Right Person (2)
“How did you get the Invisibility Cloak?” Harry asked, his voice fuel with disbelief. “Voldemort took everything.”
Draco shrugged
“He has a hidden vault in his chambers—a place where he keeps all the powerful artifacts he’s stole. And guess who he entrusted to guard it?” Draco’s lips curled in distaste. “Nagini.”
Harry’s eyes widened slightly.
Draco leaned back, exhaling. “For the past three years, I’ve been the one taking care of that wretched snake.” He paused, then continued, his voice lower, more thoughtful.
“At first, I did what was expected of me. Fed her, kept her satisfied. But then… I saw the Cloak.” He glanced at Harry, something flickering in his gaze. “And I thought of you.”
A small smirk played on his lips. “And somehow, through sheer will—or maybe just recklessness—I took it.”
Harry blinked, stunned. Then, regaining his senses, he blurted out, “What about Nagini? How did she not notice?”
Draco let out a small, knowing chuckle, lifting one shoulder in a lazy shrug.
“Harry, the Sorting Hat put me in Slytherin for a reason.”
Harry laughed. He shook his head before playfully punching Draco’s shoulder.
Draco winced, rubbing the spot dramatically. “Alright, alright, no need for violence, Harry.” Then, his expression turned serious.
“For safety, we’ll slip out at night. By then, there are only three Death Eaters guarding the manor’s front gate.”
Harry froze. “Wait… tonight?” He stared at Draco as if trying to gauge whether this was a joke. “Are you serious?”
Draco nodded. “Completely.” His voice was certain. “The Dark Lord isn’t here. This is our chance. Besides, Harry—” He hesitated for half a second before continuing, “it’s been too long since you’ve been outside.”
The quiet knock at Harry’s cell door came at precisely 3 a.m. It wasn’t loud, but in the eerie silence of the manor’s underground chambers, it was enough to jolt him awake. His eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the dim light, and there—standing before him—was Draco.
Draco reached out a hand. “Come on.”
Harry grasped it, letting Draco pull him to his feet. He rubbed his eyes, still groggy from sleep, and Draco let out a soft chuckle.
“Awake yet, Harry?” he teased. “I need you alert if we’re doing this.”
Harry shot him a sleepy glare before nodding.
Then, Draco reached into his pocket, pulling out something that made Harry freeze.
The Invisibility Cloak.
It was a familiar sight, yet it felt foreign in his eyes. Voldemort had stripped him of everything the day he was captured—his wand, his stuff, his dignity.
“Put it on,” Draco instructed.
Harry hesitated, glancing between Draco and the cloak. “Is it… big enough for both of us?”
Draco scoffed, then let out an amused laugh.
“Harry, you’re barely half my size.” He grinned, eyes glinting with mischief. “It’ll be tight, but it’ll do.”
Harry crossed his arms, scowling at Draco’s jab at his height. But before he could retort, Draco softened.
“Alright, I’ll stop,” he said, nudging Harry gently. “Just put it on.”
Harry sighed but nodded, wrapping the cloak around himself. As soon as he did, Draco stepped in close—too close. His taller frame pressed lightly against Harry’s shoulder, and for a moment, Harry felt the warmth of him, the steadiness.
Then, without a word, Draco flicked his wand.
“Silencio.”
The world around them fell into an eerie hush.
Another flick.
“Muffliato.”
A shimmering wave of magic expanded outward, spreading through the manor like mist.
“This will do,” Draco murmured.
The next thing Harry felt was Draco’s grip tightening around his wrist.
Then—movement.
Not running. Not even sprinting.
Draco glided through the air with inhuman speed, pulling Harry effortlessly behind him. It was as if the very wind obeyed him, swirling in his wake despite the manor being sealed, windless.
Harry’s breath caught in his throat. The world blurred past him, the stone corridors melting away in streaks of gray and black. Every flicker of torchlight bent and stretched in their periphery.
It was impossible—no wizard should be able to move like this. But Draco wasn’t simply moving.
He was cutting through the space around him.
Within seconds, they reached the ground floor.
Draco came to a sudden halt in front of the grand entrance, not even winded. With a simple flick of his wand—
“Alohomora.”
The soft click of the lock echoed through the silent hall.
Harry’s breath stilled.
He was so close.
So close to stepping outside. To breaking free.
Even if it was only temporary.
Draco leaned in, his voice barely above a whisper, yet steady as a heartbeat.
“Harry, are you ready?”
Emerald eyes gleamed in the darkness, alive with something fierce—hope, raw and unyielding.
Harry nodded.
Draco wasted no time. He grasped Harry’s wrist again and they vanished into the night, slipping past the unconscious Death Eaters who were meant to guard the entrance.
Draco barely disturbed the air as he moved, but the world still reacted to him. Leaves—thin, brittle from the winter cold—fluttered after him like silent ghosts, twirling in his wake as he carried them forward.
Then—just as swiftly as they had left—the magic around the manor shattered.
Harry barely had time to process it.
The suffocating spell that had bound him to this wretched place—the dark enchantment that kept him trapped—was gone.
And yet, Draco did not celebrate.
He simply slowed to a walk, stepping onto the frost-laced ground as if they had merely been taking an evening stroll.
Turning to Harry, he exhaled. “Now we’re safe.”
Harry shook his head.
His heart was still racing, but he forced himself to meet Draco’s gaze.
“No. Not yet.” His voice was firm, resolute. “He’s cursed the Forbidden Forest too.”
Draco smirked. “That won’t be a problem.”
Harry tilted his head, confusion flickering across his face as he watched Draco lift his wand. He had expected some complex, ancient counter-curse—something dark, something that matched the twisted magic Voldemort had cast over the Forbidden Forest. But instead, Draco murmured just two words.
“Expecto Patronum.”
His movements were smooth, almost effortless, as he traced a circle in the air with his wand. A silvery glow spiraled outward, and then—
A stag.
Harry’s breath caught.
A stag?
The radiant creature emerged from Draco’s wand, its antlers gleaming like shards of moonlight. It stood tall, proud, and undeniably familiar.
Harry froze, his mind stumbling over itself.
A stag—just like his own.
No. That wasn’t possible.
The only other person whose Patronus he had ever seen take this form was Snape - His professor that had loved his mother with such tragic devotion that even in death, his magic reflected her.
But this was Draco Malfoy.
And he was now watching his own Patronus with a small, knowing smile, as if he had expected this all along.
He wasn’t even surprised.
The stag didn’t hesitate. It galloped forward, its hooves barely touching the ground, and as it moved, the darkness that clung to the forest shattered.
The entire Forbidden Forest lit up.
The oppressive, inescapable curse that Voldemort had woven into these trees—designed to trap, to disorient, to bind—cracked apart like fragile glass. Harry watched in stunned silence as the deep, suffocating shadows peeled away, replaced by a soft blue glow, gentle as a dream. It spread outward, reaching the treetops, reflecting off the frozen ground.
The Patronus had broken the curse.
Draco turned to him, smug, amused. “See?” he said lightly. “I told you you’d know the spell. It’s not that complicated, really.”
Harry, still trying to process what had just happened, frowned.
“But… why?” he asked, bewildered. “The spell Voldemort used—it was an old dark magic. A looping curse. How could a Patronus—just a Patronus—break it?”
Draco nodded, his voice steady.
“That’s right, Harry. The curse Voldemort placed here—it’s an old magic designed to trap wandering souls. Lost, tormented spirits who long for freedom but are bound by sorrow and regret.”
He exhaled, watching as his Patronus continued to illuminate the darkened forest.
“And Expecto Patronum,” he continued, “is the one thing that can grant them peace. A soothing way for them to be freed—a light born from the soul itself.”
Harry turned to him, eyes still wide with wonder.
“But how did you know?”
Draco tilted his head slightly, his expression thoughtful.
“I read about it in an old text. It explained that to break the curse, one would need a guardian—a force strong enough to counteract the magic. A pure, positive energy that represents true peace of the soul. Tranquility of the mind, body, and spirit.
“A guardian that, supposedly, doesn’t exist.”
Draco smirked.
“But it does exist. And it’s the one spell Voldemort could never wield. Expecto Patronum.”
His voice dropped slightly, almost amused.
“He never understood love.” Draco clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “And that’s exactly why he could never cast it.”
A gust of wind rustled through the trees, sweeping away the last traces of the broken curse. The Forbidden Forest no longer felt suffocating—no longer trapped them in endless, repeating paths. The way forward was clear.
Draco turned back to Harry, his usual smirk softening into something almost fond.
“Either way, the spell is broken.” His gaze flickered past the trees. “Let’s go to the garden, Harry.”
Harry didn’t hesitate. He nodded, reaching for Draco’s outstretched hand without a second thought.
Draco’s grip was warm.
And this time, neither of them hid beneath the cloak.
They walked together, side by side, their fingers intertwined as they stepped into the night.
“We’re here, Harry.”
The words barely left Draco’s lips before Harry tore his hand away, sprinting toward the Lily Garden as though he’d been waiting his whole life to see it.
And maybe he had.
The garden glowed—a soft, haunting light that cut through the winter gloom, so bright it almost didn’t belong in a world this cruel. Snow dusted the ground, but the lilies still bloomed, untouched by the cold, preserved by the same protection that had kept them alive long past their season.
Harry slowed as he stepped inside. The moment his boots touched the frost-kissed grass, the flowers shimmered. Their pale petals turned translucent in the moonlight, as if responding to his presence, as if drinking in his soul.
As if mourning for him.
His breath trembled.
They were beautiful. So impossibly beautiful.
And it had been so long since he had seen something that wasn’t dying.
Harry inhaled, deep, desperate, like he could take the moment into his lungs and keep it forever—like if he breathed deep enough, he could fill the emptiness inside him with the scent of lilies instead of blood and war and loss.
But beauty had no place in his world. Not anymore.
Then, with a laugh, Harry twirled amidst the blossoms, the way a child might in the first snowfall of winter. His emerald eyes gleamed, brighter than before, utterly unburdened.
“Do you remember what I told you, Harry?”
Draco’s voice was soft, reflective, as he stepped closer, his hands clasped behind his back.
Harry turned to face him, the light from the lilies casting an ethereal glow upon his features.
“That the lilies reflect the soul of the one who visits,” Draco murmured. Another step forward.
Then, reaching out, he intertwined their fingers—slowly, deliberately.
“And look at them now, blooming so pure, so untouched. Innocent. Beautiful.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Just like you, Harry.”
His storm-gray eyes softened, moonlight washing over their silver depths. He smiled, and perhaps he didn’t even realize he was doing it.
Now, they were close. So close.
Harry met his gaze, unwavering.
“They reflect your soul too, Draco.”
And before Draco could stop himself, before he could think—he pulled Harry into a hug. A tight, desperate hold, as if afraid that if he let go, Harry would vanish. That the one thing tethering him to what little humanity he had left would slip away forever.
Then, as if by instinct, he moved.
Draco’s fingers brushed against Harry’s, guiding them up to rest upon his shoulder. In return, he settled his hands upon Harry’s waist. And without a word, he led them into a dance—clumsy at first, hesitant, awkward.
But soon, they fell into rhythm.
They moved together, slow steps in the dead of winter, warmed only by the glowing lilies surrounding them. And as they danced, the flowers seemed to bloom even brighter, as if mirroring their movement, their hearts.
As if celebrating two lost souls, finding solace in one another.
The Lily Garden bathed them in its glow, illuminating the way they held each other. The way they belonged.
Then, Draco twirled Harry once more, catching him effortlessly as he dipped him back. And before he could think—before he could question—he leaned down.
And kissed him.
Not out of desperation. Not out of lust.
A kiss as gentle as the morning sun upon snow. As light as a first snowfall upon skin.
A first love’s kiss.
And for a moment, Draco was back at Hogwarts, sneaking glances at the boy he had spent years pretending to despise. Back when life was simpler—when he had yet to be caged by the name Malfoy, by the weight of war.
He loved Harry.
Merlin, he loved him.
And perhaps, perhaps—Harry loved him too.
They broke apart, breathless, eyes locked in the glow of the garden. Harry’s face flushed a shade of red that made Draco’s heart stutter, soft and warm against the backdrop of glowing white.
Then, Draco pulled him close again, arms wrapped securely around him.
“I’ll get us out of here”
A breath hitched. A silent sob.
And then Draco felt it—the warmth of tears against his shoulder.
Harry clung to him, shaking, and Draco—carefully, gently—lifted a hand to brush away the tears trailing down his cheeks. Then, he pressed a soft kiss to Harry’s forehead.
“I promise.”
The days kept passing, and every night, without fail, Draco would bring Harry to the Lily Garden.
They danced. They laughed. They kissed like the world wasn’t crumbling around them. Like the war hadn’t already decided their fates.
Draco whispered promises against Harry’s lips—reckless. “I’ll take us away from here.” “I’ll keep you safe.” “We’ll have forever.”
And Harry let himself believe them.
Because when Draco held him—when Harry lay curled in his arms, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat—it almost felt real.
Because he has hope.
It almost felt like living.
The air was thick with the cold of midwinter, but Harry barely felt it. Not through the crushing weight of fear that had wrapped itself around his chest, choking the breath from his lungs.
It had all been so normal. Just another night. Just another three a.m. where he waited, heart fluttering with quiet anticipation, for him.
For Draco.
The lock clicked, soft and familiar, just as it always did.
Harry smiled, bright and eager, pushing himself up, the chains at his ankles clinking against the stone floor as he moved toward the door.
He was here.
Harry reached for the door—
And it slammed open.
The force sent him sprawling, a sharp gasp torn from his lips as pain bloomed through his back.
And then—hands. Not Draco’s hands.
Not warm, not gentle.
Too large. Too cold.
A clawed grip wrenched around his throat, yanking him up, crushing the air from his windpipe. Harry’s fingers scrabbled at the hand holding him, his body kicking, twisting, fighting for breath—
No.
No, Draco would never hurt him.
Draco always opened the door carefully. Always let him step out first, whispering soft words, pressing fleeting kisses against his temple before leading him to the garden.
But this—
This was not Draco.
This was him.
Harry squeezed his eyes shut.
He didn’t want to see.
Didn’t want to know.
But the fingers around his throat tightened, his body trembling in its grasp, and then—
He was thrown.
Pain cracked through his ribs as he hit the floor, his vision exploding into white-hot agony. He gasped, desperate for air, coughing violently as his body convulsed against the stone.
Above him, a voice purred.
“My pet,” Voldemort murmured, mockingly gentle. “Did you miss me?”
The words slithered into Harry’s skin like poison.
His stomach twisted violently, bile burning at the back of his throat.
He tried to scramble away, but fingers curled into his hair—tight, unforgiving—wrenching his head back until his neck screamed in protest.
“Ah, but you look surprised,” Voldemort mused, tilting his head. “Did you think I would be gone forever?”
Harry didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer. His entire body shook, his chest rising and falling in panicked, shallow breaths.
Because he knew.
He knew what night this was.
“Tonight is the full moon, Harry.”
The words sent a violent shudder through his spine.
Harry’s breath hitched, his head shaking frantically, no, no, please no—
But Voldemort only laughed.
“Don’t be so afraid, dear. I have been quite busy, it’s true,” he sighed, dragging his fingers almost affectionately through Harry’s hair. “But see? I still made time for you.”
Harry whimpered, his entire body curling inward, trembling uncontrollably.
No. No. No.
Not again.
Not this time.
Please, please—
Draco.
His mind screamed for him, a desperate, broken cry—
Draco, please—
But Draco was not here.
Draco did not know.
And Voldemort was already moving.
He tore the chains from Harry’s ankles with effortless ease, then fisted a cruel hand into his hair once more.
And he dragged him.
Across the filthy stone floor, across the dust and the cold and the darkness.
Harry fought. He screamed, sobbed, his fingers clawing desperately at the ground, at Voldemort’s hands, at anything—but it was useless.
He was nothing more than a plaything in the Dark Lord’s grasp.
And Voldemort did not listen to pleas.
Harry’s mind screamed, his body convulsing in sheer terror as Voldemort dragged him across the cold stone floor, pulling him toward the one place he had spent every second praying he would never see again.
The door loomed ahead—thick, unyielding, a prison within a prison.
He thrashed harder. Kicked, twisted, choked on desperate sobs.
It didn’t matter.
Voldemort was far stronger.
And then—
The door creaked open.
And Harry was shoved inside.
His knees hit the ground, the impact sending another wave of pain rippling through his body, but he barely noticed. His entire world had shrunk to the three figures waiting for him.
Death Eaters.
Five of them.
They were smiling.
Not with amusement. Not even with cruelty.
But with something worse.
Something vile. Something disgusting.
Something that made Harry’s stomach lurch violently, his body shaking so hard he could barely hold himself upright.
The door slammed shut behind him, locking out the rest of the world.
No escape.
No Draco.
Only them.
And him.
Voldemort moved to his throne, the same wretched, towering seat from which he had watched Harry break a thousand times before.
But tonight—he did not leave.
Tonight, he stayed.
Settling onto the throne, he crossed one leg over the other, fingers tapping lazily against the armrest as he gazed down at Harry.
“Tsk, tsk.” A slow shake of his head. “I must say, Harry, after all these months, you don’t look so bad.”
A smirk curled at the edge of his lips, his crimson eyes gleaming with something sickeningly pleased.
Then—
He moved.
With terrifying ease, he slid from the throne, his footsteps eerily quiet as he strode toward Harry’s trembling form.
"Please, no..." Harry whimpered, trying in vain to cover himself. But Voldemort was having none of it. With a flick of his wand, Harry's clothes vanished, leaving him completely exposed and vulnerable.
He forced Harry's legs apart, exposing his most intimate parts to the leering Death Eaters. "Such a pretty little thing, all soft and plump," Voldemort purred, squeezing Harry's arse cheeks. "Draco did a good job fattening you up, didn't he? Did he do that to have a taste of you too, hm?."
With that, Voldemort plunged into Harry's entrance without warning, tearing through the tight ring of muscle. Harry screamed, the sound ripped from his throat as if a million daggers were piercing him. Voldemort began thrusting, his hands gripping Harry's hips as his mouth latched onto Harry's nipple, sucking the it red like cherry until Harry was seeing stars.
But Voldemort was relentless, pounding into Harry with brutal force. He continued to bit and sucked at Harry's nipples until they were raw and swollen, spitting cruel words into Harry's ear. "Take it, slut. Take my cock like the whore you are. You were meant to save the world, but now you're just another hole for me to fill."
The Death Eaters joined in, their hands and mouths all over Harry's writhing body. They stroked their cocks, grunting as they spilled their seeds onto Harry's face and chest. Voldemort just laughed, pistoning in and out of Harry's abused bottom.
"Such a pathetic little bitch," he sneered, twisting Harry's nipples cruelly, “Who would have thought, Harry Potter, the famed Chosen One, now writhing beneath me, whimpering and crying like a cheap whore? Perhaps I should let the Muggles see what a pathetic slut you've become..." . Voldemort flipped Harry onto his stomach, driving back into his ravaged hole with renewed vigor. His hands came down on Harry's ass in stinging slaps, leaving red handprints on the pale skin.
Then Voldemort amused himself by casting Crucio at Harry, watching the boy writhe and convulse. Draco's lovingly healed scars were now marred with welts and bruises, sweat and blood matting Harry's messy hair.
”He’s all yours!”
Voldermort said,
The Death Eaters then closed in, their eyes gleaming with sadistic lust. They grabbed Harry, flipping him onto his back and spreading his legs wide.
"Please, no more..." Harry whimpered, but his pleas fell on deaf ears. The Death Eaters were already lining up, their hard cocks in hand, ready to claim their prize. The first one plunged into Harry's abused hole without preamble, groaning as he hilted himself inside the tight heat. Harry screamed, the pain of the sudden intrusion nearly unbearable. But the Death Eater just laughed, setting a brutal pace as he fucked into Harry's unwilling body.
The others joined in, taking turns to shove their cocks down Harry's throat and into his battered bottom. Harry gagged and choked, tears streaming down his face as he was brutally being used.
"Look at this pathetic little thing," one sneered, roughly fondling Harry's swollen balls. "We're going to tear him apart."
Another grabbed Harry's hair, forcing him to look up as he slapped Harry's face with his hard cock. "Open up, Darling."
Harry tried to resist, but he was overpowered by sheer numbers. The Death Eater shoved his member into Harry's mouth again, forcing it down his throat until Harry gagged and choked.
"That's it, take it all," the Death Eater growled, violating Harry's face without mercy. The other Death Eaters continue to take turns plunging their members deep into Harry's unwilling bottom, grunting and cursing as they stretched him wide.
"Fuck, he's tight," one groaned, slamming into Harry's prostate and making the boy cry out around the member stuffing his throat. "I'm going to ruin this hole."
They pounded into him relentlessly, their heavy balls slapping against Harry's behind as they violated him senseless. Harry's cries were muffled by the member fucking his mouth, his tears and saliva mingling with the precum leaking from his chin.
The Death Eaters took their time with him, using every hole and every inch of his body for their pleasure. They bit and scratched at his skin, leaving livid welts and bruises in their wake. They pinched his nipples hard enough to make him scream, twisting and tugging until he was a sobbing mess.
And still they fucked him, their pace never faltering as they used him like a cheap whore. Harry could feel himself starting to numb, his mind retreating from the overwhelming pain and humiliation. But even as he slipped away, he could still hear their disgusting voices, still feel the brutal thrusts of their members violating his most intimate parts.
All Harry could do was sob brokenly, calling for help that would never come. He wanted Draco, craved the blond's gentle touch to soothe his aching body. Yet he dared not call out for him, terrified of Voldemort would hurt Draco.
"Take it, slut," one snarled, pounding into Harry's bottom with rapid force. They came inside him one by one, their seed flooding Harry's abused behind and leaking out around their members. As the Death Eaters finally pulled out, Harry lay there in a broken heap, his arse gaping and raw, his skin mottled with bruises and bite marks. He couldn't even find the strength to sob anymore, his body and mind completely shattered by the brutal violation.
Harry sobbed, his body trembling, his arms straining against the chains above him. His wrists were already rubbed raw, the iron biting into his skin, blood dripping sluggishly down his fingers.
It hurt.
Merlin, it hurt.
Harry wants to die. All over again.
Harry wasn’t sure if he was still alive.
Maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he had died on that cold, unforgiving floor, and this—this pain, this numbness—was just the aftershock of existence. Because surely, surely, no one could live through this and still call themselves human.
Still call themselves whole.
The room was silent now.
The laughter had long since faded.
The hands were gone.
His body was a ruin, a collection of wounds and bruises, of flesh torn apart and left to bleed under the cruel indifference of the full moon.
The same body Draco had cared for so gently
Now it was ruined.
Defiled.
Unclean.
He lay there, stripped bare, trembling, too exhausted to even cry anymore. The moonlight spilled over him like a cruel mockery of warmth, casting long, jagged shadows across his battered skin.
He wished it would take him.
Take him away.
Take him anywhere but here.
And then—
Click.
The door creaked open.
Footsteps.
Slow. Careful.
Not them.
Not him.
But Harry didn’t move.
Didn’t react.
It didn’t matter anymore.
Nothing mattered anymore.
“Merlin. Harry.”
The sound barely registered.
Somewhere, in the back of his mind, something knew—Knew that voice. Knew that warmth. Knew that if he opened his eyes, he would see silver.
See home.
See Draco.
But he couldn’t.
Because Draco wasn’t supposed to see this.
Not this.
Draco was supposed to remember him in the garden.
Remember him smiling, twirling between the lilies, laughing as the cold nipped at his skin, alive.
Not—
Not this.
But Draco was already moving.
Already dropping to his knees, already wrapping Harry in his arms, already breaking in the way Harry had wanted so desperately to avoid.
“Fuck, no, no, Merlin Harry—”
His voice cracked, his whole body trembling as he pulled Harry against his chest, shielding him from the world far too late. Draco’s hands ghosted over his skin, shaking, frantic, not knowing where to touch, how to hold him, afraid that if he gripped too tightly, Harry would shatter.
As if he wasn’t already broken.
Draco sobbed, the sound raw, desperate, pressed into Harry’s hair, his forehead, his ruined skin.
Harry didn’t move.
Didn’t flinch.
Didn’t react.
He only lay there, limp, silent, letting Draco fall apart for him. Because he could not afford to fall apart himself.
Draco tried to cast a healing spell, his voice shaking, stumbling, thick with grief. But the wounds did not close. The blood did not stop.
The magic failed.
Why?
Why wasn’t it working?
Why wasn’t anything fixing this?
Draco let out a strangled, gasping sob, his wand slipping from his fingers, clattering to the floor, forgotten. His arms tightened, pulling Harry closer, desperate, as if trying to piece him back together with nothing but his hands, with nothing but love.
But it wasn’t enough.
Nothing was enough.
Draco pressed his forehead to Harry’s, his tears falling, mixing with the blood and the filth Voldermort and Death Eaters left for Harry.
“I came at three,” he whispered, voice shaking. “I came to take you to the garden.”
Harry’s body twitched.
The garden.
The lilies.
The place where he was still him.
Where Draco would kiss him, hold him, laugh softly against his skin and tell him reckless, impossible dreams about their future.
A future that no longer existed.
Draco’s voice cracked.
“But you weren’t there.”
His grip tightened, his entire body shaking.
“I searched for you. I searched everywhere—but you were gone.”
His breath hitched.
“Then Voldemort sent for me.”
Harry barely reacted.
But Draco—
Draco was drowning.
“He told me to clean this room.”
A broken sob.
“He wanted me to see you like this, Harry.”
Draco choked, his hands clenching around Harry’s fragile frame. A sob wrenched its way from his throat, and then another, and another, until he was shaking so hard that he could barely hold Harry upright. He kissed his forehead, his temple, his lips, every bruise, every wound, as if he could take it all back.
As if he could undo it.
As if he could make Harry his again.
Would the lilies still bloom for Harry now?
Or would they wilt, mourning what had been taken?
Mourning him?
Draco’s fingers tangled into his hair, holding him close, his voice breaking into pieces.
“Let’s get you out of here. Now.”