Harry’s rage faltered. He blinked, his breath hitching. “Draco…”

Draco didn’t respond. His head sagged forward, his chest heaving in shallow, ragged breaths.

Harry’s jaw tightened. He couldn’t let it end like this. Umbridge didn’t deserve mercy—but Draco didn’t deserve this. Didn’t deserve to see him like this.

His wand shifted. His voice dropped. “Moribundis.”

The spell struck Umbridge, her screams turning to strangled gasps as the magic seeped into her like poison. Her body seized, jerking uncontrollably, her shrieks growing fainter, weaker.

The curse lifted from Draco in an instant.

Draco collapsed forward, his wand slipping from his fingers as his body crumpled. His glassy eyes fluttered open, flicking to Harry with a faint glimmer of recognition.

Harry didn’t spare Umbridge another glance. She writhed on the floor, her gasps fading, her limbs twitching weakly. He crossed the room in two strides, catching Draco before he could fall completely.

“I’ve got you,” Harry murmured, his voice thick with emotion as he cradled Draco against his chest. “It’s over. You’re safe now.”

Draco’s head lolled against Harry’s shoulder, his breath warm but faint against Harry’s neck. His fingers twitched weakly, clutching at Harry’s shirt.

Harry’s gaze flicked back to Umbridge. Her body stilled, her breaths shallow and labored. “You’ll never touch him again.”

Harry held Draco close. A vow. A promise. A threat. And somewhere in the hollow silence, Harry swore he would raze the world to the ground before he ever let anyone hurt Draco again.

Draco’s voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper. “Do you—do you really… love me?” he asked, his silver eyes searching Harry’s with a desperation that made Harry’s chest ache. “Did you mean it… or were you just trying to—to get the curse to lift?”

The words hung in the air, trembling, fragile. Draco looked away as soon as he said them, his gaze dropping to his hands where they twisted anxiously. He looked like he was bracing himself for something devastating, his body coiled tight as if the answer might break him.

Harry didn’t speak immediately. He just looked at Draco—at the sharp lines of his face, the bruises blooming along his jaw, the way his pale hair stuck to his forehead. And then, quietly, he moved closer.

“Draco,” Harry murmured. He reached out, his fingers brushing against Draco’s temple, smoothing the damp strands of hair back from his face. “Look at me.”

Draco hesitated, his eyes flickering upward reluctantly.

“When I said I love you,” Harry began, his voice steady, his green eyes never leaving Draco’s, “it wasn’t a tactic. It wasn’t a lie. And it wasn’t to lift the curse.” His hand moved down to cup Draco’s cheek, his thumb brushing against the corner of his mouth. “It was the truth. It’s always been the truth.”

Draco swallowed hard, his lips parting as though to say something, but Harry didn’t let him. He leaned in, his forehead resting gently against Draco’s, his voice dropping to a whisper that was barely audible. “There is no peace between us, no safe haven. We are carved from chaos and painted in the shades of our sins. When I say I love you, it’s not a promise of tenderness, but a vow to haunt and be haunted, to drown together in the storm we’ve made.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. Draco forgot how to breathe. It was as though the air had frozen around them, heavy with words unsaid and wounds unhealed. But then Harry pulled him closer, his arms wrapping around him tightly, holding him like he might shatter.

“I love you,” Harry murmured again, the words softer now, spoken like a confession, like an absolution. “Not because it’s easy. Not because it’s gentle. But because it’s you.”

Draco didn’t respond, but his trembling hands slowly reached up, clutching the front of Harry’s shirt like it was the only thing keeping him alive. His head dropped to Harry’s shoulder, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, the tension in his body eased just slightly.

And Harry held him, his hands tangled in Draco’s hair, his lips pressed to his temple, whispering promises into the quiet. Promises that weren’t soft or sweet, but real—promises made of chaos and fire, of devotion that burned hotter than the world around them.

Love had become a double-edged sword in Harry’s hands, cutting through anyone who dared to come close. It was not protection; it was possession, a force that would tear apart heaven and earth just to keep Draco breathing.

Draco lingered in Harry's embrace, his breath warm against the curve of Harry’s neck. The trembling in his hands had slowed, but his grip on Harry’s shirt remained tight, as though letting go might make the ground beneath him disappear entirely.

Finally, Draco shifted, his voice soft and uneven as he murmured, “I don’t understand you, Harry.”

Harry’s hand stilled in Draco’s hair, his fingers brushing against the nape of his neck. “What don’t you understand?”

Draco pulled back just enough to look at him. “Why? Why would you…” His words trailed off, his throat working around the rest of the sentence like it was too painful to say.

Harry let out a breath, his hand cradling Draco’s jaw. “Because there’s nothing else for me. There’s no world, no cause, no life without you in it.” His voice was quiet and earnest, each word wrapping around Draco like a shield. “I… I’d rather be the sinner by your side, tasting eternity in the moments when your skin meets mine, than live a saint’s life without the madness that comes with you.”

Draco blinked. He felt too much all at once—grief, disbelief, hope—and it was overwhelming. But then Harry spoke again, his tone softening.

"I think… I think we were built for this, you and me. Not for the pretty romances sung in ballads, but… for the kind that leaves fingerprints on your soul and bruises on your conscience,” Harry’s thumb grazed Draco’s bottom lip—and Draco could’ve sworn he was ready to die right then and there. “We are the story told in hushed voices, the one that ends in flames, because anything less—well, anything less would be a lie."

For a moment, there was only silence, the kind that stretched endlessly but felt like it could shatter at any moment.

“Don’t let me go,” Draco whispered, his voice breaking just slightly.

“Never.”

As the quiet settled over them, Draco felt the weight of Harry’s devotion like a fire in his chest—terrifying, consuming, but somehow, impossibly, warm.

Draco shifted slightly in Harry's arms, his silver eyes catching the faint flicker of torchlight. He studied Harry’s face like it held every question he was too afraid to ask, every answer he wasn’t sure he could handle.

Harry’s voice quieted. “I told them I’d stop at nothing. They didn’t believe me.”

“And now?”

Harry’s lips curved into a faint, dark smile. “Now,” he said, his tone almost reverent, “they know what nothing truly means.”

The room seemed to hold its breath.

And then, Harry’s arms tightened around him, his lips brushing against Draco’s temple as he murmured, “You’re mine, Draco. Always.”

The door burst open with a crack, Hermione and Blaise practically stumbling into the room, their wands raised and their eyes darting wildly. Hermione froze first, her breath hitching audibly as she took in the carnage.

Scattered bodies lay crumpled on the floor, blood streaked across the walls and pooling around the limp, lifeless form of Umbridge. Her twisted grin was frozen in place, her wide, unblinking eyes staring up at nothing.

Hermione’s wand faltered. “Oh my—what—” She turned to Harry, her voice trembling. “Did you…?”

Harry didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink. He wiped a smear of blood off his knuckles onto his sleeve, his expression grim but unrepentant. “Yeah,” he said flatly, his voice devoid of anything resembling remorse. “That was me.”

Hermione opened her mouth to respond, but Blaise interrupted, stepping further into the room, his sharp eyes scanning the wreckage. His face paled slightly, but he kept his composure.

“Well,” Blaise said dryly, his tone cutting through the tension like a knife. “You’ve certainly left us a scene, Potter. But we’ve got about five minutes, tops, before someone notices all this.”

Hermione snapped back to reality, her eyes darting to Draco. She let out a soft gasp, her wand immediately aimed at him. “Draco—”

Draco was slumped in Harry’s arms, his head resting limply against Harry’s chest. Blood matted his hair, his wrists were raw and swollen from the chains, and his face was a mess of bruises and dried cuts.

“Move,” Hermione said sharply, kneeling beside him. She pushed her sleeves up with trembling hands, already muttering incantations under her breath. Her wand emitted faint pulses of light as she cast quick, hasty healing spells, the bruises on Draco’s face fading slightly, the bleeding slowing.

“He’s alive,” she said, her voice steadier now, though her hands still shook. “But barely. We need to get out of here, Harry.”

Blaise knelt on Draco’s other side, his face blank but his eyes sharp as he assessed the damage. He didn’t say anything for a long moment, but Harry could see the tension in his jaw, the tightness in his grip on his wand.

“Concealment charms,” Blaise said briskly. “Now.” He flicked his wand, a faint shimmer rippling through the air around them. “Potter, get him up. We’re leaving.”

Harry didn’t need to be told twice. He adjusted Draco carefully, his arms cradling him as though he might shatter, and stood, his own knees buckling slightly under the weight of the man in his arms and the tension still thrumming through his body.

Hermione cast another charm that sent a wave of invisibility around their group. “We’ll have to make it out of the wards first. Blaise, lead the way.”

Blaise nodded, glancing back at Hermione. “They’ll know Umbridge is dead soon enough. We’ve got minutes, maybe less.”

Hermione’s gaze flicked back to Umbridge’s corpse, her lips pressing into a thin line. She glanced at Harry again. “You… really—”

“Yeah. And I’d do it again.”

Blaise snorted faintly. “Good to know you’re consistent.”

Ron’s voice crackled through their enchanted communication charm. “You lot better get moving. There’s a whole lot of boots stomping around out here, and I don’t think they’re friendly.”

“We’re on our way,” Blaise snapped, motioning for them to follow.

They slipped out of the room, Harry clutching Draco tightly, Hermione keeping her wand raised as she threw glances over her shoulder.

“Harry,” Hermione said softly, catching his eye as they moved through the dim corridors. “We’re going to get him out of this. He’ll be okay.”

Harry didn’t respond. He just looked down at Draco, his thumb brushing faintly against Draco’s wrist, the tether pulsing weakly beneath his fingertips.

Rain lashed down in harsh sheets, hammering against the ground like a battle cry. Nyx sat there, dark and waiting, her sleek frame catching flashes of stormlight. Blaise’s Aston Martin idled nearby, its engine a soft growl against the chaos.

Ron stood between them, his jacket soaked through, worry carved into his face as Harry emerged from the treeline. Draco was slumped against him, barely walking, barely there.

Draco’s head lolled, his face a ghostly shade of pale under the streaks of blood smeared across his jaw. His wrists hung raw and bruised, faint tremors running through his limp hands. His eyes fluttered open—glassy, unfocused—and closed again just as quickly.

“Bloody hell,” Ron muttered, stepping forward, his hand instinctively reaching out.

“I’ve got him,” Harry muttered. He was tired. He would be damned to let go of Draco now.

Ron hesitated, then stepped back. He didn’t say another word.

Blaise moved instead, his strides quick and purposeful, yanking Nyx’s door open. Hermione was already in the backseat, her wand at the ready, the space rearranging itself with a flick. She conjured a stretcher across the seats.

“Careful,” Hermione said softly, as Harry lowered Draco into the seat. Her voice trembled, but her hands didn’t. Her wand danced through the air, murmured incantations following in its wake. Blood receded, bruises faded, but the exhaustion on Draco’s face didn’t move.

Harry hovered there, his hands lingering on Draco’s shoulder like he was afraid to let go. His jaw clenched.

“Harry,” Blaise’s voice cut in. “You need to drive. Hermione’s got him. We’ll handle the rest. Just drive—get him the hell out of here.”

Harry hesitated, his eyes flicking to Draco’s limp form. For a moment, he didn’t move. The rain dripped down his face, and he looked more lost than determined. But finally, he nodded.

He turned, climbing into Nyx’s driver’s seat, his grip on the wheel so tight his knuckles turned white.

The Aston Martin rumbled to life beside them. Blaise leaned out the window, his sharp eyes meeting Harry’s through the downpour. “Umbridge is dead,” he said, his voice unshaken. “But this? This is just the start. The Ministry’s still standing, and we’ve got a lot of work to do.”

Harry didn’t answer.

The cars pulled out, tires kicking up mud as they tore into the night. The rain swallowed everything—the sound of the engines, the blood-soaked outpost in the distance, the weight of what had just happened.

Harry drove in silence, his chest tight, his mind a storm.

Every breath from Draco, faint and shallow, was a reminder of what was left.

The fight wasn’t over.

It had only just begun.

Would it be so crazy to imagine a version of reality where Harry could walk through the park, hand in hand with Draco Malfoy, sunlight streaming through the trees, and the world reduced to nothing but the sound of their quiet laughter? Where he could wake up in the soft glow of morning, the sheets tangled between them, and find Draco beside him, eyes heavy with sleep and lips curling into that rare, soft smile meant only for Harry?

It wasn’t about mornings with Draco, not really. It wasn’t even about spring or strolls or parks. It was about something simpler. Something infinitely harder to reach.

A life Harry didn’t let himself dream of.

Because dreaming of it meant acknowledging how much he wanted it—how much he needed it. And Harry Potter didn’t get to have things like that. Things like love that didn’t come with conditions. Things like Draco Malfoy, who, against all odds, had become the only light left in his world.

So no, it wasn’t about mornings or spring or any other fleeting season. It was about imagining a life where war and blood and loss didn’t carve holes into his chest. A life where Draco was just his, without the weight of the world pressing down on them.

But Harry knew better. He always did.

Some things weren’t meant to be dreamed about. Some things—like Draco—felt too beautiful, too fragile, for a world like this. A world that had already taken so much from Harry.

So, no. He wouldn’t allow himself to imagine it.

Because what if he did? What if, for one glorious moment, he let himself believe it could be real? And what if the world came crashing down again, leaving him with nothing but broken pieces and empty hands?

Harry couldn’t risk that. Not even for Draco. Not even for himself.

Instead, Harry sat in a battered armchair, its upholstery worn thin and fraying at the edges, the wooden arms scarred with years of use. One of the legs was slightly uneven, causing it to creak and rock faintly every time Harry shifted. It smelled faintly of damp and mildew.

Yes, all Harry could do was focus on the uneven, creaking chair beneath him because thinking about anything else—well, he was pretty sure he was one thought away from an involuntary stay at St. Mungo’s.

Beside him, the creaking bed Draco lay on seemed even more fragile. The mattress sagged in the middle, the thin blankets piled over him barely offering warmth. The iron frame groaned faintly under Draco’s weight, as if threatening to give way, though Draco hardly moved. He was still—too still—and it made Harry’s chest ache with every shallow rise and fall of his breathing.

Another safehouse. Another hiding spot pulled from Blaise’s endless supply of underground contacts and careful planning.

And yet, no matter how secure the walls around them felt, Harry couldn’t stop glancing toward the door. Couldn’t stop listening for the sound of boots, of curses, of the world trying to take Draco from him again.

No, nobody would take Draco again. They’d have to pry him from Harry’s cold, dead hands first.

The faint creak of the floorboards broke the silence. Harry didn’t need to turn his head to know Ron was there, leaning against the doorway, his weight resting awkwardly on the frame.

Ron hesitated.

There had always been moments—too many, really—when both of them knew Hermione was better at this sort of thing. Better at reaching Harry. Better at finding the words that cut through his silence, the walls he always built too high. That had never been Ron’s strong suit. Talking. Comforting. Knowing what to say when there weren’t enough words to fix anything.

But here he was, standing in the doorway, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, desperately searching for something—anything—that might bring back even a flicker of the man who had once been his best friend. The man who now sat in silence, staring at nothing, hollowed out by the weight of everything he’d lost.

Ron cleared his throat, the sound loud in the stillness. “Y’know,” he started, his voice uncertain, “if you’re gonna sit there staring at him all night, you might as well start charging rent. He doesn’t look like he’s moving anytime soon.”

Harry didn’t respond. His eyes remained locked on Draco, on the faint rise and fall of his chest beneath the thin blankets. He looked too pale, too fragile, even in sleep. The bruises still hadn’t completely faded, and his wrists—wrapped in makeshift bandages—looked raw even from across the room.

Ron shifted uncomfortably, dragging a hand through his damp hair. “I just mean… he’s here, Harry. He’s breathing. You—you got him back. That’s got to count for something, yeah?”

Harry’s jaw tightened, but he still didn’t look away. He couldn’t. He was afraid that if he did, even for a moment, Draco might vanish. Like a cruel illusion that would shatter the second his focus wavered.

“I can’t,” Harry murmured, his voice barely audible. His fingers twitched against the arm of the chair. “I can’t not look at him. What if—what if he stops? What if something happens, and I’m not—” He swallowed hard, his voice breaking before he could finish.

Ron stepped further into the room, his movements slow and deliberate, like he was afraid of breaking something. “Nothing’s going to happen, mate,” Ron said quietly. “You’re here. We’re here. He’s safe now.”

Harry let out a bitter laugh, dry and humorless. “Safe?” he echoed, shaking his head. “He’s safe in the same way we’re all ‘safe.’ One wrong move, one second too slow, and he’s gone again. And I can’t—I can’t let that happen. I can’t lose him, Ron.”

Ron looked at him, his expression softening, the awkwardness falling away. “You won’t,” he said firmly, the conviction in his voice catching Harry off guard. “Not with you watching over him like some bloody hawk. And, y’know, not with all of us doing what we can to keep this thing from falling apart.”

Harry’s hand finally stilled, his eyes flickering to Ron for just a second before returning to Draco. He exhaled slowly, his shoulders sagging with exhaustion. “I don’t even know if I’m doing the right thing anymore,” he admitted, his voice quiet. “Dragging him through all this. He deserves more than this… this mess.”

Ron paused, considering his words carefully. “Yeah, maybe he does,” he said, shrugging lightly. “But he’s still here, isn’t he? Whatever he deserves, he seems pretty determined to stick around for you. That’s got to mean something.”

Harry didn’t answer, his gaze dropping to Draco’s hand resting limply on the bed. He reached out, brushing his fingertips over the back of it. “It means everything,” he whispered, more to himself than to Ron.

Ron watched him for a moment longer. “Right. Well,” he said awkwardly, clearing his throat again. “If you need anything, just... shout, yeah?”

Harry nodded faintly, his attention still on Draco, as if he hadn’t heard a word Ron said.

As Ron left the room, the silence crept back in, but Harry didn’t mind it. He just kept watching, kept breathing in time with Draco’s shallow breaths, refusing to let his guard down. Not yet. Not ever.

For several days, Draco drifted in and out of consciousness. The healing spells and potions Hermione administered were working, but slowly—too slowly. The extent of his injuries, both external and internal, made recovery a fragile process, one that could tip either way at any moment.

Harry stayed by Draco’s side, never leaving the battered bed where he lay. He kept watch with the intensity of someone who believed, on some level, that his presence alone might keep Draco tethered to life.

It was the others who had to step in, reminding him, or more often forcing him, to eat or drink. Without them, Harry might have forgotten entirely. Food didn’t matter. Rest didn’t matter. Nothing did—except Draco.

Harry looked like a ghost of himself, his face gaunt, shadows etched deep beneath his eyes. The others noticed, of course. How could they not?

The three of them—Hermione, Blaise, and Ron—sat in the dimly lit corner of the safehouse’s kitchen, their voices low but urgent. Cups of tea sat forgotten on the table, the steam curling faintly into the air.

Hermione sighed, rubbing her temples as she stared down at the scattered parchment and notes in front of her. “I don’t know how much more of this they can take,” she said softly. “Harry… he’s—he’s unraveling. And Draco…” She trailed off, her brow furrowing, her lips pressing into a thin line.

“Draco looks like death warmed over,” Ron muttered, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair. “No offense, but you lot always looked a bit pale, Blaise, but Malfoy…”

Blaise arched a single, unimpressed brow. “Thank you for that stunning observation, Weasley. Always the poet.”

Ron glared at him but said nothing, instead looking to Hermione for some semblance of reassurance.

She shook her head. “The potions are helping, but his body needs time. And Harry…” She glanced toward the closed door of Draco’s room, her voice dropping even lower. “Harry needs him to wake up. He’s holding on, but hardly.”

Blaise leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “They’re both a mess. Let’s be honest. But we can’t afford to be sentimental about it. Not right now.”

Hermione frowned. “Blaise—”

“No, he’s right,” Ron cut in, though his tone was reluctant. “It’s bad, yeah. But we’ve got bigger things to deal with. The Ministry’s still standing, and DAMOS might be floundering without Umbridge, but they’re not gone. Not yet.”

Blaise nodded. “With Travers still holding the title of Minister, there’s no telling how long they’ll stay afloat. But…” He paused, his gaze thoughtful. “People are starting to resist. The hold is weakening. Umbridge had more influence than we realized—more than Travers, even. Without her, they’re scrambling.”

“There’s hope,” Hermione said quietly, almost as if testing the words out loud.

“A mere glimmer,” Blaise corrected. “It’s not enough… yet. But it’s something. People are coming out of hiding, starting to push back. Small pockets of resistance are turning into something bigger.”

“And Kingsley’s been working to keep them organized—quietly, of course. He can’t risk exposing too much yet.”

Ron leaned forward, his face shadowed with doubt. “And what happens when Travers figures it out? Or when DAMOS gets a new puppet to replace Umbridge? They’re not just gonna crumble overnight.”

“They’re already crumbling,” Blaise said simply. “The structure is fragile, and Umbridge was holding most of it together. Without her pulling the strings, they’re… flailing. It’ll take time, yes. But they’re weaker than they’ve ever been.”

Hermione chewed her lip, her fingers tapping lightly against the edge of the table. “Time,” she repeated. “That’s the issue. Time for them to regroup, time for us to break apart…”

Ron sighed, raking a hand through his hair. “It’s a mess. But at least we’re seeing cracks in it now. That’s something, right?”

Blaise’s gaze flicked toward Draco’s door. “It’s the start of something. Let’s just hope they both wake up in time to see it.”

In the next room, Harry sat by Draco’s side, still and unmoving, waiting.

Always waiting.

The room was quiet, save for the soft crackle of the fire and the rhythmic sound of Draco’s breathing. Harry sat in the same battered chair, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped together. His gaze never left Draco.

Draco barely stirred these days. His silver hair clung damply to his pale forehead, and his face, skeletal and shaded, seemed carved from stone. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, the only real sign of life. Harry tried to hold onto the tiny sliver of comfort that gave him. Draco’s breathing. Draco is alive. Draco is here. Draco is within reach. I can touch him. He’s real. He’s here and he’s real and he’s alive.

“He’s healing,” Hermione said softly from the doorway. She’d been standing there for a few minutes, watching Harry.

Harry didn’t look up. “He’s never awake.”

“That’s good,” Hermione reassured him, stepping further into the room. She held a clipboard with notes scrawled across it. “His body needs rest. The spells and potions are working, but it’s a slow process. He’s been through a lot, Harry. You know that. His magic is repairing itself, but it needs time.”

Harry’s hand flexed against his thigh, a restless movement, as if holding himself back from doing something reckless. “Time. We don’t have time.”

Hermione frowned but chose her words carefully. “We do, actually. For once. The Ministry’s unraveling faster than anyone expected. Travers is holding onto his position, but he’s scrambling. Without Umbridge pulling the strings… well—the whole structure is starting to buckle.”

Harry finally looked at her. There was a tiredness etched behind his eyes that Hermione had never seen before, not even during their endless pursuit for horcruxes. It was worse now. “What’s Kingsley saying?”

Hermione sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb Draco. “He’s been meeting with several key figures behind the scenes. People who used to have power before DAMOS took over, people who were too afraid to step up before now. Callisto Greengrass is rallying the old pure-blood families—ones who’ve had enough of Travers and his cronies. Then there’s Lyra Shacklebolt. She’s been organizing underground movements—siphoning resources and people to safer locations.”

"Shacklebolt’s niece?”

“She’s brilliant, Harry. Absolutely ruthless when it comes to strategy. Kingsley says she’s already dismantled three of DAMOS’s supply chains without them even realizing who’s behind it.”

“And what about the international front?”

“Dmitri Volkov from the Russian Wizarding Federation is putting pressure on the ICW,” Hermione said, glancing at her notes. “And Celeste Durand from the French Ministry—she’s been quietly funneling resources to us. We’ve got allies, Harry. Not as many as we need yet, but enough to keep the momentum going.”

Harry’s gaze shifted back to Draco. “And what if they regroup? What if… they pull another Umbridge out of the shadows?”

Hermione sighed. “They might. But right now, they’re practically leaderless and scattered. They’re making mistakes. It’s our best chance to push back.” She reached out, hesitating for a moment before resting her hand lightly on Harry’s arm. “You’ve done more than enough, Harry. Rest. Let us handle this for a little while. Draco’s healing, the Ministry is weakening—we’re not losing.”

Harry leaned back in the chair, his hand brushing against Draco’s limp one on the bed.

The world outside was still fractured, still full of chaos, but for now, in this room, there was a flicker of something steadier. A tether holding them all together, however fragile it might feel.

Harry’s touch was feather-light as it swept across Draco’s battered face, his thumb brushing over faint scars that even the strongest healing charms couldn’t fully erase. The bruises were gone, thanks to Hermione’s meticulous work, but their ghosts lingered—delicate traces of violet and shadow etched into Draco’s pale skin.

Draco looked like he’d been carved from the ruins of something holy. His hair, too fair against the grey of the blankets, was limp against his forehead, damp with sweat. Harry brushed it back gently, like smoothing the pages of an old, fragile book, but Draco didn’t stir. His breath hitched in shallow intervals, lips cracked and trembling even in unconsciousness.

Merlin, he just wanted to hear his voice again. Even if it was sharp and scathing, laden with sarcasm or disdain. He wanted to see the silver in his eyes light up. He wanted to feel the press of Draco’s fingers against his wrist—grounding, alive.

But there was none of that now. Only silence. Only stillness.

Harry let out a shuddering breath, his forehead pressing against the edge of the bed. His hand lingered on Draco’s arm, tracing the veins beneath too-thin skin, desperate to anchor himself to something real.

It felt cruel, obscene even, that Draco should be here, this broken and quiet, when all Harry wanted was the chaos of him—the biting remarks, the derisive laughter, the way he carried every ounce of pain with such devastating grace.

“Come back to me,” Harry whispered, his voice trembling in the still air. “You can’t leave me in this world without you. Fuck—you’re the only thing that makes sense.”

He didn’t care that his words were a confession, laid bare in the open like a wound. All that mattered was Draco—Draco, who could command the world with a single glance, who had been stripped down to this fragile, breakable thing Harry could barely hold.

And yet, Draco had endured. He had survived Umbridge, her sadistic games, her cronies, the blood and chains and every unholy thing she’d done to him. Harry wanted to destroy it all. Burn her memory from the earth. He had already destroyed her body, but that wasn’t enough. It never would be.

He wanted to scream, to rage at the universe that dared let this happen.

But all he could do was sit there, his hand still cradling Draco’s arm.

He wasn’t supposed to feel this deeply, this achingly. Draco’s name slipped through the cracks in Harry’s resolve like water finding its way through stone—inevitable, relentless, wearing him down to his most fragile self.

Draco stirred faintly, a flicker of movement beneath the blankets. Harry’s breath caught, his eyes darting to Draco’s face. For a moment, he thought he saw the faintest twitch of those pale lashes.

But the stillness returned, a mockery of hope.

Harry leaned down, his lips brushing the curve of Draco’s ear. His words were barely more than a breath, but they carried the weight of his heart.

“You can tell me anything when you wake up,” he whispered. “Everything you’ve done, everything you’ve been through. I’ll take it all. Just… stay. Stay where I can keep you. Stay where you’re mine. Stay, Draco. Just… fuck, please stay with me.”

I’ll bear your darkness. I’ll worship it. Just don’t go where I can’t follow. You are the altar and the sin, the prayer and the curse. I could kneel before you and demand penance, or I could worship you as the God of my undoing.

Harry’s head rested against the mattress, his fingers wrapped tightly around Draco’s pale, lifeless hand. He hadn’t moved in hours, barely slept in days. Time didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, except Draco, of course.

Draco.

He hadn’t stirred once, and Harry had stayed, watching, waiting, pleading with the universe to give him this one thing. Just this. He had never asked for much—not really. Not even to survive the hellstorm his life had been. Sure, maybe he’d asked the universe, once or twice, to stop taking the people he loved. But the universe never listened. It just kept taking.

So, Harry figured, if there was any higher power out there, it owed him this. Hell, it owed him a lot more than just this. But he’d settle for this. For Draco to open his eyes. For one sign—just one—that he hadn’t lost him too.

He didn’t notice the faint twitch of Draco’s fingers at first, the slight shift of his hand against Harry’s. It was only when Draco’s chest rose with a sharper intake of breath, followed by a weak, rasping cough, that Harry’s head jerked up.

“You look like shit,” Draco rasped, his voice hoarse and cracked, but unmistakably his. There was even the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips.

Harry froze. He blinked, his breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a sob. “Draco?”

Draco’s silver eyes fluttered open, dull but alive, locking onto Harry’s with an expression that was entirely Draco: exasperated, amused, and entirely too smug for someone who looked like death warmed over. “Surprised? What, you thought I’d leave you to your own devices? Please.”

Harry’s chest tightened painfully, his heart pounding so hard it drowned out everything else. Relief, rage, joy, and devastation collided inside him, leaving him speechless. His grip on Draco’s hand tightened, as though he needed to ground himself, to confirm that this wasn’t some cruel hallucination.

“Say something,” Draco murmured, almost sleepily. “You’re freaking me out.”

Harry surged forward, unable to stop himself, his hands framing Draco’s face with a desperate tenderness. “You absolute bastard,” he muttered, his voice breaking. “You scared the hell out of me. Do you know—do you even—”

But the words wouldn’t come.

Instead, he pressed his lips to Draco’s forehead, then to his temple, his nose, his cheekbones. He kissed the corner of Draco’s mouth, the pale curve of his jaw, the bruised hollows of his eyelids. Each kiss was frantic, a plea, a prayer, a punishment for the agony of the last weeks. Months, for that matter.

“Harry—” Draco croaked, trying to push him away weakly, but there was no strength behind it. He let out a soft, breathy laugh that turned into a cough. “You’re suffocating me.”

“Good,” Harry said, his voice rough and trembling as he kissed Draco’s knuckles, his collarbone, the edge of his jaw again. “You deserve it. Don’t ever—don’t ever do that to me again. Do you hear me? Ever.”

Draco’s laugh was weak, but it was there, and Harry clung to it like it was the only thing keeping him alive. “Noted,” Draco murmured, his voice soft, his eyes fluttering shut again. “But you’re the one being dramatic now.”

Harry exhaled shakily, pressing his forehead against Draco’s. “Shut up,” he whispered. “Just—shut up and stay with me.”

Draco didn’t respond, but his lips quirked faintly into something that might have been a smile. His breathing steadied, his hand curling just slightly around Harry’s.

Harry didn’t move, didn’t let go. He stayed, clutching Draco’s hand as though it were the only thing tethering him to the world. And maybe it was.

Draco coughed again, the sound rattling in his chest. His face twisted, a faint grimace, and he croaked out, “Water. Bloody hell, Harry. Water.”

Harry blinked. Then, like a switch flipped, he jolted into action, flailing in an uncoordinated mess. “Water. Right. Okay. Water!” He spun toward the door, nearly tripping over the chair in his haste, shouting, “Hermione! Hermione, help! Something’s—”

“Not dying, you idiot. Just thirsty.”

Harry didn’t hear him—or maybe he did, but the panic in his chest wouldn’t let him believe it. His voice echoed through the safehouse, and within moments, Hermione, Blaise, and Ron came barreling into the room, their faces pale and alarmed.

“What happened?” Hermione demanded, her wand already out as she scanned the room. “Harry, what is it? Is he—”

“I need water!” Harry sputtered, gesturing wildly toward Draco. “He—he needs water! He’s coughing, and I don’t—Hermione, he needs—”

Hermione’s shoulders sagged with an audible exhale as she lowered her wand. “Harry,” she said sharply. “You scared the life out of me! I thought—” She cut herself off, closing her eyes for a moment to steady herself before she turned toward Blaise. “Merlin’s sake, get him some water, would you?”

Blaise, who had leaned casually against the doorframe like he hadn’t just sprinted to the room, arched an eyebrow. “What am I, a house-elf?” But his voice was softer than usual, betraying the warmth in his gaze as it lingered on Draco. “Welcome back, Malfoy. Took your sweet time, didn’t you?”

“Didn’t want to rush,” Draco croaked weakly, managing a smirk. “You’d miss me too much.”

Blaise snorted, his cool façade slipping just enough to let a brief, genuine smile through. “I don’t think that’s possible.” He left to fetch the water, his steps unhurried but deliberate.

Ron stood awkwardly at the foot of the bed, shoving his hands into his pockets and rocking slightly on his heels. He cleared his throat, his face a mix of discomfort and relief. “You, uh—you look terrible, mate. But… you’re alive. That’s… that’s good.”

Draco coughed again, giving Ron a faint nod of acknowledgment. “Astute as ever, Ronald. Your charm knows no bounds.”

Ron’s ears went pink, but he grinned. “Yeah, well. Don’t expect me to get all sappy. You’re not out of the woods yet… Draco.”

“Noted.”

Harry hadn’t moved, still hovering at Draco’s side like a man bound. Hermione stepped closer, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. “He’s okay, Harry,” she said softly, her eyes kind. “He’s awake. He’s healing. Let Blaise and me take care of him for a bit.”

Harry shook his head, his grip tightening on the edge of the mattress. “I’m not leaving. I’m not—I’m not letting him out of my sight.”

Hermione sighed but didn’t argue. “At least let him breathe, then. You’re hovering like a mother hen.”

Blaise returned with the water, passing it to Hermione, who helped guide the cup to Draco’s lips. He drank slowly, wincing as the cool liquid slid down his throat. The tension in his body eased marginally.

“Don’t think this means you’re off the hook. You’ve got a lot to answer for.”

Draco coughed again, his smirk faint but unmistakable. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Harry’s gaze clung to Draco. Awake. Breathing. For now, Draco was his to hold, and that was enough to keep the storm in Harry’s chest at bay. For now.

Over the following weeks, Draco was on the mend. His wounds had been healed, and the bruises that painted his skin had faded to shadows of what they were. Slowly but surely, he was regaining his strength after being bedridden.

Yet, the toll remained. The healing magic coursing through his body worked tirelessly to repair him, but the lingering effects of the dark magic used on him were harder to erase. It was a slow battle—his body fatigued easily, and there were moments when the weight of it all seemed to drag him down. But Draco could be stubborn. Like hell if he’d let the likes of Umbridge and her goonies take him out.

Harry hovered like a shadow, as expected. He never let Draco overdo it, watchful eyes catching even the slightest sign of strain. Though Draco was beginning to stand on his own two feet again, there was still a fragility in the way he moved, a carefulness born of necessity.

Meanwhile, Hermione, Blaise, and Ron were at the forefront of the resistance’s latest operations. Missions were precise and calculated, covert in nature, aimed at dismantling the Ministry’s remaining footholds of corruption. Hermione had stepped into her natural role as the strategist, coordinating secret meetings with influential figures who were beginning to emerge from shadows.

Kingsley’s niece, Lyra, had started rallying her own faction of disillusioned Ministry employees. She was spearheading an internal rebellion, working to sow dissent and weaken DAMOS from within.

Blaise used his connections in high society, leveraging his pure-blood status and family name to gain access to information and influence. He was a master of subtlety, slipping into circles of power and extracting secrets without anyone realizing. He was indispensable, particularly when dealing with the remnants of Travers’s loyalists.

Ron, for his part, had embraced the more hands-on aspects of their operations. He led smaller, tactical missions aimed at disrupting DAMOS’s supply chains and dismantling their surveillance networks. His bluntness was often the perfect counterbalance to Hermione’s meticulous planning, and his bravery inspired the growing number of resistance fighters rallying to their cause.

They were chipping away at the Ministry’s stronghold, one piece at a time. Each success, no matter how small, was a step closer to toppling Travers and the remnants of DAMOS. The resistance was no longer a fractured underground movement—it was growing, gaining momentum, drawing support from all corners of the Wizarding World.  

And while Harry stayed with Draco, his friends carried on the fight, knowing that when the time came, Harry would join them again. But for now, they gave him space. Space to heal. Space to find himself again amid the storm.

Because they knew that when Harry Potter rejoined the battle, it would be to finish it for good.

Though, it had to be said—Harry, for one, was overjoyed to take the back seat. Gods, he was tired. Tired of being the soldier, the hero, the bleeding savior everyone expected him to be. Sometimes, he wondered when, exactly, this became his life. When had he signed up for a lifetime of fighting? One battle after the next, each more soul-crushing than the last. Was it in that cupboard under the stairs? When Hagrid handed him that letter? When he stared into Voldemort’s serpentine eyes as a child? He didn’t know.

Frankly, Harry couldn’t possibly give fewer fucks about the grand scheme of things anymore. Let them sweep him under the proverbial rug, bury him beneath the weight of a world he no longer cared to hold up. It wasn’t his responsibility, not anymore. Not if he had a choice in the matter.

If it were up to him, he’d have escaped this godforsaken end of the world ages ago. Hell, he’d have fled to some remote corner of the Muggle world, somewhere unassuming and quiet. Canada, maybe. Or Iceland. Somewhere cold, somewhere vast, somewhere where no one would whisper his name like a hymn or a curse. He could disappear, fade into obscurity, and he wouldn’t give a damn. He’d rather be anywhere else, doing anything else. Maybe learn how to paint or play the piano, some menial hobby that didn’t involve death or destruction.

But, no.

The fight always seemed to find him, latch onto him. And maybe, just maybe, he was too stubborn to let go of it, too angry to walk away completely. Not because he gave a damn about the world anymore—but because Draco Malfoy was still in it. And for now, that was enough to keep him here. Barely.

Draco, on the other hand—though still on the mend—was far more restless, much to everyone’s surprise. Draco Malfoy, poster child for apathy, had apparently turned over a new leaf. The irony wasn’t lost on him. Yes, Draco Malfoy wanted to save the world. Or rather, he would quite like to rid the world of its festering corruption so he could peacefully exist without someone attempting to kidnap, torture, or send him to Azkaban every other week.

If that goal just so happened to come with simultaneously fixing or saving the world, well, he wouldn’t complain. But he wasn’t aiming to be a hero or a savior. No, that was a title he wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole, not after seeing the weight it had crushed Harry under. He didn’t need a front-row seat to recognize the damage that kind of title brought. He wanted no part of it.

Draco had never allowed himself to imagine he could achieve something remotely close to heroism anyway. And why would he? The boy who sneered his way through Hogwarts, who had once let fear and cowardice define him, had no business thinking about heroics. No, Draco had no delusions of grandeur. He wasn’t a hero. He wasn’t a savior. He wasn’t anything close.

But—could he play a part in cleaning up the mess, in reshaping the world that had crumbled around them? Could he rid himself of the stench of his father’s legacy and finally, finally, do something good for once in his life? Draco thought maybe, just maybe, he could. Not for accolades or redemption, not for some noble purpose—but for himself. Because it might feel better than the weight of being nothing more than a death eater’s son, nothing more than a relic of failure and regret.

So no, Draco didn’t want to save the world.

But he’d happily build it anew, so long as he could finally exist in it without shame.

Draco lingered by the window, arms crossed, one hand tucked under his chin. The rain streaked down the glass in streams, the kind of downpour that made the world outside blur into indistinct shapes. It was late spring, nearing summer, but the weather didn’t seem to care.

Draco always liked the rain. It felt like a friend—familiar company that didn’t ask too many questions.

Harry sat slumped on the couch, legs sprawled out, his head tilted back. He hadn’t moved much since the others left on yet another resistance-related task. He hadn’t slept much either, but that was nothing new. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling.

Even in the silence, Draco could feel the weight of Harry’s thoughts. His fingers tapped idly against his arm as he watched the storm. “It’s… not love when someone has to hollow themselves out just to make room for you.”

Harry stirred slightly but didn’t lift his head. “What?”

Draco turned his head just enough to catch Harry’s eyes. “You don’t have to destroy yourself for me. You don’t have to keep… burning just to keep me warm.”

Harry scoffed, the sound almost self-deprecating. “It’s not burning. I just—I can’t promise you I’ll be good. I don’t think I have that in me anymore.”

“I never wanted you good, Harry,” Draco said simply. “I only ever wanted you real.”

Harry straightened slightly, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“Don’t I?”

Harry looked away. He didn’t have the words. Not for this. He could barely string together the fragments of his own thoughts these days, let alone say the things he knew Draco deserved to hear.

Draco sighed, his head tilting back against the window. “You—you don’t get it yet, do you? You’re the… the damned house I keep walking into, Harry. The one I swore I’d never build. And now I live in it—every damn wall, every creaking floorboard, a part of you. I don’t know if I should burn it down or lock the doors and throw away the key.”

“You don’t have to stay,” Harry said quietly. “You’re allowed to leave.”

“Do you think I’d still be here if that was an option?”

Harry’s eyes snapped to Draco’s, green meeting silver in the dim of the room. “You make it sound like I trapped you.”

“No. Not trapped. But, Harry—” Draco turned fully now, his arms dropping to his sides. “To love you is to walk a knife’s edge. To bleed and to burn and to be remade in the fire. Sometimes… I don’t know if I can survive it, but Harry—fuck—I want to try.”

Harry stood abruptly, crossing the small space between them. His steps were deliberate but hesitant, as though each one was a question. When he stopped in front of Draco, his hands hovered just near Draco’s shoulders. “You don’t have to say this.”

Draco shook his head, a hazy gaze peering into Harry’s very soul. “How can I not? I feel it every time you walk into a room—that impossible gravity, the way you pull everything into your orbit, even when you don’t mean to. It’s maddening. And it’s you. It’s always been you.”

Harry stared. He couldn’t do anything else. He could hardly remember how to breathe. His pulse was hammering in his ears. He wondered if Draco could hear it too.

Draco lifted one hand, brushing it tentatively against Harry’s jaw, his thumb skimming over stubble and skin, tracing the sharp lines of a face that looked far too tired for its age. “I’ve touched heaven in the spaces between your breaths,” Draco murmured, his voice low and unsteady, “and hell in the silence that follows. But, Harry—God, I’d trade all my peace for just one more moment with you.”

Harry stilled. Eyes wide, green and glassy, his breath catching in his throat. Draco’s hand lingered, warm and steady despite the tremble in his voice. For a moment, the storm outside seemed to quiet, the rain softening to a whisper against the glass, leaving only the sound of their breaths.

“I love you,” Harry sputtered hastily. “I meant it before. I meant it when you were—” he swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. “And I mean it now. But now it feels—different. Like you could really leave. Or worse. Be taken from me. Like you could look at me and see someone you don’t—”

“Stop,” Draco interrupted. “Just stop.”

Harry stilled.

Draco stepped closer, the smallest distance between them collapsing as his fingers found Harry’s. His chest felt unbearably tight, like something might split him open if he didn’t say it.

So, he did.

“Don’t you get it, Harry?” Draco murmured, his voice cracking in places. “Every time you turn away, I feel it—a tearing, an unraveling. Like my bones don’t fit without the weight of you pressed against them. I—fuck Harry, I love you. I love you, and it—it’s like seeing something wild, untamed, and reaching for it anyway. But—that’s the paradox of love, isn’t it? You don’t want to cage it. You just want to be close enough to feel the wind of its fury and the gentleness of its surrender."

Harry’s eyes burned, glassy as they searched Draco’s face, disbelieving, overwhelmed. His hand trembled as it moved to rest against Draco’s heart, feeling the unsteady thrum of it beneath his palm.

Draco’s lips twitched in something that wasn’t quite a smile but wasn’t entirely despair, either. He leaned in, his voice dropping to something so quiet it felt like it was meant for Harry’s soul alone.

“Just don’t leave me standing in the ashes. That’s all I ask.”

Draco used to think love was simple. Until Harry. Until he realized that love wasn’t about simplicity—it was about surrendering to something you couldn’t control, something that would destroy you and rebuild you in the same breath.

Harry blinked, unsure if the dampness in his eyes was from tears or the dizziness that swept over him upon hearing those three words—from Draco Malfoy, of all people. He swallowed hard, then nodded. “If we burn, we burn together.”

There was something grimly satirical about the peace that settled over the safehouse in the days stretching into weeks. It felt like a joke the universe was playing—quiet after the storm, as if daring them to let their guard down. Harry and Draco found themselves alone more often than not—a situation they’d be idiots to complain about. Blaise was perpetually on the move, running operations out of the Den, while Hermione and Ron stayed busy managing their own fronts. Still, they checked in frequently, clearly unwilling to leave Harry and Draco alone too long, lest the two of them somehow wind up back on death’s doorstep.

Harry, for his part, didn’t mind the solitude. It meant his focus could remain on the singular point that consumed him: Draco Malfoy. As long as Draco was there—breathing, alive, within arm’s reach—Harry didn’t care what the rest of the world was doing. He’d lost Draco twice now. Once at his own hands, and once to Dolores fucking Umbridge (rest in despair, you absolute hag). He’d be damned before he let Draco out of his sight again. Not now. Not while the world was still standing.

Draco, however, was another story. Restless. Antsy. Pacing the safehouse like a caged animal. He needed to do something—anything—to feel like he had control, to feel less like a prisoner waiting for the next strike.

Hermione had made herself clear: “You need to rest. You’ve both done enough. Let us handle things for now. We’ll tell you when we need you.”

And while Draco wasn’t exactly clamoring to throw himself back into the fray, the thought of lying low, waiting, hiding—it rankled. He hated the lack of control. Hated the vulnerability of still being in the shadows, of not knowing when or how the next shoe would drop. Rest didn’t come easy when you were always looking over your shoulder.

Draco stood in front of Nyx, the hood propped open, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Grease smeared his hands, a smudge streaked across his cheekbone where he must’ve brushed his face without thinking. He frowned at the engine, muttering to himself as he poked and prodded at something Harry couldn’t even pretend to understand.

Harry leaned against the doorway of the makeshift garage. He didn’t even try to hide his smirk. “You do realize you’re not actually a mechanic, right?”

Draco shot him a glare over his shoulder, but it was undercut by the faint twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth. “And yet, I’ve managed to keep Nyx running while you’ve been busy playing the tragic hero. Imagine that.”

“Hey, I’ve contributed to keeping her running. I put air in the tires that one time.”

“Yes, Harry. Truly a marvel of automotive maintenance,” Draco deadpanned. “Remind me to get you a medal.”

Draco’s fingers moved deftly, tightening bolts, adjusting wires. Harry’s gaze lingered, not on the car, but on Draco—the way his hair fell into his eyes, the way his mouth pressed into a concentrated line. Harry stepped closer, leaning against the side of Nyx, his eyes trailing over Draco’s hands as they worked. “You’re good at this. I don’t know how, but you are.”

“You’re staring,” Draco murmured, not looking up.

Harry flushed, scratching the back of his neck. “I’m not staring.”

“You are,” Draco countered, finally turning to face him, a teasing smirk pulling at his lips. “It’s fine. I know I’m gorgeous.”

Harry rolled his eyes but couldn’t fight the grin tugging at his mouth. “You’re insufferable, more like it.”

“And yet, here you are,” Draco said, wiping his hands on a rag before reaching out to hook a finger into Harry’s belt loop, tugging him closer. His eyes softened, the smirk fading into something quieter. “Watching me fix a car you’re hopelessly attached to. It’s all very… romantic, Harry.”

Harry let himself be pulled closer, their bodies just a breath apart now. His hand rose instinctively to brush a stray lock of hair out of Draco’s eyes, his fingers lingering against his temple. “You’re not wrong.”

Draco tilted his head. Then, without warning, he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Harry’s lips. It wasn’t rushed or heated; it was gentle, slow—and Harry felt the weight of the world ease off his shoulders, just a fraction.

When they pulled apart, Draco smirked again. “If you’re going to hover, Harry, at least make yourself useful and hand me the wrench.”

Harry laughed. He reached for the wrench on the workbench, holding it out to Draco. “Yes, sir.”

Draco took it with a mock-salute, turning back to Nyx with a muttered, “Idiot.” But there was a smile on his face as he worked, and Harry found himself smiling too.

Harry sat cross-legged on the rug in front of the fire, his back resting against the edge of the couch. His gaze lazily drifted to Draco, who was perched on the armrest, fingers absently toying with the edge of his sleeve.

Draco’s hair was still damp from the rain earlier, curling slightly at the ends, and Harry couldn’t help but let his gaze linger. It wasn’t fair, really—how someone could look so effortlessly captivating while doing absolutely nothing. The way the firelight danced in his silver eyes was downright distracting.

“What?” Draco asked, raising a perfectly arched brow.

Harry shrugged, tilting his head back to look up at him fully. “Nothing. Just… admiring.”

Draco snorted softly. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not,” Harry countered, shifting so he was kneeling now, his face level with Draco’s. “I’m just appreciating my boyfriend. Is that a crime?”

Draco froze for the briefest moment, the word hanging in the air between them like a spell. Boyfriend. They had never said it aloud before, but they both knew what this was—what had been building for nearly a year now. His heart skipped, then stuttered into an uneven rhythm that left his chest feeling far too tight. The word shouldn’t have hit him the way it did—not after everything. And yet, it did. It hit him square in the ribs.

Harry leaned closer, his hands finding Draco’s knees. The fabric of his trousers was warm beneath Harry’s palms, but not as warm as the skin he imagined was underneath.

“Harry,” Draco murmured, his voice quieter now, his gaze flickering to Harry’s mouth before snapping back up to meet his eyes. “You’re staring. Again.”

“Maybe I like staring,” Harry whispered, his thumbs tracing slow circles against Draco’s knees. He shifted closer still, his breath ghosting over Draco’s cheek. “You’re beautiful when you’re annoyed. Did you know that?”

“I hate you,” Draco said, but the words lacked any bite. His voice was soft, almost breathless, and his hand moved to Harry’s shoulder, lingering there like he wasn’t quite sure what to do next.

Harry grinned, leaning forward to press a kiss to the corner of Draco’s mouth. It was fleeting, light as air, but when he pulled back, Draco’s eyes were darker, his pupils dilated in the firelight.

“Say that again,” Harry murmured, his lips brushing against Draco’s as he spoke.

Draco’s hand tightened on Harry’s shoulder. “I—” Whatever snarky retort he’d been about to deliver dissolved as Harry kissed him properly, his hands sliding up Draco’s thighs. It was slow at first, exploratory, but when Draco sighed against Harry’s lips and tilted his head just so, Harry’s restraint crumbled.

Harry’s hands gripped Draco’s hips, tugging him forward slightly, and Draco didn’t resist. In fact, he leaned into it, his hands threading through Harry’s hair.

When Harry pulled back for air, his lips were swollen, his breath ragged. “You’re not going to fight me on this, are you?”

Draco smirked, his own breathing uneven. “Do I look like I’m in the mood for fighting, Harry?”

Harry chuckled, his forehead pressing against Draco’s as his hands slid beneath the hem of Draco’s jumper, his fingers brushing against warm, bare skin. “No… but you do look like you’re in the mood to make me absolutely insane.”

Draco’s laugh was quiet, but it melted into a sharp inhale as Harry’s lips found the sensitive spot just beneath his jaw. Harry trailed kisses there, slow and deliberate, his hands roaming higher beneath Draco’s jumper. The fire crackled behind them, forgotten, as the world narrowed down to nothing but heat and touch and breath.

“Harry,” Draco whispered, warning and want threaded into his voice.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t stop.”

And Harry didn’t.

His hands roamed upward, his fingers skimming over Draco’s ribs. The edge of Draco’s jumper bunched in Harry’s hands, and with one deliberate tug, he pulled it over Draco’s head, tossing it carelessly behind him. His hands then returned, sliding over his bare skin like he was something sacred, something Harry had no intention of rushing.

The firelight danced across Draco’s pale chest, every line and shadow illuminated in a soft, golden glow. Harry paused for a moment, just looking, his gaze sweeping over every scar, every healed mark, every perfect imperfection that made Draco so utterly himself.

“You’re—er—fuck—need to stop staring, Harry,” Draco’s voice was trembling, betraying the way Harry’s touch was undoing him piece by piece.

“Can you blame me?” Harry’s lips brushed along Draco’s collarbone, a trail of peppering kisses. “You’re… you’re perfect.”

Draco made a sound in the back of his throat—half a scoff, half a sigh. “You’re a sap.”

Harry shifted closer, his hands finding Draco’s hips, pulling him down from the armrest so that Draco straddled him, knees on either side of Harry’s legs.

Draco didn’t resist. He let himself be guided, his hands sliding into Harry’s hair, tugging just enough to make Harry groan. “All of me—” breathy sighs escaped Draco. “Is yours. Yours, Harry. I’m yours.”

It was a battle, their mouths colliding with a desperation that burned hotter than fire. Teeth grazed, tongues clashed, every breath stolen like a declaration of war. Harry’s hands slid lower, gripping Draco’s hips with a possessiveness that seared through him, a wildfire spreading along his spine.

Draco’s hands moved down Harry’s chest, fingers curling into the hem of his jumper. He pulled it off in one smooth motion, his hands returning to trace the lines of Harry’s shoulders, his collarbone, the expanse of his chest. There was something reverent in the way he touched Harry, like he was memorizing every inch of him.

“Fuck, Draco,” Harry muttered against his lips, his hands skimming over the curve of Draco’s back, holding him impossibly closer. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“Good. It’s about time I returned the favor.”

Harry laughed, low and hoarse, before pulling Draco down into another kiss. It was deeper this time, slower, like they had all the time in the world to get lost in each other. Draco’s hips rolled instinctively, drawing a groan from Harry that made Draco’s stomach clench.

“Harry,” Draco whispered, his voice breaking as he buried his face in the crook of Harry’s neck, his breath warm against Harry’s skin.

“I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.”

In that moment, with the firelight wrapping around them, there was no past, no future—only the now. Only them.

The fire cast a golden glow over the two of them tangled in a blanket, bare skin warm from the heat—but mostly each other. Draco lay with his head against Harry’s chest, his fingers tracing idle patterns along Harry’s ribs. Harry’s arm curled protectively around Draco’s waist, holding him close.

Draco broke the silence first. “Harry.”

“Hmm?” Harry’s voice was drowsy, content, but there was a thread of attentiveness in it, like he was always waiting for Draco to need him.

“I—I won’t die.”

Harry blinked, his fingers pausing mid-stroke on Draco’s back. “What?”

“I mean…” Draco hesitated, his voice softer now, almost fragile. “Well, it’s the natural order of things, so I can’t promise that I won’t ever die. But I can promise you this—I won’t die until we’re 110 and senile and—” He faltered, his cheeks flushing faintly.

Harry started to laugh, a quiet chuckle—but it died the moment he met Draco’s eyes. Silver, unflinching, and devastatingly earnest. The laughter caught in his throat, twisting into something heavy, and suddenly, Harry couldn’t breathe. He saw it—really saw it. Draco wasn’t joking. There was no teasing edge, no quip waiting. Just pure, aching sincerity.

It hit Harry like a curse he hadn’t seen coming. Draco was trying—no, fighting—to reach the parts of him no one else had dared to touch. The ragged pieces Harry kept hidden even from himself. His deepest, most corrosive fear laid bare, and Draco saw it like it had been carved into Harry’s skin. And more than that, Draco was trying to soothe it, as if he could stitch together something Harry had long since let unravel. As if Harry’s cracked, uneven edges didn’t scare him.

“I won’t leave you, Harry,” Draco whispered. “Not if I can help it. You said you’re burning down the world to let me build it anew—and I promise you, I will not let that world be one that takes me from you.”

Harry’s chest constricted, a lump rising in his throat. “You can’t promise that.”

“I can,” Draco insisted, shifting to meet Harry’s gaze head-on. “I can promise that. I will not die until we’re well past our agedly expiration—and—alright, how about this? I won’t die before you. You can go first, alright?”

Harry raised an eyebrow, a faint smile ghosting over his lips despite the ache in his chest. “How very considerate.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “If, by some cruel twist of fate, I happen to be dying before you—well, I’ll simply have to kill you first. Then I’ll go, content in the knowledge that I’ve spared you the trauma of endless grief. Consider it my final act of love.”

Harry snorted, though his voice cracked slightly. “Ha-ha. Very funny, Draco.”

“I’m serious. If you want me to—I’ll kill you. Before I die, that is.”

“Draco Malfoy,” Harry said, his lips twitching into a reluctant smile, “he who refuses to take a life will take the life of his ever-loving boyfriend?”

Draco sighed dramatically. “I’d presume you’d be my husband by that point—but yes, if you so wish. I would do that. For you.”

Something in Harry broke at that, Draco’s words hitting him like a tidal wave. He reached up, his hand brushing through Draco’s hair, his touch achingly tender. His voice was thick when he replied, “Fine. I think that arrangement will be quite suitable. I’ll hold you to it.”

Draco’s lips curved into a faint, wry smile, but his eyes betrayed a rare softness. “I know you will. And you’ll keep holding me—because I’ve decided: we go together. At 110, same breath, same heartbeat. In each other’s arms, naturally. They’ll bury us side by side for good measure. In the same grave even. That way, you’ll never have to experience the loss of me.”

Harry exhaled shakily, his forehead pressing to Draco’s. “I think… I think I’d prefer that. I’d like it, really.”

“Really?”

“Hmm.”

“Good,” Draco murmured, his fingers brushing against Harry’s jaw. “So would I.”

Silence fell between them, warm and heavy like the blanket draped over their bodies. The fire flickered, its light catching in Draco’s eyes, turning them molten.

Harry broke the quiet, his lips curving slightly. “So... husband, huh?”

Draco groaned, rolling his eyes and burying his face against Harry’s neck. “Oh, sod off.”

Harry could avoid it all he wanted, bury himself in Draco’s presence, in the fleeting sense of peace they’d carved out here, but the fight was far from over. The world outside hadn’t stopped going to shite just because they had paused to breathe.

Alas, their reprieve would soon come to an end.

It began, as these things always did, with Blaise Zabini breezing into the safehouse, a figure of calm precision. He didn’t knock—he never did. Blaise’s presence was like the crack of thunder after an eerie stillness, a harbinger of the inevitable.

Harry and Draco were by the fire when Blaise appeared, his dark cloak dripping rain onto the floor. “Sorry to interrupt your domestic bliss,” he said dryly, his eyes flicking between them before landing on Harry. “But the time’s up. We’ve got our opening.”

Harry turned, his body going rigid. Merlin’s sake, take more, world, why don’t you? “What kind of opening?”

Blaise crossed the room. “The kind that doesn’t come twice. The final straw to break the Ministry. If we’re smart—and quick—we can dismantle DAMOS and take down Travers in one blow.”

Draco, who had been leaning against the armrest, straightened. “What’s the play?”

Harry’s stomach tightened. He glanced at Draco, whose expression was steeled now. Harry knew that look—had grown to love it, even if it terrified him. Draco was ready to jump back into the fray, to fight alongside him. To burn with him, if it came to that.

He had done this to Draco. He had pulled him into this life of running, fighting, hiding. And now that Draco had found his resolve—had carved out his own reason to fight the world, or rather, to fight for it—Harry couldn’t blame him. This was on him. All of it.

Blaise laid out the plans with cutting efficiency. Harry listened, half-tuned, his gaze flicking toward Draco every few seconds.

Draco, however, seemed unflinching. His arms were crossed, silver eyes narrowed, attention laser-focused on Blaise as if committing every detail to memory. But Harry could see the subtle signs—his fingers twitching slightly at his sides, the way his jaw clenched and unclenched. He was ready, but he was tired. They all were.

When Blaise finally finished, he gave them a once-over, eyes lingering on Harry. “Gear up. We head to The Den at dawn.”

As Blaise left the room, Harry sighed heavily, dragging a hand down his face. He crossed the room, footsteps soft against worn floorboards. He stopped beside Draco, a hand reaching out to brush lightly against Draco’s shoulder. “Draco…”

Draco glanced up, his expression softening as his eyes met Harry’s. Harry’s lips quirked in an ever-so-fucking-tired smile. “Just… lay with me,” he said, voice barely a whisper. “We can burn the world down tomorrow.”

“Save the world, you mean.”

Harry shrugged as he tugged gently on Draco’s arm, pulling him toward the worn couch near the fire. “Same thing.”

Draco followed without protest, letting Harry pull him close.

And for a moment, just a moment, the world could wait.

When Draco stepped back into the den, it hit him like a plunge into ice water.

The past few months had been a blur of pain and fleeting solace, a pendulum swinging between torment and the rare, fragile quiet he’d found with Harry. There were still nights when the phantom echoes of Cruciatus curse wracked his body, the tremors barely dulled by the potions Hermione forced on him. And then there were the mornings—brief, ephemeral moments—when the stillness felt almost like peace.

But now? Now the haze lifted, and clarity cut through him like a blade.

Theo.

Theo’s blood still stained the corners of Draco’s mind. The weight of his body, lifeless and still, cradled in Draco’s arms. Theodore Nott, who gave his life for a world that didn’t deserve it. A world that, even now, hunted Draco and Harry like animals. A world that had taken too much and given nothing back.

It was about the bigger picture—yes, it always was. But it was also personal. It was about Theo. About Harry. About the promise of something better. Theo had died for this future. And like hell if Draco was going to stand idly by and let a pack of corrupt bureaucrats and their lapdogs seize what was meant to be theirs. What was meant to be Harry’s.

Harry had saved this world once. From Voldemort. And the least Draco could do was fight to give it back to him. Even if Harry didn’t want it. Even if Harry scoffed at the thought of ruling anything but his own solitude. It didn’t matter.

Because Harry had already burnt most of it down for him. And Draco didn’t take that lightly.

If Harry was willing to raze the world for Draco—if he was willing to bleed, to suffer, to become something unrecognizable for the sake of keeping him alive and free—then Draco owed him more than survival. Draco was damn well going to fight with every ounce of strength he had to build something worthy of that sacrifice. A world deserving of Harry Potter.

He owed him that much.

But it wasn’t just for Harry. It was for Theo. For the boy who gave everything, who deserved better than to be a footnote in a world gone mad. And maybe, selfishly, it was for himself too. To prove that he could be more than the coward he once was. To prove he could do something good. Something right.

To prove he was worthy of Harry Potter.

For Harry. For Theo. For himself.

If Harry was willing to burn the world to ashes for him, then Draco would carve a new one from the rubble—for Harry, and Harry alone.

And to make damn sure Theo hadn’t died in vain.

The den was alive with movement, voices, shuffling feet, and hurried conversations. It smelled of damp stone, burnt parchment, and the faint tang of medicinal potions.

Neville Longbottom stood near the far end of the room, sleeves rolled up, hands stained with soil and something unidentifiable. He was speaking in low tones to a group of resistance members. When his eyes met Draco’s, he gave a small nod, a quiet acknowledgment that felt almost like approval. Draco wasn’t sure what to do with that.

Nearby, Luna Lovegood floated through with her usual ethereal calm. Her hair was tied back in a loose braid, a streak of something golden woven through it, and she carried a box of what appeared to be explosive charms as though it were a basket of daisies. She caught sight of Draco and Harry and smiled as if she had been waiting for them all along.

“Draco,” Luna said, her voice lilting like a melody, “I’m glad you’re here. You’ve been through quite the ordeal, haven’t you? You look like you’ve seen a Wrackspurt swarm.”

Draco blinked at her, unsure how to respond, but Harry offered a faint smile.

“Wrackspurts or not, we’re here to help,” Harry said. His hand brushed Draco’s briefly.

Hermione appeared from one of the adjoining corridors, her face pinched with focus. She was holding a clipboard—of course she was—and rattling off instructions to a group of people who looked simultaneously inspired and terrified.

“Harry, Draco, you’re just in time,” Hermione said, walking over. “We’ve got a lot of new faces joining the effort, and we need to strategize for the next move. The Ministry’s defenses are unraveling, but we can’t afford to be careless.”

“New faces?” Harry echoed, glancing around.

Hermione nodded. “Neville’s been rallying support from his Herbology networks—don’t ask me how he manages to turn plant enthusiasts into resistance fighters, but he’s good at it. And Luna…” She trailed off, gesturing vaguely toward Luna, who was now balancing a peculiar-looking magical contraption in her hands. “Well, Luna’s brought some—er—unconventional supplies. She’s been invaluable.”

Draco tilted his head. “You’ve all been busy.”

Neville approached then. “It’s good to see you two. Things are different now. We’ve got numbers. People are stepping up, ready to fight. They’re tired of hiding.”

“And… Umbridge?” Harry asked.

“She was a keystone,” Neville said simply. “With her gone, DAMOS is unraveling, but they’re desperate. It won’t be easy, Harry. We’re not walking into a victory lap. This is going to get worse before it gets better.”

Draco’s jaw tightened. He had heard variations of that phrase before, and it never got easier. “Then let’s make it worse for them. They’re on borrowed time.”