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Chapter Text

Draco hadn’t planned to go anywhere that night. 

That seemed to be the case most of the time these days. He’d get up in the morning, far earlier than usual without really meaning to, before wandering out into the halls with no destination in mind. He’d drag his feet through the corridors when they were still empty, when only the portraits on the walls were there to stare at him, and they, as Draco came to learn, are far better at hiding their disdain towards him than people are.

Classes were different nowadays. He’d always complain about the constant talking, scurrying around and other various noises people would make when in class. He never imagined there would come a time when he’d miss the sound of other houses bickering.

At least he had a destination to walk towards during school hours. The empty feeling never went away, though. He never really felt his feet touch the floor anymore. It mostly felt like floating. 

In the late hours of the night he’d lay in bed, painfully awake, and imagine a reality where he fell during the Battle of Hogwarts and never got back up again. Strangely enough, that universe didn’t seem too different from this one. He would float around the corridors all the same, feet never gracing the ground, and people would stare at him like he was a ghost. Except if he was dead, he really would be a ghost. Right now, he was just… 

Well. He was alive, but he certainly didn’t feel like it.

Draco dragged his feet up the staircase like it might shatter right behind him; one last threat from a castle that never forgave him. He walked past the paintings without looking at a single one. He couldn’t say the same about them, the feeling of a million paint-stroked eyes on him making the hair on his neck stand up. 

The Astronomy Tower was empty, just like he expected it to be. It hadn’t been damaged in the Battle like the rest of the castle, the stark contrast obvious in the way the tile flooring was familiarly dusted over. Nobody had to scrub this place raw, because blood had never graced it.

The sky above was bruised with stars, frozen clouds hovering without a care in the world. The chilly September air hit his face all at once, and Draco welcomed it like a friend. He liked it when the days would get shorter, when the stars would keep him company for longer. He liked autumn. His back lined itself in goosebumps each time a gust of wind passed him by. Draco wallowed in the way it numbed the shame sitting heavy on his heart. He slid to the floor and sat down, then exhaled.

He didn’t cry. He hadn’t in months; not since the trial. Not since he last saw his mother, the way she avoided his eyes like he was a Basilisk. Not since he watched the Aurors escort his father out of the room. Not since he looked at Draco for just a quarter of a second, but that single glance had felt like a farewell. 

Time worked differently too these days, so he wasn’t sure how long he sat there for. It could have been hours, though it was probably closer to minutes. Still, Draco never got bored of it. He looked at his hands. Pale and boney fingers stared back at him, slender in the way that made a wand look like it truly belonged in his hand. There was always ink on his fingers lately, even if he hadn’t used a quill in what felt like forever. It was just there, a reminder of something that had once been productive. 

He examined his fingernails, too. Sitting in the cold had made the nail beds turn purple, which matched the freezing red of his digits quite nicely. There was never grime under his fingernails. During the Battle was the first time he looked down to find them anything but clean. Even then, it wasn’t filth that settled underneath—it was blood. Blood he was responsible for. 

The creases in his knuckles seemed deeper now, rougher. It was like even his skin was trying to age out of him. A breeze rolled over the stones, blowing hair into his eyes and forcing him to look up from his hands.

The ledge was just a few feet away.

He’d been here dozens of times before. During Astronomy lessons, after—and sometimes, during—Quidditch matches, once with... Dumbledore, and once to sneak a bottle of Firewhiskey with Blaise, Gregory and—

And Vincent. His dense, loyal, forgiving and dead friend Vincent. 

The ledge has never looked at him this way. Up until tonight, it never had anything to offer. He didn’t trust it, but didn’t hate the idea of taking the ledge’s gift. Hesitantly, he scooted close enough for his legs to dangle off the edge. 

It made him think of Dumbledore. Of falling, but not dramatically. Not like in the books. Just– quietly. Quickly. A slip, a moment. He wondered if it felt like flying, just for a second. Or maybe it felt like how he did everyday, floating around the empty corridors. 

The way the stars illuminated the trees made them twinkle in a beautiful shade of green. One that made him think of the Slytherin common room, of a memory he hadn’t summoned in years, of a time when all of his friends were happier, or at the very least, all of them were alive. 

Pansy had been laughing about something Theodore said. There was toast with too much jam—he remembered that detail well, because the jam had dripped onto his sleeve, and Blaise charmed it off before he could complain.

It was the kind of memory that didn't seem worth anything at the time. And now, for some reason, it made his throat ache.

He stood up.

Feet dragging again, but this time not toward the door. Slowly, as if underwater, he took a few steps closer to the edge. Not close enough to lean over. Never close enough to lean over, he just–...

He never thought about killing himself. Just… the fact that the option was always there felt oddly comforting.

He approached the edge just enough to feel the full bite of the wind. Enough to look out over the grounds, spread wide and dark beneath him. Trees swaying like they didn’t know the Battle had ever happened. Grass silvered with dew.

Draco tilted his head up. The stars were still out. They hadn’t left yet—they never did.

He wondered, absently, if anyone would notice if he did.

All of a sudden there were hands on Draco’s shoulders. He instinctively hunched over, gasping in surprise. His center of gravity was suddenly very much over the ledge, and oh Merlin, he was about to fall. For some reason, he was no longer curious whether the drop would feel like flying. He just seriously hoped it wouldn’t hurt. 

But the drop never came. Strong arms hauled him away from the ledge instead, making him sprawl out on his back boorishly. He immediately reached for his wand, before promptly remembering the teachers were required by the Ministry to take it from him after each class. He didn’t dare argue against it during the trial, after all, it was this or bloody Azkaban with his father, but he did think it was a safety concern. He was right, it seems. Draco was about to be killed and there’s nothing he can do about it.

Except when he opened his eyes to try and identify his killer, even if it was utterly pointless to do so, it wasn't an escaped Death Eater who deemed him a traitor that stares back. It wasn't even a student from another house that wished death upon him every chance they get.

Draco promptly realises he isn’t about to be killed, but somehow, this is much worse than that. 

Because really, who else could it be? It had always been him. And of course, of course it’s him now, like the universe had a sick sense of humour and couldn’t resist twisting the knife one last time.

“Bloody hell, Malfoy,” is the first thing Harry Potter says after he’s sure Draco won’t attempt to jump off of the tower again. Not again, at all, because he wasn’t going to jump. He knows he wasn’t. Potter has to know that too, actually. He has to know right now, because if he doesn’t, he’ll think Draco’s gone off the rails entirely, and then he really will end up in Azkaban.

“Let go of me,” Draco snarls, freeing himself of Potter’s iron grip. Seriously, for someone who’s been getting increasingly scrawnier these past couple of months, his strength doesn’t seem to have gotten any worse. It’s incredibly annoying and similarly unfair. “What’s your problem, Potter?”

“You were right next to the edge.”

“I was simply looking around,” Draco scoffs, as if the very implication of Potter’s thoughts offended him. It does. 

“I thought you were gonna…” Potter trails off, never finishing that sentence. He just looks past him with a strange look on his face, looks at the ledge. At the guilty, dirty ledge. 

Draco narrows his eyes at him, challenging him to finish that sentence. When it becomes apparent Potter won’t dare to do so, he feels his own face relax, though his eyebrows stay as pinched as they always are when glaring Potter down. 

“What are you doing up here at this hour, anyway?” Draco asks him, just because the silence was starting to get a little too miserable. He doesn’t actually care about the answer, and Potter must know this, because he narrows his eyes and counters the question instead of answering it.  

“What are you doing up here?”

“I already told you,” Draco rolls his eyes. “I’m looking around.”

The silence comes back once more as Potter considers him, though it’s not nearly as unbearable this time. He stares at him until Draco is fed up with it and sits back down on the ledge with a sigh. This makes Potter flinch, and that, in turn, makes Draco mad all over again.

He feels Potter’s hand before it even touches his shoulder. Draco swivels his head around and glares daggers into his eyes. He really wishes he had his wand right now. A stinging jinx would do wonders at keeping Potter away. 

Potter watches him a while longer, like he’s waiting for a sign, something more dramatic, more final. As if Draco might throw himself off the Tower just to prove a point. It’s absurd, really, how long it takes the git to relax. Honestly, as if Draco would ever…

His shoulders sag without him realizing it. The thought slips in, as quiet as the night. It's not ground-breaking, not jarring. Not at all life-changing. Just... there.

He would.

Not tonight, and not here, but if the moment came, if it opened its hands to him like something gentle again, something easy... he thinks he’d take it.

Unashamed. Unafraid.

He would go.

“Do you mind if I look around with you?” Potter asks suddenly, effectively pulling Draco away from his thoughts. His strange, angsty thoughts. Draco shakes his head like it’ll help him get rid of them forever. It doesn’t.

“I think we both know the answer to that, Potter,” Draco huffs.

“Yeah, I think we do,” Potter chuckles. The smile on his face looks strange. Not in some sort of twisted I–hate–to–see–him–anything–but–miserable way. It just… sits weird on his face when paired with those horrific bruises under his eyes. “Can I do it anyway?” 

Draco can see Potter’s hands trembling from the cold where they’re tucked into the pockets of his sweater. He sighs. “Can I stop you?”

Potter only smiles before sitting down a few inches away from him. Their shoulders bump as he does. Draco doesn’t have the energy to bark at him for it. 

Neither of them talk for a while. Potter just sits next to him, like he belongs there. Like he’s always belonged in odd, silent places with horrific stories sewn onto them that other people would do anything to avoid. In a strange way, Draco relates to him for that. The cold wind moves through his hair, lifting it slightly, and Draco watches him from the corner of his eye.

Even with him there, time moves weirdly. He doesn’t know what time it is, nor does he want to know, but it passes nevertheless. Seconds, minutes, even whole hours, maybe. Eventually Potter reaches into the inner pocket of his sweater. Draco would be alarmed if it was anyone but Potter, and Merlin, isn’t that some food for thought.

He pulls out a small box. It’s white, with red and gold markings, and the corners are soft from being carried around in inner pockets of tired wizards for too long.

Draco stares at it, and at Potter, and asks, just because there’s nothing else to do. “What is that?”

Potter doesn’t answer and flips the box open. Inside, there’s two neat lines of thin, paper-rolled sticks.

“Cigarettes,” he says, like that clears anything up. Draco pretends it does.

Potter takes one out, turns it between his fingers. “Do you smoke?”

“Oh,” Draco replies, though it isn’t really an answer. That’s what they are. Wizards smoke pipes, if they smoke at all. Draco gives him a look. “Do I look like I smoke? I don’t.”

Potter shrugs. “You do tonight.” He offers one.

Draco hesitates. Not out of protest, but confusion. He doesn’t understand why Potter’s giving it to him. Why he’s here at all. Why this feels so serious, somehow, like the beginning of something he can’t name. Doesn’t dare to name. 

He takes it nevertheless, because whatever it does mean can’t be any wilder than being pulled off of a ledge he wasn’t going to jump from by the bloody Chosen One.

Potter lights his own first. He does it with his wand, wordlessly, because Gryffindors don’t get their wands taken from them. Chosen Ones don’t get their wands taken from them. There’s something ceremonial about it. He breathes in like it hurts, then exhales through his nose. The smoke curls up and vanishes into the night.

For a second, Draco thinks the reason Potter gave it to him was to taunt him. To see him fumble, humiliate himself when he couldn’t even bloody light it. The bitter part of him nearly rises up like bile, ready to lash out, to spit something cruel just to get ahead of the sting.

But even when he hasn’t slept properly in weeks, even when the shadows in his mind have started whispering things he’s afraid he might start believing– Draco knows that isn’t it. That just… it’s not Potter. He’d never do that.

Draco can’t say the same for himself.

Annoyingly, it makes him hate himself even more.

“I don’t have my wand,” he says simply, instead. He extends the cigarette towards Potter again. “Can you…” 

Potter doesn’t move right away. Doesn’t even blink. He just stares. Not at the cigarette, not really. At Draco. At his frostbitten fingers. At the absence of a wand in his hands.

And then, without a word, he reaches into his sleeve once more, pulls out his wand, and holds it out, handle first. 

Draco freezes. Blinks.

Screw being a ghost. This has to be a dream, or something. A nightmare, maybe. Anything that isn’t reality.

“You’re giving me your wand?” He asks pathetically, as if it isn’t obvious.

Potter doesn’t answer at first. Just shrugs a little, cigarette smoldering between his fingers. And then, as if it was the easiest thing to say, as if it didn’t matter at all— “I trust you.”

The words don’t hit like a punch. He says them far too softly to do that, yet they land all the same.

Draco stares at him. He doesn’t move to take it, not right away. His fingers twitch, hover uncertainly. The idea of holding Potter’s wand, of Potter letting him, carves open something strange in his chest.

“You shouldn’t.” Trust is not something Draco is used to. Not from him. Not from anyone. 

Potter inhales some more of the smoke. He holds it before releasing it into the night once more. When he turns to face him, there’s a small smile on his face. “But I do. I think you’d give me your wand too, if it really mattered.” 

Draco decides to ignore that first bit, because if he doesn’t, he might actually jump off the Tower. Instead, he says, “But this doesn’t matter, yet you’re– you’re…”

His smile only gets wider. It still looks very strange, but Draco was starting to get used to it. “I think it does matter. It matters quite a lot.”

The silence that follows is both heavy and comfortable. Draco thinks he might want to drown in it. Quietly, he reaches out and takes the wand.

Magic pulses through his fingertips immediately. It’s become painfully unfamiliar over the summer, and the feeling didn’t go away once he got to Hogwarts. Obviously, using his wand during classes was a blessing, but… it was also a stark reminder of what had been taken away from him. 

He lights the cigarette with a whispered “Incendio,” and it almost feels obscene, like yelling in the middle of a Death Eater meeting back home. He shudders at both the pull of magic and the memory.

Draco hands Potter his wand back with shaky hands and takes in his first puff of smoke. He coughs once and immediately gets flustered about it, then swears under his breath. He can see Potter struggle not to laugh.

“Piss off, you prat! Merlin, is it always this revolting?” Draco mutters, eye watering.

“Yeah,” Potter replies honestly. Despite this, he takes another drag of the cigarette. “You grow to like it, though. Or you just get used to it.”

They lapse into silence. Not uncomfortable, just… heavy. The kind that fills in all the empty space without asking permission. They continue smoking, and Draco learns that Potter wasn’t lying. The second drag is just as miserable as the first one, and he considers throwing the cigarette down the Tower. He’s grateful he didn’t do it by the third puff of smoke; it’s far better. His throat barely burns by the fourth.

He doesn’t know why he does it, but out of nowhere, Draco whispers, “Do you ever feel like the castle’s watching you?”

Potter doesn’t respond right away. He flicks ash off the end of his cigarette with a finger that still has a healing scar across the knuckle. He exhales like he’s been holding his breath, like he’s been waiting for Draco to say something real. He answers just as quietly as Draco had asked.

“I do.”

Draco looks at him. The shadows on Potter’s face make him look older than he really is, which is not old at all, like something ancient got trapped behind his eyes and never found its way out. Like it spread, instead, into his eyes, the bruises underneath them, the painfully outgrown hair, the scars he couldn’t count even if he tried.

“I always feel it,” Draco admits. Why does he admit it? “The portraits. The corridors. The bloody staircases. I… They–it’s like they all remember what I did. Like they’re waiting for me to do it again.”

Potter doesn’t argue. Doesn’t try to absolve him. Instead, he says, “They remember what I did, too.”

Draco lets the smoke burn his throat before he speaks again. There’s bite to his voice. He doesn’t mean for it to be there. “Yeah, right. But they built you a statue for it.”

Potter chuckles under his breath. It’s not amused.

“They dug me a grave first.”

Draco blinks. He doesn’t ask what he means. He doesn’t get to; Harry pulls out his wand again and checks the time with a quick “Tempus”. His eyebrows raise ever so slightly in surprise and he lets out a small whistle. “Breakfast starts in less than an hour. Are you gonna go sleep some?”

“No,” Draco shakes his head. “I wouldn’t be able to. Will you?”

“Nah. I am gonna go lay down, though.”

“Go ahead,” he shrugs. “I’ll stay here a while longer.”

Potter makes a sound of protest and plants a hand on Draco’s shoulder that he immediately shrugs away. “Yeah, no, either you leave first, or we leave together, Malfoy.”

“Merlin , you are such a git, Potter, I can’t believe this,” he hisses, spitting his name like it’s venom, but he stands up anyway. The prat looks amused by this and runs after him with a laugh when Draco stomps away towards the stairs.

“You can’t blame me!” Potter says when he catches up halfway down the stairs. “You were way too close to that ledge earlier. I can’t leave you, what if you wanna… erm, look around again?”

He says ‘look around’ far too strangely. Draco narrows his eyes at him. “What–what’s that voice? What are you implying?”

They’re at the bottom of the staircase now, and Potter looks away. He almost looks bashful. 

“I wasn’t going to jump, Potter,” he snarls. “Seriously. And there you were, going on about– about trust. What was the point in lying?” He’s rambling, but Potter pissed him off enough for one night. He gets to do so. He rolls his eyes. “Whatever. See you at breakfast.”

Draco barely takes a single step in the Slytherin dungeon’s direction before Potter is grabbing his forearm and making him wish he was able to cast a stinging jinx without a wand again. Draco turns to yell at him, but the expression he finds on Potter’s face makes him stop. 

Potter’s face is taut with something that doesn’t quite match his usual expressions. Not anger, not exasperation, not even that irritating brand of Gryffindor chivalry. It’s concern. Raw, unpolished, terrified concern. His brows are knit so tightly it casts his entire face in shadow, and his eyes—those ridiculous, too-bright eyes—are darting back and forth between Draco’s like he’s trying to read something secret behind them. Like he's searching for confirmation, or warning. Or maybe both.

His grip on Draco’s arm loosens. Draco wishes it hadn’t.

“I do trust you, Malfoy,” he says earnestly. So earnestly, in fact, it has Draco’s throat closing up without warning. “I do. I’m just–” He falters for half a second, then swallows, “I’m terrified of what will happen if I’m wrong.”

Everything is silent. Even the castle feels like it’s holding its breath for them, and Draco doesn’t know what to do with any of it. Not the trust, not the fear. Not the softness he sees in Potter’s face– like he’s looking at something already halfway gone.

It terrifies him. It terrifies them both . So Draco does the only thing he can. He nods—once, small, unsure. And when they part ways at the corridor’s fork, neither of them looks back.

The castle exhales behind them.

Chapter Text

The memory of the Tower gnaws at him.

It follows him the following morning, when he walks up to McGonagall’s desk after Transfiguration. He catches the look she gives him when he hands her his wand—sad, unreadable, and ridden with something akin to pity. 

He hates it. Hates the way it sticks to her voice when she says his name, the way it reminds him everyone knows exactly how far he’s fallen. 

Professor Slughorn gives it back to him when he makes it to Potions. There’s no softness in his gaze, but it’s obvious he feels sorry for him as well. He could make do without a wand in a Potions class, yet Slughorn gives it to him anyway. He must know how horrible it is to have such a big part of you taken away like this. 

He shoves the wand deep into his pocket, as if he could bury the shame with it.

At lunch, he pushes food around his plate until it looks like he’s eaten something. It’s a complete waste of food and he wouldn’t have taken anything since he knew he wouldn’t eat it, but Pansy insisted and filled his plate nevertheless. He can feel her staring, a silent question stuck on the tip of her tongue. Blaise says something about an upcoming exam, or maybe it’s about a Quidditch match– Draco doesn’t hear it. 

The Slytherin table is a quiet echo of what it once was. None of the houses are as loud as they used to be, but it’s particularly sharp here. Only the first-years dare to speak louder than a whisper. Vincent’s spot at the end of the table still feels like a black hole. Draco feels like it’ll swallow him whole if he stares too long. 

He doesn’t talk much these days. Nobody expects him to.

When the Daily Prophet arrives a few weeks later with the morning owls, the atmosphere gets even worse. He thought the silence was already sickening, but this– this is too much. 

He knows what’s going on. Draco sighs and snatches a copy out of Gregory’s hands before any of them can protest, skimming his eyes through the pages. The headlines never change—his family’s name is dragged through the dirt unapologetically, like it continuedly has been for months now. There’s an article about legacies, bloodlines and the corruption of forgiven war criminals. They never mention Draco’s name directly, but it’s obvious who they’re talking about.

There’s also a picture of his father, a mugshot. He looks thinner and– and so bloody scared . Draco hasn’t eaten anything, but it still feels like he’s about to throw up.

He folds the paper in half before he finishes the article. It goes up in flames, curls and blackens, the ink dissolving faster than the weight it leaves behind. Gregory isn’t mad about his copy getting destroyed before he gets to read it. He just silently pries the burning paper out of Draco’s hands and heals the burns with a quiet “Episkey”. 

Draco finds himself thinking about Potter more than he cares to admit. Not just about the things he said, but the way he said them, too. The way he sat down next to Draco without flinching. The way he handed him his wand like it meant nothing.

It should’ve meant everything. It did mean everything. 

The memory replays in his head in the middle of a sentence in a book he isn’t really reading. The library is about to close and is nearly empty, yet Draco feels like he’s with Potter all over again. He’s supposed to be revising for Arithmancy class, but the words are blurry, his eyes are slipping, and all he can see is the way Potter’s fingers trembled when he lit that cigarette. 

He thinks about the silence between them, about how it didn’t feel like silence at all. He doesn’t understand it.

He doesn’t want to understand it.

That night Draco sits in the common room with his friends, all of them huddled near the fireplace and relishing in its warmth. He doesn’t want to be there, not really, but knows how worried they get when he avoids them for too long. His silent company is usually enough, but when he sees Pansy approaching him out of the corner of his eye, he realises it isn’t this time.

The cushion dips as she sits down next to him, throwing her legs over the armrest like she owns the place. She rests her head in Draco’s lap and stares him in the eye, an unreadable expression on her face. 

“You’re weird lately,” she says after a beat of silence.

Draco snorts. “You always say that.”

“Yeah,” she hums in response, looking away. “But it’s not charming this time.”

He forces a smile, one that doesn’t reach past his lips, and Pansy notices this. She looks at him with a sort of pity only McGonagall can muster, and it makes his stomach churn. When it becomes apparent he isn’t going to tell her anything, she sadly pats him on the arm and gets back up, walking away. 

When he finally gets to bed, he lays awake for hours. The pale moonlight streaming into the room illuminates it beautifully, but it definitely doesn’t help his already insomniac self fall asleep. The sheets are cold and the stars are out—he can see them through the window, faintly, outlining the sky. 

All he can think of is Potter sitting next to him and releasing smoke into the night like it might give something back in return. Draco wonders if he’ll return and knows he won’t. Knows he shouldn’t go back, either. 

Yet he always leaves his shoes by the door. And two days later, they finally convince him to go. 

In Draco’s opinion Hogwarts had always been prettier at night than it was during the day. 

He could forgive the portraits for staring if it meant he got to enjoy the sight of sleeping pillars and resting corridors. There was something about how the shadows stretched across the stone—softened and quiet, like the castle had finally exhaled. He especially loved the hallways illuminated by the night. You didn’t need to cast Lumos to find your way when the moonlight poured in through the tall, arched windows. You could simply exist, undisturbed. Silent.

His chest tightens when he realises he no longer has to worry about being caught when using the light charm. There was no risk anymore, for there was no more Professor Snape to catch him.

Severus Snape was an intimidating man, he could admit that much. He’d always been that way; cold, sharp-edged and infuriatingly brilliant at everything he did. And Slytherin house knew something about him that nobody else did, probably. Beneath the barbed remarks and sarcasm so dry it could cauterize wounds, Snape had cared. Wholeheartedly. 

He used to sit with them after some of the bigger Quidditch matches, especially ones they won against Gryffindor. Always scoffing and sighing, wishing to be anywhere but there, yet he’d still stay. Not because he cared about the game, Merlin no, but because he knew it mattered to them. He’d protected them in ways most didn’t even realize before it was simply too late. 

He had allowed Pansy to hang a green banner on his chair once, and didn’t even hex her for it. He hadn’t said a word, just rolled his eyes and let it stay there for the entirety of the evening. Everyone was laughing, celebrating and singing songs barely anyone knew the lyrics of. 

Draco remembers that night well. It was one of the last ones before everything fell apart. 

Above everything, above being the best Potions professor he could ask for, the most amazing head of Slytherin the school’s ever seen—Snape was his godfather. The person who taught him how to brew a Calming Draught without commenting on his constantly snotty nose and red eyes. The one who’d clip his wand after he was too arrogant. The one who somehow, beneath it all, always made it clear he expected Draco to be so much more.

For a long time, the mere thought of being caught wandering the halls so late at night by Snape was enough to make him stop cold in his tracks and reconsider it. Tonight, he’d do anything for that to be the case.

The grief showed its face in strange places nowadays. It no longer came in waves; it was the hollow echo in moonlit corridors, reaching for advice and finding nothing but silence. It was remembering, in terrifying detail, how Snape looked at him that final time—the kind of look that crawled under your skin and carved into your bones. The kind that said run. Live. Become someone I could never be. 

Draco didn’t cry. He didn’t need to; it felt like the castle did it for him.

The ache sits heavy in his hollow chest as he moves across the corridor. Each step echoes louder than it should, making him feel all the more alone. He passes through familiar archways at the castle’s east side. Potter had walked through these in fourth year and discovered him—so arrogant and downright stupid —handing out those silly badges like sweets.

Draco thought he was so clever back then. “Potter Stinks”. They were simple, petty things, enchanted to flash like some sort of warning signs in the corridors. He’d distributed them with a grin sharp enough to cut, a glint in his eye like he was doing something important. Like he was winning something.

He remembers how Potter stormed up to him then, jaw clenched and fists curled at his sides like he was holding back hexes with nothing but restraint and teeth. There was colour in his cheeks, heat in his voice. In that moment, he was the embodiment of that rare sort of anger that vibrated with sincerity. 

And that look in his eyes, that very same sincerity, made something white-hot stir in his chest. He remembers being angry. Not because Potter was reacting to him. Not even because that whole ordeal resulted in being turned into a bloody ferret. He was angry because Potter cared so much. Because his face could still twist up like that, furious and… and alive. Because even though he hated Draco, Potter saw him. He was the only one who did.

Nowadays they sat on Astronomy Towers and glanced at each other from across the hall during breakfasts that neither of them would eat. Potter’s face was always still. Still like photographs that would grow pale at the edges. Still like the storm that’s already passed over and left nothing in its wake. 

Draco watched that absence behind his eyes and wondered if he’ll ever see that heat again. That spark. That fury. That life. 

He’d do anything to be glared at like that again. To be felt so strongly. Because now they live in the silence after the shouting ends, when neither knows what to say next. He fears they never will. 

It’s on instinct that he veers right, walking into the empty courtyard through the open arches. He takes it all in; the benches, the trees, the castle walls, all partially damaged after the Battle.  Somewhere further away, past the sloped lawn and frost-dusted greenhouses, something catches his eye. A figure, small in the foggy distance, stands at the edge of the dock with hunched shoulders and a bowed head. 

Well, speak– no, think of the devil. It’s Potter. 

Draco stops and watches him for a minute. Everything in his head is telling him not to go there, yet his legs have already started walking. Potter glances up when he approaches, but doesn’t say a word. He just lifts a hand slightly in greeting, like it’s some kind of secret code between them now. Still hesitant, Draco settles a few feet away from him, hands huddled deep in the pockets of his robes. 

The wood creaks beneath him, old and familiar. He remembers the first time he was on this dock—first year, after the boat ride. The lake had terrified him then. Now, it looks like glass, deep and strangely kind. There isn’t much wind tonight, so it’s perfectly still, too.

There’s a bunch of flat little rocks near the edge of the dock. Potter reaches down and picks one up, smoothing it over before he chucks it across the lake. It makes three little jumps before disappearing into the water with a muffled sound. Potter sighs dramatically, before explaining, “I’ve been trying to make it go five times.”

Draco stares at him for a while, hesitant, before he steps closer and picks up a rock of his own. He smoothes it over like Potter did, raising it close to his mouth to blow on it for good luck, before throwing it way too hard. It sinks immediately with a loud splash.

“That was a fluke,” Draco scoffs immediately, picking up another stone. He can hear Potter trying his best not to laugh, but it still annoys him. He blows on this one as well and chucks it in. It also sinks right away. Potter can no longer hold the laughter and snorts—a sound Draco thought he could no longer make—and for some reason, it makes Draco smile all lopsided. “Piss off. This was easier when I was ten.”

“You skipped stones as a child?” Potter asks, sounding genuinely surprised, yet not mocking. “I thought it was a muggle thing.”

Draco shrugs as he picks up one more. “It probably is. We did it with my godfather. He said he learned it from a friend. I think she was a muggle-born.” 

Potter looks downright shocked now, eyebrows shooting up. “And he didn’t care that it was a muggle thing?”

“Well, obviously not, if he taught me,” Draco replies, chucking the stone. It skips once, finally.

“Wow,” he whistles. “Who is your godfather, anyway?”

“It’s Snape,” he says simply, before the memories come flooding back in. His shoulders deflate immediately. “Or– well, it was Snape.”

He knows this shocks Potter as well, but he doesn’t react. His frame deflates similarly to Draco’s own, instead. The atmosphere gets heavier and Draco hates ever bringing this up. Leaves rustle overhead, and the lake laps faintly beneath the dock’s edge. A breeze drifts across the surface of the water and ruffles the hem of Draco’s cloak. He wants to run away. 

Potter starts skipping stones again as he breaks the silence, almost too softly to hear. “I miss him too, you know.”

Draco doesn’t answer, something in his chest clenches. Potter doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does, but he just keeps going. “Who?”

“Snape,” Potter says simply. “I think about him a lot.”

Draco stares at the lake, jaw set. Something sour pools in the back of his throat—maybe that’s why the words come out so sharp and angry. “You didn’t know him.”

“Well... Not well ,” Potter admits. “But I knew what he did for me. For all of us. What he gave. And I hated him, for so long, I hated him. Yet he still…” He trails off. Another stone skips once, twice, three times. Disappears.

He misses Potter’s outbursts. He misses how he’d yell at him, because it was so much easier to react to, and he wishes that anger would reappear sometimes, as cruel as that is. Unfortunately, it’s his own fury that comes back, instead, and the words trickle out between his gritted teeth before he can stop them. 

“You don’t get to miss him.”

Potter finally turns to look at him, brows drawing together, eyes darting between Draco’s own. 

“You didn’t know him like I did,” Draco snaps. “You– you didn’t see him after. After classes, after the school year. You didn’t see how he’d sit in with us after Quidditch and– and he was always close enough to be annoyed, but always just far enough that nobody could call it soft.”

He hates it. He hates it all; hates that Snape will never get to do those things again, hates that he didn’t appreciate it more when it was happening, hates that, despite him yelling at Potter like this, he isn’t getting mad. Isn’t shouting back. He’s just listening, so screw it– Draco will give him something to listen to. 

“He knew everything about everyone—who was fighting what battles, who was homesick, and who needed a place to hide. He’d–... Merlin, Potter, you don’t know shit . How can you say you miss him, when you don’t know anything?! Did you know Snape kept a bottle of Firewhiskey locked away in a drawer and he never drank it unless one of us was bleeding?!” He has to pause and breathe. His throat constricts and he’s afraid he’ll finally cry, but manages to fight it off. “You–... He —he cared. In his own strange way, but he cared so much .”

Once again, Potter doesn’t interrupt. Draco’s voice is shaking. “And now he’s gone. And all I have are these—these ghosts, and you pretend you see them too?” He thinks that’s it. Thinks Potter will finally say something idiotic or self-righteous, but he just stays fucking silent. Draco almost wants to push him into the lake. Maybe then he’ll finally snap at him. 

“What do you know about grief?” he spits, bitter and exhausted and shaking from more than the cold.

There’s a pause. And when Potter speaks, eyes still fixed on the water, Draco goes completely still. “Grief is all I’ve ever known, Malfoy.”

He doesn’t know what to say. There is no response fitting enough, probably, but the silence feels just as bad. Potter’s words echo like church bells between Draco’s ribs. He wasn’t trying to guilt him, he just… said them, like a fact. Like a truth Potter had learned to carry the way others carry their names. 

His throat constricts with something shaped suspiciously like shame, guilt and very bitter regret. Why would he say something like that? Why would he say anything at all? He has no monopoly on missing Snape, he knows this, he just… Merlin , why? 

The silence between them shifts. It’s not sharp, not cruel, just heavier, like it’s carrying everything Draco can’t bring himself to say. Because he knows what Harry’s lived through. He knows.

The whole Wizarding World knows about his parents. But Draco knows so much more, about Diggory, Professor Lupin. Even though he hates Dumbledore, he knows Potter’s grieved him, too. Potter's had to grieve his own godfather, too. He knows about Moody, about the Weasley twin that died— Fred , he thinks. His name was Fred —and even Colin bloody Creevey. 

He knows Potter carries their names like ghosts on his shoulders, each one stitched into the seams of that stupid Gryffindor jumper he never seems to take off. He knows the Ministry gave him medals, but never gave him peace. He had glory, but not silence. 

He knows Potter stood in front of death more times than anyone ever should, and that the only reason Draco is still here, walking these halls, dragging his feet through these corridors, is because Potter decided he was worth saving.

Above all, Draco knows how much his words must’ve hurt him. And yet Potter is silent, looking at him with those same green eyes, emptier now, waiting for him to continue as if it were an ordinary conversation. Potter just might be a saint, ( Merlin , that sounds so wrong for him to admit, even if it's only in his head), and Draco had the gall to ask him something like that. What is wrong with him?

When his throat constricts and his eyes threaten to water again, Draco coughs into his palm and points at the lake. “That was four.”

“What?”

“That last one skipped four times,” he clarifies, avoiding Potter’s eyes like they were the plague. 

Potter glances at him, blinking. “Really?”

Draco nods. “Yes. I counted.”

He lifts another stone and grins faintly. “Huh. Guess I’m improving.”

There’s silence between them again, but it’s softer this time—doesn’t hurt his chest like earlier. He doesn’t respond and simply nods instead. Neither of them know what time it is, but they’re not willing to find out, either. It’s Friday, meaning there are no classes tomorrow, and the only other reason they would ever fear being out this late is dead. The lake is theirs tonight, and neither of them wants to let go of that. 

Potter stretches out his legs and groans like he’s aged fifty years. He sits down at the very edge of the dock. “Can you grab the cigarettes?” he asks, tilting his head towards his robes, discarded behind them. “They’re in one of the pockets. Wand’s somewhere in the inner lining.”

One of his eyebrows raises, but he moves towards the pile anyways. “You want me snooping around your pockets now, Potter?”

The other shrugs in response. “You’re not snooping. You’re retrieving. It’s rather noble, no?”

Draco only snorts in response before his hands are in Potter’s pockets. The robe is adorned in sickly Gryffindor red, and the pockets are filled with various little trinkets—a crumpled piece of parchment, a half-empty box of Fizzing Whizbees, more flat stones, and, of course, the cigarettes. He picks up the pack before his fingers brush wood in the inner linings. Harry Potter’s wand, offered up to him again like it was nothing.

He pauses and doesn’t take it, turning his head towards him again. “I thought this was a one time thing.”

Potter has his head tilted all the way back to watch the sky, but his eyes are closed. Draco can see him smile. “Nah. We’ve still got eighteen left, right?”

With both the wand and the cigarettes in hand, he walks back to him and sits down. Their shoulders knock against each other like they did on the Tower. Neither of them moves away. Draco flicks the top open and lets Potter take two out. He holds one up between two fingers and raises it up to him. “Light them.”

He complies and mutters the spell, lighting it immediately. Draco expects him to hold up the other one, but he doesn’t, and when he looks up at him, Potter’s got the other one between his lips already, looking at him expectantly. 

“I’m not casting Incendio that close to your face, Potter,” Draco scoffs, almost offended at the mere thought that he would. “You’re enough of a Scarhead as is.” 

Laughter echoes over the lake. The cigarette falls out of Potter’s mouth and he nearly drops it into the water, catching it at the last second all hunched over. He doesn’t straighten up once he catches it, though, still doubled over in laughter.

Taken aback would be a huge understatement of how Draco feels in this exact moment. Potter barely ever smiled these days, so this was– well–...

It was something rare. Something sacred, even. Something that put a smile of his own on his face, even if he tried desperately to push it down. “Why–why are you laughing?”

“I’m sorry,”  the other wheezes, waving a hand in front of himself. Don’t be , Draco thinks . “Oh, it’s just been so long since you’ve called me that. I can’t believe– I can’t believe I’m laughing at something so stupid,” he thinks aloud. Draco snorts.

“Yeah, me neither. Can you hold the cigarette up already?” He says with no bite to his words, and Potter complies, holding it up. It shakes between his fingers as he’s still laughing, though slowly coming down from it. Strangely enough, Draco finds himself wanting to make him laugh like that again. 

When both of them are finally lit, Draco places the wand down in the gap between their thighs. The first bit of smoke burns just as much as last time, making Draco cough again. He wouldn’t be mad if Potter laughed at him this time, but he doesn’t. There’s a content smile on his face as he watches the water, little ripples created by fish coming up for a breath of air.

They smoke slowly, lazily, the way you do when time feels thick and syrupy around you. Potter taps his ash into the water. “Remember when we were… thirteen, I think, and I hexed you so hard your eyebrows fell off?”

Draco glares at him. He does remember. His father wanted to throw Potter out of Hogwarts for it, but he doesn’t mention that. “They didn’t fall off. They… they redistributed.”

“Right, right. Onto your neck.”

Draco groans and shivers at the memory. “You’re vile . Why would you remind me of it? It was like… like growing a very low moustache.” 

Potter grins, tilting his head toward him. “Nah. It’s like having very very low eyebrows. Because it's what you had. For a week.” Draco smacks him in the arm, making him snort.  “What? You started it!”

“ Yeah, sure . How come you left out the bit where I used Densaugeo in retaliation? I heard Madam Pomfrey had to file your teeth down after that.”

Another breathy laugh. He wants to hear that sound forever.  “She did not. She used some sort of charm to get them back to normal. She had to do it to Hermione, too, after you hexed her. You were awful , you know.”

Draco takes a long drag, eyes on the water. “Yeah,” he says softly. “I know.”

Potter doesn’t reply for a beat. He just hums and flicks another bit of ash into the lake. He then bumps his shoulder against Draco and doesn’t move away. There’s warmth radiating off of him, even though his fingers are almost blue. Draco swallows.

“I didn’t mean that,” he says quietly. “Well. You were a prat. You still are–”

“Piss off.”

“–but you’re not awful. You never were.” 

He doesn’t know how to answer, so he picks up Potter’s wand and casts a warming charm his way instead. He seems surprised for a moment, before sighing in content. Draco doesn’t look away from the lake. “You never got the stones to skip five times. Guess I’ll have to keep coming down here. Make sure you do.”

Potter presses against his shoulder a bit harder before moving away. Draco wants to jump into the lake and sink to the bottom for silently wishing Potter hadn’t moved away so soon.

“Yeah. I guess you will.”

Chapter Text

Mother,

Things are moving fast at Hogwarts this term. The professors seem especially keen on squeezing each and every ounce of focus out of us before exams. They’re also attempting to brief us on subjects and spells we missed last term because of everything that was going on. 

I’ve managed to keep up, for the most part. I’ve been spending a lot of time in the library, far more than I do at the Manor. I do believe some of the professors feel rather strange teaching complicated spells when they know P̶o̶t̶t̶e̶r̶  some of us have been using them since we were fourteen. It’s rather amusing to observe.

Professor Sinistra says my last Astronomy essay was one of the best in class. You’d have liked it. It was about lunar cycles and their interference with memory-based spells. I will send you a copy if you’d like to read it. 

I’ve been sleeping better lately. It’s nothing to worry about anymore. 

I̶'̶m̶ ̶s̶e̶e̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶s̶o̶m̶e̶o̶n̶e̶ ̶q̶u̶i̶t̶e̶ ̶o̶f̶t̶e̶n̶.̶ ̶I̶t̶'̶s̶ ̶n̶o̶t̶h̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶l̶i̶k̶e̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶t̶

̶I̶'̶v̶e̶ ̶b̶e̶e̶n̶ ̶s̶p̶e̶n̶d̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶m̶o̶r̶e̶ ̶t̶i̶m̶e̶ ̶w̶i̶t̶h̶ ̶P̶o̶t̶t̶e̶r̶.̶ ̶W̶e̶ ̶s̶m̶o̶k̶e̶.̶ ̶I̶t̶'̶s̶ ̶n̶o̶t̶ ̶a̶ ̶h̶a̶b̶i̶t̶,̶ ̶t̶h̶o̶u̶g̶h̶.̶ ̶I̶t̶'̶s̶ ̶c̶o̶m̶p̶l̶i̶c̶a̶t̶e̶d̶.̶ ̶

How are you holding up? I imagine the Manor is quiet without father there. I know you don’t want to talk about it, and that’s alright, but I’d like to hear from you when you feel up for it. Even just a few words. P̶l̶e̶a̶s̶e̶ ̶w̶r̶i̶t̶e̶ ̶s̶o̶o̶n̶

I’m looking forward to Christmas, even if it’s months away. I̶'̶v̶e̶ ̶m̶i̶s̶s̶e̶d̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶,̶ ̶m̶o̶m̶  It’ll be good to be home.

Take care
Draco

He folds the parchment carefully and smoothes down the edges until the creases disappear under the pads of his fingers. He doesn’t read it over. If he does, he knows he’ll tear the thing to pieces and start from scratch—or worse, not send it at all.

Maybe that’s what he should do. It’s almost the end of supper and students are already filtering out of the Great Hall, as are the owls. Eltanin is perched on a nook near the ceiling, staring at him curiously with his large eyes. Not a lot of students send or receive mail at this hour, but Draco always comes to supper with a piece of parchment and a quill, so his owl lurks somewhere above their heads, waiting, even if he has to return to the Owlery empty handed (empty taloned?) on most nights. 

His fingers hover over the parchment and the empty envelope. He gnaws at his lip a while longer, before Theo groans at the other side of the table. “You’ve been staring at that letter like it owes you money,” he says dryly. “Just send it.” 

Draco glances up to find most of his friends staring at him. Their looks differ from one another; Pansy gives him a small encouraging smile. Blaise nods at him and Draco’s sure he’s trying to be encouraging as well, but it borders on pressure, instead. Theo looks like he’s about to snatch the letter out of his hands and march it to the Owlery himself, and Gregory—

It’s Gregory that makes Draco’s stomach twist.

There’s something heavy in his eyes, an aching sort of grief Draco never learned how to deal with. He looks at Draco like he’s already bracing for the worst, like he knows all about how he’s feeling, and the pity in his expression is enough to make Draco’s throat close up.

Gregory’s parents cut him off completely the day he told them he’d be returning for his eighth year at Hogwarts. As the Goyles saw it, this was him choosing a side—the wrong side. And in their eyes there is no coming back from that. 

It all ended just like that—no letters, no contact, no name spoken aloud. It was baffling how easily they learned to act like they never had a son to begin with. Draco remembers Greg telling him this in the common room one night, his voice quiet, like he was admitting to something shameful. Like he still half-believed he deserved it. Draco had nodded along at the time, murmured something about how they didn’t deserve him anyway. But now, staring at his own unsent letter and feeling the weight of his friends’ eyes on him, he realises something awful.

What if every unopened letter, every unsent reply is a message in itself? What if this is what’s happening with his own mother? What if Narcissa Malfoy, who once would have killed to protect him, no longer has it in her to even reply to his letters?

Theo must sense his turmoil, because he’s reaching over the table and rubbing his upper arm in support seconds later. “Just because she doesn’t reply, doesn’t mean she doesn’t read them, Draco. Send it.”

Pansy leans over with her chin in her palm. “If you don’t send it now, you’ll just think about it all night. And day. All you ever do is think nowadays, really, and this will eat you alive. Owls are faster than guilt, Draco.”

This earns her a half-smile, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. With a sigh, Draco looks up to find Eltanin already swooping down towards them. He lands on Draco’s shoulder with a low hoot and patiently waits for him to seal the letter away. He hesitates for another minute before he gives it to him, so the owl snatches it from his hand himself. Draco smiles weakly. 

“I’ll make sure there’s plenty of treats waiting when you return tomorrow, Elta,” he whispers, gently caressing his dark feathers and making him croon. Eltanin rubs his face against Draco’s cheek, something he used to oppose when he was younger, before he takes off with the letter in his beak. When Draco looks at his friends again, they all look like Gregory. Fantastic, Draco thinks.

Theo steals the last slice of toast, and Pansy’s dragging her finger through a plate of marmalade like it’s a canvas. “You don’t know if he’ll be back so soon. Maybe your mother will finally write a response,” she suggests, hopeful, though it sounds weak. Draco is thankful she’s trying.

The Great Hall is mostly empty by now. The house elves are clearing the long tables with swift, practiced movements, silverware vanishing mid-scrape and plates floating away as if guided by invisible hands. The few students still lingering are scattered between tables, talking in quiet pockets of conversation, their laughter echoing faintly off the high stone walls.

It’s strange, Draco thinks, how things have shifted. How students sit where they never would have before the War. There’s a bright, chaotic mess of yellow and blue at the Hufflepuff table, their laughter rising above the rest. The Gryffindor table is even more disordered; red and gold swallowed up by flashes of Ravenclaw blue, the odd Hufflepuff scarf here and there. If you didn’t already know it was the Gryffindor table, you wouldn’t be able to tell anymore. That kind of thing never used to happen.

But the Slytherin table remains untouched. Unmixed. A long, stark streak of green and silver at the far end of the room. Their distance from the other houses had always been palpable, but it’s especially intense this year. 

The youngest Slytherins are the only ones bold enough to blur those lines, first-years who didn’t live at Hogwarts through the War, who don’t yet know what the name Slytherin carries in the eyes of the others. Draco watches them whisper nervously to friends at other tables, unaware of the weight they’ll come to bear. The rest of them—sixth, seventh, especially the eighth-years, know better. They've felt the stares, the suspicion, the way the air shifts when they walk into a room. They know they’re not welcome.

Across from him, Blaise stands and stretches, pocketing a half-eaten biscuit as he turns toward the doors. “We’re headed to the common room,” he says, jerking his head toward Pansy, Greg and Theo, who are already halfway to the exit. “Wizard's chess tournament. Pansy's convinced she’s better than me now.”

Draco scoffs. “She’s not.”

“I know. But it’s adorable she thinks so,” Blaise replies with a grin. “Are you coming?”

Draco nods distractedly. “Maybe in a bit.”

Blaise gives him a look, one of those knowing ones that makes Draco want to roll his eyes, but says nothing. He simply clasps his shoulder once, then heads off to join the others. Draco stands and is about to follow when something catches his attention.

At the Gryffindor table, (or what’s left of it), Harry Potter is still there. Alone. The people he usually surrounds himself with are gone, save one or two younger students at the far end that can’t stop staring, but Potter hasn’t moved. He sits hunched slightly over the table, absentmindedly tracing a circle on the wooden surface with his fingertip. A half-full goblet rests by his elbow, untouched. For a second, Draco wonders if Potter even knows he’s still here.

He watches as he finally pushes his goblet away with a tired sigh, stands, stretches, then moves like someone half-asleep. Someone dragging the weight of something invisible, something impossible to let go of.

And oh, Merlin , Draco knows that posture so well. He knows the quiet routine of showing up, sitting down, pretending. He knows the silence of it. The invisible script you write before you walk into the room.

He doesn’t realize he’s gotten up until he’s already halfway across the hall. He catches up to him when Potter’s halfway out the door already. “Potter!”

Potter visibly startles, turning around and craning his neck to look up at him. “Malfoy?”

He swallows a lump in his throat. He knows about the scripts. He just doesn’t write them when it comes to Potter. Maybe he should, because it leads to awkward moments like these, when he’s crossed the entire hall to catch him for no bloody reason. “You’re standing in the doorway,” he huffs. “And you’re in my way.”

“You stopped me,” Potter raises an eyebrow.

“Well, I need to leave.”

“Then go around...?”

“That’s too much effort,” Draco blurts, fully aware of how stupid he sounds, and Potter huffs a quiet laugh. He doesn’t seem offended or even annoyed, which he absolutely should be, since it looks like Draco’s looking for a fight on purpose. Instead, he looks confused and mildly amused. His laugh is breathless and brief, the kind that slips out before you can reel it back in. Draco stores the sound away in his mind in secret. 

They step out into the corridor together. Hogwarts hasn’t gone to sleep yet; it’s still more quiet than it is during the day, but not dead silent like it is when Draco wanders in the middle of the night. There’s first years running around, someone levitating a potted plant towards a window, Peeves howling in the faraway distance. 

It’s brilliant, Draco realises. They don’t have to say anything to avoid awkward silences. Draco lets Potter lead the way, since he’s a couple of steps ahead, and realises he walks straight past the staircase that leads towards their common room. He doesn’t make the turn towards the Slytherin dungeon, either. It’s going to be one of those nights, then, Draco thinks, and has to pinch his arm to avoid grinning like an idiot. 

After a while, Draco speaks, not fully sure why. “You always leave after they do.”

“Hm?” Potter glances sideways and slows his pace for Draco to fully catch up. Draco decides not to mention that he’s been walking a tad slower than usual on purpose, since his legs are longer and he’d speed past Potter otherwise.

“Granger, the Weasel—”

“Weasley. Or better yet, just call him Ron,” Potter interrupts, voice stern, but not malicious.

“Weasley, then,” Draco complies, but not without saying the name like it hurts him. It’s worth it, though, seeing as Potter smiles a bit immediately after. “They all leave before you do. You don’t eat much, either.”

There’s a pause. Then, Potter manages to answer without answering: “You don’t, either.”

Draco raises an eyebrow and scoffs. “What, you watch me now?”

“I do. I always have,” Potter admits like it’s obvious. Like it means nothing. “It’s hard not to notice you, Malfoy.”

Draco rolls his eyes, but it doesn't have the same effect it used to. There’s no venom in it, only the echo of old instinct. They fall into silence again, and when they reach the stairwell at the far end of the corridor, Harry moves slightly to the side—not out of politeness, but to make space beside him. It’s a small, subtle thing. But Draco sees it for what it is—an invitation.

And so, he speaks again, voice barely above a whisper. “Why do you do that?”

He chuckles in return. “Why do you always speak in riddles? Why do I do what?”

“That!”   Draco points at him, grinning like he’s just found a hidden treasure or solved a cold case. “You just did it again! You never… you never answer my questions. You just deflect them. Why?”

Potter falls quiet again, thoughtful this time, like he’s genuinely considering the question. It’s strange, seeing him like this—unguarded, not wearing the weight of the world like armour. He scratches the back of his neck, gaze flicking down at the worn stone beneath his feet. “You want to hear my answers, then?” he asks, strangely hesitant.

“Well, obviously,” Draco scoffs. “I wouldn’t ask otherwise, would I?”

Potter chuckles again, quieter, this time. Warmer. “Yes, you would. You used to do it all the time. Ask questions just to watch me squirm.”

Draco’s lips twitch, reluctantly fond. “Yes, well. You made it quite easy.”

He glances at him sidelong. “When did that change?”

Draco stays silent. Not because he doesn’t want to answer, but because he genuinely doesn’t know. When did it change? It’s not that long ago that he would’ve taken the opportunity to ask Potter something he knew the other wouldn’t be able to answer. He would’ve relished the idea of causing him shame. Nowadays, he’s doing anything to avoid it, including leading him to the Astronomy Tower again, somewhere he’s sure Potter won’t be seen hanging around the likes of him. 

It’s raining, so they don’t go near the edge and sit under the roof, legs crossed. Draco’s glad he’s wearing robes, as he’s sure he would be freezing otherwise. Potter’s clothes look rather thin, though he doesn’t seem to mind it. Draco startles when Potter suddenly whips his head towards him and blurts out: “Let’s play a game.”

Draco is quiet for a moment, as his thoughts haven’t quite caught up to him yet. His heart nearly leapt out of his chest just a moment ago. Once he recovers, he scoffs, though he can no longer hide his grin. “What are you, twelve?”

“Just humour me,” he says, unbothered. “Let’s play Twenty-one Questions.”

“I… don’t know what that is,” Draco admits.

“It’s really simple. You ask a question, I answer. Then I ask one, and you answer. Back and forth until we’ve done twenty-one,” he explains, then pauses. “You don’t have to answer, but then you forfeit your turn.” 

Draco thinks about it for a moment. “So… It’s like Veritaserum, but without the legality issues.”

“Exactly! And less fun,” Potter grins.

After thinking about it some more, Draco lets out a reluctant sigh, and Potter knows he’s won before he even says anything. “Fine,” he mutters anyway. “But if you start asking what my favourite colour is, I’ll hex you off the Tower.”

“Deal,” Potter says too fast, then averts his eyes. “But… since we’re not playing yet, what is your favourite colour?”

He rolls his eyes, but there’s a reluctant smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “You are insufferable, did you know that? Guess.”

“What?”

“Guess what my favourite colour is,” he clarifies, looking at Potter expectantly. 

Potter squints at him. “How can I guess? There’s hundreds.”

“There are not hundreds ,” Draco says, scandalised. “There are, like, twelve.”

“That’s nuts. What about aquamarine? Or chartreuse? Or—”

“Okay, fine ,” Draco interrupts. “But there’s one obvious choice. You can guess. And you should get it right.”

Potter stills. He looks at Draco, really looks at him. At his green-rimmed robes, the emerald turtleneck sweater underneath, his sage leather boots, the green serpent pin attached to his chest, the matching gem on his empty wand holster—

His mouth falls open. “You’re joking.”

Draco snorts. “Yes, I know . I’m predictable. I’m a caricature. Laugh it up.”

“I mean… is it because of the Slytherin crest? Or– or your dorm curtains, or something?”

“No,” Draco huffs. “And stop asking questions. I’m docking them from your total in the game.”

Potter just grins, undeterred. “But why green?”

He’s looking at him again. That soft, wide-eyed sort of way Potter has—like every answer matters, even if it’s beyond ridiculous. And those eyes of his, like old glass, or maybe like the forbidden forest just after a storm, those green eyes, are fixed on him with such intensity that Draco’s breath catches in his throat. He feels the heat start at the back of his neck and crawl up the sides of his face.

“No reason,” he says quickly, tearing his gaze away. “And anyway, it’s my turn.”

Potter looks vaguely disappointed, but he doesn’t push it. Draco doesn't ask his next question right away. He needs a second—to collect himself, to breathe . Once he feels like the ground isn’t about to collapse from under him, he asks, just as quietly as before: “Why do you avoid my questions so much?”

Potter frowns, but it’s not disdain—just concentration. “I didn’t realise I did that,” he says after a pause. “I don’t know why I do it. I’ve spent most of my life thinking and speaking about anything but myself. So now, when people ask, and when they want to hear me answer,” he glances at Draco for a quarter of a second, “I never know how to.”

Draco’s silent for a bit, digesting the information. He doesn’t say I get it , or anything of the sort, but he does. Potter scoots further away from him, and Draco thinks he might’ve offended him, but it’s just so he can rest his back against a pillar, facing him. “Out of everyone the War took from us… who do you miss most?”

The question hits harder than Draco expected it to. It’s… uncharacteristically personal, and he’s starting to think Potter didn’t suggest this game for the sole purpose of answering Draco’s questions. It seems like he was growing desperate for answers as well. 

He thinks about it for a long time. He knows Potter is most likely talking about people that died, but– as much as he misses Snape and Vincent, they aren’t who he misses the most.

He misses the mother he had before all of this. The one who’d send him sweets and short notes every single day. The one who’d reply to his weekly letters in record time and always send her responses in the prettiest of envelopes.

And Merlin help him, he misses his father, too. He never thought he would—there was a time he’d have sworn he hated the man. But now —now he can’t help but hope Azkaban doesn’t destroy him. He tells himself it’s only because losing Lucius would shatter his mother beyond repair. Yet deep down, he knows that isn’t the whole truth. If Azkaban kills his father, something in Draco will break, too.

But there’s something else they’ve lost—something not dead, but gone in a way that feels final. Something no spell could ever bring back. Maybe that’s why it hurts worse than any grave. He draws in a careful breath, fighting the pressure in his chest, and finally whispers:

“I miss who we were. All of us. Before any of this happened.”

Potter stays silent, watching him. He doesn’t press for more. Draco wouldn’t answer if he did, but– still. He’s glad he doesn’t. 

He then coughs into his palm and looks away. “What about you? Who do you miss most?” 

Potter looks up at the stars. He seems sad to find them completely covered by rain clouds. Draco always feels claustrophobic when he can’t see them, too. “Sirius,” he says without hesitation. His voice doesn’t crack, but it trembles around the edges. “Don’t get me wrong—I… I miss them all. Fred, Cedric, Professor Lupin… Tonks. Hedwig, even. She was my owl. I miss the whole bloody graveyard, but... But Sirius…”

He pauses, his eyes still searching the clouds like he might find the man there.

“Sirius was different . We could’ve had a normal life, I think. If he’d made it.” He exhales a shaky breath and shakes his head, like he’s trying to chase the thought away. “I could’ve lived like everyone else. Had someone, had… a home. Something close to a father, maybe. So it’s him I miss the most” His voice drops to barely a whisper. “Isn’t that selfish?” He lets out a hollow laugh, eyes darting to Draco, and in them is something that looks like shame—but also grief, unhealed and ancient. He looks like he’s drowning in it, even now.

Draco swallows against the ache in his throat.

“It’s really not,” he says quietly. Something in Potter’s expression flinches—something tight loosens, just a little. “I think… it’s only human.”

Potter gapes at him, unable to form a sentence for a while. Draco knows the feeling too well and decides to help him, rolling his shoulders. “I don’t think it’s selfish, but you used up a question by finding that out. It’s my turn again.”

This does wonders to loosen things up a bit. Potter chuckles, because of course Draco would do something like that. “Sure, that’s fair. Ask away.”

“Have you ever used the Unforgivables?”

Potter’s hand curls slightly on the railing. “Yes,” he mutters, sighing immediately after. 

“Which one?”

“Cruciatus,” he admits, eyes darting to the floor. “On… On Carrow, and Lestrange. Imperius, also. A lot of times. I’ve never used the Killing Curse, though.”

“Did you ever—” Draco cuts himself off, suddenly growing three shades paler. “No, that– that’s a stupid question. Nevermind.”

“Did I ever want to?” Potter guesses the end of his question with a sad smile. Draco’s afraid he’s offended Potter with the question, but his face is as calm and impassive as ever. Draco swallows and nods. “Yes. Yes, I did.”

His eyes nearly fall out of his head at the admission. Draco’s shocked, but Potter seems just as surprised at his reaction. “What? Surely, you did as well?”

“No,” Draco admits solemnly, shaking his head. “I– No, never. In fact, I did everything to avoid using it.”

Potter nods at that, not as if he’s disappointed, but as if he expected it. Like it confirms something he’s always known about Draco. There’s a silence after that—not uncomfortable, just heavy. Like something between them has shifted, or been set down carefully and left in the open.

The wind picks up on the tower, sharp and biting, making Draco pull his cloak tighter around himself. Potter doesn’t seem to notice the cold—he hasn’t the entire night. He just leans forward slightly on the stone balustrade, his fingers curled over the edge, eyes trained on something far away that Draco can’t see.

Then, quietly, almost like he’s thinking aloud, he whispers. “Not even on me?”

Draco’s brows furrow impossibly lower. “What?”

Potter turns toward him with a look Draco doesn’t recognise. It’s not mocking or smug, not quite hurt, either. Just tired, worn thin. “You’ve never used an Unforgivable. I always thought… I don’t know. I thought you hated me enough to want to.”

Draco blinks at him, stunned. It feels like a rock has been dropped into the middle of his chest, right where his heart would normally reside. He opens his mouth, then closes it again. It’s baffling that Potter—of all people—might’ve walked through the world thinking he hated him that much, so much, he might want to hurt him like that, might want him dead .

“I don’t want—” he starts, but the words falter halfway up his throat. His gaze flickers to the floor. “I don’t hate —” He shakes his head, sharply, like he’s trying to dislodge something. “No. No, I’m not answering that. It’s my turn.”

His voice is brisk, clipped. Defensive. Potter watches him quietly for a long moment. He doesn’t press, doesn’t smile or smirk or tease the way Draco expects him to. He just lets the silence stretch between them, unpushed and intact. Like he’s giving Draco space—or maybe permission.

He breathes in through his nose, trying to slow the blood rushing in his ears. The question, when it comes, is far more cautious than before. “What’s the first spell you ever learned?” he asks, voice lower now. He feels like they need something simple for a moment. Something they can both carry.

It turns out to be true. Potter smiles again, even huffing a small laugh as the memory washes over him. “It was Oculus Reparo. On the train to Hogwarts, in first year. Hermione came into Ron and I’s compartment and saw my broken glasses. She fixed them up for me, but I begged her to teach me the spell too, since I break them so often. It’s still the most helpful thing I know.” 

He’s smiling so widely as he shares that memory, Draco can’t help but grin alongside him. It’s quite dark, so Potter probably doesn’t see it. He doesn’t know why that makes it so much easier to smile, but it does.

“Okay, my turn,” Potter rubs his palms together excitedly. Draco thinks he’s about to ask something far too personal again, but it’s nothing like that. Instead, Potter reaches into his pocket and pulls out their—his cigarettes, as well as his wand. He smirks at him. “Do you want to light them?” 

Draco scoffs, genuinely baffled, and raises an eyebrow. “That’s… awfully pushy, Potter. Shouldn’t you ask if I want one, first?”

“I know you do, so there’s no point,” Potter says, standing up and walking over to him, sitting down so their shoulders mingle. It’s just as much of a routine as the cigarettes are, at this point. Draco doesn’t mind it. “So. Will you do the honours?”

His wand is being offered up again a moment later. Draco stares at it and sighs, taking it from Potter’s hand. The other smiles knowingly, holding up two cigarettes. He doesn’t make the mistake of putting one in his mouth like last time, knowing Draco will refuse to cast a spell that close to his face. They go through the familiar routine of lighting their cigarettes and taking the first drags. Draco doesn’t cough this time. 

They continue playing Twenty-one Questions, asking lighter things, heavier ones. Their voices are soft, almost reverent, like they’re sharing things too fragile for daylight. Draco asks if Potter ever actually liked being famous. Potter asks whether Draco would do things differently if he could. Draco talks about how he still dreams of the Room of Requirement collapsing. Potter talks about birthdays he never celebrated, though very briefly.

Each question is another step down into something unspoken. Not quite friendship, not quite understanding, but… something. Draco slowly understands some of Potter’s past behaviours through little details he reveals. He understands why he was so reluctant to speak Parseltongue even before the Heir of Slytherin fiasco in second year, why he’s so afraid of Dementors, why he’s strangely avoidant of small, enclosed spaces. 

In the same beat, he realises just how quickly Potter warmed up to him. Despite not being able to say it out loud, Draco’s never hated him. Certainly not enough to want to use the Unforgivables on him. But Potter was under the impression that he did, and yet–...

And yet they share cigarettes and hide under warm laughter every few weeks. Draco lashes out and Potter never reprimands him for it. As if that isn’t enough kindness, he’s learned just how much Draco misses using casual magic and periodically lends him his wand, even though the Ministry would spontaneously combust if they were to ever find out about it. 

“What do you think you’ll do once you’re out of Hogwarts?” Draco asks when it’s his turn again, intending for it to be one of the lighter questions, but it stops Potter cold. The night presses in around them. Draco waits, but no answer comes.

Finally, Potter sighs, his words far too quiet. “I’m bored. That’s enough for tonight.”

Draco frowns. “What? Why? You’re stopping at question… what? Nineteen?”

Potter smiles. “I just spent an hour telling you all about how bad I am at following rules.”

Draco wants to push—he desperately wants the answer. But something about the way Harry’s jaw tightens tells him not to. He swallows the impulse. “Fine,” he says, turning to sit against the stone ledge. “But I’m counting that as a forfeit.”

Potter laughs, hitting his arm lightly. Draco acts offended. “Of course you would. Hey, I have a better idea of what we could do.”

“I… seriously doubt that, but sure. What is it?”

Draco watches as he suddenly stands up and offers him a hand. “Did you ever wonder how Ron, Hermione and I managed to sneak around the castle all these years and never get caught?” 

Every bloody day, Draco thinks, but doesn’t say it out loud. “Maybe.”

Potter’s grin stretches wider, like that’s exactly the answer he was hoping for. “Then let me show you.”

They sneak through the corridors with hurried steps and muffled laughs. Potter’s head seems to work differently when it’s nighttime; he finds everything hilarious, whether that be a snoring portrait or a broken potted plant outside the castle. It’s far harder to be diligent when you’re with Potter, Draco realises, but he strangely doesn’t mind it. 

They only stop in front of the Fat Lady. She’s dozing off in her portrait, pink satin dress flowing lightly as she breathes. Potter finds that as hilarious as everything else. He coughs into his palm to get her attention, and it does wonders; the woman immediately springs to life, an undignified trail of drool running down her chin. Or, well, chins. 

“Caput Draconis,” Potter says before the Fat Lady starts talking, trying to avoid her rambling. She yawns and is about to let them through, when her eyes land on Draco and widen.

“Oh, absolutely not!” She says at once, puffing up her chest like a threatened cat. “He’s not allowed in here! Potter, why are you telling him the password?!”

“That’s the password?” Draco says, turning to Potter. Caput Draconis? Really? “Sounds like a... poorly disguised message.”

“I’m sure it’s not like that ,” Potter laughs, shaking his head. “That was the password in first year, too. The Fat Lady just ran out of ideas and re-used it.”

She gasps, offended. “I did not run out of ideas! I re-used it because it was my favourite! And anyways, Malfoy cannot enter!”

“Come on,” Potter scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Please? He’s with me.”

“That is hardly reassuring, and you know it,” she looks at him pointedly. Draco tries—and fails—to conceal a laugh, which earns him another jab to the arm. 

Potter crosses his arms. “Do you remember how many times I’ve saved this castle? Just let him in.”

Draco cannot believe Potter just used that card. He struggles even more to grasp the fact that it worked, as the Fat Lady opens the door. She keeps telling them that it’s a one-time thing and that it’s only because he’s Harry Potter as they walk through, but both of them ignore it.

The Gryffindor common room is empty and silent, but warm. So incredibly warm.

It’s nothing like the cold elegance of the Slytherin common room. There’s nothing dark or damp or echoing in here, just the comforting crackle of fire, casting gold light across thick rugs and squashy red armchairs. The ceiling is low, the furniture slightly mismatched, and it smells faintly of cinnamon and baked goods. It feels… safe. Like a memory he’s never had, but misses all the same.

Draco stands awkwardly near the fireplace as Potter disappears up a flight of stairs, presumably towards the boys’ dormitory. The room is drenched in warm reds and golds, like someone spilled the sunset across the furniture. His green cloak feels terribly out of place here, like a drop of ink in a cup of warm tea. 

He runs a finger along the spine of a book left on the table. There are photographs in crooked frames on the walls, some magical, some not. In one of them, a very young Harry Potter smiles nervously beside his Weasel— Weasley friend, waving too fast for the camera to keep up.

Something incredibly cold suddenly touches his neck, and Draco nearly stumbles with how fast he whips around. His hand reaches down to where his wand would be on instinct, only to hover above empty air. He finds he doesn’t need it, though, as when he turns around, there’s nobody behind him. 

“Merlin’s balls,” Draco shivers, trying desperately to get the goosebumps on his back to go away. This place is as haunted as they get, it seems, as the cold sensation on his neck felt exactly like a hand did, but there is nobody there.

Or, well, that’s what he thinks, until the room explodes in laughter. Potter’s laughter.

Potter’s head suddenly appears right in front of him. It startles Draco just as much as the cold did, making him flinch roughly. Potter is still laughing, he’s laughing so hard it’s bound to wake up the entire castle. Draco reaches out for him and grabs at a translucent fabric. He pulls at it and reveals the rest of Potter’s body, that’s, thankfully, still there.

Draco stares as the fabric properly materializes in his hands. “Is this…”

“It’s an Invisibility Cloak,” Potter explains, then seems to remember something. “Oh– you already knew I had one. I forgot about that.”

“No, I–... So did I,” Draco mutters, touching the back of his neck. “Was that your hand? You’re as cold as a corpse. Use a warming charm, or something.” 

“Nah, I’m fine,” Potter smiles and shakes his head. He reaches for Draco’s hand and presses something into it. Draco quickly recognises it as his wand. Again. Before he can say anything, Potter is taking the Invisibility Cloak back and covering them both with it. Draco has a feeling about what Potter wants him to do and whispers a quiet “Lumos” . 

The tip glows gently in the dark. It lights up both Potter’s face and his own. When Draco glances down, he notices a piece of folded parchment in Potter’s hands. He’s practically trembling from excitement as he unfolds it. Draco is expecting a map, or maybe a letter, but it’s just… blank. It’s just parchment.

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t disappointed. “Please don’t tell me you’re writing a letter, or something,” he huffs, which Potter answers with a chuckle. He grabs Draco’s arm, the one he’s holding Potter’s wand in, and pulls him in closer. 

“I’m not. It’s enchanted. Point your wand at it and repeat after me: I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”

They’re suddenly pressed shoulder to shoulder, the cloak draped around them like a secret. Draco’s heart hammers from the proximity, from the heat of Potter’s arm brushing his. He swallows thickly. “It’s your wand, not mine.” 

“Shut up,” Potter waves a hand. “We can share. Do it. I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.” 

He’s still not fully convinced this isn’t a prank meant to make him look like a fool, but he complies, pressing the glowing tip of the wand to the parchment. Potter looks like he’s seconds away from exploding, so Draco sighs and repeats Potter’s words. “I… solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”

The parchment stays blank for a second. He’s about to hex Potter with his own wand for lying to him, when it finally stirs, before simply bursting to life. Draco can’t help but gasp.

Ink crawls across the surface like something alive, twisting and looping until it forms a map—a perfect, living map of Hogwarts . Each corridor is there, each secret passage, every corner and tunnel. The most shocking part, though, are the tiny, moving footsteps that roam the map, labeled with names of their peers.

“This is the Marauder’s Map,” Potter whispers carefully, fully aware Draco is far too lost in admiring it to ask any questions.

Draco’s breath catches in his throat. He scans it wildly, eyes darting from label to label: Horace Slughorn, Sybill Trelawney, Padma Patil, Dennis Creevey… so many. Instinctively, he starts looking for the names of his friends. He expects to find them all in the Slytherin common room, but– while Theo and Greg are there, Blaise and Pansy are decidedly not. He keeps looking.

He spots Blaise first. The little footsteps with his name right next to them are pacing somewhere down the third-floor corridor. Draco’s about to look for Pansy, when she finds him instead– or rather, finds Blaise, appearing just beside him. 

Draco squints. “They’re not usually out this late. What do you think they’re doing?”

“I have no idea,” Potter hums. Then, after a beat, he grins, clearly enjoying this. “Do you wanna find out?”

Draco hesitates. “That’s… a bit of an invasion of privacy, is it not?”

“Oh, it absolutely is,” Potter replies, unhelpful. “But come on, you’re absolutely dying to know, I can feel it. Besides, you’ll get to test the cloak. Practically everyone in this whole bloody school would give up their first-born child to go on an adventure with the Chosen One.”

Draco cringes. “Don’t ever call yourself that again, or I will sick up on your shoes.”

“Dutifully noted.”

He sighs. He wanted to refuse what Potter said, but– it’s true. He is dying to know. Neither Blaise nor Pansy ever stay up this late, and they definitely don’t go sneaking around the castle. What if something’s happened? Or, even worse, what if they’re out looking for him?

“…Fine,” he mutters. “But it is solely because of your horrible influence.”

Potter looks—and probably is—even more excited than Draco. Somehow, he has a feeling it’s not because he’s curious as to what Draco’s friends are doing. 

They quietly slip out of the common room, footsteps perfectly muffled under the cloak. It’s hard to match Potter’s stride, especially when his own steps are larger than his, but Draco tries, the side of their hips brushing with every step. It’s warmer under the cloak than he expected. Or maybe that’s just Potter again—like a small, glowing sun with gravitational pull. Draco keeps his eyes forward, determined not to think about it. They make it to the third floor quickly, map still in Potter’s hand. The labels grow nearer—... And then they hear it.

The sound is unmistakable. Still, he glances at Potter to make sure he heard it right. The sudden horror on Potter’s face confirms it immediately. 

Draco squints his eyes as they round the corner and freezes. Because just a few feet away from them, Blaise and Pansy are snogging. Quite enthusiastically, might he add. 

“Oh, Merlin,” Draco mutters. Pansy lets out another one of those sounds, a sound he never wants to hear from her again, and he jerks back, bumping into Potter in the process. Potter splutters a laugh that Draco quickly muffles with his palm. They’re both beet red, trying to retreat—but Draco’s boot catches on the edge of the cloak, and he stumbles.

Pansy all but freezes. “Blaise– Blaise, did you hear that?”

He pulls away from her and turns, peering into the corridor. “Hello? Is someone there?”

Draco’s heart feels like it’s about to leap out of his chest and land at his friends’ feet. That would undoubtedly ruin the moment, so he wills it not to do that. Potter gently touches his hand, which, Draco realises, is still over his mouth, signaling for him to move it. However, afraid Potter will find something to snort at again and get them caught, Draco just presses it against his lips more firmly and keeps it there. 

He can feel how hot Potter’s face is. He can also feel how close Blaise is now, walking towards them in search of who’s peeping on him and his– Merlin, is Pansy his girlfriend? When did two of his closest friends start dating, and how on Earth did Draco not notice?

Draco grips Potter’s arm and hoists him up, before tugging them both down the corridor and out of sight. When they finally stop, breathless, Draco clutches at a wall and lets out a nervous chuckle. “I did not expect that. Oh, I am going to have so much fun teasing them about this.”

Potter grins, eyes bright. “You’re not going to tell them it was us, are you?”

Draco smirks. “Absolutely not.”

For the first time in what feels like months, maybe years, they both laugh. Together. They laugh properly and freely, the kind of laughter that bubbles up from somewhere deep and forgotten. It echoes through the dark corridors, warm beneath their silver veil of magic.

Just for a moment, there is no war, no curse. No weight on their shoulders. It really is just them, under the cloak, lost in a world too big and too strange, closer than they’ve ever been. Potter tells him all about the Marauder’s Map as he walks Draco back to the dungeon, shows him how to close it, and wishes him goodnight with a smile. 

And when Eltanin returns with no letter the following morning, Draco finds himself coming back to last night. He feeds his owl treats, glances at the Gryffindor table, at Potter, and realises the absence no longer feels like the end of the world.

Chapter Text

It’s raining again. The kind of soft, gentle rain that reminds him of summer more than it does of autumn. It fogs the castle windows and makes the corridors smell vaguely of wet stone and parchment. In other words, it’s amazing, and Draco relishes in the atmosphere it creates.

He sits at the back of the Transfiguration classroom, alone. He’d usually sit with Pansy, but she woke up with the worst headache she’s ever had, as she explained it, and was currently waiting for Madame Pomfrey’s potion to kick in in the Hospital Wing. 

Blaise, who’s sitting two rows ahead, looks absolutely devastated by this. Draco still hasn’t had the chance—and the joy—of teasing him about Pansy, and this was as good of an opportunity to do so as they get. He stares outside the foggy windows like he’s writing poetry in his head. It’s both disgusting and strangely sweet. 

He watches as the rest of the students trickle in. The classroom is almost full, but McGonagall is nowhere to be seen. She’s never late to class, which means she’s probably having a word with someone outside. 

Theo and Greg are sitting near the front on the other side of the class, talking amongst themselves in hushed voices. It’s likely gossip, and if the way they keep glancing at Blaise and snickering is any clue, Draco has a good idea who that gossip is about. 

Granger and the Wease— Weasley , (Merlin, that is so hard to get used to), are also near the front, leaning against each other and holding hands under the table, thinking nobody can see them. This, unlike Blaise’s obvious yearning, is not sweet. In fact, it has Draco’s lip quirking up in disgust. 

Draco's mind isn't in the room. It's back in the corridor under that damn cloak, with Potter's shoulder brushing his and the sound of laughter still echoing in his chest like it doesn't know how to fade. Last night was… well, he hates using the word, but there’s no going around it. It was perfect. 

He feels bad about it, but he lied to his mother when he said he no longer had trouble sleeping. In fact, that trouble, which was the worst case of insomnia he’s ever had or even heard about, was getting worse with each passing night. But after sneaking back into his room last night, Draco was able to properly fall asleep for the first time in weeks. He didn’t use any charms, potions or draughts, and he didn’t even have any horrible dreams. 

He slept so well, in fact, that he snored all the way through breakfast. Blaise came looking for him two minutes before Transfiguration, and if McGonagall wasn’t being unusual by being late, they’d have earned themselves a nasty detention for it. 

The door creaks open. Just like that, he’s back in the present. 

Potter walks in, and Draco’s stomach does something it absolutely shouldn’t be doing.

He’s soaked. From the tips of his hair to the ends of his toes, he’s covered in the serene rain. His fringe is stuck to his forehead and his glasses are so foggy Draco’s sure he can barely see—if at all. Potter looks around the room and unceremoniously chooses the seat beside Draco like there aren’t six others available.

“I—You’re dripping,” Draco blurts, watching Potter shake his head like a wet dog. Little droplets land on his books and parchment, but he finds himself void of any anger. 

“Hello to you too,” Potter hums, actually wringing water out of his hair with his hands. Draco is baffled, while Potter grins like he’s proud of himself, muttering, “I didn’t wanna be late.”

As if on cue, McGonagall enters the classroom, her robes billowing behind her. She places Draco’s wand on his desk without a word as she walks by. He’s silently grateful she doesn’t make him march up to the front of the classroom and make a fool of himself by asking for it in front of everybody. 

She doesn’t acknowledge them beyond a curt nod before she swings her hand towards the chalkboard. Words appear on it moments later: Object–to–Animal Transfiguration: Revision and Practical Application. 

Draco exhales, already exhausted despite his quill never even touching the parchment. Theo whispers something into Greg’s ear, and Draco can probably guess what it is; he’s likely complaining about how unethical it is to turn cups into hedgehogs. 

Potter lightly bumps his shoulder. “You seem thrilled.”

He smiles in response, because he is. It’s just not because of the horrifically boring lesson. But Potter doesn’t need to know that.

“I’ll have you know I adore watching people butcher complex magic,” Draco mutters, his quill lazily sketching little spirals in the margin of his parchment. “It’s practically performance art.”

Potter chuckles under his breath, leaning closer. His eyes scan the room and land on a desk somewhere further away. “You mean like the Ravenclaw who just turned her quill into a ferret? Look.”

Draco lifts his eyes, tracking the little creature darting across the floor. It squeaks once before diving under a desk, while the girl desperately tries to aim her wand at it and fails. “Oh, brilliant,” he says dryly. “She’s summoned my father.”

Potter snorts, a bit too loudly. McGonagall glances up sharply from her desk. Potter ducks his head, clearly trying not to lose it. His face is turning a brilliant shade of red from the effort. 

“I hope you’re prepared to suffer for that joke,” he mutters once he’s recovered from the laughing fit, nudging Draco’s elbow.

“I suffer for all my best material, don’t you know?” Draco replies coolly, smirking.

“You’re absolutely insufferable,” Potter whispers with a fond smile on his face, his head resting on his palm.

“And yet,” Draco says, tilting his head toward him, “you still chose this seat.”

“Life is best lived dangerously.”

Draco lets out a quiet laugh—too quiet to be called real, yet too real to be dismissed. The kind of laugh he wouldn’t have been able to muster up just a few days ago. He quickly tries to smother it with his hand, only for Potter to press the back of his quill to the edge of his jaw in mock offense.

“Pay attention, Mister Malfoy,” Potter hisses in a posh whisper, “you know there will be a quiz.”

Draco bats the quill away with the side of his hand. He’s still snickering. “Keep poking me with that and I’ll– I’ll transfigure it into something… unspeakable.”

“So… The Ravenclaw’s quill, or your moral compass?”

He’s back to trying to snuff out his laughter in his palm, head resting on the table. When he lifts it and opens his mouth to say something that will undoubtedly get him hexed by Potter, McGonagall’s voice cuts through the room like the laceration curse that nearly killed him in sixth year. 

“Mr. Malfoy, Potter! If you two are quite done…” She says, voice crisp and sharp. The entire classroom stills and heads turn towards them, making Potter shrink back into his seat ever so slightly. Draco’s friends look back as well, confused, but their faces quickly shift into appalled when they see who is sitting next to him. “I am… thrilled you’ve managed to put your differences behind you—truly, it warms my heart. But may I remind you that this is an incredibly inappropriate setting in which to demonstrate that!”

There’s a beat of silence. Draco hears Potter’s breath hitch beside him. He turns, sees the grin Potter is clearly trying to bite back, and it breaks something in him. He looks away, but not fast enough to keep it in. His shoulders start shaking with stifled laughter. They must look disgraceful. 

“We’re so incredibly inappropriate,” Draco echoes under his breath, eyes wide with mock scandal. He’s fully aware his face is beet red. Potter’s practically trembling, head bowed over his desk.

“Eyes forward, all of you,” McGonagall says, growing increasingly irritated with their behavior. “Try not to humiliate yourselves with your transformations. I will not hesitate to take away house points for bumbling about in class if you do.”

They nod in understanding—or at least pretend to. Even as they fall into silence, they’re still stifling snickers, doing a horrible job of not smiling, and Draco thinks, strangely, that this is one of the better mornings he’s had in a very long time.

He realises Potter is shivering, as he’s still drenched in rain, and casts a warming charm his way with one swift motion. This obviously surprises him, but he relaxes a moment after. Both of them can’t stop smiling like idiots.

Draco doesn’t even care when his hedgehog ends up with antlers.

By the time lunch rolls around, he’s already decided it’s going to be the highlight of his day. He strides into the Great Hall like he owns the place, chin held up high, the corners of his mouth curled into the beginnings of a smirk. Pansy’s headache went away sometime in the middle of second period, which means she is with them once more, and he can finally tease them about last night.

Just as he thought—Blaise and Pansy are already seated at the far end of the Slytherin table, leaning into each other just a bit more than they usually do, deep in quiet conversation. It’s a golden opportunity, and Draco almost laughs out loud. After last night’s accidental discovery, he’s been biding his time, waiting for just the right moment to make them squirm. Merlin knows he deserves a bit of payback for all the times they’ve poked into his business.

Unfortunately, his plan derails the moment he slides into his usual spot beside Gregory on the bench. All of them—Blaise, Pansy, Greg, even Theo, turn to stare at him like he’s wearing his robes backwards. No, their eyes are so wide Draco thinks he must not be wearing anything at all.

They thankfully recover a moment later, though what comes next turns out to be far worse than the staring. Pansy is the first to speak, unforgiving. “So,” she says, drawing the word out like she’s about to uncork a vial of scandal, “you and Potter, hm?”

Draco blinks. A record scratch sounds in his head. “What?”

“I told her how you two were practically joined at the hip in Transfiguration,” Blaise adds, reaching for a slice of bread like this is just a casual lunchtime chat. “You haven’t looked that happy in a class since Hagrid got food poisoning and cancelled Care of Magical Creatures for a week.”

Greg leans in, eyes wide. “Are you—like, friends now?”

“I wouldn’t say we’re friends ,” Draco mutters quickly. Then, even more quickly, he adds, “Not that we’re not friends. I mean– I don’t know. We’ve just been… spending time together. Sometimes.”

There’s a pause. They’re staring at him again, and Blaise freezes mid-chew like Draco just admitted to murdering a man, or something. He’s growing increasingly uncomfortable, but that doesn’t seem to deter them from what they’re doing.

“ Spending time together ,” Pansy echoes, brow arched so high it might detach from her face entirely. “Draco, if my hunch is correct, and it always is, you’ve spent more time with him this past month than you did with us .”

“I have not! ”  he protests, indignant. “I–I sat next to him once! Because you were ill!”

“ That’s why you didn’t come back to the common room yesterday! I bet you were with Potter!” Pansy bangs her fist on the table before pointing an accusing finger at him. She isn’t upset, though, if the smirk on her face is anything to go by. In fact, she looks weirdly proud of herself. “Wow, this is a whole thing now!”

Draco can feel the heat building behind his ears like a curse backfiring. “You’re all mental ,” he mutters, stabbing a bit of potato like it’s personally wronged him. “It’s not– it’s not a thing. He’s just tolerable, now. Less of a prat than he used to be. We talk sometimes. That’s it!”

Greg grins. “I think it’s nice. You’ve smiled more this week than you did the whole of last year. And the year before that. And before. And—”

“I smile plenty ,” Draco huffs, but no one’s listening. They’re all too busy smirking at him.

It’s ridiculous, really. Draco’s blushing furiously, like he’s a girl that’s been caught doodling Potter’s name in the margins of her textbook in third year. In a last-ditch effort to steer the conversation away from himself, he turns to Blaise and Pansy, gaze narrowing. “What about you two, then? When I got back to the dorm, you weren’t there, Blaise. I heard you come back with Pansy hours later.”

Pansy stiffens. Blaise chokes slightly on his pumpkin juice, quickly wiping his chin to preserve what little remains of his dignity. “Wh–what are you implying?”

“Oh, nothing,” Draco shrugs, smirking. His plan is working perfectly. “You two have just been awfully cozy as of late.” 

“What?” Greg perks up immediately, linking his fingers together. “Cozy how ?”

“I just mean,” Draco says, tone far too innocent to be… innocent. “You always seem to be whispering. Sneaking off together, getting back late from patrol… or other things. Very interesting.”

Pansy recovers faster than Blaise. He can see how red the tips of her ears are. It takes everything in him not to laugh. “It’s called prefect duty, Draco,” she spits, defensive. “You’d know that if you hadn’t thrown away your badge.”

“You did get in quite late yesterday, Pansy,” Daphne Greengrass leans in and cuts into their conversation, raising an eyebrow. Blaise coughs again, and Draco sits back with a victorious, self-satisfied smile, cheeks no longer the most flushed at the table.  

They’re still squabbling by the time the bell rings for afternoon classes, so he and Theo decide to excuse themselves earlier. Draco gets up, slings his bag over his shoulder, and feels the slow slide of his better mood return despite the small slip-up. 

By the time they step into the Charms classroom, the usual dullness of academic routine has begun to settle back in. Desks are filling up, students shrugging off bags and stretching as Professor Flitwick adjusts his notes at the front. Theo slips into his usual seat near the back and looks at Draco expectantly. However, right as he’s about to sit down, his eyes wander to the front of the classroom and land on Potter– or, rather, the empty seat beside him. 

He swallows the lump in his throat and looks back at Theo, who, despite noticing his turmoil, has no idea what it’s about. “I’m going to do something, and I don’t want to hear a word about it. Deal?”

Theo frowns at him suspiciously. “It depends. What are you gonna—”

“Deal?”  Draco repeats more urgently. This doesn’t seem to reassure Theo at all, but he nods nevertheless. Draco has a strange gut feeling telling him the deal isn’t going to last, but– oh, screw it. He will deal with that when the time comes. 

He drops his bag besides Potter’s like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Potter glances up at him in response, face slack and far less surprised than Draco thought it would be. 

“Hi,” Draco breathes out, staring at him. “Is this seat taken?”

Potter grins. “Well, it is now.”

“Right. Good. I’m going to… get my wand.” 

As he turns to head for Flitwick’s desk, Potter grabs the end of his sleeve and pulls him back. Draco stumbles and falls into the seat with an undignified noise, turning his head towards Potter sharply. “What—” He cuts himself off when he sees the wand in Potter’s hand. His wand. 

“I thought I’d save you the trouble,” he explains, handing it over. Draco feels a bit stunned. Did Potter… expect him to sit here? Did he want him to? Unfortunately, Flitwick begins his lesson before Draco can ask.

Charms was never particularly thrilling, but it was certainly more tolerable today—especially since Draco didn’t have to spend it listening to Seamus Finnigan’s nasal voice from the row behind him. Instead, Potter sits beside him, scribbling something into the margins of his textbook with the tip of his quill while chewing his lip in concentration like the fate of the world depended on correctly identifying the wand movement for Aqua Eructo. 

He watches him silently for a long time before leaning over. “You’ll pull a muscle if you squint any harder, Potter.”

Potter rolls his eyes. “I’m trying to concentrate.”

“No, you’re scowling. There’s a difference.”

He turns just enough to nudge his shoulder. “Some of us don’t instinctively remember every spell from fourth year, Malfoy. ”

“Well, maybe if you hadn’t spent all of fourth year getting chased by dragons and mer-people, you’d have learned something.”

Potter barks a soft laugh, catching the attention of three Ravenclaws nearby. “Oh, that’s rich coming from you.”

Draco is about to retort when Professor Flitwick’s voice rises over the low hum of the classroom. “Mr. Potter, Mr. Malfoy... As fascinating as your conversation must be, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t share it with the entire class. Am I understood?"

The room immediately falls into a series of muffled chuckles and curious stares. Draco straightens, cheeks warming as he focuses intensely on the open textbook in front of him. Potter scratches the back of his neck, murmurs a sheepish “Sorry, Professor,” and slouches slightly lower in his seat.

After a moment of silence, Draco feels a gentle nudge against his arm again. Potter slides a folded scrap of parchment onto his side of the desk without looking at him, back to scowling at his quill.

Draco unfolds the parchment. On it, Potter’s messy scrawl reads: 

I think we’re officially the class clowns. Congratulations.

He fights the twitch in his lips and dips his quill in ink, scribbling a reply in much neater handwriting.

Better than the class heroes, I suppose. I’m allergic to public praise.
Also, don’t act like you’re innocent. This only happens when I’m sitting next to you.

You could’ve fooled me. You always looked smug when people would clap for you.

Draco rolls his eyes but can’t help the smile pulling at his lips.

I was smug. Though it was mostly because you looked like you wanted to hex me every time people did. 

Only because you deserved it.
Usually.

You’re not wrong.

They continue like that through most of the lecture, silent, but not. The room is full of voices, but theirs no longer joins them. They simply pass notes like secrets folded between fingers. They joke about classmates (Draco has particularly scathing commentary about Ernie Macmillan’s wand posture), lightly make fun of the overly serious Hufflepuff duo in the front row, and when Flitwick begins explaining the finer points of charm anchoring, Potter quietly doodles a stick figure falling off a broom and labels it “Malfoy, 1999.”

Draco casts a wordless stinging jinx at Potter’s thigh and conceals his laughter with a cough when the other yells out in pain. Around halfway through the lesson, Draco’s quill hovers above their note-filled parchment a few minutes longer than usual. Once he finally writes out the message, he hesitates before passing it over, suddenly feeling like he was writing another letter to his mother. 

Potter blinks when he reads it, then looks sideways at Draco with a raised brow. The note simply reads:

Meet me outside the Slytherin dungeon tonight. Consider bringing that cloak of yours. 

Draco, not meeting his eyes, slides him a second slip of paper.

You did reveal your secret last night. I figured I owe you one of my own. 

Potter’s grin is a bit softer this time, and far more genuine. He doesn't write anything back, just nods fiercely and goes back to scribbling down notes. They barely finish any work this entire class, but somehow, even surrounded by thirty-something other students and the sharp eyes of Professor Flitwick, it feels like they were the only two people in the room.

The Slytherin dormitory is quieter than usual. That dense, underwater silence unique to rooms sunk beneath the Black Lake hums faintly in Draco’s ears, broken only by the occasional creak of stone or the gentle whoosh of water moving past the high windows. Shadows from the lake ripple softly across the ceiling, casting dark green and navy warps across the room like light filtered through smoke.

Draco moves slowly, carefully, trying not to make a sound as he tugs on his boot. The laces slip through his fingers once, making him curse under his breath and try again. He still has the note from Potter neatly tucked in the back pocket of his pants, even though he doesn’t really need it anymore. His fingers are trembling slightly, though whether it’s from anticipation or the late hour, he has no idea.

He debates for far longer than usual about whether to put on his scarf. It’s not that cold and they’re not even going outside. He opts for a turtleneck instead and turns towards the door. Behind him, a raspy voice whispers into the dark, dry and tired. “Don’t forget your other shoe.”

Draco freezes for a moment before slowly turning around. Theo is laying in bed with one arm under the pillow, eyes barely open, but unmistakably watching him. He feels like he’s been caught sneaking sweets past his bedtime at seven years old. 

For reasons he can’t fully grasp, Draco scrambles for an excuse. That whole conversation during lunch was more uncomfortable than he’d like to admit. Flitwick pointing out their conversation during Charms added fuel to the fire and Draco ended up leaving halfway through supper to avoid another one of those conversations. He’s willing to do anything to avoid them—including no more talking about Potter. Ever. 

“I just– I need air,” he explains, trying to sound leveled. “I couldn’t sleep.”

Theo yawns and grasps his wand, levitating a glass of water towards himself. “You could before, though,” he mutters, before downing the drink.

“Well, I can’t now.”

There’s a long pause, full of the kind of silence that doesn’t demand filling, but Draco fidgets anyway. His fingers toy with the hem of his sleeve. Theo shifts slightly, just enough to raise an eyebrow. “You know we don’t actually mind, right?”

Draco blinks. “What?”

“You and Potter,” Theo clarifies with the same ease he might’ve used to mention the weather. “Hexing first-years, catching glumbumbles… Whatever it is you’re doing. It’s weird , yeah, but… you seem happy. And that’s rare nowadays.”

He opens and closes his mouth uselessly. Theo is obviously having a lot of fun treading the line between reassuring and teasing him. He probably means well, but it still makes Draco’s eyebrow twitch. 

“We’re just talking. I mean that,” he says, voice stoic, but just below a whisper now. “I hate it when you suggest it’s– well. Anything other than that.”

“Exactly,” Theo says with a small shrug. “You’re talking, not running off to snog in a forbidden corridor. That’s what you said earlier, isn’t it?”

Draco’s ears burned. “I—Wait, you know about Pansy and Blaise too?”

He laughs in response. “Blaise is just as awful at sneaking out as you are. As is Pansy, apparently. But– listen, if it bothers you that much, tell the others. I’ll stop, too. You don’t make it easy though, Casanova.”

“Nott, I swear to—”

“Right, right!” He raises his hands up in mock defense before rolling over. “Be back before three, though. It’ll be awkward if you run into Blaise.”

Draco stares at Theo’s back for a moment and doesn’t reply. He grabs his other shoe and bolts out the door before he can come up with another annoyingly clever nickname.

The air outside the common room feels thinner. Not cold, more like it's holding its breath and waiting alongside him. Draco paces near the entrance, half-glancing at the shadows along the corridor as he walks. He could still feel Theo’s words clinging to him, itching under his skin.

Happy . Is that what he looks like? Just a couple of months ago he wouldn’t be able to remember the last time he had felt that, not in a way that wasn’t borrowed or fabricated. Right now, though, his thoughts instantly wander back to last night. Maybe Theo isn’t wrong.

He leans against the wall, running a hand through his hair, heart thudding faintly in his chest. Snape might no longer be around to give him detention, but Slughorn can be terrifying in his own way. There’s no sign of Potter yet, just the flicker of a torch down the corridor and the muffled stillness of the hour.

Draco turns to check the other direction and nearly jumps out of his skin when something invisible grabs his wrist. He lets out a sharp, undignified noise that might be a shriek, but he will die before he calls it that. Potter’s head appears out of thin air, his hair disheveled and his face smug, the Invisibility Cloak falling off his shoulders like a silk curtain.

“Merlin’s bloody teeth , Potter, I swear to—!”

Potter laughs, way too pleased with himself. Draco starts walking away, but Potter quickly catches up and walks beside him. “I was just trying to tap your shoulder, not yank you into the abyss, I swear. I didn’t expect you to leap out of your skin like a little girl.”

“You are such a prat,” Draco hisses, one hand on his chest, trying to steady his pulse. “The moment I get my wand back, I am hexing you into the next day.” He gives him a glare that doesn’t quite land, mostly because Potter is still laughing, and Draco finds himself smiling as well, against his better judgment. 

“So, what are you going to show me?” Potter says once he stops laughing, though there’s a persistent smile on his face. 

Draco doesn’t answer yet. Instead, he glances around the corridor they’re passing through, one of the less-travelled stretches of the second floor, where the dust has settled undisturbed on centuries-old stone, and the torches flicker as if reluctant to stay lit. He’s only been here once since the war. Potter was growing impatient beside him.

“Just wait,”  he murmurs, keeping his voice low. “You’ll see.”

In silence, he leads Potter to the familiar stretch of stone across from the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. It looks just like any other wall, but Draco stops, facing the tapestry. Potter raises an eyebrow. “Oh. I think I get it now.”

Draco doesn’t respond. He closes his eyes and walks, pacing three times in front of the wall, letting the same thought loop steadily in his head:

Show me the place where Dumbledore hid everything. The place where I fixed it. The place where I was meant to do the worst.

When he opens his eyes, the wall is gone. In its place is a towering door, ancient and dark, as if it’s always been there and Hogwarts simply forgot to show it. In a way, that’s exactly what happened. He hears Potter exhale beside him as he pushes the door open.

Inside, the Room of Requirement has returned to the shape Draco remembers all too well. It’s a cavernous, cathedral-like junkyard of lost and hidden things. Columns of forgotten magic stretch up into shadows. Dusty bookshelves lean at odd angles, filled with oddities and timeworn spellbooks. Cursed jewelry glints in cracked glass cabinets. Damaged paintings, broken trunks, cages of long-dead creatures line the cobblestone walls.

A ghost of Fiendfyre seems to linger in the scent. The light touches twisted metal like it still remembers going up in flames. Draco, despite feeling his heart speed up, steps inside.

Potter follows more slowly. His hand brushes the edge of a fallen armoire as they pass, his brows drawn low. “I thought this room was destroyed,” Potter says quietly, gaze sweeping across the wreckage. “With the fire. With–... with Crabbe.”

“Yeah, I thought so too,” Draco sighs, stopping once he was in the middle of the room. “But then the Auror in charge of my father’s case sent me a Howler during the second week of school. I had no idea where to open it without everyone hearing, and the door just… appeared. I suppose this place doesn’t work like other rooms. It… changes, heals, reshapes. Hides.”

He moves forward, weaving between the clutter, then stops in front of a familiar wardrobe. The Vanishing Cabinet, miraculously intact. Its dark wood is a little more cracked, and it looks a bit worse than it did when Draco first discovered it, but it stands tall, almost regal, like it doesn’t know the ruin it’s caused.

Potter moves to stand next to him, glancing at the mess. “Is that…”

Draco nods. “It’s the one I fixed. The one I–... used.”

Potter steps closer, staring at it. His fingers hover over the surface, like he isn’t sure if touching it will break it further. Dust and soot gather at his fingertips. The crescent shaped metal bearings are black rather than silver now, and one of the handles has melted off. Potter moves to use the other one, but Draco stops him.

“Don’t– don’t risk it,” he mutters. “I’m pretty sure its sister was destroyed, meaning there’s no portal anymore, but… You know. Just in case.”

Potter considers his words for a minute before swallowing thickly and nodding. Draco says nothing. The air is thick with the weight of it—everything this cabinet means. Everything it led to. He braces himself for judgment, for anger, for Potter to look at him differently now that he’s seen this, now that he knows exactly how Draco caused Dumbledore’s death, but instead—

“I don’t know much about Vanishing Cabinets,” Potter admits, back to tracing the wood. His hands don’t hover close to the handle again. “But… Hermione told me some things. I’m pretty sure they’re really difficult to repair, and you… you did . That’s seriously impressive.” He pauses for a moment, then says quickly, “I mean—not what you did with it, obviously. But that… you managed to fix it.”

Draco blinks. Potter surprises him more with each passing day. Or, well, night. “You’re not… horrified?”

“Oh, I absolutely am,” Potter says, but he’s smiling again, wide and crooked. “Just not at your magical ability.”

That draws a muffled laugh from Draco, light and unexpected. “That’s possibly the strangest compliment I’ve ever received.”

“Yeah, well, strange tends to follow you around,” Potter says. It really, really does, Draco thinks, because when he moves to peer at a different part of the wreckage, Potter follows him.

Even in silence, there’s a humming in the walls, faint magic laced into the rubble and rot, half-destroyed objects whispering faintly under centuries of dust. The air is thick with it, like old parchment soaked in forgotten spells and candle smoke.

Draco walks slowly, his fingers trailing along a crooked shelf, bumping over the edges of half-melted candlesticks and shriveled pouches of something unnameable. Ash clings to everything; it coats the surface of a cracked phonograph that lets out a haunted wheeze as he passes. Beneath it, a velvet bag spills a cluster of silver sickles, charred around the edges, blackened like they'd been through a fire but survived—because miraculously, they have.

He glances toward a half-open cabinet. The door creaks when he pulls it open, revealing a velvet-lined box with a delicate silver clasp. Inside, resting like it’s waiting for someone, is a locket. It’s heavy in his palm, heavier than it should be. Not magical anymore, but familiar nonetheless. Draco’s frown deepens as he inspects it. The hinges are scorched, the chain broken, yet the script on its surface is unmistakable, an S shaped from charred emerald-green gems .

“Okay, that —” Potter has a haunted look on his face, “should definitely not be here.”

“This isn’t the real one,” Draco says quickly, thumbing the clasp. “It must be a replica. Huh, a pretty well made one, at that.”

Potter steps closer, brows furrowed. Draco lets him hold it. “It is. Why didn’t Dumbledore just… throw this away?” He shivers and gives it back to Draco. “This room’s like a graveyard for half-formed ideas and second chances. I don’t know if I like that.”

Draco closes the locket and slips it back into the box with something approaching reverence. “Me neither. But, hey– we don’t like it, but we certainly fit in well. Even ghosts have to live somewhere, I suppose.”

Potter brushes cobwebs off a broken bookshelf and he peers down a crooked aisle of forgotten artefacts, before nudging a cracked globe with the tip of his shoe. “You sure you didn’t just drag me here to get crushed by weird heirlooms?”

Draco snorts. “Tempting, but no.”

“You know, while we’re at it,” Potter’s voice trails off. He digs around his pockets for something and pulls out the small paper box Draco’s grown used to already. “For the ambiance.”

Draco raises a brow, watching him pull out his wand. “In here? You do realise this place is practically made of wood, right? Half of it’s still charred from the Fiendfyre. Lighting anything seems like an impressively stupid idea, even for you.”

“Exactly why I would do it,” Potter says, grinning. “Besides, like you said… it survived a Fiendfyre. I think it can handle a cigarette. Or two.”

Draco gives him a dry look. “That’s not how fireproofing works.”

Potter shrugs, already conjuring a soft spark at the end of his wand. This is the first time he’s the one to light their cigarettes, carrying one over to Draco. “Room of Requirement. If it didn’t want us to start fires, it’d stop us.”

For a moment, neither of them speaks. The silence isn’t uncomfortable—just thick with memory. Draco runs his hand along a chipped bust of a wizard with no nose, when something glints in the distance, an unmistakable sparkle, out of place amid the chaos. He squints and sees an ornate mirror, tall and narrow, tucked behind a tangle of overturned desks and copper cauldrons.

“What’s that?” he asks, nodding toward it.

Potter follows his gaze. Draco sees the exact moment his eyes fall on the mirror. He freezes immediately, face shifting from curiosity to wariness. It’s subtle, but it’s definitely there. He doesn’t move for a moment, then says, almost cautiously, “That’s… That’s the Mirror of Erised.”

Draco looks at him blankly. The name doesn’t ring a bell at all. “The mirror of…?”

“Erised,” Potter repeats patiently. His voice sounds somber as he steps forward and gently moves aside a broken desk. “It shows you what you want most. Not like... a wish—deeper than that. Your heart’s truest desire.”

Draco narrows his eyes. “That sounds… wildly dangerous.”

“It is,” Potter admits. “ It used to be in an empty classroom on the first floor. I found it during our first year, but Dumbledore hid it and told me to never look for it. I guess I don’t have to.”

“You– you’ve already seen it?” Draco asks, eyes widening, curious, despite himself.

Potter hesitates, eyes growing distant as he looks back at him. “Yeah. I saw my parents.”

The words are quiet and flat, but Draco hears them like a thunderclap in the quiet hush of the room. There's something brittle in Potter's voice—like it might crack if he says anything more. His shoulders are drawn in, tense beneath his sweater, and there's a pinched look around his mouth that Draco seriously doesn't like. 

Draco watches as Potter turns his head and faces the mirror. His breath hitches as he shifts a bit, leaning in. The golden glow of the mirror licks against his features, sharpening the shadows under his eyes, catching on his lashes. He stares, unmoving, until he blinks, hard, like he’s trying to shake something loose.

“What about now?” Draco asks quietly. It feels like an intrusion. “Do you… still see them?”

There’s a pathetic attempt at a smile on Potter’s face as his eyes dart around the mirror’s reflection. Draco can’t see the glass from where he’s standing. “Yeah,” he says after a beat, voice rougher. “They’re here. There’s a lot more people now, though.” He huffs out a sound that might’ve been a laugh, if it weren’t so hollow. Draco’s throat closes up. “It’s starting to get crowded. They can barely fit in anymore.”

Potter doesn’t look away. His expression slackens, eyes going glassy, mouth parting slightly. He takes a step closer.

Draco watches him, steadily growing uneasy. There's something about the way his gaze clings to the mirror that unnerves him. His posture is as still as the marble around them. It’s starting to feel like if he stares long enough, he might fall into it. It’s not healthy . Draco knows how easy it is to sink into memory, how seductive it can be, especially when the present feels like nothing but rubble.

“Potter,” he tries, but gets no reply.

He waits, trying to be patient, but Potter looks completely out of it. He isn’t even blinking. Draco strides forward and plants a firm hand on Potter’s arm, pulling him back. “That’s enough,” he says, voice sharp in the way it only gets when he’s deeply uncomfortable and trying to cover it up. “You should– you should look at something else.”

Potter blinks like he’s resurfaced from underwater when the reflection is out of sight again. “What– No, I was just—”

“I know what you were doing. But– if your deepest desire is… is that ,” he pauses, making sure Potter is listening. His eyes still look glassy, though present. “Then there’s no point in staring at it. You cannot achieve it.”

Draco doesn’t let go until Potter’s taken a full step away. Potter gives him a long look, then sighs, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. When he lowers them again, his expression is clearer, more present. He nods once.

He lingers beside Potter in silence for a few moments, eyes flicking back to the mirror even though he knows he shouldn’t. It’s almost magnetic; the gilded frame and its haunting depth, like it’s inviting him to look, to know . He thinks about what it might show him. His first instinct is obviously his parents. His mother, safe, smiling and loving, his father, not where he is right now. But something in him hesitates, and that hesitation roots itself like a pit in his stomach.

Potter catches the look on his face. “You’re… curious,” he says softly, almost amused. When Draco doesn’t respond, he lightly bumps his arm. “Go on, then, have a look. I’ll pull you out if you get lost, I promise.”

Draco rolls his eyes, but it doesn’t have any bite. He hesitates a moment longer, then steps forward. The surface is a little fogged, scratched in places and aged, but it clears as he approaches. He squares his shoulders, exhales slowly through his nose, and hesitantly looks into it.

The reflection that stares back at him is… disappointing, to say the least. Draco expected to either confirm or learn something about himself, learn his deepest, darkest desires, but– the mirror is showing him only that– a mirror, displaying nothing but Draco’s nervous frown and the curious glint in Potter’s eyes. 

So he waits. Surely, the thing isn’t broken– It worked perfectly fine for Potter just a minute ago. He expects the halls of the Manor to materialize before his eyes any moment, hopes to see his mother cradle his face like she did when he was small, but nothing happens. The reflection doesn’t shift at all. 

Draco scoffs and turns his head towards Potter to complain, only to cut himself off before he says the first word. Because unlike the Mirror of Erised had him believe, Potter is no longer beside him. He’s all the way across the room, watching him with mild interest. 

Oh.

Oh.

His mouth goes dry. He quickly whips his head back towards the mirror. In the reflection, Potter is next to him again, closer. He’s laughing about something Draco cannot hear, and he sees his own reflection smile. There are no graying hairs on his head, no bruises under Potter’s eyes. Their arms are interlinked and they’re holding each other’s wands with their free hands. Potter looks at him like he’s the most precious thing in the world, standing up on his tippy toes, leaning in, and—

Draco stumbles back from the mirror as if it burns him. Heat crawls up his neck, all the way to his ears, and his hip knocks into the desk Potter had moved out of the way when he turns. This makes Potter’s curiosity double in size, which only makes things worse. “Right,”  he says, briskly marching to the other side of the room, where the light doesn’t hit as strongly and his face might cool. “It was—uh. Not that interesting.”

“Are you kidding me?” Potter scoffs suspiciously. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Did you see a ghost? What was it?”

He wants to complain to– whoever made that blasted mirror about it malfunctioning, but… Draco makes the mistake of looking at him, and he’s still smiling—gentle, interested, kind . It makes his lungs feel too tight. Oh, Merlin . It better be malfunctioning. 

He clears his throat. “Me,” he says. “I saw myself in Auror robes.”

Potter’s brow lifts higher. “That’s… it?”

“I’m very ambitious, Potter.” Draco shrugs, feigning indifference. He attempts to lean on the nearest closet with one arm, but the door cracks beneath his palm, making him stumble again. Usually, he’d be more mortified by this display of clumsiness, but there are bigger issues at hand. 

He wants to blow up the mirror and Obliviate himself. No, he should probably destroy the mirror and Obliviate Potter, first. That way there’s absolutely no way of anyone ever finding out what he saw just now.

Unlike himself, Potter is less affected by the vision. He’s already moved on from it, listening to Draco’s advice and exploring the other artifacts. He’s obviously not as interested in them as he was in the mirror, but he doesn’t look at it again.

His disinterest dissipates when he pauses in front of a stack of splintered crates. He glances back at Draco and ushers him closer before wiping away some of the dust that covers them. Some of the smaller crates still bear faint stenciling in the old and faded Ministry font. Most of it is unreadable, scuffed away by time and neglect, but there—barely visible under a smear of soot—is the word confiscated.

Curious, Potter nudges one open with the tip of his wand. Inside, nestled in a pile of dust-drenched cloth, is a pair of beautiful silver bangles.

They’re astonishing up close; slim bands of pale, enchanted silver, almost moonlight-like in sheen. Set into the metal are glittering green gems of varying shades, ranging from deep emerald to near translucent peridot. The arrangement is chaotic, but it all seems intentional, like stars scattered by a deliberate holy hand. Etched between the stones, as if hiding in plain sight, are the tiny shapes of frogs. They’re detailed down to the front webbing of their feet and the curve of their tiny eyes, frozen mid-leap around the band.

“They’re… beautiful,” Potter admits, eyebrows lifting.

Draco takes one with two fingers, holding it to the faint light. “Too beautiful. I wonder why they were confiscated. Maybe someone tried to smuggle them out of Gringotts? Or maybe,” he says with a glint of mischief, “someone at the Ministry just found them too pretty to be legal.”

Potter snorts. “Yeah, right. A fashion crime.”

“The worst kind, don’t you think?”

Potter leans in, tilting his head. “They’re in Slytherin colours. I think they’d fit you quite well.”

He looks down at the one in his hands again and turns it, watching the gemstones glisten. They probably would look quite nice with his satin robes, but… As Draco peers up into Potter’s green eyes again, he realises they’re not made for him. 

Potter must read his thoughts, or something, because they manage to share a single brief flicker of shared amusement before Potter, without much thought, slips one bangle over his wrist.

The moment the silver touches Potter’s skin, the bangle tightens . A sharp, metallic snap rings out, like a trap closing, and Potter flinches hard. The second bangle falls from Draco’s fingers with a clang. It stutters on the floor for a moment, before darting upwards and tightening around Potter’s other wrist. “Ow— what the—?”

He cuts himself off with a gasp.

Draco watches in alarm as Potter staggers backwards. For a quarter of a second, he thinks it’s a prank Potter must be playing on him. The idea is abandoned mere moments later when he clutches his wrist, where the bangle is now glowing with a strange, pulsing light—and screams .

It’s a raw, animal sound, violent and unfiltered, so loud and guttural it sends cold bolts of terror through Draco’s entire body. It's not just pain, it’s agony . Worse than anything he’s heard, even in the darkest days of the war. He’s never heard anybody scream that way when they were being Crucio’d by the Dark Lord himself. Potter’s knees buckle and he crashes to the floor, heels kicking back against the stone in panic.

Draco’s breath catches in his throat. He scrambles forward uselessly. “What—what’s wrong?”

Potter says nothing coherent besides screaming his last name. He writhes, arms curled into his chest, biting back another scream. He yanks up his sleeve with trembling fingers, and that’s when they both go still—just for a moment—horrified.

His veins are turning black .

The color floods through them like ink spilled in water, branching like familiar lightning across his pale skin. They pulse dark and thick and wrong , crawling fast up his arms from where the bangles have sunken into his wrists like they’re fused there. The dark creeps steadily, unstoppably, toward his shoulder.

“No. No, no, no—” Draco stammers, trying to grab one of the bangles, to wrench it off, but it’s burning hot. His fingers recoil. Potter jerks and nearly strikes him, too far gone in the pain.

“Malfoy, make it stop ,” he gasps, eyes wide and glassy and terrified , barely conscious. 

Draco doesn’t know what to do. He snatches Potter’s wand out of his pocket, but his mind is a whirlwind of panic and useless spells. He reaches again, regardless of the heat, trying to force the metal loose. His own skin singes and blisters as soon as he touches it, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t think.

“Malfoy, please!”

Before Draco can force the bangle away, the black reaches Potter’s chest. He arches once—sharply, violently—and then...

“Draco–” He cries out. It sounds horribly final.

Like a puppet with its strings cut, Potter collapses onto the cold stone floor.

There’s a sharp persistent ringing in Draco’s ears. The sound of Potter’s head colliding with the cobblestone playing over and over again is somehow even louder. He desperately tries to take a breath, but it doesn’t work. It’s like the world had frozen around them, around Potter, waiting for him to move again.

But he doesn’t. He terribly, horribly doesn’t .

He grabs Potter’s shoulders, shakes him once, twice, harder on the third, like he could jolt him back into motion. But his head just lolls to the side, lifeless, the bangles still glowing dimly around his wrists like marks of something unspeakable.

Draco presses both hands to his chest. “Come on,” he breathes, choking on it. “This is not—Potter, c’mon, you’re not— this isn't happening —”

Potter’s skin is cold. Not dead cold, please, not dead cold, but clammy, pale. Waxy, like something was pulled out of him. Draco leans in closer, ear hovering over his chest, but all he hears is horrible silence, broken only by the erratic shudder of himself hyperventilating.

Not knowing what else to do, Draco slaps him. Hard. But Potter’s face doesn’t twitch. His lips are parted slightly. Eyes closed, lashes dark against skin that looks far too fragile, far too human. Not a trace of magic left in him. Not a trace of anything. Draco clutches his robes in both fists and gives him another hard shake. “You’re such an idiot,”  he snarls. “Why the fuck would you put it on, Potter– Why didn’t I –” His voice breaks again. The anger burns fast and cold, replaced by something so much worse.

“ Harry ! ”  The name crashes out of him like something he was never meant to say, something that doesn’t belong in his mouth. But right now, nothing else will do. Not when he's watching the one person who’s managed to worm his way past every wall Draco's ever built lie there like he's already gone. Like he's already dead.

He stumbles back from Harry’s body, knocking into the stack of ashen crates behind them, sending a sharp clatter ricocheting through the hall. The Room of Requirement groans as he slams the door open, as if protesting his escape, begging him to stay. But Draco is already sprinting, feet pounding the corridor, breath tearing out of his throat in ragged gasps. 

He doesn’t stop to look back. He doesn’t dare . He’s always loved the castle at night; its quiet magic, its secrets, its stillness. Tonight, that stillness is suffocating.

Tonight, Harry’s silence is the most terrifying thing in the world.