Chapter 2
Harry was supposed to be the savior of the wizarding world.
The hero.
The Boy Who Lived.
The one everyone had been waiting for, the figure that hung above them all like some grand symbol of hope. The newspapers were obsessed with him—the Daily Prophet in particular, constantly printing articles about Harry Potter, the Chosen One, the wizarding world’s great hope. To them, he wasn’t just a person; he was the protagonist of some great, sweeping story, the one destined to destroy Voldemort and bring peace to a shattered wizarding world.
The problem was, nobody had ever bothered to ask Harry what he wanted, what he thought, what he felt about being thrown into the center of a war, especially when he’d been nothing but a clueless eleven-year-old back then.
And the truth was, Harry wasn’t sure he was a hero. When he first came to the wizarding world, he had a dream—a dream to be loved, not to be the courageous hero the world expected him to be.
Harry wasn’t sure he fit the bill.
Heroes were supposed to be brave, bold, and unshakable—charging into battle with a clear sense of right and wrong, without hesitation.
Harry wasn’t any of those things.
He had done what needed to be done, sure, but only because there was no other choice. He didn’t have the luxury of standing on principle or choosing what was easy or what felt right. No, he had always done what the situation demanded—survive, fight, and keep moving.
No regrets. No remorse. But that didn’t mean he felt like a hero.
He was just a kid who’d somehow gotten swept up in something much larger than himself, a kid who couldn’t remember a time when he wasn’t running from something—or toward something.
Because at the end of the day, what mattered most was Voldemort’s defeat.
Once that was over, once the war was finished and Voldemort was gone, then maybe—just maybe—he could be free.
But the truth was, Harry didn’t even know what freedom looked like. All he knew was that he wasn’t free yet. Not while the prophecy hung over his head. Not while his name was written in every headline, his life dissected by people who had no idea what it felt like to be him.
He dreamed of a time when he could just be Harry. Just himself.
No prophecy. No fame. No expectations.
He could have a future, a life without a story forced upon him. He could choose what came next, be someone else for once.
Then, and only then, he would finally be free.
Free to be Harry—just Harry.
Ron and Hermione’s friend. A person, not a prophecy.
He had imagined it so many times: what life would be like when it was all over. He would sleep for a month—maybe longer—and if anyone tried to wake him, he’d hex them on principle. He would eat proper food, not whatever burnt offerings they managed to scrounge up at Grimmauld Place. He would go somewhere far away, where no one knew his name, and he would be normal. He would be himself.
For once in his life, he could just be.
At least, that had been the plan.
But Harry really should have known by now—things never went to plan.
Because before the war could end, before he could even begin to think about peace, he found himself captured.
And presented before Draco Malfoy.
Draco Malfoy.
Malfoy, who had spent four years sneering at him from across the Potions classroom before disappearing from the face of the earth two years ago.
Malfoy, who had always acted like he was better than everyone else, even while tripping over his own robes. Malfoy, who had once called Hermione a slur and turned the word “Potter” into an insult, drawing it out like it personally offended him to say it.
Harry had genuinely assumed someone like Malfoy would run for the hills at the first sign of real danger.
And yet, there he was. Not just another Death Eater, not just another follower of Voldemort—no, that would have been too simple.
Draco Malfoy was Voldemort’s second-in-command.
Because of course he was.
Because obviously, fate had decided Harry hadn’t suffered quite enough yet.
He was tied up, wandless, stuck in some cold, stone-walled room that looked suspiciously like it belonged in Malfoy Manor. The ropes around his wrists were tight, enchanted so that even the slightest movement made them coil tighter. He had tried moving once. That had been a mistake. His fingers were still tingling unpleasantly.
Malfoy stood in front of him, arms crossed, looking like Harry had personally inconvenienced him.
“Well,” Malfoy said with a weird tone latched to his voice, “I can’t say I’m surprised.”
Harry stared at him. “Sorry—what?”
Malfoy sighed, as though he was the one who’d been kidnapped and held hostage. “That you’d get caught,” he clarified. “You’re terribly predictable, Potter. Always running into danger to be a savior, always making it so easy.”
Harry wanted to protest, but, well, it wasn’t entirely untrue.
Although Harry wasn’t exactly a savior he did have a tendency to present his life on a silver palate at any given moment.