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Chapter Text

How did I get here?

The question didn't whisper—it roared, thunderous and unrelenting, pounding behind Draco Malfoy's eyes like the echo of a killing curse misfired. A sick, looping refrain. He stood motionless, wand pressed hard against the paper-thin flesh of the Dark Lord's throat.

He wasn't trembling from fear. That had been carved out of him long ago—gutted like innocence. What shook now was the part of him still human. The part not yet drowned.

His hand trembled because the moment was too heavy, swollen with everything he'd seen, everything he'd done, everything he had failed to stop.

Across the clearing, cradled like something holy and broken in the crook of Hagrid's trembling arms, lay Harry Potter.

Still.
Silent.
Gone.

Draco didn't remember crying. He tasted salt and iron on his lips before he noticed the tears. His vision blurred at the edges, warping the world. Harry's body was too quiet. Too posed, like a statue sculpted to mock sleep. The crusted blood on his temple had long dried. A dark, ugly smear of red painted down the slope of his jaw and into the collar of his shirt—once white, now ruined.

The usual chaos of his hair was matted down in places, red and sticky. His eyes were closed. No twitch beneath the lids. No flutter. His chest didn't move. And yet—he looked almost at peace. Like a boy caught mid-dream, sleeping through a world that no longer deserved him.

But he wasn't sleeping.

He wasn't dreaming.

He was gone.

Draco's hand spasmed around his wand. Not from weakness—he had none left to spare—but from the unbearable weight of what he saw, what he felt. The thing in his chest didn't break—it ruptured. Grief tore through him, slow and unsparing, like bone split with a dull knife.

Why did I let you out of my sight?

His knees nearly buckled under the weight of it, but he forced breath into his lungs. It tasted like ash. 

The mask he had spent his whole life wearing—the polished sneer, the pureblood pride, the coward's calm—cracked. Shattered like glass underfoot.

He swallowed the grief, forced it down into the hollow where he kept his shame, his guilt, his love. Rage was easier. Rage had teeth. Rage could kill.

The Dark Lord hadn't flinched.

His serpentine eyes narrowed with cold interest, as if this betrayal were merely a riddle posed in a textbook, a deviation worth analyzing but not fearing. Like he was watching a flaw emerge in an otherwise functional toy. His expression was void of panic, even with death poised against his jugular.

"Draco..."

The voice came from behind him—shaky, strained, half-broken.

His mother.

She stood on the fringes of the wreckage, arms out as if she could still hold the pieces of this moment together. Her face was streaked with ash, with tears, with the raw panic of a mother watching her child split apart from the inside.

Beside her, Lucius Malfoy sagged like a man already dead. His eyes vacant, skin ghost-pale, spine collapsed in defeat. A pureblood patriarch reduced to little more than a ghost with a pulse.

They knew.
They had always known.

What Harry had meant. What he had become.

"What are you doing, Mr. Malfoy?" The Dark Lord's voice slithered through the silence, calm as ever. "I would advise you to lower your wand."

Draco didn't speak.

Didn't blink.

He pressed the tip of his wand harder into the pale flesh of Voldemort's throat. Felt the pulse there. Steady. Unconcerned.

His jaw clenched hard enough to crack. His lungs fought for breath that tasted like death. Burnt magic. Blood.

Then—

A flicker of movement.

To his right, just beyond the wreckage of the battlefield, two figures stumbled forward. Shattered silhouettes outlined in smoke.

Ron Weasley. Hermione Granger.

Ron's face was slack with shock, his freckles obscured by blood and dirt. He held his wand loosely at his side, useless, shaking. Hermione looked worse—burned, wild-eyed, bruises blooming across her throat like flowers. She reached for Ron's hand blindly, as if she couldn't stand upright without tethering herself to something human.

They saw Draco.

They saw him.

And they saw Harry—broken, cradled like a child in Hagrid's arms.

The world held still.

Hermione's lips parted, but no words came. Just a noise—guttural, ugly. The sound of something important snapping. She fell to her knees.

Ron didn't speak, but his eyes locked with Draco's. There was no hatred in them. No fury.

Just grief.
And understanding.

They knew.
They knew.

Draco's mouth opened. He wanted to say something—I'm sorry, maybe, or he loved you too—but the words couldn't pass the knot in his throat.

Instead, he looked back at Voldemort.

The snake-man watched it all with cold detachment. As if even this betrayal, even the death of Harry Potter, meant nothing. A momentary inconvenience. An interesting footnote.

A smile twitched at the corner of Voldemort's lip. Thin. Not human. "Very well," he whispered, as if humoring a child.

Then he stepped back.

Deliberate. Graceful. Raised his wand like a man preparing to deliver a final blessing.

Time fractured.

Draco's eyes snapped to Harry's body—
—and the scream surged up, ragged and primal, but never made it out.

His mouth moved.

I love you.

Silently. Hopelessly. A truth sent into the void like a final prayer. It wouldn't reach him. Harry couldn't hear. Couldn't feel. But Draco sent the words anyway, hoping the wind might carry them through the seams of the world, into whatever place Harry had gone. As if something left in the wreckage of Harry's soul might still hear.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

He repeated it like a spell, a mantra, a plea. It steadied him.

The world shrank.
No sounds, no colors. Just the thunder of blood in his ears.
Just Voldemort. Wand raised, ready to kill.
Just Harry. Gone.
Just Draco. Alone.

He raised his wand higher. Not to protect. Not to defend. But to destroy.

How did I get here?
The thought clawed at his skull again.

Was it his father's servitude? The rot of legacy and power worshipped like a god?
The sermons whispered into his cradle—purity, blood, destiny?
His mother's hidden strength, the quiet lessons behind closed doors?
The terror of sixth year, of watching lives unravel like parchment soaked in oil?

No.
It wasn't any of that.

It was because he had turned sixteen.
And everything had begun to come apart.

His magic had shifted—grown strange and unstable, sparking with old power that did not belong to the halls of Hogwarts or the books of his ancestors. The world had lost its shape.
Right and wrong blurred.
Harry had blurred.

He had stopped being just a rival.
He had become gravity.

And the war had become a mirror, showing Draco exactly who he was—and who he refused to be.

He took a step forward, and the ground seemed to flinch beneath him.
The magic in his wand thrummed, too alive, too wild. It wanted blood.
His gaze locked onto Voldemort's, and he saw—not fear—but curiosity. The kind a snake shows before it strikes.

If he was going to die today, it wouldn't be as a pawn.
It wouldn't be for legacy. Or loyalty. Or family.

He would die on his own terms.

He would die for love.
And he would die free.

Chapter Text

Draco smiled faintly as his gaze landed on the calendar pinned crookedly to his bedroom wall.

Two weeks until his sixteenth birthday.

He stared at the date as if it were daring him. As if it knew something he didn't.

He tugged a pale blue cashmere sweater over his head—Blaise's Christmas gift—and pulled on black jeans, the fabric snug against his skin. He left his hair wild and unbrushed. Let it fall where it wanted. It was summer, after all—a Saturday. And more importantly, he was in his bloody house. The portraits could mutter all they wanted. Let the ghosts of dead Malfoys gnash their teeth.

The corridor outside his bedroom yawned like the gullet of a sleeping beast. Tapestries stirred as if touched by unseen fingers. The air smelled faintly of dust, candlewax, and memory. Malfoy Manor did not welcome light. It fed on gloom. The chandeliers overhead swayed gently, though the air was still, their crystals chiming like tiny bones.

As he padded barefoot down the staircase, the scent of fresh bread and spiced Darjeeling filled the air—warm, almost comforting. House-elves darted like anxious shadows through the corridors, preparing breakfast as if nothing were wrong.

But something was wrong.

He felt it before he saw it. Like pressure behind his eyes.

His father was still home.

Lucius Malfoy sat at the head of the obsidian dining table, his pale hands wrapped around a cup of coffee that steamed untouched. The light filtered through the stained glass in fractured hues, casting shards of red and violet across his aristocratic face. He looked like a statue from a forgotten cathedral, carved in cold judgment.

Lucius never lingered past sunrise, usually long gone for "business" that Draco suspected involved far more scheming than paperwork. He hated breakfast. But there he was—posture sharp as razors, grey eyes already narrowed.

Draco stepped into the room. The moment those eyes swept over him, he felt the judgment pierce like silver through skin.

"What are you wearing?" Lucius's voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of disapproval like a blade. "Have you abandoned combs altogether, or is this a social experiment in degeneracy?"

Draco's fingers curled instinctively, nails pressing crescents into his palm. "It's Blaise's. He said I looked good in it."

He hesitated, then added, "And it's Saturday. I didn't bother with my hair."

Lucius scoffed, disgust curling in the corners of his mouth. "Tell Zabini he can keep his fashion opinions. You own three closets of proper attire. And comb your hair, weekend or not. Your hair looks like it's been nesting with owls."

Draco sat slowly, deliberately, across from him. "Noted," he said, jaw clenched tight.

Vampire or not, Lucius Malfoy was still a perfectionist. Still a Malfoy. And still terrifying before breakfast.

His condition had never been a secret in the household. Draco had grown up understanding why the curtains were drawn tight during midday and why certain dinner guests drank from goblets that shimmered faintly red in the candlelight. Lucius never hid what he was. He had simply never explained how.

Draco had stopped wondering after he once asked, as a child, if it hurt.
Lucius had gone very still. The kind of stillness only predators knew.
And then he had simply said, "Yes," and nothing more.

Draco never asked again.

A moment later came the soft click of heels on marble.

"Oh, Lucius. It's a sweater," Narcissa said lightly as she glided into the room like winter mist. Her robe was the color of fallen snow, her blonde hair a sleek cascade of frost. She poured herself tea with graceful precision, the silver pot glinting like a relic. "Not a Dark Mark."

She took her place beside her husband with the air of someone fully aware she was the only person in the house who could speak freely. "If he slicks back that poor hair back every day, it'll fall out before his seventeenth birthday."

Draco's lips twitched. His mother's beauty was the kind that lingered in doorways and haunted ballrooms—ethereal, poised, impossible to replicate. But it wasn't her delicate features or stormcloud eyes that made her unforgettable—it was the way the air responded to her. People bent toward her without knowing why. Fireplaces burned brighter in her presence. It was the Veela blood, thinned by generations, but still burning beneath her skin like silver lightning.

Lucius looked scandalized. "You're encouraging this? It starts with Muggle attire and ends with a bloody elopement to a blood traitor. Just like him."

"With all due respect," Draco muttered, "it's a sweater."

Lucius opened his mouth to respond, but Narcissa, without missing a beat, stuffed a croissant between his lips.

Draco smothered a laugh into his tea. The absurdity of it struck like lightning. For a moment, the tension cracked.

It didn't last.

"Draco," Narcissa said, her tone dropping just enough to make the air feel colder. "We need to talk."

His muscles tensed. So did the room. Even Lucius set his cup down with a deliberate, soundless grace, his expression suddenly sober.

"You remember that visit to Saint Mungo's?" Narcissa asked, her voice too casual.

Draco nodded slowly. "You said it was for routine magical screening."

"It was," Lucius said, voice low. "But there was more. We had your blood tested. Quietly. Discreetly."

Draco's stomach coiled. "Why?"

"To see if you carried any active creature traits," Narcissa said.

He blinked. "I thought your blood canceled each other out. You're veela. He's—" He hesitated. "—vampire. Doesn't that make me normal?"

Lucius met his eyes. "It should have."

"But it didn't," Narcissa said gently. "Your case is different. Exceptionally so."

"How different?" Draco asked, the edge of panic sharpening every syllable.

"There's a chance—a small one—that a child born from our bloodlines will inherit both strains," Lucius explained. "Fully active. Very rare. Very dangerous."

Draco stared. "That's not possible."

"It's improbable," Lucius said. "Not impossible."

Draco's mouth went dry. "But I feel... normal."

"For now," Lucius said. "That will change."

"You're saying I'm—what? A veela and a vampire? Like, some hybrid freak?"

"No," Narcissa said quickly, voice soothing. "You're something new. Something... powerful. Severus will explain more when you meet with him this afternoon."

He wasn't comforted. "What does that mean?"

Lucius looked grim. "It means your body can sustain both bloodlines. It also means you have specific needs."

Draco's voice dropped. "What kind of needs?"

"You'll require blood. Like me," Lucius's voice was clinical now. "Like a vampire. But not human. Not random. Only werewolf blood will keep you stable. Not much, once a month will do. But it's non-negotiable."

Draco flinched. The image clawed at his brain—fur and fangs and moonlight.

Draco recoiled like he'd been slapped. "You're joking. Werewolf? Are you mad? They could bite me, infect me—kill me—!"

"You don't drink during their transformed state," Narcissa said calmly. "You won't drink directly. We have... a donor. Until school starts. You'll be safe."

Draco's eyes narrowed. "There's only one werewolf you know."

"Yes. Remus," she confirmed.

"You can't be serious."

"Sirius wasn't thrilled, of course. But Remus insisted. Said no child of the House of Black—no matter the name—should be left to starve."

Draco slumped back in his chair. "You couldn't have just bought blood like Father does?"

Lucius's jaw tightened. "Werewolf blood is too rare. Too expensive. Even I don't have the coin for that. Not enough for what you need."

Draco didn't respond. He pushed his untouched food aside and stared blankly at the table. It looked like flesh now. Red. Wet.

"May I go?" he asked quietly.

Narcissa nodded.

His room was darker than before. The curtains hung like mourning veils. The bed groaned under him as he collapsed. The walls felt closer than usual, the air heavier. He raised his hand lazily, and a book shot into his palm without a word. Wandless magic. He'd been doing it for years, but it always felt instinctual—ordinary, somehow. Now it didn't. It was just a reminder of how different he had been all along without even noticing.

He didn't read. He just stared. He listened to the house breathe. Let the minutes pass. Let the panic sit in his throat like lead.

When the knock came, it was soft. Hollow.

A house-elf bowed low. "Master Draco, Professor Snape is ready for you, sir."

The potions lab was dim and warm, smelling of iron and damp stone. Bottles of powdered moonstone and crushed yarrow lined the shelves like silent witnesses. Draco entered quietly and took his seat.

Snape didn't look up. "You know why you're here."

"Yes."

"Then let's not waste time." He stirred a cauldron, a thick violet brew bubbling within. " Let's cover what your parents didn't."

Draco nodded numbly.

Snape continued. "You'll change. Slowly. Enhanced features. Brighter eyes. Retractable wings. Heightened strength. Extended canines. Your aura will become... persuasive. You'll draw people without meaning to. Some will become obsessed. You'll need control. But the most concerning detail is the bloodlust."

Draco's voice was thin. "And my eyes?"

"They'll darken when you're hungry. Crimson at their worst. Concealment charms are essential."

A beat of silence. Then—

"What about... mates?" Draco asked, hating the word as it left his mouth. "Like mother and father?"

Snape arched a brow. "You're informed."

"Half-informed. Just enough to fear it. So?"

"Most like you," Snape said slowly, "bond with werewolves. It's nature's way of tempering violence with instinct. Balance."

Draco groaned. "So I'm condemned to mate with someone who might eat me. Splendid."

Snape smirked faintly. "If you're lucky, they'll be gentle."

"And if I don't find one?"

Snape gave a rare, dry smirk. "You survive. You suffer a bit more. If you're lucky, you improvise. If you're not..." He shrugged. "You burn through people."

Draco dropped his head into his hands. Draco didn't know whether he was more afraid of being consumed... or consuming someone else. All of a sudden, he found himself desperate to be someone else. To have normal, ordinary blood running through his veins.

"Most boys your age don't pull objects across a room with a glance, Draco. It's not just your blood that's rare—it's what it's waking up." Snape added after a moment. 

Ah, he must have been in his head again. 

Bastard.

"So I'm cursed. Horny. And addicted to rare blood." He let out a slow, miserable breath. "Best birthday ever."

Snape poured something dark and viscous into a vial. "Welcome to sixteen, Mr. Malfoy."

Draco stared at the vial. Sixteen was already starting to taste like blood.

Chapter Text

The manor had finally fallen still.

Silence pressed down like velvet—soft but suffocating, threaded with the echo of vanished laughter. The lingering ghosts of voices, of footsteps, of empty glasses and unsaid things clung to the halls. Outside, the trees creaked under the weight of summer wind. Inside, the air was thick with smoke, sweat, and the sharp sweetness of Lucius's stolen Firewhiskey.

Pansy had kissed him too close to the mouth. Blaise had whispered something obscene in French. Theo had laughed until he spilled gold liquid all down his shirt. And then—gone. They all drifted out the door like perfume, like a dream already turning sour at the edges.

Draco was left behind. Dizzy. Drenched in exhaustion.

He barely remembered making it upstairs. Each step had felt like wading through honey—thick, slow, unreal. His jeans came off in a sluggish tug, one leg at a time, and landed in a crumpled puddle on the hardwood floor. The grey sweater—soft, oversized, smelling faintly of expensive cologne and Blaise's aftershave—was the only thing he left on.

He collapsed backward onto the bed, limbs heavy and hollowed out. The plush comforter folded around him like a sigh, and his breath slowed, sticky with alcohol and late-night heat.

Sleep took him in an instant.

But sleep was a liar.

It did not hold him long.

He woke to burning.

A slow, merciless fire that licked at the inside of his bones. Something inside him had turned violent—awake and furious. His veins felt too small to contain it. He jackknifed upward, gasping. Ice and fire warred beneath his skin, blistering and freezing in equal measure. His breath came in ragged, wet pulls. The air tasted wrong—metallic, electric, like blood before a storm.

Draco clutched his chest, then his back, as something sharp twisted deep between his shoulder blades. Pain, foreign and absolute, flooded him. It wasn't human. It wasn't meant for human nerves. This agony was ancient. Primal. A cracking of old bones. A tearing of inherited truths.

He tried to scream, but his mouth wouldn't open. His jaw locked, muscles petrified. His throat convulsed around a soundless cry.

Panic wrapped its hands around his spine and squeezed.

The sweater—his second skin—had turned traitor, clinging to him like molten tar. He clawed at it, tearing at the fine fabric with shaking fingers until it ripped open at the seams. Cool air met burning skin, but there was no relief. Sweat poured down his neck in silver rivulets.

Then it happened.

His spine bowed unnaturally, his body convulsing in a grotesque arc. Something under his skin was moving, erupting. His breath hitched as two rigid, wet things pushed outward from his back, splitting flesh like wet paper.

His hands flew back.

He felt it.

Bone. Muscle. Feather.

His fingers came back slick and red.

Wings.

Not metaphorical. Not imagined. Real.

Trembling, disoriented, he tried to stand—but the pain surged again, a fresh wave dragging him under. His knees hit the floor with a brutal thud. He curled over, forehead pressed to the cold wood, breath coming in shallow bursts.

He wanted to cry. He wanted to bite something.

His jaw ached—throbbed—as his teeth began to lengthen, pushed downward with agonizing pressure. Canines sharpened slowly, horribly. The gums split around them.

His mouth filled with the taste of iron.

It went on.

The transformation was not beautiful. It was not divine. It was grotesque. A shedding of skin, a molting of self. Draco didn't feel powerful. He felt flayed.

The pain lasted for what felt like eternity—wave after wave of violation, of rebirth. Every nerve ending screamed. Every bone shifted. Time didn't pass—it bled.

By the time the agony receded into a dull, deep throb, he was slick with blood and sweat, too wrung out to cry, too proud to sob. Silence reclaimed the room, thick as dust.

Draco lay there, half-naked, half-something else.

His body was foreign. Heavy. Alive in ways it had never been.

Eventually, with the effort of resurrection, he pulled himself upright. The room seemed different—smaller, colder, distant. His breath fogged slightly in the moonlight. A faint flutter behind him caught his attention.

He turned.

And froze.

In the mirror across the room, a stranger stared back.

He was taller—his limbs stretched, frame leaner but more imposing. His collarbones were more pronounced. His cheekbones, sharper. A predator carved from silk and marble.

And behind him, like ghosts made real, arched two massive wings. Pearl-white, edged in a haunting frost-blue. The feathers shimmered like ice kissed by moonlight—regal and terrible. Not angelic. Other.

He pivoted, watching them respond to his movement, sensitive to air and instinct. When he caught his own eyes in the glass, he staggered.

His irises were no longer grey.

They glowed—a deep, unnatural red, rimmed in obsidian shadow. Hunger lived in them. Need.

Already?

Snape had said the hunger would come later—days, maybe weeks. But this was immediate.

Draco's lips parted, a soft breath escaping as fear bled into fury. His hands clenched, nails digging into his palms. He turned away from the mirror and staggered to the bathroom, pain ghosting behind every motion.

He twisted the knobs, tested the water, and stepped in slowly—wings flaring slightly to accommodate the tight space. Steam rose around him. The heat hit his raw skin like a balm.

The water turned pink at his feet.

He stood beneath the spray, letting it carve tracks through the blood on his back and shoulders. He washed in silence, jaw set, movements slow and deliberate. Vanilla soap. Familiar. Gentle. The contrast felt obscene. He scrubbed until his skin was raw, until the stink of pain and whiskey lifted.

His fingers worked through his hair, slow and shaking, shampoo foaming like clouds against the tiled wall.

This is normal, he told himself. This is routine. This is what people do.

But nothing was normal.

Not his wings. Not his reflection. Not the gnawing, hollow ache curling around his ribs.

When he finally stepped out, the towel felt too soft. Too clean. Like it belonged to someone else. He dried slowly, mind drifting, body humming with low, restless energy.

In the mirror, he watched as his wings folded awkwardly against his back. There was a sick kind of beauty in them. A siren elegance. Something terrible and sacred.

He pulled on a snow-white sweater from the drawer—enchanted, thankfully, to adjust with his shape. The fabric stretched across his shoulders, sliding around the wings like a second skin. He stood a little taller in it. Not proud. Just braced. A survivor in satin.

He stared at himself.

He didn't know whether to laugh or scream.

But he knew one thing with dreadful certainty.

He would never be normal again.

Draco tugged on his jeans with slow, mechanical movements, his fingers brushing against skin still tender from the night before. The manor felt colder this morning. The kind of cold that settled under your skin, that pressed against your bones and reminded you: you're different now.

He stepped into the corridor.

The hallway stretched like a cathedral nave, long and heavy with silence. Tapestries whispered. Shadows clung to the corners, reluctant to let the dawn in. A portrait of a long-dead ancestor turned its face away as he passed.

The scents of the manor melted together and violated his nose in disorganized waves. But nothing was familiar now.

He descended the stairs. Not like a boy. Not anymore.

In the dining room, Lucius sat poised behind the Daily Prophet, its pages trembling faintly in his gloved hands. A cup of black coffee, cooled and untouched, at his right. Sunlight poured in through high, stained-glass windows, casting fractured emeralds and rubies across the obsidian table like shattered jewels.

Narcissa turned at the sound of his approach, her blue eyes bright behind a curtain of white-blond hair.

Then she froze.

Her lips parted. A sharp intake of breath.

Her hand flew to her mouth.

"Draco..." she breathed. "Your eyes."

Lucius looked up slowly.

He stared. Unblinking.

Draco stopped at the threshold, heart pounding, breath shallow. He could feel it now—the weight behind his gaze, the unnatural heat behind his irises. A red bloom reflecting in their silver spoons. A predator's eyes.

"I know," he said quietly. "Severus said they'd only be like this if I were hungry. But I just changed. I haven't even done anything—how can I already be—?"

Lucius folded the paper with surgical precision, his expression unreadable. "I'll owl Severus after breakfast."

His voice was flat. Controlled. But there was something behind it—something taut and sharp.

He gave the smallest of nods.

Narcissa swept from the room like silk unraveling. Her footsteps were a hush across marble.

She returned moments later with a small, delicate crystal vial cradled in her hands like an offering.

The liquid inside was deep garnet—so dark it was nearly black.

"Drink, sweetheart," she said softly. Her voice trembled beneath its polish. "Quickly, before it worsens."

Draco hesitated. The vial pulsed in her hand like a living thing.

Then the scent hit him.

Rich. Earthy. Metallic. Alive.

It struck him like a blow to the chest.

The hunger—which had slumbered under his skin like a coiled beast—awoke with a snarl. His pupils flared. His body tensed. Mouth watering, teeth aching. His hands shook slightly as he reached out and took the vial from her fingers.

He uncorked it.

The sound was obscene in the silence. A soft pop. A promise.

He brought it to his lips.

And drank.

One gulp. Then another. Then two more, fast and greedy, like he couldn't stop himself. The warmth hit his throat like velvet fire, coating every nerve, flooding every crack in his trembling body. He could feel it spread—down his spine, into his fingers, through his chest.

His eyelids fluttered.

A sigh slipped from his mouth—low, slow, involuntary. The kind of sound lovers made in secret.

His shoulders relaxed.

The red in his irises faded, dissolving like smoke. Soft grey returned, but darker now, stormier. Changed.

Draco set the empty vial down on the table with exaggerated care. He didn't speak.

The room was too quiet.

The ache was gone—but so was something else. That small ember of self, that tether of certainty, had loosened. He felt... suspended. Warm, yes. Grounded, no. Hollow.

Not pain.

Not hunger.

Just nothing.

Narcissa took a step forward. "Draco?" she asked gently. "Are you alright?"

He nodded once, but the motion was mechanical. His lips parted, forming the word: "Fine."

But the syllable rang false. Thin. Brittle.

He looked at the breakfast laid out in front of him—fruit, croissants, warm cinnamon scones. The smell turned his stomach.

"I'm not particularly hungry," he murmured, and stood without waiting for permission.

Lucius watched him leave with a stillness that bordered on reverence. Narcissa's gaze followed him with pain etched into every line of her elegant face.

Draco's footsteps echoed all the way up the stairs.

When he reached his bedroom, he collapsed onto the bed. It did not comfort him. The sheets were cool and soft, but they held no weight. His body had become a contradiction—light and heavy, hot and cold, alive and not.

He curled on his side.

The silence wrapped around him like a shroud.

Then, voices.

From the hall.

He heard them clearly.

He would always hear them now.

"What's wrong with him?" Narcissa whispered. Her voice was frayed silk. "He looks... haunted."

"He's exhausted," Lucius replied. For once, his voice lacked steel. It was quiet. Strained. "The pain alone would've shattered most men. And the blood—it changes you. The first taste... it burns. It unknits you. Then sews you back differently."

A pause.

Then Lucius's voice—low and uncharacteristically soft: "Our little boy, Cissa... he survived."

"I know," she said. "He's truly beautiful."

Footsteps.

Then a door creaked open.

The soft click of heels across the floor.

Draco remained still, eyes shut, breath slow.

Narcissa draped a heavy velvet blanket over his form, smoothing it down with trembling hands. She brushed a lock of silver-blond hair from his temple and pressed a kiss there, whispering without sound: I love you.

She lingered a moment, then turned.

A hand took hers.

Two shadows left the room together.

The door clicked shut behind them with a finality that rang in Draco's skull.

His eyes opened slowly, crimson bleeding faintly back into grey as he stared into the dark.

The silence wasn't silence anymore.

It had weight.

It had shape.

It watched.

And it knew his name.

Chapter Text

August did not arrive in triumph. It did not shout, or shine, or sing.

It crept.

It pressed into the walls of the manor like fog, thick and warm and still. The air was heavy with the scent of old magic—dust, wax, stone warmed by sun—and something else. Something subtle, but sharp. A trace of ozone, like the aftertaste of lightning. Draco had grown attuned to it. To everything.

The manor's quiet had deepened over the past days. Not with peace, but with hush. A hush that listened.

Draco stood at his desk, bare feet sinking slightly into the cold rug beneath him, staring at the last day of the calendar. A small, perfect "X" marked the square. The ink had dried hours ago, but he could still smell it—acrid and clean. His fingers hovered just above the parchment. There was no magic in the page, not truly, but it felt consecrated all the same. A ritual finished. A countdown fulfilled.

He exhaled slowly and tore it away.

The sound of parchment folding was too loud in the quiet room.

He tucked the page gently into the bottom of his trunk—beneath layers of neatly pressed sweaters, dark undershirts, new trousers, and meticulously organized books. Everything smelled new. Charms still clung to the spines of his textbooks like a second skin—glamour spells, preservation runes, faint notes of salt, glue, and wild parchment trees. But the strongest scent of all was himself. His magic. His blood.

The trunk clicked shut.

His fingers tightened on the handle, and the weight barely registered. There were times, still, when he underestimated himself—when he moved too fast, when glass cracked beneath his grip, when doors slammed with just the pressure of his palm. He was stronger now. Faster. Sharper.

And not just in body.

He heard footsteps long before his mother called.

"Draco!"

Her voice floated up the stairs—poised, melodic, edged with steel. She was always composed. Even now. Especially now.

"Coming, Mother," he answered, voice smooth.

The sound bounced off the hallway walls and didn't echo. The manor had stopped echoing for him.

He descended in two strides, the floor groaning softly under his weight, though he moved lightly. He felt everything—the tremor of wood grain, the heat of sunlight through stained glass, the distant whine of wind brushing against shuttered windows.

Narcissa stood waiting by the hearth, draped in a black traveling cloak that shimmered with starlight when it moved. Her lips were painted deep rose. Her gloved hands were still.

She held out her arm.

Draco took it.

The moment their fingers touched, she flinched. Just the faintest flicker. His skin was cool. Too cool.

But she said nothing.

Then came Apparition.

He'd never liked it before. Now, it felt different. The compression of space, the swallowing twist of shadow—it thrilled something deep inside him. Like a creature stretching its wings.

When they landed on Platform 9¾, the world unfolded in a jarring rush of noise and light and heat.

Screaming owls. Shouting families. The screech of trunks dragging on stone. Someone dropped a cage. A spell misfired. Children ran underfoot. The chaos of the platform crashed over him—

And fell flat.

Muted.

Muffled.

Draco blinked slowly.

The sounds were there, yes, but they were distant. Layered beneath more important things—like the scent of the air, thick with ash and sweets and engine smoke. The colors were too bright. The movements too fast. His eyes ached, adjusting to the flux of motion.

He could see everything.

The breath rising from nostrils. The glint of morning dew in a stranger's cufflink. The shimmer of fear off a nervous first-year like a heat wave.

He set his trunk down.

Narcissa turned toward him. For a moment, she didn't speak. She just looked. As if memorizing his face. Or trying to recognize it.

Then, she cupped his cheek, her hand cold against his skin.

"You must be strong, my dragon," she said.

There was no tremor in her voice. But her eyes—blue as winter—were wet at the edges.

He nodded once.

She kissed his cheek, pulled him into her arms. He felt her inhale at the crook of his neck, as if she were trying to remember his scent.

She smelled of vanilla soap, pressed wool, ancient parchment, and beneath it all—blood.

She let go.

And he turned from her.

Each step toward the train pulled the heat of the platform away. It left the scent of metal and steam behind.

The corridor was chaos incarnate.

A blur of limbs, robes, luggage, noise. Owls hooted. Cats shrieked. A cauldron floated by, smoking ominously.

He weaved through it like water.

He could feel the breath of every passerby. Hear the rustle of feathers inside covered cages. The heartbeat of a girl two carriages away, fast and fluttering.

And then—

Impact.

Someone collided with his chest. Not hard—but Draco stumbled back out of pure instinct, arms braced.

Hands clutched at his sweater. Warm palms. Fast heartbeat.

He looked down.

Potter.

The world sharpened.

Harry blinked up at him, eyes wide behind askew glasses. His fingers were still curled in Draco's sweater, gripping the fabric like he didn't know he was doing it.

The touch was warm. Alarmingly warm.

Draco stared.

Harry's magic rolled off him in chaotic waves—green and gold, buzzing with tightly coiled energy. It brushed against Draco's skin like static.

Draco's breath caught for a second too long.

"Hmm," he said finally, tone casual, recovering fast. "Potter. You're gawking. And clumsy."

Harry flinched, withdrawing his hands like he'd been burned. His cheeks flushed a startling pink.

"Trying to get through, Malfoy," he muttered, and shouldered past. Their arms brushed. Skin touched. Harry's magic snapped again, like a whip.

Draco turned his head slowly, watching him go.

Something twisted in his gut. Not hunger. Not entirely. Something else.

Something curious.

He smirked faintly. "Still crashing into things," he murmured to no one. "Some things never change."

But the truth was—

Everything had changed.

And Potter had no idea.

He made it to the last train car before stopping cold.

The door to his usual compartment stood ajar, and what lay within should have shocked him.

It didn't.

Pansy Parkinson, bare-shouldered and unapologetic, was half-straddling a girl Draco recognized vaguely—wild brown hair, sharp jaw, ink-stained fingers, the type who always smelled faintly of fresh parchment and rebellion. His senses were too overloaded to decipher the girl specifically, nor were his eyes particularly fond of lingering on the scene before him.

Shirts had vanished. Limbs tangled. Tongues explored. No shame. No secrecy.

Just heat.

Draco stared for a beat, then groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

Pansy didn't even glance up. She made a vague shooing motion with her fingers. "Occupied, darling. Try not to be such a prude."

Draco didn't answer. He turned on his heel and stalked further down the corridor, ignoring the wolf-whistle that followed him.

He found an empty compartment near the back of the train—tucked into shadow, the curtains half-drawn. It smelled of old wood, oil, and faint remnants of perfume from students long gone. It was quiet. Blessedly so.

He slid the door shut behind him, letting it click into place with a finality he didn't question. The train shuddered beneath his feet. He tossed his trunk into the overhead, sat, and pulled a worn paperback from his coat. The cover was frayed, the spine cracked. The kind of book he'd never admit to reading.

His fingers still trembled faintly.

Not from nerves.

From sensation.

His skin buzzed with ambient energy. He could feel the heartbeat of the train itself—steady, thumping, alive. The distant scrape of footsteps outside, the pressure of approaching bodies. His new senses refused to rest. The air tasted like brass and chocolate frogs. Everything reeked of adolescence and sugar and longing.

He managed five pages.

Then the door burst open.

He didn't look up.

"Oi! Mate! I found an empt—"

Weasley.

Draco recognized the voice before he saw the face.

"If this is about selling tickets to the Public Nudity Exhibition," he said blandly, "I'm not interested. I've already been traumatized once today."

There was a full second of horrified silence.

Ron froze in the doorway like a deer staring down a killing curse. His mouth hung open. His eyes had gone wide and glassy. He looked, for all the world, like someone had just told him he'd have to marry a goblin.

"Malfoy," he said.

Draco blinked once. "Weasley."

Behind him, Potter appeared—glasses fogged and hair askew, that chaotic aura Draco had started to recognize like a smell. He stepped into view, eyes darting between Ron's frozen posture and Draco's amused one.

"Ron? What's wr—" He stopped.

A pause.

"Oh."

Draco finally glanced up from his book. "Is there a reason you two are barging in like a Quidditch team on fire?"

Ron scratched the back of his neck, looking sheepish and cornered. "Everywhere else is full. Hermione usually saves us a spot but she's... uh... she's busy."

Draco tilted his head, predator-curious. "Busy?" he echoed, voice all silk. "Do tell."

Ron turned crimson. He coughed once, then again, violently, like he was trying to expel the entire sentence from his lungs.

Harry, ever the reluctant savior, stepped in. "She's with someone."

Draco leaned forward, eyes catching the light just enough to glint. "Someone? Interesting phrasing. Not a bloke, I'm guessing?"

Harry shook his head, mouth twitching at the edges.

Draco's smile curled like smoke. "Was she shirtless?"

Ron made a noise like a teakettle dying. "Merlin's beard, Malfoy—"

Harry didn't even blink. "Yeah."

A low whistle escaped Draco's lips. "That's going to end spectacularly. I give them a week before someone hexes a sink off the wall."

Ron groaned and collapsed into the nearest seat, burying his face in his hands. "I'm living in a nightmare."

Draco tilted his head, watching him with mild pity. "You always look like that. So it's hard to tell."

Before Ron could reply, a soft knock interrupted them. The door slid open again, and the trolley witch stood there with her usual crooked smile and a tray stacked with candy and pastries.

"Anything off the trolley, dears?"

Ron launched himself upright, his grief forgotten in the face of sweets.

Harry stepped forward without hesitation, handing over several galleons. "Six of each, please."

Draco stared at him, one pale brow arching. "You're both going to drop dead before term starts."

Harry flashed a grin. "Haven't yet."

Then he winked.

It was quick. Casual. Maybe unintentional.

But Draco felt it.

His pulse skipped.

There was a flicker—just for a breath—of something electric. Not the hunger. Not exactly. It wasn't sharp or feral. It was... warm. Real. Unwelcome.

His breath caught in his throat, and heat crept up his neck before he could stop it.

He glanced quickly down at his book, hoping to every bloody god in existence that the flush didn't reach his ears.

Harry returned to his seat, balancing half the trolley's inventory. Ron was already elbow-deep in a bag of fizzing sugar bombs, jaw working furiously.

Draco didn't laugh.

But he didn't leave either.

The compartment filled slowly with a low hum of chatter, paper wrappers crinkling, the faint fizz of acid pops, and the easy rhythm of casual conversation.

It was foreign to him. This warmth. This simplicity.

And something in it ached.

He let the sound wash over him, let his eyes slide closed for just a moment. The air smelled like chocolate and rain.

When he dozed off, chin dipped to chest, the book still open in his lap, it was to the sound of Harry's laughter—low and honest and close. It curled in the corners of Draco's mind like incense, like memory.

A memory he hadn't made yet.

But wanted to.

Chapter Text

"Malfoy... Malfoy!"

A pause. Then sharper—

"MALFOY. DRACO."

His name cracked across the compartment like a whip.

Draco jolted upright, breath catching mid-dream, his spine seizing as reality crashed into him. The book slid from his lap with a dull thud, and he blinked against the sudden light.

Green and black filled his vision.

Harry Potter, far too close.

His hands gripped Draco's shoulders like he'd pulled him from drowning. His skin was warm, his breath fanning across Draco's cheek, carrying the scent of peppermint and pumpkin juice and something sharp beneath—something bright and bitter and alive.

"For Merlin's sake," Harry muttered, exasperated, "do all purebloods sleep like corpses? You and Ron are completely useless."

He tried to sound irritated, but there was the hint of a grin tugging at his mouth. It didn't reach his eyes—but something else did.

Awareness.

Draco exhaled and ran a hand down his face. The skin of his palm rasped faintly against the fine stubble on his jaw. He was stiff, limbs sluggish with disuse, muscles protesting as he stretched.

"You're incredibly loud for someone so small," he muttered, voice rough with sleep and something heavier. "Like a pixie with a megaphone."

Harry snorted. "You're welcome for the wake-up call, Sleeping Death."

Draco reached for his trunk, dragging it toward him with one hand. The compartment was too warm. The air too close. His sweater clung to his skin. He pulled it off in one smooth motion, the fabric sliding over his torso with a soft hiss of wool over skin.

Harry took a step back—but didn't look away.

Draco's back was to him, the lean muscles flexing under pale skin as he reached for his uniform. The moonlight coming through the train window cast faint silver shadows along the arch of his shoulders. The faint outline of his wings, folded and hidden beneath glamour, shimmered for a fraction of a second—then vanished.

Harry blinked. His gaze dropped. Then lifted. His fingers twitched.

He turned abruptly and began fiddling with his robes, far too busy for someone who had just finished dressing.

Draco said nothing.

Modesty had become irrelevant. This body was no longer ordinary—it was something other. Something ancient. Beautiful. Weaponized. He moved with the quiet grace of something hunted and dangerous. Even simple gestures—rolling his sleeves, buttoning his collar—carried the polish of discipline. Muscle memory. Generations of Malfoy training and now, more than that—instinct.

The train gave its familiar lurch. They were minutes from the station.

Draco was adjusting the cuffs of his shirt when Harry cleared his throat.

"Er—look, um..." Harry rubbed the back of his neck, fingers carding through his messy hair. "Hermione usually does my tie. I'm total shit at it. Ron is too," he added, as Ron twisted his tie into a knotted disaster that looked more like a cursed rope than a uniform accessory.

Draco arched a brow.

"You want me to do it?"

Harry looked sheepish, lips pressed into a crooked line. "If you don't mind."

Draco gave a long-suffering sigh and stepped forward. "Gryffindors," he muttered. "Completely helpless."

Harry stood still, chin lifted slightly as Draco took the red-and-gold tie from his hands. Their fingers brushed—just briefly—but Harry flinched like the contact had sent a jolt through him.

Draco ignored it.

He worked with efficient, elegant movements, looping the fabric with deft precision. His fingers were absurdly gentle, the pads of them ghosting across Harry's collarbones, smoothing down the silk. The knot was perfect—tight, neat, stylish. Draco tugged it into place with a slight flourish, his hands lingering just a moment too long at the base of Harry's throat.

"There," he said, his voice lower now. "You look marginally less tragic."

Harry looked down, then back up. "That's actually better than Hermione's."

Draco allowed himself a smirk. "Obviously. I've been tying these since I could walk."

Their eyes met.

No smirk this time.

No joke.

Just tension—quiet and sharp and humming. It stretched between them like a string pulled taut, invisible but vibrating. Neither of them moved. Neither of them breathed. Something unspoken hovered between them, heavy and electric, like the moment before lightning touches the ground.

Draco's pulse quickened.

He could hear Harry's heartbeat. Feel the subtle shift of magic in the air. It brushed against him like static—reckless, golden, hungry. Potter's pupils had dilated slightly. His lips parted, as if to speak.

But no words came.

Draco turned away.

"Come on," he said over his shoulder. "We'll miss the feast."

His voice was even. But inside—inside, he felt like the tie he'd just pulled tight.

Stretched. Tense. Wound too tight around the throat.

As the compartment emptied behind him, as the station loomed and the air turned colder, Draco didn't glance back.

But he felt Harry's eyes on him the whole way.

He found Pansy three carriages down and, thank Merlin, she was fully clothed this time. Draped in her black school robes, she lounged against the window like a brooding heiress, legs crossed, one boot swinging in rhythm to music only she could hear.

"Ah, thank the stars," Draco drawled as he slid the door open. "You've rediscovered fabric."

Pansy didn't even look up from her compact mirror. "Excuse you?"

"You know what I mean." He stepped inside, letting the door slide shut behind him. "Making out half-naked on a train full of hormonal minors is a fast track to a Muggle watchlist."

Her glare was immediate and nuclear. "You little snake—"

"You left the door unlocked," he interrupted, already sinking into the seat across from her and pulling out his novel with the resigned elegance of someone too cultured for this chaos. "I was looking for you. It wasn't just me who got a peek."

Pansy's lips parted, all blood drained from her face. "Who?"

Draco didn't even glance up from his book. "Potter."

The silence was deafening. The train clicked along the rails like a distant heartbeat.

"Of course it was Potter," she spat eventually, slamming her mirror shut. "That little voyeur. This is exactly how a scandal starts. I can't even threaten him properly—he's got too many bloody plot shields."

Draco snorted, flipping a page with deliberate ease. "You're muttering like someone planning a political assassination."

"I'm considering it," she snapped, arms folded tightly. "You can't let people like Potter walk around thinking they're immune to consequences."

"Why do you assume he minded?"

That shut her up.

She muttered threats under her breath the entire ride. Something about ground glass and the Gryffindor bath taps.

The castle greeted them with a curtain of grey clouds and wind sharp enough to cut. The air smelled of wet stone, storm-churned sky, and centuries of cloistered magic. Draco stepped off the carriage with a stretch, rolling his shoulders, adjusting the line of his robe with the careless grace of a pureblood prince. His boots hit the stone path with a thud that echoed up the courtyard like thunder.

Inside, the Great Hall blazed with floating candles and echoing chatter. The ceiling, bewitched to match the sky, showed iron clouds rolling like distant armies. Flickering light shimmered off the plates, the stone, the students. It all felt... thinner, somehow. Like it would peel away if he stared too long.

They joined Blaise at the Slytherin table—dark robes, sharp cheekbones, posture like a serpent coiled on velvet. Pansy was still muttering about "untraceable poisons" as she dropped beside him.

"Draco. Pans." Blaise raised a lazy hand. "Back from summer hell?"

"I'm emotionally scarred," Pansy announced.

"Family dinners again?" he asked, already smirking.

"She paraded suitors like cursed relics. One of them was named Chadric."

Blaise winced. "That sounds like a rash. Or a rare allergy."

"It felt like one," she growled. "He tried to call me 'm'lady.'"

Draco slid into the seat beside them. "I read books."

"You would," Blaise sighed. "The Ice Prince returns. What was it this time—Potions Through the Ages? How to Murder with Charisma?"

"'Surviving Puberty While Possibly Cursed,'" Draco replied coolly.

Blaise raised an eyebrow. "Catchy."

Their banter faded as the Sorting began. Draco half-listened, lazily spearing grapes with his fork while the Sorting Hat crooned another off-key rhyme. The echo of the hall, the clinking of silver, the low murmur of students—it all blurred together. He watched without seeing, eyes distant, until a first-year tripped on her way to the Ravenclaw table and nearly took the whole bench with her.

Then came Dumbledore.

He rose with a sweep of his robes, ancient and radiant and strange as ever, all twinkle and mischief. His speech was the usual mixture of whimsy and subtle threats wrapped in riddles. Then he clapped once, and the tables bloomed into life.

Draco built a modest plate: roast chicken, buttered carrots, a crisp green apple. Across the hall, the Gryffindors devolved into chaos. One of them caught a drumstick in his teeth like a dog, sending an eruption of cheers throughout the table. Another tried to butter a roll with a spoon and ended up buttering the spoon instead.

Pansy curled her lip. "Absolute wolves."

"At least they're quarantined in a tower," Draco murmured.

"Smart founders," Blaise agreed.

Draco bit into his apple with a sharp crunch, the sound crisp and sudden in the warm din. The taste burst on his tongue—sweet, tart, with an edge of iron that startled him. He swallowed slowly.

Pansy was whispering again. "...poison the communal butter, no one notices..."

"So." Draco leaned back. "Summer?"

"Balls. Teas. Failed murder plots," Pansy replied flatly. "You know. Tradition."

Draco tilted his head. "Granger seemed... occupied."

Pansy's mouth twitched. "Occupied? Try glowing. I think we're in the honeymoon phase."

Blaise smirked. "Bet they break the furniture."

Draco snorted. "Bet Potter walks in on them again."

The timing was exquisite.

A voice cut through the hall like a slicing hex:

"You know what? Fuck you, Ron!"

Hermione's voice, unmistakable, rang across the chamber.

"Who I'm with is none of your fucking concern!"

Every head turned.

The Great Hall froze.

Hermione stood by the Gryffindor table, face flushed, eyes blazing, fists clenched like she was seconds from drawing a wand. Her chest heaved. Ron looked like he'd been slapped with a wet book. No one breathed.

Then she spun on her heel and stormed out.

The doors slammed behind her like a thunderclap.

Silence.

Then Blaise leaned in with a wicked grin. "Trouble in sapphic paradise."

"Shut up, Blaise," Pansy hissed—and hurled a potato at his face.

It hit with a solid thwack, a chunk of mashed starch exploding against his forehead and leaving a smear of buttery carnage in his perfectly coiffed curls.

He froze.

Draco choked on his water, face buried in his sleeve, shoulders shaking in silent laughter.

Across the hall, Harry met his eyes.

Just for a moment.

There was curiosity there, as if Harry was just seeing Draco for the first time. Really seeing him.

Draco felt the corner of his mouth betray him, curling before he crushed it into neutrality.

Tonight, he wasn't ready for that. He, in fact, wasn't ready for anything outside of the normal sneers in his current state.

Not yet.

Back in the dungeons, the air was colder, thicker. The ancient stones breathed damp around them, carrying the faint scent of moss and memory, like the castle itself had never truly dried from the centuries it had slept beneath the lake.

Blaise had claimed the full-length mirror near the fireplace, a towel slung dramatically over one shoulder like a ruined opera star.

"For the record," he announced to no one, "I have curls. Do you understand the science of curls, Draco? You cannot just pelt them with root vegetables and expect forgiveness."

From the nearby armchair, Draco did not look up from his book. "You'll live."

Blaise turned, affronted. "You say that now, but these are structural spirals. Pansy is an undignified monster. You throw starch at curls, and it's war."

Draco sighed, a low exhale that carried the weight of tolerance and slow-burning amusement. "I'll alert the Prophet. International tragedy. Hair meets carbohydrate."

Blaise scoffed and returned to dabbing at his head with what looked like a silk handkerchief.

Eventually, the room thinned.

Laughter faded into tired conversation. Robes rustled past in clutches of yawning students, footsteps fading across flagstone. The fire dwindled to low embers, casting the room in shadows and red-gold flickers. The portraits blinked more slowly. The dungeon itself seemed to exhale.

Draco stood.

He walked soundlessly through the archway, fingers trailing against the stone wall—cool, slightly wet. The castle whispered under his touch. It felt more alive now. He couldn't say when that had started. He just knew he wasn't imagining it anymore.

He slipped into the bathroom and locked the door behind him.

The sconces flickered, casting a ghostly light across the tiles. The mirror was fogged slightly, as though someone had just left, though he knew it had been empty when he came in.

He leaned over the sink, palms flat against the edge, and let the silence press around him like water.

Then he splashed his face.

Cold. Sharp. It struck his skin with a clarity that should have grounded him.

It didn't.

His pulse still raced—louder now, a rising drumbeat in his throat. He could hear it. Each thud vibrated along his jaw. His fingers gripped the sink harder than he meant to; the porcelain creaked beneath his hands.

Slowly, he looked up.

And met himself.

The reflection was faintly warped, the glass old enough to remember past centuries, but it didn't lie. Not about this.

His eyes were wrong.

Not fully. Not yet. But the change was there—crimson flecks curling at the edge of silver irises, delicate but unmistakable. Like wine bleeding into stone. His pupils were no longer round but slightly elongated—catlike, hunter's eyes.

Not human.

Not anymore.

His breath hitched, but he didn't look away.

The burn had started again—low in his chest, just behind the breastbone. An ember, slow and cruel, licking outward with growing heat. It wasn't pain. Not exactly.

It was need.

He felt it pulsing in his jaw, a tight pressure behind his teeth. His canines ached—not lengthening yet, but remembering.

He opened his mouth slightly and ran his tongue along them.

Still blunt.

For now.

His throat tightened. Dry. Hollow.

He reached for the glass on the counter, filled it from the tap, drank deeply, then set it down, water sloshing slightly. It didn't help.

It never helped.

His fingers trembled faintly against the sink's edge.

Not from fear.

He wasn't afraid of the hunger anymore.

He was afraid of how natural it felt.

Like a heartbeat. Like a second voice in his mind, curled up and waking.

He closed his eyes. Inhaled.

The air smelled of stone, soap, old magic... and something else.

Underneath it all, barely there, a thread of something sharp and animal and tempting. The scent of old blood dried into the grout between the tiles. It had probably been there for years. Maybe centuries. A scratch in a duel. A nosebleed. A cut lip.

But now he could smell it.

He could feel it.

His skin prickled. His jaw clenched.

He wasn't starving.

Not yet.

But it was coming.

And this time, he didn't know if he'd be able to wait.

Chapter Text

It had been a week since they returned to Hogwarts.

Seven days.

Seven days of pretending he was still the boy he'd always been. Of rising before sunrise, eyes raw and burning, and weaving glamour charms in the mirror with trembling hands. Of pacing the dungeons in the dead of night, his breath shallow, trying to calm the gnawing thing inside him.

Classes had resumed. First-years scurried like mice underfoot, wide-eyed and overwhelmed, bumping into suits of armor and each other. Professors barked their usual threats of detentions and essays as the castle groaned back to life with the grace of a slumbering beast. The Great Hall rang with chatter and the scrape of silverware. Even Peeves had returned to his irritating routines with renewed enthusiasm, pelting dungbombs with poetic flair.

Everything was falling back into place.

Everything—except Draco.

He was unraveling in silence.

The mirror lied less each morning.

His eyes were no longer grey.

What began as the faintest bloom—flecks of crimson at the outer rim—had become rivers. The red was creeping inward now, flooding the silver with slow violence. It was the color of ruin. Of wine poured too fast. Of blood welling fresh from a bite.

The glamour charm he cast each day still held—but barely. It trembled when he spoke too loudly, cracked when his pulse surged. It flickered when the hunger crested—and the hunger never stopped .

It had become a constant thrum beneath his skin. A low flame licking the edges of his ribs. He felt it in his gums, in the ache behind his eyes, in the sudden and irrational flash of heat when someone got too close. Every sound was too sharp. Every smell, too vivid. Too detailed. Like he was moving through the world with all his nerves exposed.

But the worst—

The worst was the scent.

Blood.

Not just any blood.

Werewolf blood.

He’d caught it days ago. The first time, it had been faint. A shadow in the corridor. Barely there. A whisper of something half-remembered and wrong.

But now it followed him.

It was everywhere. Lingering in the stairwells. On parchments handed in. In Charms. In Potions. On the wood of desks. The stone of the walls. It clung to fabric, to touch, to breath.

It haunted him.

A smell of wildness, earth and storm, lightning and skin. It pulled at him like gravity.

It wasn’t random.

It was him.

The one he'd been sensing since the train ride. The one whose scent spiraled through his chest like smoke and woke every nerve in his mouth.

And now— now —he was here.

Close.

Too close.

The scent hit him like a hex the moment he stepped into Transfiguration.

Something fresh.

Not a wound. Not a gash.

A cut.

Small.

Open.

The tang of blood shimmered in the air like music. He could taste it. Feel it against the roof of his mouth. It made his fangs ache in their sleep.

His skin crawled. His lungs refused to expand.

Someone nearby had bled.

He had bled.

Draco didn’t know who he was. Not yet. But he knew what he was.

He could smell the moon on his skin.

A storm in his bones.

His hand shot into the air before his body even decided to move.

Professor McGonagall, poised at the blackboard mid-lecture, turned sharply. Her expression was more curiosity than concern. “Yes, Mr. Malfoy?”

Draco swallowed. His throat was a desert. His jaw clenched.

“May I be excused?” he asked.

His voice cracked.

Tight.

Too tight.

“Mr. Malfoy,” she said with that precise calm only she could manage, “unless you’re unwell—”

“It’s urgent ,” he snapped.

His heart was racing. Too fast. His nails dug crescents into his palms. And his glamour—it shivered .

For the briefest moment, just a single breath, it cracked.

A shimmer of light. A blink in the veil.

And his eyes blazed through.

Crimson.

Not rimmed, not flecked.

Fully red.

The gasp came from somewhere on his left. A soft exhale of horror. Someone dropped a quill.

Draco didn’t look. He couldn’t.

He locked eyes with McGonagall.

She flinched—only slightly—but enough.

Then, with a tight nod, she said, “Go.”

He didn’t wait.

He was gone in an instant.

Out the door. Into the corridor. Footsteps echoing like drumbeats behind his ears.

His robes billowed around him, too hot, too heavy. He needed air . He needed space. He needed to not be seen. Not like this. Not changing .

Because the hunger wasn’t knocking anymore.

It was roaring.

He slammed into the first-floor boys’ lavatory like a hunted thing, the door clanging shut behind him with a sound too loud, too final. The bolt banged with a shudder, echoing off the tiled walls like a gunshot.

The scent had followed.

Thick. Clinging. Sweet and sharp in equal measure. It curled through the air like smoke from a fire that had never gone out.

Draco staggered to the sink and tore at his robe like it was strangling him, the fabric falling in a crumple to the floor. He braced both hands against the cold porcelain basin, head bowed, trying to breathe.

In. Out.

But the breaths came ragged. Starved.

The glamour faltered.

Flickered once—twice—then shattered like glass under a scream.

And his reflection looked back at him.

Wrong.

Raw.

His eyes glowed in the flickering candlelight—blood red, dark as garnet, the centers swallowed by slit pupils that widened and contracted with every beat of his racing heart. His lips were parted. Fangs visible. He could see his pulse thrumming in the hollow of his throat. His skin was flushed, stretched too tight over bone and sinew.

He didn’t look human.

And he didn’t feel it, either.

The scent spiked.

It was closer now. Here.

Someone was coming.

Footsteps, slow and steady on the stone outside the door. Casual. Unaware. Whistling, even. A familiar gait, confident in its ignorance.

Draco’s eyes went wide. “No,” he whispered. “Not now. Not now—”

The door creaked open.

And in walked Harry Potter.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, stepping inside, wiping his finger on the sleeve of his robe. “All this over a papercut? Still leaking, the stupid thing—”

Draco didn’t need to look.

He already knew.

Knew the shape of him. Knew the scent. The way it wrapped around his skull and whispered mine . Knew the flicker of his magic, always a half-second ahead of his movement. Wild. Untamed. Familiar.

Harry’s finger bore a shallow cut. Barely a scratch. A single, glistening bead of blood balanced at its edge.

But to Draco—

It was everything.

His hunger roared.

Lunged.

“Hey—Malfoy?” Harry’s voice faltered. “You okay?”

No.

Gods, no.

Draco looked up.

Their eyes met.

Harry froze.

“What the hell—your eyes—?”

Too late.

Draco moved.

One moment of breathless stillness, and then he was there—slamming Harry into the tiled wall so fast the air cracked in his wake. The impact sent a dull reverberation through the lavatory. Harry gasped, breath knocked from his lungs, hands flying up to brace against Draco’s chest.

But Draco didn’t attack.

He inhaled.

Nose brushing the edge of Harry’s jaw, lips hovering at the skin just beneath his ear.

He was trembling.

“They always say you’ve got the worst luck,” Draco murmured, voice low and rough and ruined. “Starting to think they’re right.”

Harry’s heartbeat thundered between them.

“What the hell are you—”

“You’re a wolf,” Draco whispered. “I can smell it in you. How did that happen? Half-bloods rarely survive the bite.”

Harry stiffened. “How do you—”

“Because I can smell it,” Draco hissed. “Smell you. And you smell…”

He exhaled, trembling.

“…intoxicating.”

And then he struck.

His head dipped and his fangs sank cleanly into the curve of Harry’s neck—practiced, perfect, inevitable . Skin gave way with frightening ease. The blood came warm and immediate.

Harry gasped—a sharp, raw sound that twisted into a groan. His knees buckled.

Draco caught him, one arm snaked around his waist, the other gripping the nape of his neck. Holding him still. Holding him close.

And he drank.

It was lightning in his veins.

It was sunlight through fog.

It was alive .

Spiced and wild and laced with storm-charged magic. It hit every nerve like fire, cooled the agony, silenced the hunger, filled him with a sharp clarity that almost— almost —hurt.

Harry made a sound in his throat—half-strangled, half-surrender.

His hands curled in Draco’s shirt.

First, for balance.

Then—not.

“D–Draco…”

That name.

That sound.

It broke something.

Draco’s breath hitched against Harry’s skin, his lips dragging back reluctantly. But the pull—the desire —was relentless. His hunger was no longer rabid. It was worshipful.

He held Harry tighter, chest flush to chest, the heartbeat between them now shared.

He wanted to consume him.

But Harry sagged.

It happened fast. Too fast.

His weight shifted. Draco felt it in his grip—loose, heavy, failing.

He wrenched back, panic slicing through the high.

“ Potter! ”

He caught him—barely—before he hit the ground. But it was too late to make it gentle. Harry crumpled to the tile, his body folded awkwardly, one hand limp, the other curled weakly into Draco’s sleeve.

His face was pale. Mouth parted. Lashes fluttering.

“Shit,” Draco gasped, kneeling. “No—fuck—Harry—”

He hovered, unsure where to touch. His hands trembled. One hovered above Harry’s chest. The other brushed his damp fringe from his brow.

His pulse fluttered.

Still there.

But faint.

Too much. Too fast.

Draco could still taste him—metal and warmth and something brighter. The scent clung to his tongue. The ache in his jaw had gone quiet.

But something worse bloomed beneath it now.

Guilt.

It crawled cold up his spine.

He had fed on Harry Potter.

Chose to.

Not in madness. Not by accident.

He had wanted it.

The heat. The closeness. The surrender.

And now—

Harry lay unconscious on the floor of a boys’ lavatory.

A smear of blood on his neck.

A smear of sin in Draco’s mouth.

Something had shifted.

Something sacred and unspeakable.

And there was no undoing it now.

Chapter Text

Harry’s eyes shot open like a door slamming against its hinges.

His heart was a drumbeat in his throat, thudding against bone like it wanted out—like it had tasted something wild and wanted to chase it.

The dormitory ceiling loomed above him in shadowed ribs, a pale wash of moonlight painting the rafters in trembling silver. It looked unfamiliar in that moment—alien. Tilted. Too still.

He blinked. Once. Twice.

Where—

Then the sounds came.

Snoring.

Low. Thunderous.

Ron, two beds over. The occasional high-pitched whimper: Neville. A sleep mutter. A sigh. Dean talking to someone who wasn’t there.

Normal.

Ordinary.

But nothing about Harry felt ordinary.

He sat up slowly. The motion pulled a fresh wave of sweat down his spine. The sheets clung to him, damp and twisted around his legs. His t-shirt was plastered to his chest. He peeled it off with a grimace and swung his legs to the side of the bed.

The stone floor was freezing.

The cold bit into the soles of his feet as he stood, grounding him, but not enough. Not nearly enough.

His hands were shaking.

His mouth tasted like copper.

His head felt wrong.

He padded quietly into the bathroom, careful not to wake anyone, and slipped the bolt behind him. The tile was cold against his toes. He turned on the tap without thinking, letting the water run until steam rolled up like smoke from a dying pyre. Then he stepped into the shower and cranked the temperature higher.

It was too hot.

He needed it to be.

The water hit his skin in a scorching sheet, peeling away the clammy tension layer by layer. Steam choked the air. The mirror blurred. The walls faded.

Harry leaned forward, hands braced against the tile, forehead resting against cool stone. His skin throbbed.

His spine ached—not a sharp pain. A pressure. Like something was growing beneath the surface, stretching muscles into shapes they didn’t recognize.

But worse—lower, near the base of his neck, just above his collarbone—something burned.

A sting.

Dull. Throbbing.

Persistent.

His fingers trembled as he reached for the shampoo. Mechanically, he lathered it into his hair, foam dripping down his back.

His mind was anything but blank.

The voice came back first.

That voice—soft, vicious, velvet-wrapped steel.

“Because I can smell it. Smell you. And you smell …intoxicating.”

It echoed like something sacred. A curse or a prophecy whispered in a dream.

Then came the pressure.

A body pressed against his. A breath against his throat. A nose brushing his skin. Teeth.

Teeth.

The heat.

The hunger.

His name.

Draco.

Harry’s knees almost gave. He braced harder against the wall.

He turned the tap off with shaking fingers and stepped out into the fogged silence. The mirror greeted him like a ghost. The steam wrapped around his frame like a second skin, curling up his arms, clinging to his hair.

He rubbed the towel across his face, trying to erase everything.

Then he saw it.

And froze.

There—on the left side of his neck, just above the collarbone—two puncture marks.

Small.

Clean.

Almost elegant.

Like something practiced.

Like something intentional.

He touched them with trembling fingers.

Pain bloomed under the skin—sharp and sudden.

His breath caught.

It wasn’t a dream.

It wasn’t stress.

It wasn’t some late-night hallucination conjured by magic and exhaustion and too many nights chasing danger.

It was real.

He stared at his reflection, towel forgotten in one hand, water dripping down his chest. His eyes were wide, haunted. His lips parted slightly, but no sound came.

The marks were already starting to scab.

They didn’t bleed.

They throbbed.

“This is insane,” he whispered. The words were barely audible, spoken to the fog.

His voice sounded different. Raw. Vulnerable.

“It was… it had to be sleepwalking. Or—I don’t know. I—I imagined it.”

He rubbed at the marks harder. As if they could be scrubbed away. As if they were a bruise and not a brand.

But they stayed.

His fingers stilled.

The towel slid to the floor.

He leaned closer to the mirror, breath fogging the glass, and stared into his own eyes. Searching.

His pupils were too wide. The green was blown open with adrenaline and memory.

He could feel it now. A connection. A thread humming under the skin, buried deep in the place where instinct lived.

It wasn’t fear.

It was recognition.

He dressed in silence.

His shirt chafed against the mark like it was protesting being covered. The pressure built with every motion. He ignored it.

By the time he checked the clock, it was 6:52 a.m.

The world outside hadn’t even begun to wake up yet.

But Harry had.

And whatever had happened—

It had changed everything.

The Gryffindor common room was mostly empty, still cloaked in early morning hush. The fire hadn’t quite shaken off its slumber—embers glowed faintly in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the walls. Outside the tall windows, the sky was bruised purple and pale grey, the promise of dawn barely a whisper.

And there she was, as always.

Hermione Granger.

Perched in her favorite armchair like a queen among scrolls, her spine straight, legs crossed just so, hair pinned back with a quill she’d likely forgotten she was using as a hairpiece. She was surrounded by parchment, organized into meticulous, color-coded stacks. Notes were already annotated in three inks. She’d clearly been awake for hours.

Harry smirked.

He crept up behind her on silent feet, weaving through abandoned bags and discarded robes like a specter. The silence made him feel invisible.

A ghost haunting his own life.

“ Boo, ” he said, low and close to her ear.

Hermione yelped—actually yelped—her quill jerking violently across the page, a long black slash ruining her near-perfect handwriting.

“ Merlin’s beard, Harry!” she hissed, clutching her chest. “You’re an absolute menace.”

Harry collapsed into the chair beside her, grinning. “You should’ve seen your face.”

“You should be arrested, ” she muttered, trying to steady her hand as she reached for a fresh piece of parchment. “Honestly. I nearly had a cardiac episode.”

He snorted and stole her spare quill, twirling it between his fingers with practiced ease. “You’ll survive.”

“ Barely. ”

She shook her head at him, but the corners of her mouth curled upward despite herself.

Then her eyes lit up.

“Oh! I’ve got your makeup work from Transfiguration.”

Harry blinked. “Makeup?”

“You vanished yesterday,” she said pointedly, digging through her stack. “Told McGonagall you were heading to the bathroom for a paper cut and then disappeared. Ron checked your bed hours later—said you were passed out in your pajamas, dead to the world.”

She handed him a roll of parchment. “So. We figured you might’ve... overexerted yourself.”

Harry’s mouth twitched.

Exertion.

Right.

He’d passed out in the boys’ dormitory after getting a papercut. Likely story.

“I’m fine,” he said quickly, accepting the parchment and pretending to read it.

Hermione leaned in, her voice softening.

“It’s almost the full moon, Harry. Maybe it’s hitting you early.”

Harry nodded, trying to keep his breathing even. “Maybe.”

His voice wasn’t quite right. A little too steady. A little too rehearsed.

She studied him for a moment. Her gaze was sharp—too sharp.

“Are you okay?”

He paused.

That question again.

The one everyone asked when they already knew the answer.

“Yeah,” he lied.

He kept his face carefully neutral, but as she turned back to her notes, his fingers crept up—quietly, instinctively—to the curve of his neck.

Still there.

The skin was tender, a soft ache blooming beneath his collar. The fabric of his shirt rubbed against it like a whisper of guilt.

“I’ve got ointment upstairs,” Hermione offered suddenly, already moving to stand. “For your neck.”

Harry froze.

His heart dropped.

“What?”

“Your neck,” she said again, peering at him with concern. “It looks like—”

She stepped closer, eyes narrowing.

Harry’s pulse hammered.

“Harry,” she said slowly, “that looks like a bite.”

He scrambled for composure, forcing a laugh that landed wrong. “Probably a mosquito. Window must’ve been open.”

Hermione didn’t blink. “A mosquito left two perfectly spaced puncture marks?”

He shrugged, the motion too casual. “It’s nothing. Doesn’t even hurt.”

Liar.

She didn’t believe him.

Not for a second.

But she let it go. For now.

“Just...” She sat again, watching him carefully. “Tell me if you want that ointment or maybe a bug zapper.”

“Will do,” he said with a crooked smile, trying to match the joke.

But something in him had shifted.

He could feel it. Like a hairline crack running through stone. Small. But growing.

Hermione turned back to her parchment.

Harry stared into the fire.

The flicker of flame caught the edge of a reflection in the window.

For a moment, he thought he saw someone standing behind him.

Silver eyes. Pale skin.

But when he turned, no one was there.

They worked in silence for a while. The kind of silence that felt earned—threaded with flickering firelight and the rustle of parchment, broken only by the soft scratch of quill on scroll. Outside the windows, the sky was brightening slowly, blue beginning to bleed through grey, the world inching toward daybreak.

The common room remained still.

Until 8:24.

It began with thunder.

“ MUST. EAT. FOOD. ”

Ron Weasley barreled down the dormitory stairs like a man possessed, hair sticking out in tufts, pajama pants tangled around one ankle, eyes bloodshot with sleep-deprived rage.

Harry choked on a laugh as Hermione jumped.

“You’re up early,” she said warily, straightening her notes.

“Dreamt someone stole my last sausage,” Ron growled, stretching dramatically. “Woke up in a rage. Nearly hexed Seamus in my sleep.”

“Sounds life-threatening,” Harry said.

“It was. You don’t just steal someone’s last sausage. That’s an act of war.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “You need a therapist.”

“Therapy and toast,” Ron declared. “Preferably in that order.”

The tension between him and Hermione still simmered, barely veiled beneath the surface. The aftermath of the train confrontation hadn’t been addressed—not directly—but it hung there, in the extra silence between them, the stiffness in Hermione’s spine, the way Ron wouldn’t quite meet her eyes. An invisible crack running through the foundation of their friendship.

Harry kept the peace, instinctively filling the space with Quidditch chatter and half-jokes. Hermione answered in clipped tones, her attention drifting toward Neville, who had quietly appeared with a plant textbook under one arm and breakfast stains on his collar.

By the time they reached the Great Hall, the morning sun had spilled fully through the high windows, drenching the enchanted ceiling in gold and soft clouds.

Breakfast had just begun to materialize.

Ron didn’t hesitate.

He beelined straight to the Gryffindor table like a man starved, and began building a mountain of food: scrambled eggs, sausages, five slices of toast stacked like bricks, two hash browns, a grilled tomato, and three globs of jam that began melting into his plate.

Harry dropped into the seat beside him, shaking his head. “The amount you eat isn’t natural.”

Ron grinned around a mouthful of toast. “You surviving Dark Lord death-magic every year isn’t natural either.”

“Touché.”

They shared a laugh, easy and familiar.

But then—

Ron’s expression changed.

Mid-chew, his eyes locked onto Harry’s collar.

His smile froze.

Then dropped.

The air shifted.

His jaw clenched. Shoulders stiffened. Fork paused mid-air. The light in his eyes narrowed from amusement to something harder—something dangerous.

It was so sudden, so sharp, that Harry flinched.

“Ron?” he asked, uncertain.

Ron leaned in, his voice low and tight.

“We need to talk.”

Harry blinked. “What—?”

“Now.”

Before Harry could say anything else, Ron grabbed his arm—hard—and stood, yanking him to his feet with surprising strength. Plates clattered. A few heads turned.

Hermione looked up from across the table, brows furrowed.

What’s going on? she mouthed silently.

Harry gave a helpless shrug as Ron hauled him down the aisle between tables. His grip was iron. His mouth was a grim, pale line. He didn’t speak again.

Harry stumbled along, heart beginning to race.

The Great Hall doors groaned open.

They stepped through.

And as the wood slammed shut behind them with a hollow boom, the echo of laughter and clinking silverware vanished.

Silence rushed in.

And in that silence, Harry felt it again.

The memory of it.

The heat of another body. The press of hands. The glint of red eyes in the dark. The sharp, unbearable ecstasy of fangs breaking skin. The electric flash of pain. The intimacy.

Draco.

Harry swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. The phantom feeling curled at the edge of his senses.

It wasn’t a dream.

Not with Ron looking at him like that.

Not with the mark still aching beneath his collar.

And not with the unmistakable fire building in Ron’s eyes.

This wasn’t going to be about Quidditch.

Chapter Text

Ron dragged Harry out of the Great Hall with more force than necessary, his grip tight enough to bruise. They passed beneath the towering arches and into the quieter corridors beyond, the muffled sounds of breakfast fading behind them. Stone walls loomed close, their ancient weight pressing inward like a trap slowly sealing.

Ron veered sharply into a shadowed alcove and shoved Harry back against the wall.

Hard.

“Bloody hell, Ron—” Harry grunted, hands catching at the stone behind him.

“Who did that to you?” Ron hissed, eyes locked on the curve of Harry’s neck. His voice was low but sharp, the kind of quiet that meant danger .

Harry stiffened.

Of course he’d seen it.

“Seriously?” Harry muttered, trying for nonchalance. “We’re doing this again? I told Hermione—they’re insect bites.”

“Don’t insult me.” Ron’s tone dropped to a growl. “You can spin that story for her, maybe even the rest of the school if you smile the right way, but not me. That’s a bite .”

Harry looked away. “You don’t know that.”

“I do, ” Ron snapped. “That’s a vampire bite. You think I haven’t seen it before? You think I wouldn’t recognize it ?”

Harry’s shoulders tensed. “You’re overreacting.”

“Don’t—” Ron stepped closer, fists clenched at his sides, “don’t make me drag the truth out of you.”

“Why does it matter?” Harry snapped, louder than he meant to. “Why do you care so bloody much?”

But Ron’s answer was cut short.

Because just then, a cool, drawling voice interrupted from the corridor.

“Well. This is cozy. Do all Gryffindors flirt through interrogations, or is it just you two?”

Ron didn’t turn. “Get lost, Malfoy.”

“Merlin’s tits, Weasley. Do you ever stop bellowing, or are you just naturally predisposed to public tantrums?”

But Draco was already there—stepping into the alcove with a bored elegance, his expression the picture of effortless disdain. His robes hung perfectly, not a wrinkle to be seen, as if he hadn’t just walked out of a meal but from a portrait.

Harry exhaled. “This is getting crowded.”

Draco’s eyes flicked to him—sharp, unreadable.

Then he turned to Ron with practiced venom.

“Slughorn’s requested Potter for follow-up on the Essences assignment,” Draco said smoothly. “Not that I’d expect you to know the slightest bit about what’s going on in Potions. Honestly, I’ve seen Flobberworms make better marks.”

Ron’s face flushed deep crimson. “You’re lying.”

Draco smirked. “And yet here I am, wasting breath on you anyway.”

He reached for Harry’s arm—not yanking, but deliberate. “Come along, Potter. I’d hate for your... academic record to suffer further.”

Harry blinked at him. Draco’s tone was perfectly even. He didn’t look like someone who had—

He swallowed the thought.

Ron hesitated, jaw tight.

Draco didn’t.

He gave Harry a slight tug, then turned back over his shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’ll return him mostly intact.”

Harry let himself be led.

He wasn’t sure why.

Once they were out of Ron’s line of sight, Harry yanked his arm back. “There’s no assignment, is there?”

Draco didn’t break stride.

“No,” he said simply.

“Then what the hell was that?”

“A timely interruption.”

Harry stopped walking. “You humiliated him.”

Draco stopped, too—just for a breath—and turned. His face was blank. Too blank.

“Good. He deserved it.”

Harry crossed his arms. “So what, you’re just rescuing me now? From my friends ?”

Draco’s eyes flicked to his neck—just once.

A flicker of something. Regret? Longing? It vanished.

“You looked like you were seconds from admitting something you weren’t ready to.”

Harry frowned. “And how would you know?”

Draco stepped closer. Not touching—but close enough for Harry to feel the heat of him. The tension.

“Because if you were ready... you’d be confronting me, not him.”

Harry froze.

Draco didn’t wait for a reply. He brushed past him, one hand grazing the back of Harry’s shoulder—too casual to be comforting. Too pointed to be meaningless.

“Come on,” he said, voice low. “People are probably starting to talk.”

Harry’s breath caught, a sharp hitch in his throat.

By the time he found a response—something clever, something to regain footing—Draco was already gone. Slipped back into the Great Hall like nothing had happened, his robes trailing like shadows in his wake, his expression unreadable.

Harry lingered in the corridor for a beat longer, heat blooming up his neck. His fingers brushed the edge of his collar, where the fabric still chafed over the bite.

The wound was closed now, but it ached .

And not from the blood.

From the memory.

He took a breath—shallow, shaky—and followed.

The Great Hall was loud with clatter and chatter, but it felt distant, muffled. The moment he stepped back inside, he felt eyes—not everyone’s, but a few too many. Curious glances. Lingering stares. Like heat against his skin.

He crossed the hall in a straight line, making a conscious point not to look toward the Slytherin table.

Draco had already taken his seat, calm and composed. A perfect performance.

Harry sat down beside Hermione without a word.

She barely glanced up from her conversation with Neville, who was fumbling with his breakfast and a sprig of some Herbology specimen all at once.

Across the table, Ron sat hunched over his plate. He wasn’t eating.

His jaw was set.

His gaze was storm-black.

Harry ignored it.

He reached for a piece of toast, broke it in half, and forced a few mechanical bites past the tight knot in his throat.

No one spoke.

The quiet pressed on his eardrums like pressure before a storm.

After a few painful minutes, he stood, brushing crumbs from his lap.

“Ready to go?” he asked Hermione, too casually.

She blinked, surprised. Then nodded, already reaching for her bag.

Ron rose without a word. His chair scraped against the stone floor, loud and final. His silence followed them like a shadow.

As they passed the Slytherin table, Harry felt the shift.

Draco moved at the same moment Ron did.

Their shoulders brushed.

It looked casual.

It wasn’t.

The air snapped with static, the kind that warned of lightning.

“Watch it, inbred, ” Ron muttered under his breath.

Draco stopped mid-step.

Turned slowly.

His smile was gone.

His voice, when it came, was soft—deathly soft. “What did you just say?”

Ron rounded on him, eyes narrowed. “You heard me.”

For a heartbeat, no one moved.

Then Draco struck.

His fist arced like a whip, clean and fast, and landed with a sickening crack against Ron’s face.

Ron staggered, lip split open, blood blooming red and fast.

He didn’t pause.

He lunged.

The two collided with the force of a spell—shoulders crashing, fists flying, teeth bared like animals. Plates shattered. Students screamed and scattered. A girl knocked over a goblet of pumpkin juice. Someone shouted for a professor.

Hermione shrieked. Neville ducked beneath the table.

Draco snarled as Ron tackled him into a bench.

They were rolling now, wild and graceless—more rage than form. Ron’s knuckles slammed into Draco’s ribs. Draco elbowed him across the jaw.

And then—

Harry moved.

He was between them in an instant, faster than thought.

He didn’t shove them apart.

He threw them.

A blast of force radiated from his outstretched arms. It hit like a silent detonation, rippling the air around them. Both boys flew backward, crashing into the walls on opposite sides of the hall.

Draco staggered to his feet first, chest heaving, blood smeared on his lip.

But his eyes weren’t on Ron.

They were on Harry.

Because Harry was still standing in the center of the space, fists clenched, shoulders high, breath ragged.

And his eyes—

For just a second—

Didn’t look human.

There was something feral in them. Something too sharp. Too dark. A green animalistic glow, something wrong and distorted about them.

Draco stepped back.

Ron didn’t.

“What,” Ron spat, wiping blood from his chin, “going to defend him now?”

His voice dripped venom. “You’d let a monster drain you dry like some bloody—”

That was the last word he said.

Harry spun.

Grabbed Ron by the front of his robes.

And slammed him face-first into the stone wall.

The impact echoed through the corridor like thunder.

Gasps rippled around the Great Hall.

“ Say it again, ” Harry hissed, voice low and shaking. He pressed his wand against Ron’s temple, hard enough to grind bone. “Say it again and see what happens.”

Ron struggled—but Harry didn’t move. His body was steel.

“Harry,” Hermione whispered, too stunned to shout.

A few feet away, Draco stood still as a statue.

His lips parted.

But he didn’t speak.

Then—

Harry released him.

Just like that.

The tension snapped.

Ron slumped against the wall, panting, dazed, one hand cradling his jaw. Blood trickled from the split in his mouth.

The corridor had gone dead silent.

No one moved.

No one dared.

Harry didn’t look back at Draco. Didn’t glance at Ron.

He turned to Hermione, voice perfectly even.

“Let’s go.”

She hesitated—just for a breath.

Then nodded.

They walked off together, her steps uncertain beside his.

She glanced back once.

Just once.

At Ron, still slouched against the wall like a broken hinge.

And at Draco.

Who stood perfectly still.

And watched Harry go like he’d just walked off with something he hadn’t meant to give.

They reached the stairs in silence, the clang of the Great Hall fading behind them, replaced by the hush of stone corridors and distant voices. The world was quieting.

But inside Harry’s chest, everything was screaming .

His pulse drummed beneath his skin, furious and erratic. His hands trembled with the aftershock of rage—except it wasn’t just rage. It never was, not anymore.

It was something deeper.

Older.

Instinct.

Need.

The moon.

Tomorrow.

His body knew . In his bones. In the root of his spine, where every nerve had begun to fray and crackle with stored electricity.

He stopped walking, breathing like he'd just run miles.

His shoulders rose. Fell. Rose again.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he muttered, voice raw with shame.

Hermione turned to him, the echo of torchlight flickering across her face. “To Ron?”

Harry nodded slowly. “I lost control. That’s not me. That can’t be me.”

“It’s the moon,” she said gently, stepping closer. “You’re already shifting—even if your body hasn’t caught up. The instincts come first.”

“I almost hexed him unconscious.”

The words were quiet, but they burned in the air.

Hermione didn’t respond. Her silence said everything.

Harry’s throat tightened.

“I wasn’t that angry,” he whispered. “Not really. Not enough to do what I did.”

The confession landed between them like a stone dropped into still water. It rippled out slowly. Deliberately.

“I think I just needed to hurt something.”

Hermione didn’t recoil.

But she looked at him—really looked at him—and her expression cracked just enough to show the fear beneath the care. Not for herself.

For him.

They reached the Potions corridor just as the bell rang.

Harry’s footsteps dragged.

Inside the classroom, the light was low, muted by heavy drapes and the cool green tint of underground glass. The scent of crushed valerian root and old parchment filled the air.

Before he could sit, Hermione reached into her bag.

She pulled out a small glass vial. Silver liquid shimmered inside, catching the torchlight in strange, shifting patterns.

“Wolfsbane,” she said. “I made it last night. I triple-checked the formula. It should keep you present. In control. Even during the worst of it.”

Harry took it with reverence, as if it might shatter from being held too tightly.

“You’re incredible,” he murmured.

She offered a small, tired smile. “Try not to prove me wrong.”

Harry pulled her into a hug, tight, like a lifeline. She hugged back without hesitation, her hand warm against his spine.

Then they sat.

The lesson began, but Harry barely heard it.

Slughorn’s voice faded into a low, endless drone. The words were there, but none of them stuck. Every minute felt like a weight pressing harder against his skin.

He could feel his spine tightening again, every vertebra pulling taut.

His breath came in slow, controlled draws. His skin felt wrong . Like it no longer fit. Too tight. Too warm .

Something was changing.

He could feel the shift in the back of his jaw. His senses too loud. The scratch of parchment. The clink of glass. The scent of spilled lavender oil three tables away.

He blinked hard.

Tried to focus.

Then a whisper of parchment fluttered beside him.

Hermione’s quill paused mid-word.

A note had landed silently on her desk. She opened it, glanced at the words, and turned a shade of pink Harry rarely saw outside full-blown mortification. She scribbled something in return, flicked her wand in a tight, whisper-spell arc, and the note vanished.

Harry followed her line of sight.

Pansy Parkinson.

Watching her.

Twirling her quill with a slow, knowing rhythm, her chin propped in her palm. Her smile was lazy. Sly. Hermione’s cheeks turned deeper red.

Beside her, Draco sat—silent, unreadable. Back straight. Hands folded. Eyes forward.

But not unseeing.

Harry turned away before their eyes met.

He stared at his parchment for a long moment.

Then picked up his quill.

His handwriting came slowly, carefully. A few simple words.

He cast the charm. Watched the paper fold and slip through the air like a paper bird.

It landed softly on Draco’s desk.

Draco didn’t look down right away.

But when he did, he unfolded the note with clinical precision. His eyes flicked to the words.

Meet me in the bathroom. —Harry

A beat of stillness.

Then the corners of his mouth curled.

Slow.

Dangerous.

Not a smirk—something darker. A smile like the edge of a blade.

He folded the parchment again.

And didn’t look back.

Chapter Text

Slughorn finally dismissed the class with a lazy flick of his wand, and the room exhaled in unison. Quills clattered down. Vials were capped in haste. Chairs scraped against stone. The dull roar of conversation swelled, students flowing toward the door in a tide of parchment, murmurs, and potion fumes.

Talk of the full moon threaded through the crowd—jokes from some, anxiety from others.

Outside the arched windows, the sky had deepened. Clouds hung low over the Forbidden Forest, dragging heavy shadows through the trees. The light was wrong. Feral. The kind of dusk that made the castle feel ancient and watchful, like it knew something the students didn’t.

Draco lingered.

He capped his ink bottle with precise care, one finger stained violet from the last ingredient they’d ground into powder. He moved slowly—not out of laziness, but purpose. He waited until the room emptied, until even Slughorn’s footsteps faded toward the staff hall.

Then he stood.

And walked.

His path was measured, familiar in a way that made his skin itch. He hadn’t taken this route in years—not since fourth year, maybe—but it still knew him. Past the grinning statue of Wendelin the Weird. Down a lesser hall with a half-rotted carpet. Behind a Gryffindor tapestry no one ever touched.

The lavatory waited like a crypt.

Stone door. Unmarked.

Forgotten.

The air inside was damp and cold, thick with the coppery scent of disuse. Torches flickered weakly in their brackets, casting warped halos against the carved stone. Water dripped from a cracked faucet—steady, rhythmic. A single mirror hung askew above the long basin, tarnished at the corners.

Harry was pacing.

Back and forth, like a caged animal.

His robe was half-unbuttoned, hair wilder than usual, jaw clenched so tightly Draco could see the flicker of muscle just beneath the skin.

But when Harry looked up—

He stopped.

Something in his posture shifted. Not much. Barely a breath.

But Draco saw it.

The tightness around his eyes loosened. His shoulders dropped a fraction. And then—

A faint, almost sheepish smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“You came,” he said quietly.

As if that mattered. As if he’d doubted.

Then the smile vanished. “Thanks.”

Draco shut the door behind him, the stone groaning shut. He didn’t cross the room. Just leaned back against the door, arms crossed, posture guarded.

His voice was even, but laced with warning. “So. What’s the emergency, Potter?”

Harry didn’t answer.

Not right away.

Instead, he reached into his robe and drew his wand. His movements were deliberate. Calm.

But Draco felt the tension spike instantly.

“Harry—”

“ Parva conscidisti. ”

The spell was quiet. Surgical.

A thin line of red bloomed across the inside of Harry’s left wrist, welling with blood—dark, slow, intentional.

Draco inhaled sharply.

It was almost a gasp.

His back hit the wall like he’d been shoved. Every nerve lit up. His hands flexed into fists. His throat burned.

“You’re insane ,” he snapped, voice hoarse with restraint. “What the hell are you doing?”

Harry stepped forward.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

The scent of blood followed him like a veil—iron and warmth and something else Draco had no name for. Magic, maybe. Wild and half-tamed. The air grew thick around them.

“I need to know,” Harry said. “If it was real.”

He stepped closer.

Closer still.

Until they were nearly chest to chest. Until Draco could feel the heat of him. See every freckle, every breath, every tremble beneath the skin.

Harry lifted his wrist.

Offered it.

Draco’s pupils dilated.

His irises darkened, flaring deep crimson for half a heartbeat.

“Don’t,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Don’t tempt me, Potter. You don’t know what you’re offering.”

“I do,” Harry said.

No bravado.

No smirk.

Just truth.

Something honest. Dangerous.

Draco’s eyes dropped to the wrist. Then back to Harry’s face. His lips parted, breath shallow.

And then—he moved.

Slow.

Reverent.

One careful lick—tongue dragging across the blood-slick skin like a vow.

The taste hit him like a curse.

Hot. Alive. Threaded with power. It bloomed across his tongue like lightning, igniting every cell.

His fangs dropped with a soft, wet click.

The growl that followed was involuntary—half-pain, half-need.

Before he could think—before he could stop —he sank them in.

The bite was clean. Deep enough to draw what he needed.

Harry gasped—sharp and soft, breath catching in his throat. His knees wobbled. His free hand shot up, gripping Draco’s shoulder hard, anchoring them both.

The pain was distant. Barely there.

The sensation wasn’t.

It was pressure and heat and something old —something carved into blood memory. It felt like being unmade and rebuilt. Like recognition.

Draco drank.

Only what he needed.

Just enough.

And when he pulled back, his lips were stained crimson. His breathing was shallow. His hands trembled from the restraint.

He let his head fall back against the wall, eyes closed, jaw tight.

“Don’t ever do that again,” he rasped.

Harry said nothing.

He stood in front of him, blood drying on his wrist, skin flushed, lips parted.

Alive.

Changed.

And neither of them would be able to go back now.

“It wasn’t a dream,” Harry said softly, his voice barely above the hush of the dripping tap.

He stood in the torchlight, cradling his wrist, watching as the wound began to close—slowly, the skin knitting back together in a pale, delicate scar. The blood still shimmered faintly against his skin.

Draco leaned against the wall like something barely tethered, his chest rising and falling in shallow, careful breaths. His eyes were still closed. He didn’t answer at first.

Then he let out a short, bitter laugh.

“No. Not a dream.”

The words echoed off the stone like the end of a sentence neither of them had known they were writing.

“But I’m a werewolf,” Harry said, his brow furrowed, tone shaded with disbelief. “Isn’t that… poisonous? Forbidden?”

Draco opened his eyes.

They weren’t red anymore, but they still gleamed. Still watched Harry like he was light and danger all at once.

“For vampires,” he said, his voice low, still hoarse. “Yes. Deadly.”

He hesitated, his tongue running along the inside of his mouth like he was tasting the truth before he spoke it.

“But I’m… not just that.”

Harry stilled. His posture shifted—alert, questioning.

“What are you, then?”

Draco’s gaze flicked away. For a moment, he looked younger. Tired. Something almost vulnerable pulled at the edges of his expression.

Then—quietly:

“A hybrid. Veela and vampire.”

The silence that followed was thick, pulsing.

Harry’s eyebrows rose. “That’s… possible? ”

Draco let out a dry, humorless breath. “ Barely. Most of us die before we’re out of the cradle. The magic—veela fire and vampire hunger—it doesn’t balance. It devours itself. Your blood cancels out, or you begin to collapse. Or starve. Or both.”

Harry didn’t move.

Draco looked down at the floor as if confessing to it.

“Most hybrids can’t feed. Can’t regulate. Regular blood makes us sick. We need something strong. Alive. Magical.”

He lifted his eyes again.

“Only one thing keeps us stable.”

Harry was already nodding. “Werewolf blood.”

Not a question.

Draco’s mouth twitched. “You’re quicker than you look.”

“I’ve had practice with monsters.”

“Careful,” Draco said, a wry edge returning. “I might take offense.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the weight of it thick but not uncomfortable. Then Harry stepped forward, the light hitting his face at an angle that made the shadows seem deeper around his eyes.

“Then feed on me.”

Draco blinked.

The words hung there, absurd and serious and completely real.

“You’re serious.”

Harry didn’t flinch. “You need blood. I can give it. Why make it complicated?”

Draco’s voice sharpened. “Because you’re not responsible for me.”

Harry’s expression hardened. “I am.”

The words came without hesitation, full of something old and wounded and resolute.

“I’ve let too many people die because I waited too long. Because I didn’t act when I should’ve. I’m not doing that again.”

He met Draco’s gaze, eyes bright, unwavering.

“So tell me how much.”

Draco looked away again—this time not in shame, but restraint. A flush rose to his cheeks, pale pink blooming against skin still tinged grey from hunger.

“Once a month,” he said quietly. “Minimum. Weekly if I don’t want to pass out during class.”

Harry gave a crooked, dry half-smile. “So we’ll meet once a week. Say it’s... Potions tutoring.”

Draco raised a brow, recovering a bit of his usual bite. “I’m flattered you think I’d waste time fixing your ingredient-scorched ego.”

“I’m not that bad,” Harry muttered.

“You once set your tie on fire during a stirring charm.”

“That was one time.”

“And still— impressive, ” Draco said, finally smirking.

Harry stepped backward, moving toward the door, his shoulder brushing the stone archway.

“I’ll owl you the schedule.”

“Not Tuesdays or Thursdays,” Draco said immediately.

“Quidditch,” Harry guessed.

“Obviously.”

Harry flashed a grin—quick and lopsided, then slipped out the door like a secret vanishing into the dark.

The lavatory was silent again.

Draco stared at the place where Harry had just stood, lips parted slightly, his pulse still unsteady in his throat.

He exhaled—slow, deliberate.

Ran his tongue along one extended fang, tasting what lingered there.

Magic. Wildness. Harry.

Then he let out a low, breathless laugh—half exasperation, half disbelief.

“Of course it had to be Potter.”

Hermione nudged open the door to Room 202, its hinges sighing softly as if exhaling the weight of old secrets. The space had once been a dusty, disused classroom, long forgotten by the staff and abandoned by the curriculum. Now, it had been transformed—charms woven into every stone, every corner softened with conjured fabrics, glowing sconces, and transfigured cushions that held the perfect balance of firmness and give. There were floating candles along the ceiling, low and warm, and a faint scent of lavender clung to the air like a whispered lullaby.

She stepped inside and closed the door behind her with a gentle click.

“ Pansy? ” she called softly, expecting a lazy voice from somewhere under a throw blanket, or a dramatic groan from the window seat. A quip about how late she was, or some sly remark about the ink smudge on her collar.

Silence.

Then—

“ Boo. ”

Two arms slipped around her waist from the shadows, tugging her downward without warning. Hermione yelped, flailed once, and then fell with a soft whumph into the sea of pillows, landing half on top of a body far too smug for its own good.

She twisted, part-snarl, part-laugh. “ Pansy! ”

But before she could even finish the scolding, Pansy was kissing her.

Slow. Unhurried. Infuriatingly self-satisfied.

It was the kind of kiss that made time go slack—like the rest of the world had slipped its leash. The kind of kiss that made Hermione forget exams, and werewolf blood, and bruised boys in corridors.

Pansy pulled back just enough to breathe against her lips.

“Hey,” she murmured, one hand slipping into Hermione’s curls, the other still firm at the small of her back. She brushed a loose lock behind her ear with deliberate tenderness—an act so at odds with her usual sharpness, it never failed to disarm.

Hermione rolled her eyes, though her heart was already thudding far too loud.

“Merlin, you scared the life out of me.”

Pansy grinned like a cat with cream. “If I didn’t keep you on your toes, I wouldn’t be doing my job.”

“You’re infuriating.”

“And yet…” Pansy leaned in again, lips brushing just beneath Hermione’s jaw, warm and featherlight. “Here you are.”

Hermione’s breath caught.

“That tickled,” she whispered, pulse fluttering beneath skin.

“ Good, ” Pansy said, voice low and pleased.

Pansy leaned back into the cushions, one arm lazily draped behind her head, her other hand tracing idle circles across Hermione’s thigh. The candlelight flickered against her face, catching in her dark eyes, which gleamed with something mischief-shaped—but softer around the edges.

“You,” she said, drawing out the word like a verdict, “Hermione Jean Granger, need something reckless in your life.”

Hermione arched an eyebrow. “Oh, do I?”

“Something messy,” Pansy continued, utterly unfazed. “Something that doesn’t come with color-coded annotations or an index tab system. Something that can’t be archived.”

“I see,” Hermione said slowly. “Is this your version of a love confession? Because it sounds suspiciously like slander.”

Pansy gave her a lopsided grin. “Fine. Then allow me to rephrase.”

She pushed herself upright, expression shifting—still playful, but steady now. Intentional. There was a rare kind of stillness in her, the kind that made Hermione’s heart skip with warning and wonder.

“Would you,” Pansy said, brushing a curl off Hermione’s cheek, “like to be my girlfriend?”

The words weren’t dramatic.

They didn’t need to be.

They just were —clear and real in the warm hush between them.

Hermione stared at her, eyes wide.

Then she beamed.

“Yes,” she said, voice warm and sure. “I would.”

Pansy let out a theatrical gasp and flopped backward like she’d just narrowly escaped death. “Thank Salazar. I brought snacks, and I was fully prepared to eat my feelings if you said no.”

From somewhere beneath the pillow mound, she retrieved a conjured picnic basket with a flourish. It clicked open, revealing neatly packed sandwiches, two bottles of pumpkin fizz, and an almost alarming quantity of miniature éclairs.

Hermione laughed, full-bodied and bright. “You brought turkey? ”

Pansy handed her a wrapped sandwich with a smug flourish. “You moaned over it on the train. I considered it a personal challenge.”

“I did not moan.”

“You did. Very academically, of course,” Pansy said, already unwrapping her own. “But it was scandalous.”

She leaned over and kissed Hermione again, soft and slow, like punctuation.

They ate between laughs and teasing—small bites and gentle brushes of fingers, food forgotten halfway through in favor of each other. Limbs tangled easily. The weight of the week eased out of Hermione’s shoulders, chased away by the cadence of Pansy’s voice, the smell of toasted bread and warm skin, the feel of being seen.

Outside, the sky had darkened further.

Stormclouds brooded along the edge of the horizon. The castle windows rattled faintly in their frames, wind curling around the stone like a warning.

But in Room 202, the world felt far away.

The air was warm with magic and the smell of candle wax, the flickering candles cast long shadows that danced across their faces. Every kiss was a promise whispered against the rising dark.

Two girls. A forgotten room. A soft confession in a torn world.

And—for once—it was enough.

Chapter Text

Harry slid into his seat in Charms just as the bell rang, the last echo of its chime still ringing through the stone walls. Rain clung to him like a second skin, beading on his collar and darkening the shoulders of his robes. His breath came sharp, chilled from the sprint through the courtyard. He shook droplets from his fringe, dropped his bag beside the desk with a soft thump , and pulled out his parchment.

He braced for it.

The silence.

The empty seat beside him.

Ron’s absence wasn’t surprising—not after the explosion in the corridor that morning. It hadn’t just been fists. It had been rage. Pride. Hurt. And words Harry couldn’t take back, even if he wanted to. And he wasn’t sure if he did.

He was half-prepared to spend the rest of the day alone.

So when someone slipped into the seat beside him, he tensed—shoulders snapping tight, wand hand twitching ever so slightly.

Then—

“Hey, Harry,” came Hermione’s voice.

Brisk. Steady. Familiar.

The breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding escaped in one long exhale.

Hermione adjusted her robes with practiced grace, her fingers smoothing the fabric as she sat. She pulled out her textbook with a thud that sounded more like punctuation than preparation, flipped it open to the lesson page, and set her quill beside it in perfect alignment.

Harry blinked. “I thought you usually sat with Neville.”

“I do,” she said simply, eyes scanning the page. “But Ronald decided to occupy my usual seat with all the elegance of a troll, so.”

A beat passed.

Harry offered a faint, grateful smile. “Sorry. Probably my fault.”

She didn’t look up, but her hand found his shoulder and rested there briefly. Solid. Grounding.

“Don’t apologize,” she said. “He’s been acting like a right arse lately. If you hadn’t said something, I would’ve.”

That was the thing about Hermione—when she reached the end of her rope, it frayed fast. 

It was oddly comforting.

Harry nodded once, eyes returning to the front of the classroom.

Professor Flitwick was already bouncing atop his tower of books, wand in hand, robes swirling. His voice chimed through the room like bells in a breeze. “Today, we explore Chromaticus Fabricare! A simple but effective charm—especially useful if you’ve ever clashed your robes with your house colors. Fashionable and functional!”

The room filled with soft laughter, and wands were raised.

Forty minutes later, chaos had taken root.

Seamus had turned his left shoe into a pulsating, magenta spiral that refused to stop glowing. Dean was trying to change his tie back from shimmering pink to black and instead managed to fuse it to his collar. Lavender shrieked as Parvati’s charm went rogue and dyed half her hair a shade of radioactive green that defied the visible spectrum.

Even Hermione wasn’t immune, though her accident was far more elegant. The cuff of her sleeve shimmered, then shifted between burgundy and gold with a muted iridescence, like sunlight filtering through stained glass.

Harry stared down at his own robe and the jagged navy smear streaking across the hem. It looked like a bruise that wouldn’t heal. He sighed and tried again.

Hermione leaned over, her wand tapping the edge of his robe gently. “Angle your wrist more when you flick. It’s a color transformation, not a transfiguration. Think more... pigment, less structure.”

“Right,” Harry muttered. “Pigment. Structure. Got it.”

He didn't.

But she smiled at him anyway. And for the first time all day, something inside his chest eased just a little.

When the class finally dismissed, they gathered their bags and walked out together, streaks of unintended color still clinging to their cuffs and hems. The corridor outside was quieter now—students trailing off to other classes, laughter echoing behind them, the scent of rain curling in from the open hall.

They didn’t talk about Ron.

They didn’t have to.

Their silence wasn’t empty.

It was shared. Understood. A quiet promise: I’m still here.

And in a castle full of ghosts and monsters, that kind of silence meant more than most words ever could.

By dinner, most of the day’s sharp edges had dulled into the usual hum of castle life.

The Great Hall glowed under floating candles, the enchanted ceiling reflecting the storm-stained sky above—a grey smear of cloud lit orange at the edges by the dying light. Thunder murmured in the distance, low and half-forgotten.

Harry sat beside Hermione at the Gryffindor table, a half-empty goblet of pumpkin juice at his elbow, his plate mostly untouched. Across from them, Neville babbled nervously about their joint Defense Against the Dark Arts project, flipping through a crumpled roll of parchment like it might rearrange itself into something coherent if he stared hard enough.

Hermione, predictably, had come prepared.

She produced her notes with a rustle of perfect order: scrolls labeled in clean, careful script, tabbed with tiny colored ribbons that fluttered as she laid them out. Her voice was calm, measured, and reassuring. She leaned in as Neville panicked about wand angles and dueling theory, offering precise suggestions and the occasional kind smile.

Harry nodded at the right moments. Said “mm” when he was supposed to.

But he barely heard them.

He poked at his dinner—roast potatoes, warm bread, a sliver of shepherd’s pie—letting the fork hover above the plate without ever really eating. His appetite had been ghosting him lately, slipping further away each day. Too many strange hungers had taken its place.

Around them, the Hall carried on as if the world wasn’t shifting underneath their feet.

Clinking plates, the soft fizz of charmed butterbeer, first-years whispering excitedly about their Transfiguration homework. Laughter broke out somewhere near the Hufflepuff table, loud and carefree.

Harry didn’t look.

Everything passed through him like wind through glass. He was there, but not entirely. As if the shape of him had gone translucent, the colors slowly fading.

Eventually, Hermione began to gather her notes. She slipped them into her bag with her usual economy of movement, her brows still drawn together in soft concern. She gave Neville a few last-minute reminders, then turned to Harry.

“I’ll be in the library,” she said, not asking him to follow, not pressing. Just offering.

He nodded. “Okay.”

She gave him a look—a glance that saw more than he wanted her to. Then a quiet smile. And she left.

Harry stayed.

Neville mumbled something about heading to Greenhouse Three for extra practice and scurried off, parchment in hand, already muttering incantations under his breath.

The bench felt colder without Hermione beside him.

Harry looked down at his plate. His potatoes had gone cool. The bread was untouched.

A sudden pressure bloomed behind his eyes—not pain. Just weight. A fullness that hadn’t been there before.

After a moment, he stood, movements slow and deliberate. He tucked his wand into his sleeve, grabbed his satchel with one hand, and slipped from the hall without fanfare.

No one stopped him.

No one called after him.

And the candles flickered overhead, unbothered, as if nothing had shifted at all.

The common room was quiet.

Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that wrapped around your ribs and pulled. The kind that made every creak of the firewood and flicker of the flames feel like it meant something.

The hearth had burned low, throwing long, fractured shadows across the stone floor. What was left of the fire smoldered more than it glowed—deep orange and slow, licking at the edges of dying logs. It filled the room with a low, pulsing warmth. Not comfort, exactly. But enough to take the chill from Harry’s skin.

He dropped into the armchair closest to the flames with a soft thud, his robes damp at the hem from earlier rain. His satchel slumped to the floor beside him, forgotten. Unopened.

He sat still for a long while.

Just breathing.

Letting the quiet press against him like a second cloak.

Eventually, he reached into his bag and pulled out a piece of parchment.

Blank.

He stared at it. Wrote a single sentence.

Then crossed it out. Too formal. Too vague. Too much.

The quill hovered again, dripping ink that pooled at the top of the page like a bruise.

Harry looked up.

Beyond the tall, arched windows, rain traced slow, deliberate lines down the glass, soft and constant. A rhythm without melody. Outside, the sky had deepened into a heavy, unrelenting gray. The kind that pressed low against the mountains and clung to your bones. The kind that didn’t roll in or rush past.

The kind that lingered.

And as always lately, his thoughts drifted.

To Draco.

Not like they used to. Not rivalry. Not irritation.

Something else.

Something quieter. Stranger. Heavier.

A hybrid.

A myth in a boy’s body—veela heat and vampire hunger twisted into something elegant and terrifying and real. Too real. The kind of real that stayed in your skin long after it was gone.

Harry had read about veela. About vampires. Always separately. Fictional, distant. Shaped like shadows and stories.

But Draco Malfoy was neither.

He was a fable made flesh.

With sharp teeth and impossible restraint.

With broad shoulders.

Harry groaned softly and dragged a hand down his face, heat blooming in his cheeks despite the cold.

“Get a grip,” he muttered.

The fire snapped in reply.

But it wasn’t just attraction, though that was certainly present, irritatingly so. It was the venom now humming under his skin, the memory of fangs and heat and closeness. The knowing of someone else’s hunger. Of what it was to be needed. Of what it meant to offer.

He’d made a promise.

Feeding needed to be regular. Controlled. Safe.

He couldn’t afford to let this spiral into chaos. Not with the full moon near. Not with Ron watching him like a time bomb. Not with his own body caught between human and beast.

Harry reached for another scrap of parchment.

This time, he didn’t pause.

His quill moved cleanly, purposefully:

Let’s study Fridays.
Room of Requirement. You remember that room?
—Harry

Simple. Direct. Just enough.

He let the ink dry, then folded the parchment into precise quarters and tucked it into his pocket.

The fire crackled low behind him as he stood.

He gathered his things, slung the bag over his shoulder, and moved toward the stairs. His footsteps were quiet on the worn stone. Upstairs, the dormitory lights were dim, and a few beds were already drawn in with curtains.

He dropped his bag on the edge of his mattress.

Didn’t bother with the Invisibility Cloak.

It wasn’t curfew yet. He wasn’t doing anything wrong.

Or so he told himself.

The castle was hushed when he stepped out into the corridor.

Not quiet— hushed. Like it was holding its breath.

The torches burned low along the corridor walls, their flames guttering in the damp. Rain pressed hard against the windows, tracing crooked lines down the glass like veins. Somewhere far off, a door creaked shut. The stone beneath Harry’s shoes was slick with moisture, and every step echoed longer than it should have.

He passed a few stragglers on the stairs—upper-years heading back from dinner with the weight of books under their arms, a pair of third-years still in their dueling gear, bruised and laughing softly—but no one stopped him. No one looked too closely.

They never did.

Harry’s robe clung wetly to his shoulders by the time he reached the Owlery.

The scent hit him first.

Feathers. Damp straw. Cold stone and wind.

It was sharp, earthy, familiar.

Above him, wings shuffled restlessly in the rafters. Owls of every size rustled and murmured, some blinking sleepily, others alert despite the hour. The wind rattled the narrow windows, and the storm outside whined low against the towers, like something ancient begging to be let in.

Hedwig spotted him before he had fully crossed the threshold.

She glided down silently, her wings wide and ghost-pale in the dim, and landed on his shoulder with a low, affectionate hoot.

Harry smiled, reaching up to stroke her feathers. “Not tonight, girl,” he whispered. “Can’t use you for this one. People would notice if you delivered something to Malfoy .”

She clicked her beak in protest, fluffing her wings in mild offense.

Harry reached into his pocket and offered her a bit of dried meat. “Still the best, though.”

Satisfied, Hedwig took the treat and returned to her perch high above.

Harry scanned the rafters, searching.

Then—movement.

A barn owl—sleek, gold-eyed—tilted its head at him from a nearby beam. Alert. Curious. Watching.

Perfect.

He approached slowly, rain-soaked boots squelching softly against the straw. “Hey there,” he murmured, voice low. “Need a favor.”

The owl didn’t move. Just cocked its head again, intelligent eyes catching the flicker of torchlight.

Harry held out the folded parchment. “It’s not far. Just to Draco Malfoy.”

The owl blinked once. Then extended its leg.

Harry let out a slow breath.

He tied the note—tight, careful, and pressed a small treat into the owl’s beak. Then he stepped to the window.

The wind hit him instantly.

A hard, cold gust straight from the storm. It sliced through his damp robes, curled around his ribs, and stole the warmth from his lungs. Rain slashed across the sky beyond the window, sideways and fierce. The trees of the Forbidden Forest swayed like they were trying to uproot themselves.

He opened the window wider.

“Thanks,” he said softly.

The owl launched into the dark with a powerful sweep of wings, vanishing into the storm like a shadow swallowed whole.

Harry stood at the window for a long moment.

Letting the chill in.

Letting the silence settle around him.

There was something about sending a message into the rain. About trusting the sky to carry something delicate and unsayable.

He watched until the owl was gone from sight.

And that’s when he felt it.

A prickle along the back of his neck. The kind of sensation no spell could block. The uncanny knowing that eyes were on him.

He turned slowly, hand brushing instinctively over where his wand sat beneath his cloak.

But the tower was empty.

Or it looked empty.

With a deep breath, Harry shook off the weight of tension that clung to him like a heavy cloak. He stepped away from the owlry, the cool evening air wrapping around him as he moved. A slight furrow appeared on his brow, shadows of worry etched across his face as he ventured into the dimming twilight. 

Then—movement. Barely a shift. A dark figure at the top of the Owlery stairwell, half-hidden by shadow. Watching.

Listening.

Their breath misted once in the low light.

“I knew it.”

Then the figure turned.

And vanished down the stairs like smoke on the wind.

In the farthest, quietest corner of the library—beyond the rows of forgotten genealogies and crumbling dueling registers—Draco Malfoy sat hunched over a potions tome so old the ink had begun to bleed back into the parchment.

He hadn’t turned a page in over twenty minutes.

His posture said “studious,” but his eyes told another story—unfocused, slightly narrowed, their silver gone storm-dark in thought. One finger traced the edge of the page absently, as if trying to stay tethered to the task.

But his mind wasn’t in the text.

It hadn’t been for hours.

Not since the corridor.

Not since Harry.

Outside the tall windows, the storm deepened—rain thudding against the glass in fits and starts. Thunder murmured far off, low and patient. The fire in the small hearth beside him cracked quietly, throwing gold light over the worn tabletop and the closed inkpot he hadn’t touched since sitting down.

Then—

A scrape. A soft, clawed scratch at the nearest window.

Draco looked up sharply, reflexes coiled tight.

A barn owl sat hunched against the frame, feathers slicked flat with rain. It looked thoroughly miserable, eyes sharp and disapproving.

Draco frowned. “What the hell—?”

He rose and crossed to the window, flicking the latch. It creaked open under his hand.

The owl hopped in without hesitation, shook itself violently, and scattered cold droplets across the table, the floor, and the sleeves of Draco’s robes.

He grimaced. “Dramatic little beast.”

Still, he didn’t swat it away.

Instead, he reached into his robe pocket and pulled out a bit of leftover muffin from the snack Pansy had forced on him earlier. He tore off a piece and held it out.

The owl accepted with delicate precision, taking it from his fingers as he untied the scroll from its leg.

The ribbon was familiar.

So was the magic laced into the parchment.

But it was the handwriting that made his breath still for half a second.

Not tight. Not stiff.

But something shifted.

Harry.

He unfolded the note.

Let’s study Fridays.
Room of Requirement. You remember that room?
—Harry

Draco stared at the words for a moment longer than necessary.

The phrasing was casual. Purposefully light. Like this was just about textbooks. Like the bite hadn’t happened. Like Draco’s mouth hadn’t been on Harry’s skin. Like blood hadn’t passed between them.

But he saw it.

The undercurrent.

The Room of Requirement.

Of all places.

Draco let out a slow breath through his nose.

He folded the parchment carefully—too carefully, really—and slid it into the inside pocket of his robes, where it pressed warm and solid against his chest.

The old book on the table was closed with a quiet snap.

It hadn’t taught him anything tonight. But the message had.

The clock above the fireplace chimed the hour. A soft, hollow sound that melted into the silence around him.

And for the first time that day, the tightness in his chest—the sharp, cloying edge that had dogged him since waking—dulled.

He didn’t know what this was.

What it would become.

He didn’t know if it was a mistake. If they were walking into something ruinous.

But he knew one thing with sudden, crystalline certainty.

He’d be there.