Chapter 5
For the next two months, life carried on smoothly, the potion working just as well as it had before. Pretending to be miserable around his friends was growing tiresome, but it was hardly a real problem—not when Ron and Hermione had their own battles to fight, their own ghosts of the war to outrun.
But nothing good lasts forever.
Not peace. Not potions.
Not even Sirius.
It happened in March.
Harry felt it creeping up on him—slow at first, a whisper of unease beneath his skin, then all at once, unbearable. The potion was wearing off. He needed another dose. But Malfoy wasn’t there.
Not in the Great Hall. Not in the corridors between classes. Not waiting for him at the Astronomy Tower.
At first, Harry told himself it was nothing. Malfoy would turn up, as he always did. But then the hours stretched too long, the itch under his skin turned raw, and the edges of his world sharpened into something unbearable.
Desperate, he asked Greengrass. She barely looked at him before shrugging, her expression unreadable. “I don’t know.” But there was something in her gaze—pity, maybe. Disdain. Harry couldn't tell, and he didn’t care.
By the next morning, he was fraying at the seams. Hermione had stopped trying to talk to him, watching him now with wary eyes. Ron was losing his patience, snapping at him in frustration, but Harry barely noticed. He was losing himself.
And then Malfoy was there.
Sitting in class like nothing had happened.
Harry barely lasted through the lesson, his fingers gripping the edge of his desk so tightly his knuckles went white. When the room emptied, he stayed behind. And so did Malfoy. As if he’d been expecting him.
Harry didn’t waste a second. He was on him in an instant.
“Potion,” he demanded, voice low, desperate.
But Malfoy just looked at him, something cold in his gaze. And then, without warning, he laughed. A sharp, hollow sound, like glass breaking.
“You’re fucked up, Potter,” he said, voice laced with something that wasn’t quite amusement, wasn’t quite anger.
But Harry didn’t care. Couldn’t. The need clawed at him too viciously to care about anything else.
“Potion, Malfoy,” he pressed, harsher now.
But this time, Malfoy didn’t hand it over. Didn’t reach into his robes, didn’t give in like he always did. Instead, he stepped back, shoving Harry away as he turned to leave.
Something inside Harry snapped. He lunged forward, grabbing Malfoy’s sleeve, his grip tight, desperate.
“Salazar, Potter,” Malfoy hissed, yanking his arm away. He looked awful. Worse than Harry had ever seen him. His eyes were red-rimmed, dark circles etched deep beneath them, his usual sharpness dulled by something heavy, something hollow.
And still, Harry didn’t care.
“Astronomy Tower,” Malfoy said, voice flat.
“No.” Harry’s breath was ragged, his vision narrowing to a pinpoint. “I want it now.”
Malfoy just stared at him. And for the first time, Harry saw something else in his eyes—something dark, something fractured.
“You can wait a little longer,” Malfoy said. And then he was gone, leaving Harry standing there, trembling, alone, and coming undone.
—
Before night fell, Harry felt like he was drowning.
His skin was too tight, his thoughts too loud. He couldn't sit with his friends, couldn't bear to be seen like this—frantic, unraveling. So he disappeared. Locked himself in a stall in the girls' bathroom, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes, trying to block it all out.
The hunger for the potion clawed at him, raw and unrelenting.
He skipped dinner. He couldn’t eat, couldn’t speak. Instead, he went straight to the Astronomy Tower, map in hand, eyes fixed on Malfoy’s every movement. He watched as Malfoy lingered in the dungeons, moved through the corridors at an infuriatingly slow pace. Harry’s patience thinned with every second.
By the time Malfoy finally arrived, Harry was already on him, reaching out, desperate.
Malfoy didn’t say a word as he handed over the vial.
Harry uncorked it with shaking fingers, swallowing the drops without hesitation. Relief hit him like a wave, and he sagged, his breath coming out in a shudder.
Before he could tip the last of it into his mouth, Malfoy’s hand shot out, snatching the vial away.
Harry barely noticed. The world felt bearable again. He let himself drop to the floor, lying flat against the cold stone, chest rising and falling as he exhaled. For the first time in hours, he felt alive.
A tear slipped down his temple, but he smiled. He was fine now. Everything was fine.
Until Malfoy spoke.
"I'm not giving it to you anymore."
Harry sat up so fast his vision swayed. "What?"
"You heard me." Malfoy’s voice was flat, final.
Harry let out a sharp breath, a humourless laugh. "You're joking. You wouldn’t do that to me."
"Oh, I would," Malfoy said, expression unreadable.
Something hot flared inside Harry—anger, panic, something worse. He clenched his fists, told himself to breathe, to stay in control. But the potion didn’t steady him like before. It didn’t quiet the rage simmering in his veins.
He wanted to hit Malfoy. Wanted to shake him, make him take it back.
But before he could do anything reckless, Malfoy sat down beside him. His movements slow, tired.
And then, to Harry’s surprise, he pulled out the small yellow camera.
Harry’s anger wavered. He stilled, watching as Malfoy—pale, dark circles under his eyes, looking like he hadn’t slept in days—lifted the camera.
Click.
The picture slid out, blank at first.
They waited.
Slowly, the image formed—Harry, wide-eyed, caught between anger and exhaustion. And around him, a flurry of golden autumn leaves.
Harry stared at it, something twisting in his chest.
Malfoy said nothing. Just held out the photo, waiting for Harry to take it.
Harry took the photo, staring at it for a long moment before turning it over. He didn’t want to look at it. He didn’t like what he saw—the hollow-eyed boy caught in mid-motion, the russet and gold leaves drifting around him like a slow, inevitable fall. It wasn’t like the flowers or the stars. It wasn’t something he wanted to keep.
Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy, until Malfoy finally spoke. His voice was quieter than usual, edged with something raw.
"My mother was ill."
Harry felt a pang of guilt, shame curling in his stomach for how he'd snapped at him earlier.
"She caught me with the potion," Malfoy continued, his gaze fixed on the ground. "She knew what it was. Knew exactly what it did. And she told me to stop. I hated her for that—for a moment, I really hated her. I told her she didn’t understand, but the truth is, she does. Probably better than I do."
He exhaled sharply, as if trying to steady himself.
"I wanted to take it anyway. I was desperate. But I couldn’t—not when she was looking at me like that. So I didn’t. And I lost my mind for a few days. I felt like I was drowning in it. Then one afternoon, she took a picture of me."
Malfoy gave a hollow sort of laugh.
"I hated that too. Hated seeing myself like that. But then I looked through the ones I took here—with you. And I realised I wanted to look like that again. Not just in the photos. I wanted to be that person without the potion forcing it."
Harry stayed silent, listening.
"My mother figured it out first," Malfoy admitted. "She told me the answer was simple—too simple."
Malfoy took a slow breath, turning the camera over in his hands. His fingers traced the worn edges like he was grounding himself. Then, he spoke again.
"The potion… it doesn't create happiness, Potter. It just amplifies what we already want to feel. When I took it, I wanted to be numb. I wanted to forget. And it worked—it drowned everything out. I thought I had control over it. But no, without it, I felt like I was dying. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t breathe. And that’s not living, is it?"
He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "She told me that if I truly wanted to feel normal, really wanted it, then the potion would stop working the way it does. Because it’s built on desire. It only feeds what’s already there. If I craved numbness, it gave me that. If I craved happiness, it made me feel happy. But none of it was real. Not truly."
Malfoy glanced at Harry then, his gaze steady, unwavering. "I wanted to stop. I wanted to go back to who I was without it. But I couldn’t just drop it and be fine. I had to fight through it. I had to let myself feel like hell so I could get through it and come out the other side. And I’m still fighting, Potter. I don’t feel normal yet. But I want to. And that want—that real desire—means that the potion doesn’t have control over me anymore. I do."
He lifted the photograph of Harry, the one with the autumn leaves swirling around him. "And I want you to try too."
Harry felt like the ground beneath him had shifted, like something fundamental had cracked open inside his chest. He stared at Malfoy—really stared at him. He wasn’t sharp-edged and quick-tongued like usual. He looked tired, frayed at the edges. But he also looked real in a way Harry wasn’t sure he’d ever seen before.
Malfoy had been struggling. All this time, he'd been fighting. And Harry hadn’t noticed. He’d been too wrapped up in his own desperation, in his own need for the potion, to even see it.
He gripped the photograph tighter. Autumn leaves, drifting around him. It should’ve been beautiful, but it wasn’t. It felt like an ending. Like something was closing in on him, changing around him, and he didn’t know if he was ready.
"I can’t," he said before he even realised he was speaking. His voice came out hoarse, barely above a whisper.
Malfoy didn’t look surprised. He just nodded, like he’d expected it. That made something twist inside Harry’s chest.
"You think I didn’t want to keep taking it?" Malfoy’s voice was softer now, not accusing, just tired. "I did. I still do. Every bloody day, I do. But I don’t need it anymore. And that’s the difference."
Harry wanted to argue, wanted to say that Malfoy was stronger than him, that he couldn’t do what Malfoy had done. That without the potion, everything would come crashing down. That he needed it.
But wasn’t that the problem? That he was afraid of himself without it?
His fingers curled around the photograph, the paper cool and smooth against his skin. He wasn’t ready. Not yet. But for the first time, he wondered if he ever could be.
—
That night, Harry couldn’t sleep. He felt happy—yet he didn’t. His mind churned restlessly, thoughts circling like ink bleeding across damp parchment. The warmth the potion usually spread through him felt dimmer, flickering uncertainly, like a candle in a draught. Was it still working? Or had something shifted?
Malfoy’s words wouldn’t leave him. The potion doesn’t force happiness—it only amplifies what’s already there.
Harry shut his eyes tightly. It had always been simple before. The potion dulled the weight pressing against his ribs, smoothed the rough edges of his thoughts. He had never questioned it. Never wanted to.
But now…
Now, something was different.
He had seen Malfoy without it tonight—truly seen him. Not the version shaped by the potion, but the raw, unfiltered person underneath. And it had unsettled him. Malfoy had looked wrecked, hollow-eyed and stretched thin, but beneath it all, there was something else. Something sharp and determined, like he was standing at the edge of a storm and refusing to be blown over.
And now, Harry found himself wondering.
Could he do the same?
The thought made his stomach knot. The answer should have been obvious—no. He didn’t want to feel like that. He didn’t want to go back to the crushing weight, the sleepless nights, the feeling of being wrong in his own skin.
But the problem was, he wasn’t sure what he wanted anymore.
It all felt too sudden. Too fast. Just weeks ago, their world had been steady—The Astronomy Tower, the camera, the potion. Their quiet, unspoken routine. Predictable. Safe.
And now, Malfoy had changed, just like that, and Harry felt like he was struggling to keep up. It gnawed at him, something bitter curling under his skin. Why now? Why was Malfoy suddenly strong enough to let go, while Harry still felt like he was drowning without it?
It wasn’t fair.
They were supposed to be in this together. Weren’t they?
But Malfoy had moved forward. And Harry—Harry was still clutching the potion like a lifeline, terrified of what would happen if he let go. Because maybe, just maybe, it really was the only thing keeping him afloat.