Bitter Moon

The night was cold, but Draco Malfoy’s blood boiled beneath his skin. He had been running for hours—stumbling through brambles, splashing through streams, trying to drown out the voices in his head. The Dark Lord’s commands echoed like thunder: “This will heal you, Malfoy. This will make you much more useful..”

Greyback’s fangs still burned in his flesh. He could feel the sickness spreading, a venomous infection twisting through his body. His left arm hung limp, still clawed to ribbons, but he pressed forward. Every step, every labored breath, was a defiance. He would not die like this, discarded and forgotten, a pawn in the Dark Lord’s game.

Ahead, a flicker of light pierced the darkness. A cottage. The one he remembered hearing about—Lupin’s hideaway.

Draco staggered forward, his wand heavy in his hand. He raised it, pointing at the door, but his grip faltered. He didn’t have the strength for a duel—not tonight.

Instead, he pounded his fist against the wood. The sound reverberated through the night like a war drum.

Lupin opened the door cautiously, his wand drawn. His face was calm but wary, the demeanor of a man who had spent his life expecting danger.

The moment he saw Draco, his expression shifted to shock. “Malfoy?”

Draco leaned against the doorframe, forcing a smirk despite the agony searing through him. “Don’t look so surprised, Lupin. I didn’t come for tea.”

Lupin’s wand didn’t lower. “Why are you here?”

Draco straightened, summoning every ounce of pride he had left. His voice was sharp, but his words came quickly, his usual poise cracking under the pressure. “I’m defecting. Or running. Take your pick. The Dark Lord decided to feed me to his pet werewolf as punishment for being… insufficiently useful.”

Lupin’s grip on his wand tightened. “What are you talking about?”

“I was bitten,” Draco said flatly, holding up his bloodied arm. “I’m one of you now. Or at least, that’s what Greyback thinks. Frankly, I don’t plan on sticking around to find out how well I take to pack life.”

Lupin stepped forward, his voice low. “You expect me to believe that you just decided to walk away from the Death Eaters? That you aren’t here to—”

Draco snapped, his silver eyes blazing. “Do I look like I’m in the mood to spy on you, Lupin? I could have gone anywhere! I came here because you’re the only one who might not curse me on sight!”

“Don’t test me,” Lupin growled, his wand now pointed directly at Draco’s chest.

For a moment, they locked eyes. Then, Draco stumbled, his strength finally giving out. Lupin caught him instinctively, though his grip remained firm, ready to cast a curse at the first sign of deception.

“You’ll need to prove this isn’t some kind of trick,” Lupin said coldly.

Draco’s laugh was bitter and broken. “If it was a trick, you’d already be dead. Now… are you going to let me in, or would you prefer I bleed all over your doorstep?”

The tension in the room was suffocating.

Lupin had alerted the others, and now Hermione Granger, Arthur Weasley, and Harry Potter himself stood across from Draco. Wands were pointed, and accusations flew like curses.

The moment Draco Malfoy laid eyes on Harry Potter, his stomach twisted into a knot he refused to acknowledge. Potter stormed into the room like a hurricane, his green eyes blazing with fury, his wand drawn and ready to strike. For a split second, Draco felt a surge of unease—Potter wasn’t the scrawny, oblivious boy he remembered from school. He was taller now, his shoulders broader, his face sharper with a grim determination that made him look… dangerous. But Draco refused to flinch. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, his lips curling into a smirk that he didn’t entirely feel. “Potter,” he drawled, letting the name hang in the air like a challenge. “Still leading with dramatics, I see.” Inside, his nerves screamed at him to run, but outwardly, he remained the same old Malfoy: defiant, poised, and utterly insufferable.

Harry didn’t hesitate, closing the distance between them in a flash, his wand pressing against Draco’s throat. “Give me one good reason I shouldn’t curse you into next week,” Harry snarled, his voice low and dangerous. Draco’s smirk didn’t waver, though the edge of the wand bit into his skin. “Because you’re too noble for that, Potter,” he said smoothly, his tone dripping with mockery. “Hurts, doesn’t it? Knowing I’m sitting here while you’re still deciding whether to be the hero or the executioner.” Harry’s grip on his wand tightened, his knuckles white, but he didn’t move. Instead, his eyes locked with Draco’s, searching for any sign of deceit. Draco’s heart hammered in his chest, but he refused to break the stare, lifting his chin just enough to make Harry’s next move a dare.

“This is some kind of sick Death Eater ploy.”

Draco sat in the chair Lupin had forced him into, his chin raised defiantly. His face was pale, and his injuries were still bleeding, but he refused to look weak. “Believe what you want, Potter,” he drawled. “I’m not here for your approval.”

“Then what are you here for?” Harry demanded.

“Survival,” Draco said bluntly. “Not that you’d understand. You’ve always had everyone fighting your battles for you, haven’t you?”

Harry lunged, and it took both Lupin and Arthur to hold him back.

“That’s enough!” Hermione snapped, her voice cutting through the tension like a whip. She turned to Draco, her expression hard. “If you’re serious about defecting, then prove it. Why now? Why tonight?”

Draco leaned back in his chair, a sly grin spreading across his face as he met Hermione’s sharp gaze. “Why now, Granger? Because I’m not in the mood for playing the Dark Lord’s pet,” he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “He sent Greyback after me. Guess he figured a little werewolf bite would make me more… aggressive. But here’s the thing—I don’t do well with being discarded.” He raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening. “Not that I blame him. But I figured, why waste such impeccable talent on a losing team? So, I’m here—willing to share all my delightful little secrets, in exchange for some protection, of course. You’re welcome, by the way.” He shot a glance at Harry, his gaze flicking from the wand still aimed at him to the rigid tension in the room. “You don’t have to trust me. But you do need me. And that, Potter, is the only reason I’m still sitting here.”

Harry scoffed. “Right, because suddenly you’re the victim here. Spare me, Malfoy. I’m not about to fall for your sob story just because the Dark Lord decided you were no longer useful.”

“Potter,” Lupin warned, but Draco cut in before the argument could escalate further.

“Listen,” he said sharply, his voice regaining its edge. “You don’t have to trust me. Hell, I wouldn’t trust me. But I have information—plans, strategies, locations. Things that could help you win. All I’m asking for is protection in return.”

“And if we say no?” Hermione asked, her gaze steady.

Draco tilted his head, a glint of steel in his eyes. “Then you’re fools. I’ll take my chances elsewhere. But I’m here because I think you’re smart enough to see the value of what I’m offering.”

Silence fell over the room.

Finally, Lupin spoke. “Grimmauld Place,” he said quietly. “It’s under the Fidelius Charm. We can monitor him there without risking the rest of the Order.”

“It’s temporary,” Hermione added quickly. “Just until we figure out a better solution.”

Harry looked like he wanted to argue, but Arthur nodded. “It’s the safest option.”

“Wonderful,” Draco said, rising shakily to his feet. “I’ve always wanted to live in a decrepit old house with the Boy Wonder.”

“Sit down, Malfoy,” Harry snapped.

Draco smirked, sitting back with deliberate arrogance. But inside, his heart pounded, and his mind raced. He had gambled everything on this moment.

Now, all he could do was wait for the fallout.