Chapter 2
"Who—Potter, what the bloody hell?" Malfoy hissed, his voice low but laced with the usual venom.
Harry silenced him with a quick motion, pressing a finger to his lips, his eyes frantic. "The potion," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Isn’t it what makes you like this?"
Malfoy froze, his expression unreadable for a moment before his lips curled into a tight sneer. "What if I tell you yes?" he said slowly, the challenge in his voice clear.
Harry didn’t hesitate. He didn’t need to. "Share it with me," he said, his words spilling out before he could stop them. His tone was sharp, desperate, but he didn’t care. The need was too strong.
Malfoy looked at him as if Harry had gone mad. "No!" he barked, his voice rising in disbelief.
"I will tell McGonagall," Harry shot back immediately, his gaze never wavering.
Malfoy’s eyes widened, his mouth opening in shock. "You’re kidding me!" he spat. "You promised you wouldn’t tell her!"
"I didn’t promise you," Harry retorted, his patience fraying. "Are you going to share it with me or not?"
Malfoy stood there, stunned for a moment, clearly torn. Harry could see the wariness flicker behind his eyes, but it was the slightest hint of fear—real, raw fear—that made Harry realise how far he was willing to go. Malfoy wasn’t just avoiding the truth; he was terrified of something. Harry wasn’t sure what, but the look in his eyes made it clear that the potion, whatever it was, was far more than it appeared.
"Potter, you bloody idiot," Malfoy muttered, his voice low and frustrated. "You don’t even know what it is."
"Then tell me," Harry demanded, his voice harsh now, the desperation creeping in. He wasn’t going to back down. He needed to know.
Malfoy glared at him, his jaw clenched tightly. "Listen," he said, his voice almost a growl, "let’s talk about this later. People might see us."
Harry’s heart quickened. Was Malfoy scared? Or was he just playing games? "What are you trying to escape, Malfoy?" Harry asked, his voice a little softer, a trace of confusion slipping through.
Malfoy’s eyes flickered, but he didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he took a deep breath and backed away slightly, his posture tightening, his defences rising. "No," he said firmly, his voice barely a whisper. "I’ll see you tomorrow night. Astronomy Tower. Be there."
And with that, he was gone.
Harry stood there, his chest heaving with unspent breath. The words echoed in his mind. Astronomy Tower. Of course, it would be there. The one place where secrets were kept, where things that were too dangerous for daylight found refuge in the shadows. Harry’s pulse raced as he realised just how much was riding on this moment.
The potion—Volitare Essence—Malfoy’s secret, whatever it was, was now in Harry’s hands. He couldn’t let it slip away. He wouldn’t.
—
When Harry arrived at the Astronomy Tower, he found Malfoy pacing back and forth, his silhouette sharp against the pale glow of the moonlight. The Slytherin’s movements were restless, as though he couldn’t quite settle, his cloak flaring slightly with each sharp turn. When he saw Harry, he stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes narrowing, a flash of frustration crossing his features. Then, in a swift motion, he stalked towards Harry as if he were about to grab him by the collar.
"I’m not going to share it with you!" Malfoy spat, his voice a sharp, almost angry hiss.
Harry stood his ground, his own patience wearing thin. "And I can tell McGonagall," he said, his voice hard, though something in his chest tightened with the weight of the threat.
Malfoy’s face darkened, but his calm composure from earlier had completely dissolved, replaced by something more raw, more frustrated. "Yeah, go ahead," Malfoy said, almost mocking him. "Go run off to the new headmistress. See if I care."
The words hit Harry harder than he expected. Malfoy’s complete lack of concern unsettled him, more than the threat of being caught. It was clear now that Malfoy knew exactly what Harry needed—and that Harry wouldn’t dare expose him. And that knowledge made Harry pause, something cold spreading through his veins.
Harry opened his mouth to argue but then stopped. He realised, in that moment, how much he needed the potion. How much he was willing to push, to beg, to do anything to escape the weight of the war, of his past, of the darkness clawing at the edges of his mind.
He pulled a card he thought he’d never use, but the words spilled out before he could stop them. "Don’t you think you owe me, Malfoy?" Harry’s voice was steady, but there was a tremor beneath the surface, a plea he couldn’t quite mask. "I helped you from death."
Malfoy froze, his breath caught in his throat, and for a split second, Harry saw something flicker behind his eyes—something close to guilt, or maybe even shame. It was gone as quickly as it came, but the silence between them stretched long, both of them suspended in the weight of unspoken history.
Malfoy remained still for what felt like an eternity, the moonlight casting long shadows across his features. Then, in a voice that was almost too calm, too controlled, he spoke, his words sharp and deliberate. "Promise me, Potter," he said, his gaze unwavering, "promise me you won’t tell anyone about this. And you won’t get caught."
Harry didn’t hesitate. He couldn’t. His pulse was thundering in his ears, but he steadied his breath, forcing the words out with a confidence he didn’t feel. "Yeah. Sure. I promise. You can absolutely believe me."
Malfoy looked at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable, before he let out a breath, as if a heavy weight had been lifted off his chest. "Fine," he said, the word almost a surrender. "But you need to know something first."
Harry stood frozen, the air thick with tension. He was on the edge, barely holding on to his composure, his heart racing with anticipation.
Malfoy took a step closer, his eyes locking with Harry’s, and in that moment, Harry realised this was no simple potion. This was more than just a way to escape, more than a way to block out the past. There was something deeper to it, something dangerous—and Harry was about to cross a line he couldn’t uncross.
Malfoy’s voice dropped lower, his tone becoming almost conspiratorial. "Volitare Essence isn’t just a potion, Potter," he said, his eyes flicking over Harry as though he were measuring him. "It doesn’t just make you forget or feel happy. It makes you choose. You don’t just drink it and forget everything. No. You drink it and whatever you want to happen... happens." He paused, his gaze intense. "But you can’t just want anything. It’s about what you truly desire. What you need the most. And the more you use it, the more it... consumes you. You start to lose control."
Harry’s breath hitched. Control—that was the last thing he had. And Malfoy, of all people, was warning him about it?
"Sounds dangerous," Harry muttered, though the words felt hollow, foreign, as if they had slipped from someone else's lips. He wasn't sure if he was speaking out of caution or something far more desperate.
"It is," Malfoy admitted, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant, like he was sharing a secret he had no right to speak aloud. His gaze flickered to the potion, then back to Harry, something unreadable in his expression. "But it’s not the potion that takes control of you, Potter. It’s you who loses control. If you let it consume you—if you start relying on it too much—you won’t even realise when it starts pulling the strings instead of you."
Harry swallowed, his throat dry. "So how do you stop that from happening?"
Malfoy let out a slow breath, his posture unusually still. "You don’t let it become a crutch. You learn it. You master it." His voice was softer now, steady but edged with something sharp. "If you use it properly—if you know when to stop—you won’t lose yourself to it." He tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing. "But if you get obsessed, if you start chasing the feeling... you’ll wake up one day and realise you don’t know who you are without it."
A chill ran down Harry’s spine.
Malfoy exhaled, shaking his head as if trying to rid himself of something unpleasant. "Just—don’t be an idiot, Potter," he muttered, though there was no malice in it, just something eerily close to concern. "Use it well, and it won’t use you."
Malfoy took a measured sip from the vial first, his movements slow, precise. Then, with a sigh, he handed it over.
"Two drops," he instructed, his voice edged with warning.
Harry didn’t hesitate. He tipped the vial, let two shimmering drops hit his tongue. For a moment, nothing happened. Then—something stirred inside him, something warm, something electric. It spread through his veins, unfurling like a spell breaking free, washing over him in waves. The heaviness in his chest, the suffocating weight of everything that had been—it was gone. He could finally breathe.
A grin broke across his face, wide and unrestrained. Then, without meaning to, without even realising it, he laughed. Loud and full, like he hadn’t in years.
When he finally looked back at Malfoy, there was something different about him too—not quite a smile, but a warmth, something almost fond lingering in his features.
"It’s—bloody brilliant, Malfoy!" Harry gasped between bursts of laughter.
"I know, Potter," Malfoy drawled, but there was amusement in his voice.
Harry let out another laugh, his whole body buzzing. "You’re happy," Malfoy observed.
"Yeah—wait—" Harry’s grin faltered slightly as something dawned on him. He blinked at Malfoy, confused. "But why aren’t you happy like me?"
Malfoy arched a brow, unimpressed. "Because my desire is to be calm and composed," he said matter-of-factly. "While yours, apparently, is to be an overexcited toddler on a sugar high."
Harry let out a breathless chuckle, shaking his head. He felt light. Weightless. Even as he stood there, facing Malfoy of all people, he realised—he didn’t feel an ounce of resentment, no lingering bitterness, no remnants of the past clawing at the edges of his mind. Nothing. Just this strange, effortless warmth.
His gaze flickered back to Malfoy, studying him properly. He looked the same—sharp lines, platinum hair, arms crossed in that ever-superior way—but there was a stillness in him now, a quiet certainty.
"How did you even get this?" Harry asked, curiosity breaking through his haze of joy.
Malfoy smirked. "What, Potter, you think I’m just going to start spilling all my secrets?"
"You already gave me the potion," Harry pointed out, grinning. "What’s there to hide anymore?"
Malfoy let out a slow breath, tilting his head, as if considering whether or not Harry was even worthy of the answer. Then, finally, he spoke.
"I made it."
Harry stared. Then, he burst out laughing again. "You’re kidding me!"
Malfoy’s smirk deepened. "No, Potter. I’m not."
And for some reason, that only made Harry laugh harder.
"Potter, if you keep grinning like that, your friends are going to know something’s off," Malfoy said, arms crossed, watching him with thinly veiled amusement.
Harry, still feeling the aftershocks of euphoria, barely stopped himself from laughing again. "Oh, don’t worry, Malfoy," he said, straightening up and schooling his features into something far more morose. He sighed dramatically, shoulders slumping. "I’ll act like I’m drowning in grief."
Malfoy raised a sceptical brow. "You can act?"
Harry smirked. "Malfoy, you’ve got no idea."