Chapter 6
For the next week, Harry did everything he could to push Malfoy’s words from his mind. He clung to the potion like a lifeline, like it was the last warmth he’d ever feel. Because what if Malfoy was right? What if this was slipping through his fingers? The thought made him feel hollow. So he avoided Malfoy. Didn’t look at him in class. Didn’t seek him out.
But as the days crept by, Harry felt fear gnawing at him, sharp and relentless. Even before the potion had begun to wear off, he felt the panic building. And when it did start to fade, he cracked. He ran to Malfoy. Begged. Pleaded. He didn’t care how pathetic he looked.
And surprisingly, after long, agonising minutes, Malfoy agreed.
Now, he waited at the Astronomy Tower, pacing. His hands twitched at his sides, restless, as if his body already knew what was coming. The moment Malfoy arrived, Harry wasted no time.
"Potion, Malfoy." His voice was tight, desperate.
Malfoy hesitated. "I—" He exhaled sharply. "I changed my mind. This isn’t right."
The words hit like a hex to the chest.
Harry’s throat felt tight. "One last time," he begged. "Just once more."
Malfoy’s eyes were sharp, unforgiving. "I don’t believe you. You’re not even trying."
A spark of anger flared in Harry’s chest, but he forced it down. Don’t lose control.
"You don’t understand, Malfoy," he ground out.
"I do, Potter," Malfoy shot back, voice firm. "I absolutely do, and you know it."
"No!" Harry snapped. "You don’t. Because you’re on the other side of the war. If you’d forgotten that, take a look at your hand!"
Malfoy didn’t react. Didn’t even flinch. He just looked at him, steady and unshaken, and something in Harry cracked.
His fists clenched, nails biting into his palms. And then he swung.
His knuckles collided with Malfoy’s face, sending him stumbling back, but Malfoy recovered quickly, shoving him in return. Then they were fighting—punches thrown, breath ragged, blood smeared across their skin.
Malfoy gasped through gritted teeth, "I’m going to McGonagall."
Harry froze.
"No. No, no, no—you can’t." Panic clawed up his throat.
"Oh, I can," Malfoy said, wiping blood from his mouth with a smirk.
"Are you mad? They’ll expel you too!" Harry tried, desperation creeping in.
"She’ll find out soon enough, even if I don’t tell her." Malfoy’s expression hardened. "You’re losing it, Potter. And everyone’s going to notice very soon."
"No—no, Malfoy, please." Harry lunged forward, grabbing Malfoy’s wrists, holding onto him like he could anchor himself. "You can’t do this." His voice cracked. "Please."
Malfoy stilled.
Harry pressed his forehead against Malfoy’s shoulder, breathing heavily. "I won’t drink it," he whispered. "I swear. I won’t ask for it again—just don’t tell her. Please."
Malfoy was silent for so long that Harry’s pulse roared in his ears.
Finally, Malfoy let out a sharp breath. "Fine."
Then he shoved Harry away and stalked off without another word.
Harry stayed where he was, chest rising and falling in sharp, erratic breaths.
And then—he grinned. A wild, manic grin.
His fingers curled around the vial in his pocket.
He had taken it. When he had leaned against Malfoy, when he had begged, he had slipped it from Malfoy’s robes without him noticing.
He uncorked the bottle and downed the entire thing in one go.
The world spun. His limbs felt heavy. But the warmth was there, flooding through him, sweet and familiar. He felt light. Untouchable.
With a contented sigh, he made his way back to Gryffindor Tower.
When he stepped inside, Hermione and Ron were waiting.
The moment Hermione saw him, she rushed forward, Ron close behind.
And then—
Everything went black.
—
Weeks passed in a haze. Harry would wake up, only to slip away again, lost in the emptiness of unconsciousness. And when he finally did wake up—for real this time—he regretted it.
He lay motionless on the hospital bed, staring at the ceiling, his eyes open but hollow. There was no relief, no sense of return—just the crushing weight of being. The steady hum of the magical monitors filled the silence, a quiet reminder that his body still clung to life, even if he wasn’t sure he wanted it to.
Hermione was beside him, her face buried against his chest, her muffled sobs soaking into the thin fabric of his hospital gown. She held onto him as if her touch alone could anchor him back to the world. Ron stood at his other side, gripping Harry’s hand so tightly his knuckles turned white, as if sheer force could pull his best mate back from wherever he had gone.
Harry felt it all at once—the guilt, the sorrow, the exhaustion pressing into every inch of him. But through the fog of it all, one thought circled his mind, relentless and unshakable.
Why did I do it?
—
McGonagall was furious. She didn’t yell—she never had to—but the sharp disappointment in her eyes cut deeper than any raised voice ever could. She didn’t demand the truth from him, didn’t press him on where he had got the potion. Maybe she already knew Harry wouldn’t tell her. Maybe she understood that, in some way, this silence was the only control he had left.
He felt numb. Ron and Hermione hovered at his side, guilt weighing on their shoulders, though it was never theirs to bear. They blamed themselves for not seeing it sooner, for missing the signs. But Harry knew the truth—it wasn’t their fault. It was his.
Returning to class felt like stepping into a world that had kept moving without him. He wasn’t ready. He still felt hollow, still caught in the slow, unsteady process of putting himself back together. Hermione and Ron never left his side, and for the first time, he didn’t mind. He needed them now, needed their presence like a lifeline. They treated him like he might shatter at the slightest touch, and maybe they were right. He felt fragile, unsteady, like a child clinging to the warmth of their hands just to keep standing.
The school didn’t know what had happened. McGonagall had told them he had been sick, and most seemed to accept it. But rumours still swirled—whispers in corridors, curious glances in lessons. Harry ignored them. He had more important things to worry about. NEWTs loomed ahead, and even though everything felt impossible, he just needed to pass. That was all he could focus on now—one step, then another.
But through all the chaos, one thing haunted him.
Malfoy.
Not once had Malfoy looked at him. Not once had he spoken a word. He had shut Harry out completely, and Harry couldn’t blame him. He had betrayed him. Stolen from him. Lied to him. He wanted to apologise, to ask if Malfoy was alright, to fix whatever had broken between them. But he never found the courage.
Before he could make sense of it all, the school year was over.
And when it was time to leave, all Harry had left of Malfoy was a single photograph—the one with autumn leaves drifting past him, caught in an endless loop.
—
April, 2004
The afternoon sunlight spilled lazily through the sitting room window, casting golden patches across the wooden floor. The scent of freshly brewed tea lingered in the air, mixing with the faintest trace of smoke from the fire crackling in the hearth. It was one of those slow, easy days—the kind that stretched on without urgency, where time felt like it had nowhere better to be.
Harry sat slouched on the sofa, his socked feet propped up on the coffee table. A half-empty cup of tea rested beside him, long forgotten as he watched Hermione and Ron bicker over a game of wizard’s chess.
“That’s a terrible move, Ronald,” Hermione said, arms crossed as she leaned forward, studying the board with narrowed eyes. “Honestly, have you learned nothing after all these years?”
Ron scoffed, moving his knight anyway. “You always say that, and yet, who’s won the last three games?”
“You cheat,” Hermione accused, though there was a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.
Harry smirked, shaking his head. “Reckon we should start keeping score properly. Make it official.”
“Thank you, Harry,” Hermione said triumphantly, shooting Ron a smug look.
Ron groaned, rubbing a hand down his face. “Brilliant. Another thing she can beat me at.”
Their laughter filled the cosy little room, warm and familiar. Outside, the April breeze ruffled the trees, but in here, everything felt still and easy. Crookshanks dozed in the corner, his tail flicking every now and then in his sleep, while a stack of books sat haphazardly on the floor—half-read, well-loved, always within Hermione’s reach.
“You know,” Harry mused, stretching his arms above his head, “we should do this more often. Just sit around and do nothing.”
Ron snorted. “You do nothing for a living, mate.”
“Excuse me, I have a very important job,” Harry said, feigning offence. “I spend hours in dark, musty places, carefully mapping ou—”
“—while getting paid to go on adventures,” Hermione cut in, rolling her eyes. “Yes, we know.”
Harry grinned. “Jealous?”
Hermione sniffed. “I happen to love my job, thank you very much.”
Harry shook his head as he reached for his favourite magazine, flipping idly through the pages. The moving photographs caught his eye—places and faces frozen in time, smiling, waving, caught in endless loops. And then, as always, his mind wandered.
Malfoy.
It had been five years, but the guilt still clung to him, stubborn and unshakable. At first, that was all it had been—guilt. The sharp, unrelenting weight of knowing he had lied, stolen, betrayed someone who, for once in their lives, had only wanted to help. But with time, something else crept in.
Memories.
The laughter, the fleeting moments of mischief, the quiet understanding that had slipped between them when neither of them had been looking. It felt almost like a dream now, something distant and half-remembered.
And yet, if he ever saw Malfoy again—if, by some twist of fate, their paths crossed once more—he knew exactly what he would say.
I’m sorry. And thank you.
Because, in the strangest of ways, Malfoy had been part of what pulled him through. Not in the way Ron and Hermione had—steady, unwavering, always there—but in a different way. A way Harry hadn’t even realised he needed. Malfoy had never coddled him, never tiptoed around the wreckage of who he’d become after the war. He had fought him, challenged him, met him exactly where he was—angry, lost, desperate for something to hold onto. And for a time, they had both found something in each other. A distraction. A game. A secret shared in the quiet corners of Hogwarts, where the weight of the world couldn’t quite reach them.
Maybe it hadn’t been healthy. Maybe it had been reckless. But it had helped. And that was something Harry couldn’t forget.
But he hadn’t seen him. Not once. Not since the day they left Hogwarts.