Chapter 13
The return to Hogwarts marked the beginning of a new year, the Triwizard Tournament was a closed chapter, yet his victory had only served to fuel his popularity. Nobody had forgotten.
And, it seemed, neither had Draco Malfoy.
From the very first day, the blonde had made it clear that he wasn’t going to give Harrt any respite. He sought to get closer with an almost obsessive persistence—throwing remarks during their shared classes, finding excuses to cross paths in the corridors, sitting closer during meals—as if his sheer insistence might chip away at the wall Harry had erected between them.
But Draco avoided him. Not with overt theatrics or outbursts of anger, but in the simplest, most effective way possible: by ignoring him.
Whenever the blonde spoke, Harry replied with a mere “mh” or “yeah.” If asked a direct question, he dismissed it with a “maybe,” “I don’t know,” or “up to you.” There was no hostility, no malice. Just detachment. This had been going on for two and a half months now, yet Malfoy—of course—refused to accept it.
«Potter.»
«Potter, damn it.» just an extra blink in reaction time—nothing more.
The Slytherin caught up with him, walking at his side as they descended the fourth-floor corridor.
«What the hell is gotten into you?»
«Nothing.» a curt, flat reply.
«Nonsense.» Draco gritted his jaw in frustration.
«You’re so damn confusing, Potter.»
The dark‐haired guy barely turned, his deep green gaze impassive.
«And so?» the other suddenly hesitated, almost tripping over himself.
«What do you mean… "and so"?»
He offered no answer, resuming his walk while leaving behind the blonde and his lingering gaze.
He had no intention of lingering in the infirmary any longer than necessary. He wasn’t worried. Not really—it was just… for safety. Simply to check.
Simply to see with his own eyes that Draco Malfoy was still intact, that his aura wasn’t in any way… diminished.
He had sensed Draco approaching even before he saw him. He always sensed it—the soft sound of his breath, the measured step, his aura slipping in like an annoying shadow at the edge of perception.
When he finally saw Draco outside the infirmary—safe and sound—a fleeting sense of relief welled up inside him. But he made no show of it.
He said nothing to him. He asked nothing. He didn’t even spare him a glance.
Yet, when he reached the infirmary himself, he hadn’t even managed to open the door before Draco was already leaving.
They halted, mere inches apart. Draco blinked in surprise.
«Oh? Don’t tell me you’re here for me, Potter.»
Harry stared at him for a second, then—without a word—turned and resumed walking. And, of course, the blonde followed him with his usual persistence, his typical arrogance.
«Wait, Potter. You didn’t even ask me how I am.»
Silence.
«Not even a little "Are you alive, Malfoy?" or "What happened to you?"» Draco added, quickening his pace to fall in step with him.
The Gryffindor continued to ignore him. He kept walking, his face impassive, yet inside his breath quickened and his blood pounded at his temples.
He didn’t want to see Draco. He didn’t want to feel his presence—the weight of his magic that seemed to envelop him. He didn’t want to smell it.
That scent clung to his mind, annoying, persistent, undeniable—a blend of fresh mint and something clean, natural. Not overpowering, but delicate, like the wind through a forest after rain.
He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to feel him. He didn’t want—
Draco was the first to come to a halt.
The echo of their footsteps died away. They found themselves in an empty corridor, immersed in an almost unreal silence.
The Slytherin stared at him, and Harry could feel that gaze piercing his skin like blades.
«Stop playing that damn "Saint Potter" act—or whatever role you think you’re playing.»
Harry tensed as Draco advanced a step. The dark-haired’s forced calm shattered. His breath caught in his throat; his heartbeat pounded deafeningly. He spun around abruptly.
Eyes blazing—an abyss of green and dark flames—his aura erupted like a wildfire, power swirling around him in unstable waves. The floor trembled. The very air became electric, saturated, heavy.
The other did not move; he did not retreat.
«You… damn it. It’s always you!» Harry’s voice trembled with something fierce and uncontrollable.
He gritted his teeth, his breath ragged. He didn’t want this. He didn’t want to feel this. He didn’t want to surrender.
Yet Draco was there—too close—with that familiar yet irritating scent invading his nostrils, the warmth of his body just centimeters away.
Without thinking. Without rationalizing. The blonde grabbed Harry by the collar of his shirt and shoved him against the wall.
…and kissed him.
He froze. For a moment—just a moment—the world seemed to stop.
A choked sound escaped him as his fingers instinctively clawed at the fabric of the Slytherin’s uniform—as if he wanted to push him away… or hold him closer.
It was a desperate kiss. Brutal.
And Harry… Harry responded.
His hands tightened around Draco’s nape; his nails grazed his skin; his body moved forward—invading, confident, hungry.
It was as though the entire universe had ceased to exist. There was no more Hogwarts, no empty corridor, no that mad Dumbledore. There was only the suffocating heat of their mingled mouths, only the intoxicating taste of Draco on his tongue, only the unbearable need to have him even closer.
Then, suddenly, he pulled away.
Abruptly.
As if the contact had burned his skin. Draco stood still, his breathing heavy, his lips flushed.
«Don’t you dare say you didn’t want it.»
Harry ran a hand through his hair, his aura still a tumult. He said nothing more—he couldn’t. He turned and vanished into the darkness of the corridor.
The taste of the Gryffindor was an intoxicating paradox—cold, like the biting winter wind, yet with a subtle warmth that seeped beneath the skin; sweet, but not cloying, like a hint of honey on a silver blade. There was something both intoxicating and dangerous in that kiss—something that enveloped you before you even realized it.
He remained frozen, his lips slightly parted, still ensnared in the sensation. Then, all at once, reality struck him. He slid along the wall with a dismayed sigh, collapsing onto the floor as he covered his face with his hands.
«Ah, fuck—I’m so happy.»
He murmured with a soft laugh, incredulous, his heart hammering in his chest. But there wasn’t time to dwell on that thought; another immediately followed.
«He’ll start avoiding me even more than before, though.»
And with that, his smile froze on his lips. No—he couldn’t allow it. Not after what had just happened.
«What if I use the perks of being a prefect?»
He mused aloud, his thoughts tumbling into an as-yet undefined plan that he knew would either be brilliant… or cause trouble.
«Malfoy, have you completely lost your mind?»
Blaise’s voice made him jump. He looked up to see his friend staring at him with a mixture of amusement and perplexity.
«Oh, shut up, Zabini. Don’t ruin the moment.» replied, letting himself fall into yet another satisfied smile.
The blonde pursued him—not in a flashy, over-the-top manner, he would never be that obvious, but with a keen gaze that followed him through the corridors. He teased him with cutting quips, found every excuse to brush against him when they passed too near, making it clear that he was still there, that he wouldn’t give up.
Yet Potter avoided him—more than ever—and for Draco, that was a thorn in his side he could no longer tolerate.
Then, suddenly, Potter began to disappear. First one day. Then two. Then three. After an entire week of complete absence, Draco couldn’t stand it any longer. Where the hell had Potter gone?
Perhaps out of desperation—or simply for his own gain—Blaise hauled him over to Ron and Hermione.
The redhead, as soon as he saw Zabini, turned as if to leave, the tension in his shoulders betraying his annoyance. He was still avoiding Potter; he understood why Potter and Weasley got along.
But the Ravenclaw grabbed his wrist and held him firm.
«Where’s Potter?» she demanded directly, without wasting a moment.
«And don’t tell me he’s sick.»
Hermione regarded him for a few seconds, then sighed and, with a swift flick of her wand, cast a concealment charm around them.
«Not that we really know where he is.» she finally replied.
«He just told us to cover for him.» Ron added, still without glancing at the mulatto beside him.
Zabini folded his arms and tilted his head slightly.
«And doesn’t Dumbledore ask himself a few questions?» the brunette remarked, shaking his head.
«I don’t think he knows. He’s not at school. I think Harry decided to leave precisely because of this.»
A chill ran through Draco. Had the dark‐haired guy really left Hogwarts? And no one knew where he was?
Hermione shrugged.
«Now, if you don’t mind, we’re leaving.»
And without another word, she stood up and broke the charm—leaving them with more questions than before.
Harry had returned. Not with announcements or fanfare, not with explanations—he simply showed up at breakfast, sat beside Ron, and began acting exactly as before, as if his absence had been utterly irrelevant.
In Potions class, while he was discussing something trivial with Ron—something about the recipe for the Elixir of Euphoria—something distracted him: he no longer sensed Draco’s aura.
He hadn’t seen it all morning, but only now did he realize the absurdity. It was always there—a persistent shadow at the fringes of his existence, a constant, irritating, inevitable presence.
Then, from behind, he heard Blaise whisper something to Pansy.
«Malfoy is in Dumbledore’s office.»
Something inside the dark‐haired guy tightened into a cold knot. He stood up. He didn’t ask permission. He didn’t worry about the rules. He ignored Snape, ignored the surprised looks from everyone. He walked toward the exit with apparent calm, but as soon as he crossed the threshold, the shadows swallowed him whole.
He dematerialized, dissolving into his own darkness, and then reappeared with the violence of a storm in Dumbledore’s office.
The room trembled. The very air seemed to crackle and split; the world itself bent around him.
His twisted horns curved like burnt tree roots—a dark summons to something primordial. His slender, lethal hands ended in obsidian-black claws, as sharp as blades.
His eyes were no longer merely eyes; they were two incandescent abysses—a churning void of ever-shifting green and gold.
On skin as black as night, iridescent scales began to appear, like the sky just before a storm. Runic scars marked his flesh—a memento of the power that had forged him.
And his hair—raven-like and wild—blazed with golden and green highlights, the tips aflame as if consumed by an invisible fire.
The shadows followed him—not simply drawn to him, but as if they recognized him as their sovereign.
«What the hell are you doing, damn old man?» he snarled, and the room itself seemed to contract around him.
The air grew heavy.
A shadow stretched out in the room—dark, creeping, almost liquid—distorting the space around it. There had been no sound, no crackle, no gust of wind. And then, suddenly, Harry was there.
Behind his chair.
The blonde jumped, feeling something both cold and burning brush against his skin. Slender, long fingers—obsidian-black claws—rested delicately on his eyes.
«Relax.» whispered the dark‐haired guy, his voice deep and imbued with something almost inhuman.
Draco startled, but did not move. The other’s scent enveloped him—intoxicating, indecipherable.
Before them, Dumbledore said nothing. Perhaps he didn’t have the time. Then a fracture opened behind the headmaster.
From the floor—from the very shadow itself—black, spectral hands emerged, twisted and deformed. They stretched out like famished claws, tearing Dumbledore from his chair.
Through the narrow gap between the dark‐haired guy’s fingers, Draco saw Dumbledore being dragged backward, sucked into the yawning abyss beneath him.
There was no scream. Only the sound of darkness closing in on itself.