Right person
The next morning, Draco appeared at the door of Harry’s cell once again, this time with a book tucked under his arm. The dungeon was shrouded in its usual dimness, cold seeping through the cracks in the stone walls, but something felt different—lighter, though Draco couldn’t explain why.
He gently pushed the door open, careful not to make a sound. Inside, Harry was still asleep, his fragile form curled up on the thin mattress, wrapped only in the threadbare remnants of warmth his body could muster. His breathing was soft, uneven, the kind of sleep that came not from peace but from sheer exhaustion.
Without thinking, he stepped inside.
Silently, he placed the book on the edge of Harry’s mattress, its worn cover catching the faint flicker of light from the narrow, barred window above. “Camellia,” it read in delicate lettering—The Lady of the Camellias.
But instead of leaving, Draco found himself drawn closer, his footsteps light as if afraid to shatter the fragile moment. His gaze traced the sharp lines of Harry’s face—sunken cheeks, dark circles beneath eyes that had seen too much, lips pale and chapped.
And yet, even in this brokenness, there was something striking.
Draco’s hand moved before his mind caught up, his slender fingers reaching out, brushing gently against Harry’s hollow cheek. The touch was feather-light, like a whisper against fragile glass. His skin was cold, too cold, but soft in a way that made Draco’s chest tighten.
He sighed softly, his thumb lingering for a heartbeat longer than it should have.
What am I doing?
He’s just…
He’s not supposed to be like this.
Harry stirred under his touch, his body tensing. In an instant, those emerald green eyes snapped open, wide with panic. Harry jerked back, scrambling to press himself against the cold stone wall, arms wrapping protectively around his knees, his entire body trembling like a leaf caught in the wind.
His fear hit Draco like a slap.
“it’s me,” Draco said quickly, his voice softer than he’d intended. He raised his hands slightly, a gesture of surrender. “I’m not here to hurt you.”
Harry didn’t respond. His gaze dropped to the floor, refusing to meet Draco’s eyes, his breathing uneven, shallow with silent fear. He slowly sat down on the edge of the mattress, leaving a careful distance between them. No sudden movements. No harsh words.
Just silence.
Reaching for the book he’d brought, Draco placed it gently beside Harry, his fingers brushing the worn cover.
“Camellia,” he murmured quietly. “It’s… a good story. You should read it.”
Harry’s gaze fell on the book Draco had placed beside him. His thin fingers, trembling slightly, reached out to touch its worn cover, the texture unfamiliar after so long without anything but cold stone and rusted chains. Though he didn’t say a word, the faint flicker of interest in his eyes was undeniable.
Draco noticed everything. The way Harry’s posture softened just a little, the curiosity buried beneath layers of exhaustion and fear. He absorbed these details, filing them away somewhere deep inside, where pity mixed with something harder to name—something like… recognition.
He’s just like him.
No, Draco wasn’t starved, not physically. But Voldemort had found other ways to hollow him out. He’d taken everything that mattered—his mother, his father, his family’s dignity—and left Draco alive, not out of mercy, but as a cruel reminder. A living punishment. Voldemort didn’t need to kill Draco. He’d simply stripped him of everyone he loved, like tearing pages from a book, one by one, until nothing remained but an empty cover.
And now, the last familiar face in Draco’s life was Harry Potter.
The Boy Who Lived, reduced to the boy who barely survived.
A part of Draco wanted—needed—to help him escape. But another part, the part that had been shaped by fear, hesitated. Because defying Voldemort wasn’t just dangerous—it was suicide.
Draco broke the silence, his voice soften:
“I brought you a book to pass the time,” he said, his tone casual, though the words felt heavier than they should. “Not like you’ve got much else to do, Potter.”
Harry’s fingers traced the cover before he tilted his head slightly, his emerald eyes meeting Draco’s with a flicker of something unreadable—curiosity? Amusement? His voice, when it came, was raspy from disuse, but there was a faint edge of sarcasm buried beneath the hoarseness.
“A Muggle book?”
The question hung in the air, laced with just a hint of mockery. Draco knew why. Back at Hogwarts, he’d been the poster child for pure-blood supremacy, sneering at Muggle-borns and everything associated with them. But time—and loss—had a way of reshaping even the most deeply ingrained beliefs.
Draco didn’t flinch. He met Harry’s gaze evenly.
“Yes. It’s good. I’ve read it.”
Harry’s brow arched slightly, the ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of his chapped lips.
“I never thought I’d live to see the day Draco Malfoy reads Muggle books,” Harry whispered, his voice so faint it was almost swallowed by the cold air. It wasn’t a harsh comment, just an observation, a shard of their old rivalry poking through the cracks of their present reality.
But Draco heard it.
He hears everything.
Draco chuckled softly, a dry sound that held no real humor.
“Well, Potter, a lot’s changed since Hogwarts,” he replied quietly. “Turns out blood status doesn’t matter much when you’re both trapped in the same cage.”
Harry’s smile—if it could even be called that—faded as quickly as it appeared. His gaze dropped back to the book, fingers lingering on its spine as if grounding himself.
“And here I thought you’d never grow up,” Harry murmured, not looking at Draco this time.
Draco didn’t respond right away. The words stung, not because they were cruel, but because they were true.
Harry’s lashes lowered slightly, his gaze distant, shadowed by thoughts he couldn’t voice aloud. Then, as if pulled by something beyond his control, Harry’s voice broke the quiet.
“What’s it like… out there?” His words were soft, almost fragile. “The world. The Muggles… the wizards… what’s left of them?”
It was the question that had haunted Harry every sleepless night, the one that gnawed at the edges of his mind even when he tried to bury it. But the silence that followed told him everything.
Draco didn’t answer.
He stood there for a moment, his back stiff, shoulders tense. The question lingered between them like a ghost, heavy with the weight of truths neither wanted to face.
Draco didn’t answer, after a moment, he stood, brushing imaginary dust from his robes, his movements sharp and restless.
“Read the book, Potter,” he muttered, turning toward the door. “Might make you forget where you are for a while.”
The door creaked shut with a finality that felt heavier than chains.
Harry let out a shaky breath, his chest rising and falling with the quiet exhale. He wasn’t surprised. Not really. Deep down, he already knew the answer. Whatever world existed beyond these stone walls, it wasn’t the world he’d fought for. Voldemort had made sure of that.
Night had crept over the desolate halls, its silence pressing down like a suffocating blanket. But outside Harry’s cell, footsteps echoed softly—a rhythm he’d grown used to over the past few days. Familiar. Predictable.
Draco Malfoy.
The door creaked open, and there he was again, silhouetted against the dim corridor light. This time, Draco carried a tray—a real tray—with actual food. Not the tasteless, watery gruel Harry had been forced to survive on, but something warm, fragrant, almost… normal.
A bowl of steaming rice, tender slices of meat glistening with savory juices, fresh green vegetables—and, sitting neatly on the edge of the tray, a slice of Treacle Tart.
The sight alone made Harry’s chest tighten.
Treacle Tart.
His favorite.
A flavor he’d thought he’d never taste again—a memory of laughter-filled dinners at Hogwarts, of Ron’s bad jokes and Hermione’s exasperated sighs. A taste tied to a world that was gone. To people who were gone.
Draco stepped inside, his lips quirking into the faintest smile when he noticed Harry deeply engrossed in the book he’d left. There was something oddly comforting about the sight—Harry, hunched over, brows furrowed in concentration. For a moment, it was almost as if they were back in the library at Hogwarts, bickering over homework or House rivalries.
But when Harry realized he wasn’t alone, he fumbled clumsily to hide the book behind his back, as if embarrassed to be caught reading.
Draco couldn’t help it—he laughed.
“Potter,” he chuckled, setting the tray down, “I’m not going to mock you like I used to. Just read if you want.”
Harry’s cheeks flushed faintly—whether from embarrassment or the warmth of something unfamiliar, even he couldn’t tell. Slowly, awkwardly, he brought the book back in front of him, his fingers lingering on the pages as if to anchor himself.
Draco didn’t comment further. Instead, he lifted the tray and settled onto the edge of Harry’s thin mattress.
“I told you, didn’t I?” Draco said softly, the teasing edge gone from his voice. “I said I’d bring you real food.”
The rich aroma of seasoned meat and freshly cooked rice filled the small cell, mingling with the cold, damp air. Harry’s stomach clenched painfully—not from hunger, but from the sharp reminder of how long it had been since he’d had anything like this.
His gaze drifted to the Treacle Tart, and for a brief moment, his breath hitched.
A memory flashed—Hogwarts. The Great Hall bathed in candlelight, Ron grinning with crumbs on his face, Hermione rolling her eyes, the warmth of friendship wrapping around him like an invisible cloak.
How long had it been?
He didn’t know.
But the warmth didn’t reach his hands. His fingers trembled slightly as he tried to lift them, only to realize that the pain was too much. His hands, still bandaged and fragile, refused to obey.
No matter, he thought bitterly. I can eat without them.
Lowering his head, Harry instinctively leaned forward, intending to eat the way Voldemort had taught him—the way a dog was expected to eat.
“Like the filthy animal you are.”
The words echoed in his mind, even though they weren’t spoken aloud this time.
But just as Harry opened his mouth to take a bite directly from the bowl, Draco’s voice snapped through the haze, sharp with disbelief.
“Potter, what are you doing?”
Harry flinched, startled. His posture curled inward defensively, his arms wrapping around his knees as if trying to make himself smaller.
Draco’s expression softened immediately, guilt flickering across his face.
“If it hurts to hold the spoon, you should’ve told me,” Draco murmured, his voice low, gentle in a way Harry wasn’t used to hearing—not from anyone. “Sit up. I’ll feed you.”
Harry stared at him, stunned, as if the words themselves were some kind of trick. He shook his head weakly, his pride whispering no, but Draco didn’t give him the chance to refuse.
Without another word, Draco scooted closer, scooping a bit of rice, meat, and vegetables into the spoon. The mixture steamed slightly, fragrant and warm.
Draco held the spoon out, hovering near Harry’s lips.
Don’t think. Just eat.
Harry’s hunger overpowered his hesitation. Slowly, hesitantly, he parted his lips, allowing Draco to feed him the first bite.
And with that first bite, something in him shattered.
The warmth of the food spread through his body like wildfire—real food, real flavor. His eyes widened involuntarily, reflecting the faint flicker of light in the cell, as if stars had been ignited within them. The rich, savory taste flooded his senses, overwhelming him with a feeling he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in a long time:
Comfort.
Draco saw it—the flicker of light in Harry’s emerald eyes—and felt something stir in his chest. An ache. An unexpected warmth.
He smiled softly, almost without realizing it.
“Good?” Draco asked quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.
Harry didn’t nod, didn’t speak. But he didn’t need to.
The answer was written clearly in his eyes—those bright, emerald-green eyes that, despite everything, still held a flicker of light. A fragile spark amidst all the darkness. They shimmered slightly, catching the dim glow of the dungeon’s lantern, reflecting not just satisfaction from the food, but something deeper. Something warmer.
Draco’s chest tightened, though he didn’t let it show. He simply chuckled under his breath, his fingers steady as he scooped another spoonful. The savory saltiness of the meat mixed with the subtle sweetness of the rice, while the crisp freshness of the vegetables added a delicate balance. Harry ate eagerly, as if the food itself was a thread pulling him back from the edge of something vast and empty.
Bite after bite, Draco fed him, silently counting each spoonful until the bowl was empty—scraped clean. Harry leaned back slightly, his thin fingers brushing against his stomach in a small, unconscious gesture of contentment.
Then came the final piece—the Treacle Tart.
Draco picked up the small slice with care, holding it out as if it were something sacred. Harry’s eyes lit up at the sight, the faintest gasp escaping his lips before he leaned forward without hesitation, his mouth parting to accept the bite. The moment the sweetness touched his tongue, Harry’s expression shifted—softened into something Draco hadn’t seen before. Pure, unfiltered joy.
The tart disappeared quickly, each bite vanishing as if Harry feared it might be taken away at any moment. When it was gone, Draco gently wiped the crumbs from the corners of Harry’s mouth with a cloth, his touch tender, uncharacteristically so.
“Stay here,” Draco murmured, standing up with the empty tray. “I’ll take these back and come right back.”
He turned, his steps light despite the weight pressing on his heart.
But he didn’t get far.
A sudden tug on his sleeve stopped him mid-stride.
Draco glanced back, surprised, to find Harry’s thin fingers clutching the fabric of his robe. Harry’s head was slightly bowed, his hair falling in messy strands over his bruised face. Then, softly—so softly Draco almost thought he imagined it—Harry spoke.
“Thank you.”
His breath caught, his heart skipping a beat. A faint heat crept up his neck, spreading to his cheeks. He quickly averted his gaze, his lips twitching into a small, awkward smile. Draco gave a small nod, his throat tight with words he didn’t know how to say. Then, carefully—almost reluctantly—he slipped free from Harry’s grasp and walked out, the door clicking softly behind him.
The door creaked open again, breaking the suffocating silence of the cell. Draco stepped inside, his footsteps quieter this time, careful. In his hand was a delicate porcelain cup, faint tendrils of steam curling from its surface—a simple cup of hot Earl Grey.
“Your tea,” Draco murmured, placing the cup gently on the floor beside Harry before straightening as if to leave.
But then Harry’s voice—soft, yet sharp as ever—cut through the air.
“Why are you being kind to me, Malfoy?” Harry’s tone was quiet but laced with suspicion. His gaze lifted, piercing emerald eyes meeting Draco’s with the same intensity that had once defied the Dark Lord himself. “You hate me… don’t you?”
Draco stopped in his tracks, his back tense as if Harry’s words had been a physical blow. He didn’t turn around immediately. For a moment, he simply stood there, breathing in the stale, cold air, searching for an answer he wasn’t sure he had.
Slowly, he turned back and without a word, Draco sat down again beside Harry, his fingers brushing against his own knees, restless.
“I’m just following orders,” Draco replied flatly, his voice distant, almost mechanical. “I told you—I’m trying to survive. Just like you.”
But Harry wasn’t satisfied with that answer. He never was the type to settle for half-truths.
He sighed softly, his ribs aching with the simple act, then turned to face Draco fully.
“If it’s just about orders,” Harry murmured, his gaze sharp despite the hollowness in his voice, “you wouldn’t be bringing me proper food. Or tea. You wouldn’t care if I ate or not. So tell me, Malfoy… what do you really want?”
Draco didn’t answer right away.
Instead, he found himself staring at Harry—the bruises on his skin, the gauntness of his face, but most of all, those eyes. They still glimmered faintly, like shards of emerald fighting against the darkness of this place.
And somehow, that light—so small felt like it pierced right through him.
After a long silence, Draco exhaled, his voice low and raw when he finally spoke.
“Because… Potter,” he whispered, “you’re the only friend I have left. The last familiar face in a world that’s falling apart.”
His words hung in the cold air, trembling between confession and defeat.
Harry blinked slowly, his face unreadable.
“Friend?” he said, tilting his head slightly, his lips curling into a bitter smile. “You’re a Death Eater, Malfoy. I don’t make friends with Death Eaters.”
The words were harsh—sharp enough to cut—but not unfair. Harry spoke them not with venom, but with the hollow resignation of someone who had nothing left to lose.
Draco flinched slightly, but instead of snapping back, he just… stared.
It should’ve hurt. Maybe it did. But pride felt like such a distant, irrelevant thing now.
Taking a slow breath, Draco met Harry’s gaze again, his expression softer than it had been in years.
“Maybe that’s true,” he whispered. “But I’m still the only person you’ve got right now. And like it or not, you’re all I’ve got too.”
His voice cracked slightly at the end, though he quickly masked it with a tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“I just don’t want to see you die like this.”
But Harry didn’t let the words linger.
“He won’t let me die,” Harry interrupted, his voice flat, eyes distant. “I’m his trophy. His proof. If I die, he loses his fun.”
There was no bitterness in his voice—just cold, hard acceptance. A fact carved into his bones, as real as the scars on his skin.
The casual way Harry spoke of his own worthlessness made something twist painfully in Draco’s chest.
“Don’t talk like that!” Draco snapped suddenly, his voice louder than he intended. His fists clenched at his sides, trembling slightly. “I don’t want to see you like this!”
Harry’s eyes snapped back to Draco’s face, surprised by the outburst.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Just the sound of their ragged breathing filled the space between them.
Then, without another word, Draco stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the cold floor. His chest felt too tight, the walls too close. He turned and stormed out, the door slamming shut behind him with a finality that echoed through the hollow, empty room.
Harry sat there in the silence that followed, staring at the door long after Draco had gone.
When Harry woke the next morning, the faint, bitter taste of disappointment lingered on his tongue before his mind could even fully register why.
Draco’s not here.
The cell was quiet—too quiet. The dim gray light seeped in through the small barred window, casting long shadows across the cold stone floor. Harry sat up slowly, his body aching in familiar places, though the sharp pain from his hands had dulled, leaving only a distant throb beneath the bandages.
He glanced toward the door, half-expecting to see Draco standing there, leaning lazily against the frame with that infuriating, smug little tilt to his lips. But the space was empty.
Why does that bother Harry?
He shook the thought away, frustrated with himself, only to notice something at the threshold—a small tray neatly placed just outside the bars.
He was here.
Harry scrambled off the mattress, his weakened legs wobbling slightly, but he managed to steady himself. He pulled the tray inside with more eagerness than he cared to admit.
Breakfast was simple but thoughtful—two slices of buttered bread, fluffy scrambled eggs, a cup of milk, and, of course, a slice of Treacle Tart.
Draco hadn’t forgotten.
Harry didn’t waste time. His injuries had healed enough for him to eat without help, though he was slower, awkward even, as he adjusted to the unfamiliar sensation of using his hands again.
But as he chewed, savoring the warmth of the eggs and the soft sweetness of the tart, he realized something was missing.
Not the food.
Not the comfort.
Draco.
For the past few days, Draco had been more than just a shadow slipping in and out of the cell. He’d been… present. Sitting there, making sure Harry ate, sometimes speaking in soft, careful words. Other times, they’d just stare—awkward, silent, but not unpleasantly so. It was strange how even silence felt different when someone was there.
Harry paused mid-bite, the bread suddenly feeling dry in his mouth.
He misses Draco
It was absurd. They weren’t friends. They weren’t anything.
It had only been three days.
Three days since Draco last sat beside him, since his cold, sharp voice had filled the emptiness of the cell with something other than silence.
Only three days, and yet Harry felt the absence like a wound.
It wasn’t just the food. Not the warm meals or the careful bandages that Draco had wrapped around his fragile hands. It wasn’t even the Treacle Tart, though it tugged painfully at memories of a life Harry could barely remember now.
It was Draco’s eyes.
The way he looked at Harry—not with pity, not with the cruel amusement Voldemort’s followers often wore—but with something different. Something unsettlingly real. A strange mixture of defiance and vulnerability, like he was fighting a war inside himself every time he met Harry’s gaze.
And Harry… missed it.
Missed him.
The realization hit harder than he expected, tightening in his chest like a curse he couldn’t shake.
What’s wrong with him?
It had been so long since anyone treated him like a person. So long since anyone’s touch wasn’t meant to hurt, since anyone’s voice wasn’t laced with malice or commands.
Maybe that was all it was.
Loneliness.
A primal need for human connection after years of being nothing more than Voldemort’s trophy, his symbol of victory. Maybe Draco was just a fragile thread of humanity in a world that had long forgotten Harry Potter was more than a scar and a name.
But it didn’t feel like just that.
Harry clenched his fists, feeling the pull of healing skin beneath the bandages. He hated this—hated the vulnerability, the ache for something as simple as being seen.
His thoughts spun in circles, each one more suffocating than the last.
Harry told him he didn’t make friends with Death Eaters.
The memory of those words burned now, sharp and bitter. He’d wanted to hurt Draco, to remind him of the lines that should never be crossed. But the truth was, Harry wasn’t sure where those lines were anymore.
Maybe they’d already been crossed.
Maybe Draco actually has good intentions.
Or maybe… maybe Harry was just so broken that he couldn’t tell the difference anymore.
The walls felt smaller today, the silence louder. Harry pressed his forehead to his knees.
he’s losing my mind.
As night fell, Harry glanced out from his cell, his eyes instinctively searching for a familiar figure. But Draco was nowhere to be seen. A faint trace of disappointment flickered in his chest, quick and unwelcome. He crushed it before it could take root.
Shaking his head, Harry silently pulled the food tray into his cell. The meal was the same as always—plain but complete, untouched by change. He stared at it for a moment, the sight oddly heavy, stirring something restless inside him. It made last night’s memory feel even worse.
Maybe… maybe he owed Draco an apology.
A week had passed. Draco still hadn’t appeared.
Yet the food trays never failed to arrive, each one meticulously prepared, never lacking. The steady rhythm of nourishment had quietly reshaped Harry—filling him out, softening the sharp edges carved by starvation and horrible torment. His once sunken hollows beneath his eyes had eased, replaced by skin flushed with faint traces of health. The gauntness that clung to him like a second skin was now giving way to something fuller, something almost normal.
His wounds were healing too. The bruises had faded from angry purples and blues to faint yellow smudges, some disappearing altogether. His hands, though still weak, no longer trembled with every small movement. He could hold things again, move without wincing at every breath, though the heavy chains still clung to his neck, wrists, and ankles—unyielding reminders that freedom was nothing more than a distant wish.
And Merlin, how he wished.
Just one day—one single day—free from the cold bite of iron against his skin.
Harry sighed, pushing the finished tray aside. His fingers fumbled beneath the thin, rough pillow until they found the worn cover of the book Draco had given him—a Muggle book titled The Lady of Camille.
It was surprisingly good.
Not that it was his first time reading Muggle literature. Far from it. But there was something comforting about these stories—simple, grounding, untouched by the chaos of magic. No dark spells, no heroic duels, no prophecies etched into the marrow of his bones. Just fragile things: love, family, the quiet ache of ordinary lives.
And for the first time, Harry wished he were a Muggle.
Wished he didn’t have to face any of this.
He’d made it halfway through the book when an unsettling weight crept into his chest—a slow, creeping dread he couldn’t shake. What if he finished the book and Draco still didn’t return? What if he was left alone again, with nothing but the suffocating silence for company?
What if Voldemort came back?
The thought hit him like ice water down his spine.
Harry shivered, biting his lip until the metallic tang of blood filled his mouth. Then, with trembling fingers, he opened the book again, letting the words swallow him whole—an escape, however fleeting, from the reality he couldn’t bear to face and the future that felt like it was already waiting just around the corner.
Two weeks had passed.
Harry had finished Camille.
It was the only comfort he’d had in this cold, barren cell But now, with the last page turned and nothing left to occupy his mind, an unbearable emptiness crept in.
Draco hadn’t visited. Not once in those two weeks.
At first, Harry told himself it didn’t matter. He didn’t care. But the hollow ache in his chest told another story. It settled there, deep and heavy, growing heavier with each passing day. The silence became suffocating, the walls closing in just a little more with every heartbeat.
He felt small. Forgotten.
Now, with no book to distract him, there was nothing left to drown out the dark tide rising inside.
One more week.
Just one more week, and Voldemort would return.
The nightmare wasn’t over. It was just on pause, waiting to sink its claws back into him. The thought gripped Harry tighter than the chains ever could.
He didn’t want to face it.
He didn’t want to face him.
He wish Voldermort would just leave him alone.
Harry squeezed his eyes shut, as if darkness could protect him from the darkness inside. But sleep didn’t come easily. It never did, not anymore. His mind wouldn’t quiet, thoughts clawing at the edges of his fragile composure.
Then came the cold.
A sudden draft slipped through the cracks, sharp as knives against his skin. It wasn’t just the chill of stone walls—it felt deeper, crueler. His body trembled uncontrollably, his thin clothes useless against the creeping frost. Instinctively, he curled in on himself, drawing his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around his frail frame as if he could hold in whatever warmth he had left.
But it wasn’t enough.
Nothing was enough.
And Harry was so, so tired.
“Harry.”
“Harry, wake up!”
Harry jolted awake, his breath hitching in his chest. But the damp, suffocating darkness of his prison cell was gone. No cold stone walls, no iron chains biting into his skin.
Instead—green.
Lush, vivid green.
The gentle rustle of leaves, the soft whisper of wind threading through his hair. The ground beneath him was warm, rich with the scent of earth and grass. He turned around, heart pounding, and there it was.
Hogwarts.
Not the broken, bloodstained ruins from his nightmares. No. This was Hogwarts in all its untouched glory, bathed in sunlight, its towers reaching proudly toward the sky. It felt like a distant dream, one he thought he’d buried beneath the cold weight of survival. A dream from the days he’d lived in a cupboard under the stairs, imagining a world where he wasn’t invisible.
“Harry, are you okay?”
The voice pulled him to the right.
Hermione.
Her face was as familiar as breathing—bright eyes filled with warmth and intelligence, her Gryffindor robes crisp and spotless, untouched by the scars of war. No lines of worry, no shadows under her eyes. She was…whole.
“Harry, come on! We’re going to be late!”
On his left—Ron.
Ron, with his messy shock of ginger hair and freckles scattered like constellations across his nose, his grin as careless and easy as it used to be. Gryffindor tie slightly crooked, like always. No burns, no hollow eyes, no haunted look of someone who’d lost too much.
They both reached for him, their hands warm against his skin. Harry just stared, wide-eyed, as if afraid they’d vanish if he blinked.
Where is he?
Is this real?
Is this… death?
Maybe he’d died. Maybe Ron and Hermione had come to take him wherever it was people like him went after everything was over.
But when Ron tugged at his sleeve and Hermione’s laughter filled the air, light and carefree, Harry couldn’t help it. His lips curved into a smile—a real one, bright and unguarded, the kind he hadn’t felt in years. Not since…
Not since before.
They pulled him forward, toward the castle gates, and for a fleeting moment, Harry let himself believe.
Then the sky shifted.
A crimson hue bled into the blue, slow at first, then spreading like wildfire. Red. Deep, violent red.
The color of blood.
The blood of friends lost. The blood of those he couldn’t save.
Harry stumbled, his breath catching. His heart slammed against his ribs. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the image away.
But when he opened them—Hogwarts was burning.
The stone walls crumbled, swallowed by ash and flame. Smoke coiled into the sky like dark fingers reaching for him. The echoes of screams filled the air—familiar voices woven into the roar of destruction.
Harry’s chest tightened, panic rising like a tide.
No, no, not again.
His hands shot out, gripping Ron and Hermione’s tightly. Not this time. He won’t lose them again. He yanked them forward, his legs moving before his mind could catch up.
“Run!” Harry’s voice was raw, desperate. “Ron, Hermione—RUN!”
He didn’t know where he was going. It didn’t matter. As long as he could get them away. As long as he could save them.
Their hands were warm in his, grounding him even as the world around them crumbled.
“Harry…”
Hermione’s voice was soft, almost distant.
But he couldn’t stop. He wouldn’t.
“Harry.”
Ron’s voice now, low, like a whisper brushing against the chaos.
But Harry ignored it, his grip tightening.
“Harry, stop!”
Harry skidded to a halt, breath ragged, heart pounding so hard it felt like it would burst from his chest. Anger flared—hot and sharp—as he spun around.
“WHAT?!”
And then—
Silence.
He let go. His hands fell to his sides.
They weren’t Ron and Hermione anymore.
Not the Ron and Hermione he’d known. Not the friends who’d laughed with him in the common room, who’d fought beside him through every battle.
Harry’s scream tore through the suffocating air, raw and ragged, echoing like a wounded animal in the hollow space of his mind.
Hermione stood before him—or what was left of her. Her neck hung at an unnatural angle, twisted grotesquely, as if it had been snapped without a shred of mercy. One of her eyes was gone, replaced by an abyss of darkness, an empty socket staring back at him like a void carved into her soul. Her lips—Merlin, her lips—stitched together with jagged, blackened thread, crude and cruel, sealing away any scream that might’ve escape— The handiwork of Bellatrix
Her body was a canvas of scars, each one a silent testimony to pain inflicted, to horrors endured. The sins of war etched into her skin.
And Ron…
Ron was unrecognizable. The wild, messy ginger hair Harry had teased him about for years was gone—shorn to the scalp, leaving only raw patches of bruised, mottled skin. His face bore deep gashes, angry and red, wounds carved by daggers wielded with hatred. His once-bright blue eyes were pale, clouded over—sightless. The Death Eaters had taken that from him. They’d taken more than that. His left arm was gone, nothing but a jagged stump, and the rest of him was no better, marred by the violent aftermath of a war they never truly escaped.
Harry collapsed to his knees, his emerald eyes brimming with tears, blurring the nightmare before him. His hands flew to his head, fingers tangling in his hair as if he could rip the horror out of his mind. His sobs were desperate, broken.
“Please… please stop…” he choked, his voice no louder than a whisper, trembling like fragile glass on the verge of shattering. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
But Ron and Hermione said nothing. They simply stared—silent ghosts, their ruined faces twisted not with anger, but with something worse.
Disappointment.
Then it came—that voice. Low, rasping, serpentine.
“Dear… did you really think you could escape me?”
The sound slithered around him, seeping into every crack of his sanity.
Voldemort.
Harry scrambled to his feet, heart racing like it wanted to claw out of his chest. He turned to run—but a cold, skeletal hand shot out, fingers curling around his wrist like iron shackles.
No.
A blinding slap snapped his head to the side, the sting immediate, sharp enough to taste blood.
“Crucio!”
The world exploded.
Pain unlike anything he’d ever known—worse than any physical wound, worse than any scar etched into his skin. It wasn’t just pain. It was every nerve in his body igniting, his blood turning to molten fire beneath his skin. His muscles seized, his spine arched against his will, and a scream ripped from his throat, hoarse and endless.
“Please—” he gasped, sobbing, “please stop—”
“Crucio!”
The curse slammed into him again, more vicious this time. Harry convulsed, his body jerking violently, sweat pouring from him, mingling with tears and spit. His vision blurred, his heartbeat a deafening drum in his ears. Every breath was a battle, every second stretched into an eternity of agony.
His mind splintered.
He could feel his sanity slipping, unraveling like threads pulled from frayed fabric. His eyes rolled back until only the whites showed, veins bulging, crimson streaks spiderwebbing across the fragile green. His mouth opened in a silent scream as his vocal cords gave out, shredded from overuse.
I can’t… I can’t…
Darkness crept at the edges of his mind, sweet and merciful.
And then—nothing.
Harry’s body went limp, his chest rising in shallow, his eyes closed
And then snapped open.
But the nightmare wasn’t over.
But then He was back. Back in that room. The one where Voldemort kept him tortured, hidden from the world, like a trophy meant only to be broken and displayed. The one where every full moon he ordered the Death Eaters to mercilessly raped him, beaten him, tortured him.
Harry squeezed his eyes shut, praying—begging—that when he opened them again, it would be different.
But when his lids fluttered open, it wasn’t.
The room had changed—but only in the cruelest of ways. Now it was darker, the flickering glow of torches casting long, twisted shadows. And there they were—Voldemort and his Death Eaters. The memory hit him like a fist to the gut.
The sound of his own screams echoed in his mind before his mouth could catch up.
They had pinned him down that day. Held his hands against the stone floor, forcing his fingers apart as Voldemort’s cold, thin voice whispered curses that made his skin crawl. Harry didn’t need to remember the details—his body never forgot. The sharp, searing agony as they crushed his fingernails, one by one. The sickening crack.
But he’d cried.
Merlin, he’d cried.
And he was crying now.
“Please…” His voice was hoarse, “Please… stop. It’s enough. It’s enough—”
But it wasn’t enough.
“You deserve this, Potter.” Voldemort’s voice slithered into his ears, cold and triumphant.
The pain didn’t stop.
“You’re pathetic. Potter”
Harry curled into himself, trembling so violently it felt like his bones would shatter. His mind screamed louder than his voice ever could, drowning in a storm of memories that refused to fade.
Make it stop. Please. Make it stop.
“POTTER!”
The shout jolted him awake—or at least, awake in the only way he knew anymore. Harry’s body lurched upright, as if pulled by invisible strings. His breath came in short, ragged gasps, his chest heaving like he’d just escaped drowning. Sweat drenched him, clinging to his skin like a second, suffocating layer. His heart raced, pounding so hard he thought it might crack his ribs from the inside.
“Stop… please… just stop…”
Harry’s voice was nothing more than a broken whisper. His arms wrapped tightly around his head, fingers digging into his tangled hair as though he could claw the memories out, rip the fear from his skull.
“Potter.”
A voice cut through the haze—soft, familiar, but distant “It’s me… Draco Malfoy.”
But Harry didn’t hear him. Not really. The voice morphed in his mind, twisted by fear until it sounded like him—the voice he could never escape. Voldemort’s hiss seemed to slither beneath Draco’s words, distorting reality, poisoning the fragile line between now and then.
“No… no, no—”
Harry’s body recoiled, shrinking into the corner of the cold stone wall. His back hit it with a dull thud, as if he could vanish into it, disappear completely. His breaths came in sharp, shallow gasps, fogging the air in front of him. His vision blurred—not from tears alone, but from the dizzying spiral of panic gripping him tight.
His hands flew up, shielding his face, trembling fingers splayed as if they could ward off the darkness, the curses, the pain.
Draco stood frozen for a moment, Draco’s throat tightened. He swallowed hard, pushing down the ache, and stepped closer, slow and careful.
“Harry… I’m not going to hurt you. It’s me. It’s Draco.” His voice softened, laced with something Harry might have recognized if the fear wasn’t so loud. “He’s not here. The Dark Lord’s not here. It’s just me. You’re safe now.”
Safe.
The word didn’t mean anything anymore. Not to Harry.
He shook his head violently, his body rocking back and forth as if motion alone could drown out the truth—or the lie—he wasn’t sure which. Maybe it was a trick. Maybe it was him again, slipping into Draco’s skin like a snake shedding and slithering back.
Draco didn’t flinch. Instead, he dropped to his knees, lowering himself to Harry’s level, hands raised in a gesture of surrender, his eyes soft despite the storm inside them.
“Shh… Harry, it’s okay. You’re safe. Just look at me. Please.”
Tentatively, he reached out, his hand hovering inches from Harry’s sweat-drenched face. But the moment his fingers brushed against Harry’s clammy skin, Harry flinched violently, his whole body jerking like he’d been hit with another curse. A sharp gasp escaped him, and for a heartbeat, Draco thought Harry might lash out—or collapse entirely.
But then Harry’s trembling hand shot up, not to push Draco away… but to touch him.
Fingertips grazed over Draco’s knuckles, as if Harry was afraid Draco might vanish like smoke beneath his touch. His hand was ice-cold, shaking uncontrollably. He traced the outline of Draco’s hand, his touch feather-light, searching, checking—trying to find the truth beneath the skin. Was Draco real? Or just another ghost conjured by his stupid mind?
Draco’s breath hitched, but he didn’t move. He let Harry explore, let him feel the warmth of his skin, the faint tremor of his pulse—a heartbeat that Harry could anchor to, if only for a moment.
Harry’s fingers gripped Draco’s hand tighter, as though grounding himself, and then his head slowly bowed. The sobs returned—quieter this time, but no less devastating. Silent tears streamed down his face, carving paths through the grime and sweat. His forehead pressed against Draco’s palm, his ragged breaths hot and damp against Draco’s skin.
Wordlessly, Draco shifted closer, cradling Harry’s face in his hands, his thumb gently brushing away tears that never seemed to stop.
“I’m here, Harry,” Draco whispered, voice thick, a faint tremor betraying the ache lodged in his throat. “I’m here. And I’m real. You’re not alone.”
Seeing that Harry had calmed down, Draco shifted closer. Gently, he wrapped his arms around Harry, pulling him into a warm, protective embrace. His long, elegant fingers traced soothing patterns along Harry’s trembling back, soft and deliberate—like Harry was something precious, more valuable than gold.
“… Harry, I’m here. You’re safe now. He’s not here. Just me.”
Harry’s sobs softened but didn’t stop, muffled against Draco’s chest. His voice was broken, raw from screaming, trembling with the weight of everything he’d endured.
“… h-he—Voldemort—he wants to kill me… h-he hurts me, Draco…”
Each word stabbed through Draco like a blade. But he didn’t flinch. Instead, he tightened his hold, resting his chin lightly atop Harry’s messy hair, his fingers never ceasing their gentle motion across Harry’s back. Letting Harry cry until Draco’s shirt was soaked with tears and breathless sobs.
Every choked gasp, every desperate hiccup—Draco heard it all. Felt it all.
Without thinking, driven by instinct more than thought, Draco’s lips parted, and he began to hum softly—
“The monster’s gone,”
“He’s on the run,”
“Have no fear,”
“Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy…”
The melody wove around them like a delicate spell, its gentle rhythm syncing with Harry’s ragged breathing. The tension in Harry’s body slowly melted under the weight of Draco’s voice.
Harry’s sobs grew quieter, his breathing steadier, until eventually, his exhaustion claimed him. He drifted into sleep, his face buried against Draco’s chest, his fingers still clutching Draco’s shirt with a desperate, unconscious grip, as if afraid Draco might disappear if he let go.
But Draco didn’t move.
He stayed right there, holding Harry through the silence, his hand resting gently on the back of Harry’s head, fingers threaded through sweat-dampened hair.
And then he fell asleep. Right next to Harry.
The morning light seeped faintly through the cracks in the cold stone walls, casting pale slivers across the floor. Harry stirred, his body wrapped in an unfamiliar warmth—not the biting chill he was used to in this cursed room. His brows furrowed slightly as he blinked awake, adjusting to the soft light.
Then he felt it.
An arm around his waist.
His heart jolted, and he instinctively turned his head to the side.
Draco Malfoy.
Draco was asleep, his face relaxed, softer than Harry had ever seen it, his arms still loosely draped around Harry’s waist. His face flushed a deep red as he scrambled backward, trying to distance himself, the sudden movement jerking Draco from his sleep.
Draco blinked groggily, then his silver-grey eyes shot open fully when he realized what had happened. His face turned pink as he awkwardly sat up, scratching the back of his head and deliberately looking away. The tension in the room grew thick, lingering like morning mist.
Harry, still processing, remained silent, his heart pounding as flashes of last night’s memories rushed back—his tears, Draco’s voice, the warmth of that comforting embrace.
Bloody hell.
His face grew even redder, if that was possible.
Breaking the suffocating silence, Draco quickly stood up, brushing imaginary dust off his robes like it would somehow dissipate the awkwardness.
“Winter’s here…” Draco muttered “I thought you might be cold, so I brought some warm clothes.”
Harry’s gaze shifted to the sweater Draco was holding—a dark green one, soft and neatly folded. His brows furrowed slightly with curiosity.
“Dra—uh, Malfoy,” Harry corrected himself, “I can’t exactly wear that. You know, on account of the fact that Voldemort thought it’d be funny to keep me chained like this—collar, wrists, ankles. I can barely get this oversized shirt on, let alone a sweater.”
Draco didn’t respond with words—not immediately. Instead, there was a soft clang.
Harry’s eyes snapped to the sound.
In Draco’s hand was a ring of magical keys, their metallic glint reflecting the faint morning light.
“I’ve come prepared, Potter.”
Harry stared, his heart skipping a beat—not out of fear, but disbelief. Draco approached him cautiously, unlocking the chains around Harry’s wrists, neck, and ankles with precise clicks. The moment the final shackle hit the floor with a heavy clang, Harry felt it—a weight lifted, freedom flooding into his limbs like fresh air after being underwater too long.
He flexed his fingers, touching the raw skin where the shackles had been.
It felt un fucking real
“Here,” Draco said softly, holding out the sweater along with a pair of pants. “I thought… well, you might want this. Considering you’ve only got that one pathetic excuse of a shirt… and, uh, well… just your boxers underneath.”
Harry blinked, then without hesitation, reached out to take the clothes. And promptly pulled his oversized shirt off.
Right there.
In front of Draco.
Draco choked on his own breath, his face turning scarlet. “Potter! Fucking hell! If you’re going to change, at least warn me so I can—look away or something!”
Harry tilted his head, genuinely confused. “You’re acting like some shy teenage girl, Malfoy. We’re both guys. What’s there to be embarrassed about?”
Draco’s ears turned pink. “I’m not embarrassed!” he snapped, clearly flustered.
Harry just let out a small, amused huff—a laugh, almost, though it was soft, fleeting. But Draco caught it. It was the kind of smile Harry hadn’t worn in years.
Draco couldn’t help but glance back, just for a second—just a fleeting second—and it was enough to leave him completely undone.
Harry’s skin was nothing like it had been before. The bruises, the scars, the cruel remnants of dark magic and violence that once marred his body were now gone, replaced by smooth, pale skin, soft like porcelain kissed by the faint morning light. Draco felt heat rush to his face, spreading from his neck to the tips of his ears.
Bloody hell.
His heart was pounding for reasons he didn’t dare explore. Swallowing hard, he quickly snapped his gaze away, his hand flying up to cover his face, fingers pressing against the bridge of his nose as if that could somehow erase the image seared into his memory.
Then he heard the rustle of fabric—Harry starting to pull down his boxer briefs.
Draco’s entire body tensed.
Without thinking, he spun around so fast he almost lost his balance, firmly planting his gaze on the opposite wall as if it held the secrets of the universe.
Behind him, Harry remained utterly nonchalant, confused.
Draco dared to glance back just as Harry was pulling the sweater over his head, the green fabric settling perfectly against his pale skin. The color made his eyes look even more vivid, bright against the warmth of the wool. He looked…
Adorable.
Like some kind of small, stubborn bear.
Before Draco could stop himself, the words slipped out.
“Green suits you, Potter. Looks… as beautiful as your eyes.”
Harry froze, eyes widening slightly, his cheeks darkening again—but this time, not from embarrassment.
His gaze softened, dropping slightly as his fingers fidgeted with the hem of the sweater.
“Thanks,” he murmured quietly.
Draco cleared his throat, feeling like his own heart might leap out of his chest. He quickly turned, pretending to be busy.
“I—I’ll get you some breakfast.”
He practically sprinted to the door, but just as his hand reached for the handle, he felt a gentle tug on his sleeve.
He turned back.
Harry’s hand was there, holding onto him—not tightly
“I’m sorry,” Harry whispered. “For… everything. I was wrong. You’re not like them. Not like the Death Eaters.”
”You’re a..um…a good person”
Draco’s heart skipped a beat.
He didn’t say anything—just smiled softly, the kind of smile Harry couldn’t see because Draco was already turning away, hiding the warmth blooming in his chest.
As he stepped out the door, he hesitated, glancing back one last time.
“Call me Draco from now on, Harry.”
Harry’s eyes met his, bright and impossibly green.
“Okay… Draco.”
“You’ve gained weight, Harry.”
Draco’s voice carried a teasing lilt.
Harry immediately sprang up, his green eyes narrowing with mock indignation, like a small, feisty lion. “Stop feeding me Treacle Tart!”
Draco burst out laughing.
As his laughter faded, Draco’s expression softened. He lowered his gaze, then gently placed a hand on Harry’s hair.
“But gaining weight is good, Harry,” Draco murmured “It means your skin’s softer, healthier… it means you’re getting better”
Harry’s breath hitched slightly. He looked down, his fingers fiddling with the hem of the green sweater Draco had given him. For a moment, silence settled between them—a comfortable one, filled with unspoken words.
Then Harry’s voice broke through, softer this time. “How’s life been for you…?”
Draco’s smile faltered, his features tightening with a shadow of old grief. But instead of avoiding the question like he might’ve done before, he met Harry’s gaze directly.
“You know… my parents were killed by the Dark Lord,” Draco said quietly “So were my cousins. I’m the last of the Malfoy line.” His voice trembled slightly, but he kept going. “And as for the Dark Lord… he kills without hesitation. Blood status means nothing to him. Even purebloods are disposable if they disobey. The world’s falling apart, Harry.”
His words hung heavy in the air.
Then—soft warmth. Harry’s hand, smaller, gently covered Draco’s. His touch was light .
“I’m sorry for your loss, Draco,” Harry whispered, his voice filled with quiet sincerity. “It must be terrible to lose your parents. I understand what it’s like… to lose people you love.”
Draco’s heart clenched. He stared at Harry, wanting—just for a second—to pull him close, to feel that heartbeat against his chest. But instead, he gave a small shake of his head, trying to compose himself.
“But I’m a coward, aren’t I, Harry?” Draco said
Harry’s response was immediate. He shook his head firmly, “You’ve done well, Draco.”
A faint smile bloomed on Draco’s lips—gentle, almost shy. He reached out, ruffling Harry’s messy hair, making it even messier than before.
Trying to lighten the mood, Draco asked, “You’ve finished Camille, haven’t you?”
Harry’s face lit up, a genuine spark of excitement shining in his eyes. “Yeah! It was amazing. I really liked it.”
Draco couldn’t tear his gaze away from the brightness in Harry’s eyes—the life that flickered there, like sunlight piercing through clouds. It was a color Draco had thought he’d never see again on Harry’s face.
“Then I’ll bring you more books to read.”
Harry grinned, then added cheekily, “But make sure they’re Muggle books!”
Draco raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “You like Muggle books?”
Harry nodded, his expression softening into something wistful. “Yeah… they make me feel at ease. I don’t want to hear about magic right now—not after everything.”
Draco sighed, nodding in understanding. “Me too,” he admitted. “I’ve liked Muggle books since sixth year at Hogwarts… but I always tried to hide it.”
Harry chuckled softly, the sound light and melodic. “What’s so funny?” Draco asked, feigning annoyance.
“Nothing,” Harry replied, still grinning. “It’s just… you’re full of surprises, Draco.”
Draco rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t hide the smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
And so they talked—about books, life, meaningless things that somehow felt important. The hours slipped by unnoticed, and even as night fell, the faint echoes of their laughter drifted down the stone corridors—two boys who’d somehow found solace in each other amidst the chaos of a crumbling world.
During that week, Draco found himself lingering more and more.
At first, he had simply brought Harry’s meals, set the tray down in silence, and left without a word. That was the routine. It was easy—safe. But something had shifted. Instead of walking away, Draco stayed. At first, just for a few minutes. Then longer. Eventually, he didn’t leave at all.
They talked. Sometimes about nothing—books, old memories of Hogwarts, stories from the world outside these walls. Other times, silence stretched between them, comfortable and steady like the soft glow of a fading candle.
And some nights… Draco didn’t go back to his own room. He stayed with Harry.
At first, Draco insisted on sleeping on the cold, hard floor beside the narrow cot. But Harry, despite the shadows etched into his heart, couldn’t stand the thought of Draco freezing on the stone floor.
“Just—sleep on the bed,” he’d muttered awkwardly one night, turning away to hide the faint blush creeping up his neck.
So Draco did.
But no night passed without the grip of Harry’s nightmares.
Every time Draco thought he’d drift off, he’d be startled awake by the sound of Harry’s ragged breaths, choked sobs, and desperate whispers. Names tumbled from Harry’s lips—each one a ghost of the people Harry had lost, etched into his mind like scars that never healed.
And Draco was always there.
Without hesitation.
He’d sit up immediately, his hand reaching out, shaking Harry gently at first, then firmer when the nightmares refused to let go.
And when words weren’t enough, Draco did the only thing he could—the thing that Lucius had once soothed him through his own childhood fears —humming a song
Lucius.
A coward. A Death Eater drenched in blood and regret.
But even monsters could be fathers.
Even cowards could hum soft tunes to their sons at night, when the darkness felt too big, too loud.
Lucius had been many things—none of them good—but well.. he had once been simply Dad, with a hand that smoothed back Draco’s hair, a voice low and gentle, singing lullabies that felt like safety.
“The monster’s gone“
”He’s on the run”
“and your daddy’s here…”
And now he’s singing it to Harry,
Because he couldn’t help it.
Because when he saw Harry—the boy who fought wars and lost so much—curled up in agony on a cold, hard mattress, crying out for people who would never answer… it broke something inside him.
Harry’s forehead would glisten with sweat, his face twisted in fear, haunted by ghosts only he could see. His fingers would clutch at the thin blanket like it was the last thing tethering him to reality.
Slowly, Harry’s breathing would ease, the tension in his body softening under the lovely spell of Draco’s voice. His tears would dry, leaving faint salty streaks on his cheeks. Sometimes, Harry’s hand would unconsciously find Draco’s, gripping it tightly as if afraid to be pulled back into the nightmare.
And Draco would let him hold on.
Because maybe he needed it too.
Voldemort had returned later than expected. Rumors whispered of rebellion—of unseen forces rising against him. Entire battalions of Death Eaters had fallen, leaving him preoccupied, his attention stretched thin.
In his absence, Harry gradually stopped having nightmares. Perhaps it was the lack of Voldemort’s oppressive presence, or perhaps it was Draco’s company. Either way, sleep came easier now. His gaunt face had softened; his cheeks, round and plump, bore a striking resemblance to a steamed bun, as if every Treacle Tart Draco had been feeding him had settled there. The bruises that marred his skin had vanished in just a month, thanks to Draco’s amateur Healing Charms and the steady supply of food he ensured Harry received.
One evening, as they sat together in the dim glow of candlelight, Draco broke the silence.
“Christmas is coming, Harry.”
Harry’s fingers stilled on the book in his lap. Slowly, he lifted his gaze, only to drop it again just as fast.
Christmas.
Hogsmeade. Butterbeer. The warmth of the Three Broomsticks, the laughter of students, the quiet contentment of being young, carefree, normal.
He missed it.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Draco said, watching him closely. “But the Hogsmeade you remember doesn’t exist anymore. The Dark Lord made sure of that.”
Harry’s lashes fluttered. His grip tightened slightly around the worn pages of his book.
Draco sighed, then, suddenly, his expression lit up.
“But there’s another place.”
Harry glanced at him.
“Beyond the manor,” Draco continued, leaning in slightly, “past the river that cuts through the Forbidden Forest, there’s a garden. A garden full of lilies.”
”Your Favorites”
Harry frowned.
“Lilies can’t bloom in winter.”
Draco smirked, the candlelight casting sharp shadows across his face. “This garden is different. The magic in the Forbidden Forest keeps it alive.”
Harry listened.
“A power that manifests based on the soul of the one who visits.”
For a moment, something flickered in Harry’s eyes. Curiosity. But then, just as quickly, it was gone.
“Draco,” he said quietly, “Voldemort has cursed this house. He won’t let us escape. I’ve tried.”
Draco didn’t interrupt, letting him speak.
“And it’s not just the manor,” Harry continued. “He’s cursed the Forbidden Forest too. Turned it into a loop with no way out.”
Draco’s lips curled into a smirk—sharp, knowing.
“I know about the loop. It’s an old kind of magic. A trap meant for wandering souls.” He exhaled a small, humorless laugh. “I never thought he’d use it on you.”
Something dark flickered in his expression, something close to disdain.
“The Dark Lord, afraid of losing you like you were some ghost bound to him,” he mused.
Then, shaking his head, he continued, “But I know how to break it. And trust me, it’s easy. And you also know how too”
Harry tilted his head, intrigued despite himself.
“But even if we break the spell… how do we get past the Death Eaters?” His voice dropped, quieter, scared. “They’re terrifying, Draco.”
A warm hand ruffled his hair.
Draco smirked.
“Invisibility Cloak.”