Thestrals
Draco sighed as he stepped into the empty compartment, shutting the door behind him with a quiet click. Finally—some peace. He’d slipped away from his meathead bodyguards half an hour into the journey, claiming he needed the loo. Goyle, ever the idiot, had offered to tag along, as if he couldn’t manage on his own, but Crabbe’s teasing—something about not being able to “hold it up”—had been enough to make him drop the idea. Pathetic.
In any case, he was glad to be rid of them. Normally, the mindless grunting and half-baked jokes were tolerable, even mildly amusing. But today, he needed silence. A moment to breathe. To gather himself for what was to come.
The moment the door slid shut, he collapsed into the seat, stretching his legs across the empty bench. His limbs felt heavy, weighed down by exhaustion that sleep never seemed to fix. He rolled his wand between his fingers, staring at the wood without really seeing it.
This was it. Sixth year.
The familiar rhythm of the train against the tracks should have been comforting, a reminder of routine, of normalcy. But there was nothing normal about this year.
His fingers clenched around the wand.
His father had returned home from Azkaban at the start of the summer, gaunt and silent. Disgraced. The house had been different after that. The air inside Malfoy Manor had felt stretched too thin, tight with things left unsaid. His mother moved through the halls like a ghost, watching, waiting. And his father—once larger than life—had spent his days in his study, doors locked, drinking his way through a collection of fine liquor that had once been reserved for guests.
Draco knew what no one would say aloud. His father had failed. And the Dark Lord didn’t tolerate failure.
So, the burden had shifted.
Draco dragged a hand down his face, his jaw tightening. He hadn’t hesitated when given the task. How could he? There had been no choice. But as the weeks passed and the weight of it settled into his bones, the reality had sharpened. This wasn’t just about proving himself. It wasn’t just about restoring the Malfoy name. His mother—
He exhaled sharply, shoving the thought away before it could take shape.
Instead, he focused on the window, watching the countryside blur past. The world outside carried on as if nothing had changed, as if everything wasn’t hanging by a thread.
He needed to get it together. Occlumency had kept the worst of it at bay—when he was awake, at least. But sleep was another matter entirely. He could feel the exhaustion creeping in, dulling the edges of his thoughts. Maybe if he just—
His eyelids grew heavy.
The train rumbled on.
And the moment he slipped into unconsciousness, the dream pulled him under.
…
He is unsurprised to find her standing there, the same as always, her back towards him, those ridiculous curls caught on the breeze and billowing around her. The scent of her shampoo strong as the wind reaches him. Sweet and spicy and something that makes his chest ache. The pain radiates from the space behind his ribs down towards his fingertips. It is bad enough that he needs to make it stop, needs to claw the still beating thing out of him before it’s too late.
With each gust it grows stronger, pulsing behind his eyelids, dragging him closer, willing his legs to move towards her.
Every step is fruitless, each one somehow furthering the distance between them. In his desperation, he tries to call out, tries to pull her to him, although he doesn’t know why. Knows it’s no use, the words get swallowed up on the wind same as always. His hands close around the gusts threatening to blow him over.
And then—something shifts.
The wind falters. The mist creeps in.
It rises from the tracks like a living thing, thick and silver and slow, winding around them until the world softens. The platform fades to nothing. There’s only her. The curve of her spine, the tremble in her shoulders that might be a sob or a shiver.
And then she turns.
Only slightly—just enough to steal the breath from his lungs.
He sees her in profile, the slope of her nose, the lashes dark against her cheeks. It’s not the first time he’s dreamed of her, not the first time he’s known it was her. But it’s the first time he’s seen her look back.
Those dark eyes settle on him and the knowing hits him so hard it steals the strength from his knees. It’s her. Not just a shape, not just a feeling. Her.
And she’s reaching for him. Slow, uncertain, but real. Her fingers stretch out past the curtain of mist, and instinct moves him before thought can catch up. He lurches forward, desperate, breathless, heart galloping toward her open hand.
Just one more step.
He almost touches her—almost.
And then—
…
““There you are, Draco. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
It took Draco a moment to reacclimatize to his surroundings. The pale hairs on his arms rose at the sound of her voice—low, lilting, and nothing like the one he’d been craving to hear.
After a beat, the door slid shut as Pansy Parkinson stepped into the train car, her mouth twisted into a grin, heat spreading across her high cheekbones. Any other time, Draco might’ve been inclined to return the smile, to tug her into his lap and see if he could make the heat spread further. But today, he simply wasn’t in the mood.
“Yes, you seem to have found me. What now?” Pansy’s eyes narrowed at his tone. Although he had tried to inject a hint of levity, it clearly hadn’t worked. He couldn’t focus—not with his mind still half-whirling from the girl in the fog.
She crossed her arms, leaning against the compartment door, her eyes flashing with irritation. “You skipped the prefect meeting, Draco. You’re going to hear about it later.”
He blinked, trying to process the words. The meeting. Of course. He hadn’t even thought about it. The last thing he wanted right now was to sit through a tedious meeting about rules and responsibilities.
“Don’t tell me you’re planning to skip them all year,” she added, her voice sharp with disapproval.
He didn’t respond immediately, just stared back at her, occlumency drawing the curtains down behind his eyes. Why couldn’t she just take the hint and bugger off?
Pansy seemed to realize the silence wasn’t going to get her anywhere, and she sighed dramatically, twirling the end of her dark ponytail through her fingertips. “Oh, and by the way—don’t forget the password. It’s ‘Serpensortia.’ Try not to forget it again this time, yeah?”
Draco just shrugged, feigning indifference, though he was quietly relieved she’d given it up without a fight. The very last thing he wanted to have to do was flag down some lower classman prefect kids to owe them a favor later.
After a beat, she let out an exaggerated huff and dropped onto the bench across from him, making a great show of kicking off her shoes and tucking her stockinged toes beneath his legs. Her dark skirt rode up slightly, revealing a pale stretch of thigh above her knee-high socks.
His eyes flickered down, stumbling over the exposed skin, trying to will himself into feeling something—anything—other than numb and exhausted. He almost managed it when, out of the corner of his eye, a movement—so quick he could’ve imagined it—snapped his focus away.
His heart hammered hard in his chest as he reached into his cloak, drawing his wand instinctively, ready to fight off his intruder.
Pansy’s eyes went wide, startled by his sudden shift, palms up as if approaching a rabid animal.
Draco ignored her, flicking his wand around the open space, muttering “Revelio.”
The spell was fruitless, revealing nothing and no one. Even still, Draco’s breath came in short gasps, his knuckles going pale around his Holly and Phoenix feather wand.
Pansy didn’t dare speak or even breathe. Her eyes stayed trained on Draco, her brows furrowed more from concern than fear—either of him or his invisible intruders.
He waited in the silence, straining his ears, half-expecting someone to come forward, surrender themselves. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.
His mind raced. “Who’s there?” he called, his voice far too steady, betraying none of the unease creeping through his chest. Much to his building frustration, his mounting exhaustion, the empty space said nothing.
Rather than feeling comforted, the sense of dread deepened as doubt crept in at its edges. Maybe it was just his nerves, the remnants of the dream still clouding his thoughts. Or perhaps, he thought with growing unease, he’d lost the fragile hold he’d had on his mind.
“Draco,” Pansy’s voice cut through the stillness, smooth and calm, grounding him like an anchor pulling him back to the present. “It’s fine. No one’s here.”
He didn’t want to admit it, but the reassurance, her words, grounded him in a way he hadn’t expected. He nodded, feeling a fleeting sense of relief, even as the feelings didn’t quite settle. His instincts remained on edge, prickling beneath his skin.
“I’m not sure,” he muttered, though the words came out softer now, almost hesitant. “It didn’t feel right.”
Pansy leaned forward, her presence oddly comforting in the stark quiet.“You’re overthinking it, Draco. It’s just us. Just you and me.”
She reached across the aisle, her fingers brushing his, lingering for a moment before gently placing his hand on the sliver of skin, a shy smile tugging at her lips. He almost felt sorry for her, for the expression he hadn’t been able to stop from spreading across his face. The heat in her pale complexion shifted—this time, it wasn’t from the usual excitement, but something like embarrassment. He couldn’t quite bring himself to soothe it, his mind still tangled in the chaos of his own thoughts.
It was clear she had been about to pull away, to recoil from the moment as if he’d struck her. But just before she did, her gaze lingered on his face for a moment.
Whatever she found there wiped away the flush of shame. Her full lips tugged down at the corners when he refused to meet her eye.
“Seriously, Draco. What’s going on with you?” Her voice was soft, genuine concern carving creases between her brows as her fingers slipped between his, tugging his hand up into her lap.
The truth hung heavy on Draco’s tongue, a weight he wasn’t sure he could bear to share—even with Pansy, one of his closest friends. Sure, they were more now—complicated by family expectations and the pull of young lust—but she remained, and would likely always be, one of his favorite people.
But how could he tell her? The details of his father’s disgrace, the task he’d been assigned with his mother’s life hanging in the balance as collateral. How could he tell her about the dreams, about the specter that clung to him even in his waking hours? About the stifling paranoia that made it impossible to even sit calmly on a bloody train. It all seemed a cruel thing to burden her with, especially knowing the depth of her feelings for him, the weight it would likely add onto her already overwhelmed shoulders.
In the midst of his silent ruminations, Draco could feel her eyes still on him, willing him to talk to her, to tell her everything that was wrong. But he couldn’t look at her, couldn’t allow himself to feel anything—except the ache of fear for his family, the longing for his specter, the silver of paranoia still clinging to his bones. He stared down at her hands, cradling his in her lap, her thumbs tracing the lines of his palm, warm and gentle against his skin. In that moment, something inside him cracked. The answer to his question—how could he tell her?—became simple. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.
Instead, he kissed her. Pulling her mouth down to his, he leaned across the aisle. It wasn’t about desire—not really. It was need. Raw and aching. A desperate grasp at silence. To drown out the relentless images flashing behind his lids, refusing to be contained by his Occlumency: the girl in the fog, the Dark Lord in his father’s study.
Pansy’s lips were soft, insistent—just enough to momentarily quiet the storm in his mind. As he deepened the kiss, his hand reached up to cup the back of her head, holding her to him, and he tugged at the hair tie at the crown of her head, letting her dark hair cascade over them like a shroud. It was soft, smelling of spice more than sweet. Even so, in that moment, he could almost pretend she was the girl in the fog.
He pulled her towards him and Pansy responded willingly, eagerly, moving off her bench and down across his lap, straddling his thighs. His hand found her waist, quickly untucking her blouse and slipping in against the soft warmth of her skin. His fingertips brushed the small of her back, climbing up and up until he found the clasp of her bra. With a quiet snap, it was undone, and Pansy was working to shimmy her blouse down off her shoulders.
He pulled away for a moment, breaking the kiss just to savor the view. Although, not the girl of his dreams, Pansy truly was beautiful: pale and flushed, her lips slightly swollen, her dark eyes hooded. Her dark hair was a curtain around her, the Slytherin green bra striking against her complexion, cleavage rising and falling with every breath. Absolutely beautiful. He told her as much, and she leaned in again, flicking her wand with a soft incantation.
“Destrae.” The buttons on Draco’s shirt gave way without a hitch, falling open effortlessly, earning a breathless chuckle from him.
“Nice,” he murmured against her lips, her hips rocking against his as his hands settled there, guiding her movements, pressing her harder into him. All the while, she slotted her fingers through his white-blonde hair, mussing it in a way he normally would’ve never allowed. But now, it felt nice. Felt like enough to soothe a bit of his restless mind. Almost enough to forget about the weight on his chest—the girl in the fog, keen to continue flickering in and out of his consciousness. He could almost convince himself that it was enough, that here, in this moment, he could shut out the rest of the world.
Pansy was so soft, so warm, so eager against him. He was almost convinced to let her solve it. Let her body, her mouth, her presence be the balm to soothe it all. He was so willing to try. To let her try. But then, the compartment door was suddenly flung open, and Blaise’s voice sliced through the thick haze between them.
“Oi, are you two planning on getting off the train anytime soon?” Blaise called from the doorway, his gaze flicking between Draco and Pansy with a knowing smirk.
Draco immediately pulled back, his breath sharp in his chest, the physical connection with Pansy quickly fading as his thoughts snapped back to reality. Pansy, her face still flushed and lips slightly parted, shot Blaise an exasperated glare as his gaze lingered just a beat too long.
“Perfect timing,” Draco muttered under his breath, annoyance creeping into his voice as he ran a hand through his hair, trying to compose himself. He gave Pansy a quick glance, but it wasn’t the same—not with his mind still tangled in the fog of his thoughts.
Blaise chuckled, unfazed by the interruption. “Suppose I’ll give you two a moment to freshen up.” He winked before allowing the door to shut once more.
With that, Blaise disappeared down the corridor, leaving Draco and Pansy alone in the compartment. For a moment, they just sat there in silence, neither of them quite sure what to do next.
Draco broke the silence. “He’s, erm, right. We really should get going.” He rose to his feet, a bit awkwardly, and held out a hand to assist Pansy as well.
She accepted it silently, eyes never leaving his face, even as he still refused to meet her gaze.
Instead, his eyes flickered to the window as the train slowed, pulling to a halt, only vaguely aware of the movement beside him. What he saw there caught him off guard. Large black creatures stood still in the mist, their skeletal forms ghostly beneath the twilight sky. It was an eerie sight—one Draco had known to expect after the way he’d spent his summer under the tutelage of his dear Aunt Bellatrix. But knowing and seeing were two different things. Nothing had really prepared him for this.
His gaze stayed locked on them, the stark reality of their presence gnawing at him. Thestrals. Magical beasts only visible to those who had seen death.
Until a movement—a slight shift reflected back through the glass—stole his attention.
His heart gave an involuntary lurch.
“Go ahead,” he muttered to Pansy, who was still hovering near the door, watching him closely. “I’ll be right behind you.”
She hesitated, but then nodded and moved out toward the carriages ahead. Draco waited until she was out of sight before he rose to his feet, his mind still fixated on the movement in the black glass. Quietly, his wand was in his hand, a subtle flick, and a whispered incantation.
“Stupefy.”
The figure slumped against the seat with a soft thud.
Another incantation. “Petrificus Totalus.” The body went tumbling to the floor, the sudden movement causing whatever had granted them invisibility to falter.
Draco stared down at the white trainers poking out and reached down wordlessly, wand still drawn, to yank away the fabric covering the paralyzed figure.
His pulse quickened.
There he was. The motionless form of the Chosen One. The boy who lived, but still couldn’t figure out how to leave well enough alone. He must have been crouching behind the seats, spying on him the whole time.
At that revelation, something sharp and hot flared inside him—rage, annoyance, something bitter curling in his gut. But beneath it, something else.
Satisfaction.
Because Draco had been right. He hadn’t been paranoid after all.
He exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, a smile stretching across his face, so wide it made his cheeks ache.
And then he laughed. A deep, bubbling thing that, once it started, was very hard to stop.
All while Potter stared up at him, green eyes wide, frozen in fear.
Good.
Potter ought to be afraid of him. Afraid of what he could do.
He had the potential for great and awful things—things the Dark Lord had seen in him, nurtured in him, even under threat of punishment. Because only great power would provoke that kind of fear. That kind of desperation.
And Draco could feel it now.
The promise of it, the pull of it, thrumming through him as he stared down at the helpless prodigy.
But then—movement again.
Not Potter this time.
Beyond the smudged train window, the Thestrals were still there, looming figures in the mist. One shifted slightly, leathery wings unfurling, skeletal head tilting just enough to catch the light. Watching.
His gaze snagged on them. Held.
The laugh caught in his throat, curdled into something else—something sour.
He could see them.
He could see them.
The realization returned like a punch to the chest, knocking the air right out of him. The high of triumph, of righteous fury, drained from his limbs all at once, leaving behind something heavier. Something colder. He had killed. Or—had watched it. Had let it happen. The specifics didn’t matter, not to the Thestrals. They saw the truth. And now, so did he.
He swallowed hard, jaw tightening.
Whatever brief satisfaction he’d felt looking down at Potter—it soured quickly under the weight of that knowledge. Because the boy at his feet might’ve been a nuisance, but he wasn’t the one who could see the dead things now. That was Draco.
And he’d see more. More death. And still more. That much was inevitable.
With a practiced motion, he tucked his wand away, jaw still clenched tight.
Then, almost as an afterthought, he drew back one boot and drove it forward—square into Potter’s face. The crunch it made was sickening. Satisfying.
A parting gift. Given on behalf of his father.
And then he turned, robe swishing behind him, and strode out of the compartment without a second glance.
The realization made his stomach churn, his lunch from earlier threatening to make a reappearance. As he caught up to the spot where Pansy stood, waiting—hand outstretched for him to take it, to join her—he wondered: could she see them too? If she knew that he could, would she look at him differently? Would she flinch? Would she judge him, even if she tried not to? And worse—would the specter in his mind, the girl haunting the fog the same way she haunted his thoughts, look on with disgust too?
Whatever Pansy could see, to her credit, she immediately noticed the shift in his demeanor. He had avoided taking her hand, opting instead to step around her, to lead the way to the carriages where he knew the others would be waiting. Even still, she trailed after him, quickening her steps, her fingers brushing against his arm—soft, almost tentative. But Draco still didn’t meet her eyes. He couldn’t. His thoughts were consumed by the Thestrals, by what they meant—would go on to mean. By the things he’d already done—and the things he knew were still to come.
When the train shuddered to a stop and the doors slid open with a hiss, Pansy tried once more to catch his attention, her eyes following him as he moved toward the door. But Draco was lost in his own world. Without a word, he stepped off the train, boots hitting the cold ground, and made his way toward the carriages waiting at the edge of the platform.
She willingly trailed behind him now—a noticeable, quiet space between them. Draco tucked into himself, eyes blinking but unseeing as he passed the Thestrals and climbed into the carriage already occupied by Blaise and Theodore Nott.
Blaise glanced up as they entered, eyebrows lifting in mild surprise. “Well, that was fast,” he said, clearly expecting Draco to be smug or flushed or at least mildly entertained. But instead, Draco offered no reply—just a nod, curt and faraway, his expression unreadable as he sat and stared out the window once more.
Pansy followed a beat later, sliding in beside him with careful quiet. She didn’t speak, and the silence between them spoke louder than anything else.
Blaise looked between them, his brow furrowing slightly at the shift. “Alright… what did I miss?”
Draco didn’t answer, just pressed his lips into a thin line, content to block out the world around him. He allowed the curtains behind his eyes to fall closed, the indistinct chatter surrounding him to fade into near nothing. Even still, the sinking feeling in his chest threatened to drown him—threatened to drag him even farther past the unnamable, invisible line he’d already been forced to cross. And the silence, within himself, felt louder—heavier—than it ever had before.