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The curse left Harry’s lips like a lover’s whisper; soft, inevitable.
"Sectumsempra!"
For a single, suspended moment, nothing happened.
Then, Draco’s body arched like a bowstring pulled too tight, his mouth opening around a soundless scream.
Harry watched, transfixed, as the first ribbon of scarlet unfurled across Draco’s chest. It bloomed like a rose forced open too fast, petals of ruined fabric peeling back to reveal the wet, glistening flesh beneath.
The smell hit him first; hot copper and something darker, something sweet beneath the iron tang. Harry felt himself harden in his trousers, swallowing the saliva building up in his mouth.
Draco staggered back, his polished shoes slipping in the water pooling across the bathroom tiles. His hands, those elegant, sneering hands that had hexed first-years and caressed the Dark Mark clutched at the wounds like he could push the blood back inside.
"P-Potter..."
His voice was shattered glass.
Harry’s breath caught.
Draco’s knees hit the ground with a crack that echoed off the walls. His hair, always so meticulously perfect, clung to his forehead in damp strands. His lips, pale, always twisted in a smirk parted around ragged gasps.
And his eyes.
Wide. Terrified. Beautiful.
Harry’s fingers tightened around his wand. His pulse roared in his ears, louder than the drip of water from the broken sinks, louder than Draco’s whimpers.
I did this.
The realization should have sickened him.
Instead, heat coiled low in his gut.
Draco collapsed forward, catching himself on one shaking arm. A thin line of blood trailed from his lips, painting his chin crimson. His chest heaved, each breath a wet, shuddering thing.
Harry stepped closer. The tiles were slick beneath his shoes.
Draco flinched back.
The movement sent another gush of blood spilling down his front.
No. No, no.
Harry was moving before he could think, dropping to his knees beside Draco. His hands hovered over the wounds, trembling. Not from fear.
From want.
The Half-Blood Prince’s book lay abandoned on the floor, pages splayed open. Harry’s gaze darted to it, past the curse, past the violence, to the cramped script in the margins.
Vulnera Sanentur.
He didn’t hesitate.
"Vulnera Sanentur," Harry murmured, dragging his wand in slow, deliberate arcs over Draco’s chest.
The wounds knitted together, just enough. Just enough to keep the blood inside. Just enough to keep Draco’s heart beating.
But not enough to erase the marks.
Not enough to let him forget.
Draco gasped, his back bowing off the floor. His fingers scrabbled against Harry’s wrist, nails biting deep enough to draw blood.
"F-finish it," he choked out, Harry couldn't help being tranfixed by the wild look in his eyes. "Coward! Just—fucking kill me—"
Harry’s free hand caught Draco’s chin, forcing his head up. Their eyes met, Draco’s wide with pain and fury, Harry’s dark with something hungrier.
"I don’t want you dead," Harry whispered.
He leaned in, close enough to feel Draco’s breath hitch. Close enough to count the flecks of amber in his eyes.
"I want you to remember this."
Draco shuddered.
Harry’s thumb brushed over his lower lip, smearing blood across the pale skin.
"I want you to remember who did this to you."
The Invisibility Cloak settled over them like a shroud.
Draco’s weak, frantic struggles were nothing against Harry’s grip.
"P-Potter,” Harry almost groaned at the way his name came out ragged, “Let go…"
Harry’s lips brushed the shell of Draco’s ear.
"Never."
The first thing Harry noticed was the blood.
It seeped between his fingers where they pressed against Draco's ribs, warm and insistent, painting his skin in slick crimson streaks. Each sluggish pulse of Draco's heart sent another rivulet trickling down pale skin, soaking into the fabric of Harry's shirt where their bodies pressed together.
Draco's breath came in wet, shallow gasps against Harry's neck.
"P-Potter—"
The word was barely more than an exhale, fractured at the edges. Harry adjusted his grip, tightening his arm around Draco's waist as the Slytherin's knees buckled again. The movement made Draco whimper, a soft, broken sound that curled hot in Harry's stomach.
"I've got you," Harry murmured, lips brushing the shell of Draco's ear.
The corridors stretched before them, endless and echoing. The Invisibility Cloak shielded them from sight but did nothing to muffle the ragged hitch of Draco's breathing or the way his body trembled against Harry's with every step.
Draco's fingers scrabbled weakly at Harry's sleeve. "F-fuck, let go of me!"
Harry didn't slow.
Instead, he dragged his thumb along the sharp line of Draco's hipbone, pressing just hard enough to make him gasp. "You can barely stand," he whispered. "Do you really think you can make it to the dungeons like this?"
A shudder wracked Draco's frame, his head lolled forward, blond hair sticking to his sweat-damp forehead. For a moment, Harry thought he'd lost consciousness again but then Draco's fingers tightened convulsively in his shirt.
"Snape..."
"Won't find you," Harry finished, voice low and honeyed. He shifted his grip, pulling Draco closer until their chests pressed together, until he could feel the frantic rabbit-quick flutter of Draco's pulse against his own. "No one will."
The words hung between them, heavy with promise.
Draco made a sound, part protest, part plea, but Harry only tightened his hold, fingers splaying possessively across the small of Draco's back. He could feel each labored breath, each minute tremor, each stuttering heartbeat.
Alive because I allow it.
The seventh-floor corridor loomed ahead, deserted. Harry slowed his steps, dragging them out, savoring the way Draco's weight settled more heavily against him with each passing second.
"Wh-where?" Draco slurred, gray eyes glassy with pain and confusion.
Harry didn't answer.
Instead, he paced, once, twice, three times, his mind fixed on a single, burning need:
A place to keep him. A place no one else can touch.
The door materialized silently, smooth wood gleaming faintly in the torchlight.
Draco stiffened in his arms. "N-no—"
Harry hushed him, pressing a kiss to his temple. "Shh, it's all right."
The Room had conjured a bed in the far corner, draped in emerald silks that shimmered like snake scales in the dim light. Harry carried Draco to it, his steps measured, deliberate.
Draco's breath hitched when his back hit the mattress. "P-please—"
The word was ragged, broken.
Harry smiled.
He leaned down, caging Draco in with his arms, close enough to count each pale lash, close enough to taste the fear on Draco's breath.
"Begging already?" he murmured, brushing his lips along the sharp line of Draco's jaw. "We've only just begun."
The first thing Draco became aware of was the pain.
A dull, insistent throbbing radiated from his chest, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. His skin felt too tight, stretched raw over newly-knit flesh. He tried to take a deep breath and choked, the air was thick with the scent of crushed herbs and something metallic, something coppery that clung to the back of his throat.
His eyelids were heavy, weighted down as if by stones. He fought them open, blinking against the dim, green-tinged light that seeped through the canopy above him.
Emerald silk.
Slytherin colors.
The realization sent a weak spark of hysteria through him.
Draco tried to move, to push himself up and froze.
His wrists were bound.
Not by ropes or chains, but by magic itself; an invisible pressure circling his skin, holding him down against the mattress. His breath hitched, panic rising sharp and acrid in his chest.
A rustle of fabric to his left.
"Finally awake."
The voice was low, familiar. Draco turned his head, too fast, the room spun and there, lounging in a high-backed chair beside the bed was Harry Potter.
Potter looked...different.
The torchlight painted his face in flickering shadows, hollowing out his cheeks, deepening the green of his eyes until they looked nearly black. He was leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees, his fingers steepled together. Watching. He was always watching him lately.
Draco's mouth was dry. "Potter—"
"Shh," Potter stood in one smooth motion, unfolding himself from the chair like a predator uncoiling. He reached out, his fingers brushing the edge of the bandages wrapped around Draco's chest. "Don't strain yourself."
Draco flinched away or tried to, the magic holding him down tightened in warning.
Potter's lips quirked. "Careful. You'll tear your stitches."
As if on cue, the pain flared, white-hot and biting, Draco hissed through his teeth, his fingers twisting uselessly against the sheets.
Potter's expression softened. "Here."
He reached for something on the bedside table; a goblet, gleaming silver in the low light. Liquid sloshed against its sides, dark and thick.
"Drink," Potter murmured, pressing the rim to Draco's lips. "It'll help with the pain."
Draco turned his face away. "Go to hell."
A beat of silence.
Potter sighed. "Draco."
The sound of his given name on Potter's tongue sent an involuntary shiver down Draco's spine.
"I healed you," Potter continued, his voice dropping to a whisper. His free hand came up to cradle Draco's jaw, his thumb stroking along the sharp line of his cheekbone. "I could have left you there, bleeding out on that filthy bathroom floor but I didn't."
His grip tightened, just slightly, forcing Draco to meet his gaze.
"Drink."
The command brooked no argument.
Draco swallowed then choked as the potion hit his tongue, bitter and cloying. Potter held the goblet steady, his other hand carding through Draco's hair as he drank, petting him like a particularly unruly cat.
When the goblet was empty, Potter set it aside with a soft clink.
"Good," he murmured, his fingers still tangled in Draco's hair. "That's very good."
The potion worked quickly; a warm, heavy weight spreading through Draco's limbs, dulling the edges of his pain, his fear. His eyelids fluttered, suddenly too heavy to keep open.
The last thing he saw before the darkness took him was Potter's smiles; small, satisfied, and utterly, terrifyingly fond.
The morning light streaming through the Great Hall's enchanted ceiling felt like an insult.
Harry sat motionless at the Gryffindor table, his untouched breakfast congealing on his plate. Around him, the chaos of student voices rose and fell like waves, each crest carrying Draco's name.
My father says the Malfoys have gone into hiding..."
"I heard he was dragged straight to You-Know-Who—"
"Snape nearly cursed a fourth-year this morning for even suggesting..."
Every syllable was a splinter beneath Harry's skin, his fingers tightened around his goblet, the metal groaning in protest. The pumpkin juice within trembled, casting fractured reflections of his face across its surface: eyes too dark, mouth too sharp.
A hand touched his wrist.
"You're going to bend that," Hermione said quietly.
Harry forced his grip to relax, the goblet slumped slightly out of shape.
Ron, mouth full of sausage, gestured with his fork. "Blimey, mate. You look like you want to murder someone."
I do, Harry thought. Every single one of them.
His gaze drifted to the staff table. Snape sat rigid in his chair, his black eyes sweeping the hall like a hawk circling dying prey. The Potions Master's fingers drummed a silent, staccato rhythm against the wood — tap tap tap — each impact leaving tiny crescent-shaped indents in the varnish.
Hermione followed his line of sight. "He's been interrogating students," she murmured. "Parvati said he cornered her outside Arithmancy yesterday, asked if she'd seen Malfoy with any... unusual marks before he disappeared."
Harry's stomach twisted.
Ron swallowed loudly. "Bet he's dead. Bet You-Know-Who killed him for botching whatever mission he was on."
The fork in Harry's hand snapped.
Silence rippled outward from their spot at the table. Even a few Hufflepuffs turned to stare, Hermione's eyes widened.
"Harry!"
"Sorry," Harry said flatly, he set the broken utensil down with exaggerated care. "Slipped."
Hermione studied him with that awful, knowing look; the one that always made him feel like she was peeling back his skin layer by layer.
"That's the third time today," she said slowly. "You've been... different since the news Malfoy vanished broke."
Harry reached for his goblet, taking a deliberate sip, the juice tasted like copper.
"Have I?"
"You were obsessed with him before," Hermione pressed. "Now, he's gone, and you're just... what? Indifferent?"
Across the hall, Snape stood abruptly, his chair screeching against the stone floor. The entire Great Hall held its breath as the professor stalked toward a group of terrified second-years.
Harry watched the man's trembling hands, the way his nostrils flared with each ragged breath.
Pathetic.
He turned back to Hermione, offering her a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"I was right, wasn't I?" he said lightly. "He left to go be a Death Eater, that's what I think."
The words tasted like ash.
Hermione opened her mouth but a scream cut through the hall.
Snape had a Ravenclaw boy by the collar, shaking him like a ragdoll. "You will tell me everything you know, or so help me—"
McGonagall's voice cracked like a whip. "Severus!"
Harry stood, the world narrowed to a single point, Snape's hands on another student, Snape's voice demanding answers, Snape daring to —
Mine.
Mine.
MINE.
"Harry?" Ron's voice sounded very far away. "Where are you going?"
But Harry was already moving, pushing through the crowd, his vision tinged red at the edges. He needed to see Draco. Needed to remind himself.
Needed to prove it.
The last thing he heard as the doors swung shut behind him was Snape's enraged roar:
"Find him!"
The candles had burned low.
Wax pooled in uneven rivulets down their brass holders, frozen in mid-drip like captured tears. The flames themselves guttered weakly, casting shuddering shadows across the stone walls of their hidden chamber.
Harry watched one particularly persistent shadow, the silhouette of Draco's lashes fluttering against his cheekbones, flicker and dance with each labored breath.
Draco was awake.
Harry knew by the tension in his jaw, the barely-perceptible hitch in his breathing whenever Harry's fingers trailed too close to the bandages. The Slytherin had become terribly good at playing unconscious these past nights. A survival instinct, Harry supposed.
"Moon's full tonight," Harry murmured, his thumb tracing the delicate blue veins beneath Draco's wrist. The skin there was nearly translucent, stretched too tight over sharp bones. "You can see it through the western window, looks like one of those silver Sickles you used to toss around the Slytherin table."
Draco didn't respond. His chest rose and fell in carefully measured increments, the movement pulling at the fresh linen wrapped around his ribs. The bandages were pristine now - Harry had changed them not an hour ago - but already, a faint pink blush seeped through at the edges.
Harry sighed.
His fingers drifted upward, skating over the jut of Draco's collarbone, the frantic flutter of his pulse. "You're not sleeping," he chided softly. "Your breathing's all wrong."
A muscle in Draco's jaw twitched.
Slowly, deliberately, Harry pressed his palm flat against the bandages. The heat of inflamed flesh radiated through the linen. Beneath his hand, Draco's heartbeat stuttered like a caged bird.
"I know it hurts," Harry whispered, his other hand came up to cradle Draco's cheek, thumb brushing the dark hollows beneath his eyes. "You keep reopening the wounds. Fighting the restraints. Like you think I'll just... let you go."
Draco's eyes flew open.
They were fever-bright in the candlelight, the grey turned molten silver with pain and something else - something wild and desperate that made Harry's breath catch.
"Fuck you," Draco rasped, his voice was ruined from screaming, the words barely more than air. "You psychotic bastard."
Harry smiled.
He leaned down until their foreheads touched, until Draco's panicked breaths washed hot and uneven against his lips. "There you are," he murmured. "I was starting to think you'd forgotten how to speak."
Draco jerked against the restraints, the magic humming in warning. A strangled sound tore from his throat as the movement pulled at his wounds. Fresh blood bloomed across the bandages, vivid against the white linen.
Harry watched, transfixed, as the crimson stain spread in slow, inevitable tendrils. It reminded him of ink in water, that same hypnotic unfurling, that same terrible beauty.
"Stop it," Draco gasped, his fingers twisted in the sheets, knuckles bleaching white. "Stop just, just looking at me like that and - fuck - "
Harry brought his hand up, pressing two fingers gently against Draco's parted lips. "Shh," he whispered. "You'll make it worse."
The blood was soaking through the bandages now, dripping in fat, sluggish drops onto the mattress. Draco's breathing had gone shallow and rapid, his skin waxy beneath the sweat-slick sheen.
Harry could have healed him then.
He didn't.
Instead, he traced the path of a single, trembling drop of blood as it slid down Draco's ribcage. His fingertip came away stained, the crimson shockingly bright against his skin.
"Beautiful," he breathed.
Draco made a broken sound.
Harry brought his fingers to his mouth, tasting copper and salt and something indefinably Draco. His eyes fluttered shut.
When he opened them again, Draco was staring at him with something like horror, like revelation.
"You're mad," Draco whispered.
Harry reached for his wand.
"Only for you," he promised, and began the slow, meticulous work of putting Draco back together.
The dungeons had always been cold, but today the chill carried teeth.
It started with whispers, a frantic Ravenclaw prefect sprinting up the spiral staircase, her shoes slipping on the damp stones. Then, came the gathering murmur of students, clustering like moths drawn to forbidden flame. By the time Harry arrived, a crowd had formed at the mouth of the potions corridor, their collective breaths fogging in the icy air.
Harry lingered at the back, unnoticed. The torchlight painted the students' faces in flickering gold, their expressions caught between horror and morbid fascination. He didn't need to push forward to know what they saw.
Severus Snape stood like a specter at the corridor's end, his usually immaculate robes hanging loose, his greasy hair clinging to a face gone corpse-pale. Before him, a Hufflepuff boy, Cedric's old housemate, Harry vaguely recalled, slumped against the wall, his mouth slack, his eyes glassy and unseeing. A thin line of drool glistened on his chin.
"Legilimens."
Snape's voice was raw, stripped of its usual silk. The spell hit with physical force, making the Hufflepuff's body jerk like a marionette. The boy's fingers spasmed, his forgotten textbook tumbling to the floor with a slap that echoed off the stones.
A Gryffindor girl gasped. Someone retched.
Harry didn't move.
He watched, his fingers curling into his palms, as Snape tore through the boy's mind with none of his trademark precision. This wasn't the delicate surgical probing of a master Occlumens, this was butchery. The Hufflepuff's nose began to bleed, crimson droplets pattering onto his yellow-trimmed robes.
Snape froze.
His head snapped up, black eyes locking onto Harry's across the sea of students. For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to that single point of contact.
Harry let his lips curve. Just slightly. Just enough.
Something like recognition flickered in Snape's gaze, a dawning horror that had nothing to do with the broken boy at his feet. His mouth moved, shaping a word Harry couldn't hear.
You.
The moment shattered as McGonagall's voice cracked through the corridor like a whip.
"SEVERUS!"
The Transfiguration professor stood framed in the archway, her tartan robes swirling around her, her wand was already drawn, the tip glowing violent red. The crowd parted before her as she advanced, her heels striking the stone like judge's gavels.
Snape didn't look away from Harry.
Not when McGonagall's spell hit him square in the chest.
Not when his knees hit the unforgiving stone.
Not even as the students' whispers crescendoed around them: "madness" and "legilimency" and "just like You-Know-Who"—
Harry held his gaze until the very end, until Dumbledore's silvery beard appeared at the periphery and the crowd swallowed Snape whole. Only then did he turn away, his fingers uncurling, his smile lingering like a secret.
The torchlight caught his eyes as he went, turning them momentarily luminescent—twin pools of triumph in the dungeon's dark.
The Room of Requirement was quiet when Harry entered, the air thick with the scent of old books and healing potions. Draco lay on the bed, his back propped against a mound of emerald silk pillows, a book open but ignored in his lap. The candlelight painted his sharp features in gold and shadow, catching on the dark circles beneath his eyes, the too-prominent jut of his collarbones beneath his thin sleep shirt.
He looked up as the door clicked shut, his grey eyes flickering with something unreadable.
"You're early," Draco said, his voice carefully neutral.
Harry crossed the room in three strides, his pulse thrumming beneath his skin. He could feel the weight of Draco's gaze on him, could see the way his fingers tightened imperceptibly around the edges of the book.
"Snape's been suspended," Harry said, watching Draco's face.
A beat of silence.
Draco's breath hitched, just slightly. His lashes fluttered, his lips parting around an aborted sound. For a moment, something raw and wounded flickered across his face—devastation, Harry realized, sharp and immediate.
But then, Draco laughed.
It was a brittle, broken thing, cracking at the edges like thin ice underfoot. His head tipped back against the pillows, his throat bared in a long, pale line.
"Of course he has," Draco whispered, his voice hoarse. "The great Severus Snape," A shudder ran through him. "brought low by his own desperation."
Harry stepped closer, his fingers itching to touch, to claim. Draco's laughter faded into silence, his chest rising and falling too quickly.
"You're upset," Harry murmured.
Draco's jaw clenched, he looked away, his fingers twisting in the sheets. "Don't be absurd."
Harry reached out, his thumb brushing the dampness at the corner of Draco's eye.
"You're crying."
Draco recoiled as if burned, his breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps. "I'm not —" His voice broke. "I'm not."
Harry cupped his face, forcing their eyes to meet. Draco's skin was fever-warm beneath his palms, his pulse rabbiting at his throat.
Draco shuddered, his eyes slipping shut. A tear escaped, trailing silver down his cheek. Harry caught it with his lips, tasting salt and something infinitely Draco.
For a moment, Draco leaned into the touch, just a fraction, just enough to send heat licking through Harry's veins before he seemed to catch himself, jerking back with a wounded noise.
"Stop it," he hissed, his voice cracking. "Just—just stop."
Harry smiled.
He leaned in, pressing his forehead against Draco's, their breaths mingling in the scant space between them.
"Make me."
Draco's breath hitched, his hands came up, trembling, to clutch at Harry's robes—not pushing away, not pulling closer, just holding, as if he didn't know what else to do.
Harry kissed him.
It wasn't gentle.
Draco gasped against his mouth, his bound hands coming up to clutch at Harry's robes. Harry bit his lower lip, tasting copper, relishing the way Draco shuddered.
When he pulled back, Draco's eyes were dark, his lips swollen.
"He'll never find you," Harry promised, pressing their foreheads together. "No one will."
Outside, the castle trembled with the aftershocks of Snape's fury.
Inside, Harry licked the tears from Draco's cheeks and wondered if this was what victory tasted like.
The Room had settled into a hushed rhythm over the passing weeks.
No more desperate screams echoing off the walls.
No more furniture overturned in violent struggles.
Just the occasional whisper of sheets as Draco shifted in his sleep, the soft crackle of candle wax dripping onto brass holders, the muted rustle of pages turning when Harry read aloud to fill the silence.
Late afternoon sunlight filtered through the high windows, painting the space in honeyed gold and long shadows. Dust motes drifted lazily through the beams, catching the light like scattered stardust. The air smelled faintly of clean linen, undercut by the ever-present metallic tang of the wards humming just beyond the walls.
Harry sat perched on the edge of the bed, one leg folded beneath him, the other dangling off the side. His fingers moved through Draco's hair with methodical precision, combing through the platinum strands, separating them into sections, twisting them gently around his fingers before letting them fall back against the pillow. Draco lay motionless beneath his touch, his breathing slow and measured, his grey eyes fixed blankly on the canopy above them.
"You know what they'll do to you, don't you?" Harry's voice was soft, almost conversational, as his fingertips traced the shell of Draco's ear.
A nearly imperceptible tightening around Draco's eyes, the barest hitch in his breathing.
Harry's fingers stilled. "The Dark Lord doesn't forgive failure, Draco and you have failed him. Spectacularly."
He watched the words land; the way Draco's throat worked as he swallowed, the minute tremor that ran through his carefully still limbs. The fading bruise around his left wrist - where he'd struggled against the restraints last week - stood out livid against his pale skin.
Harry resumed his stroking, his nails scraping lightly against Draco's scalp. "Do you think Snape will protect you?" A pause. The scent of Draco's shampoo - something expensive with hints of sandalwood that Harry brought him last week - clung to Harry's fingers. "After you couldn't even complete your mission?"
Draco's fingers twitched where they lay against his stomach, the nails bitten ragged. His lips parted slightly, but no sound emerged.
Harry leaned down, his breath warm against Draco's cheek. "Your father can't help you now," He pressed his lips to the hinge of Draco's jaw, feeling the muscle there jump. "Who else is left, Draco, but me?"
The question hung in the air between them, heavy as the velvet drapes surrounding the bed.
Harry's hand slid down to cradle Draco's face, his thumb brushing over the sharp cheekbone. "Who else would even want you now?"
Draco flinched, a full-body shudder that made the bedframe creak. His breath came faster now, his pupils dilating until the silver of his irises was nearly swallowed by black.
Harry smiled.
He shifted, his fingers moving to the rumpled collar of Draco's sleep shirt. The fabric was soft beneath his touch, warmed by Draco's body heat. With deliberate care, he straightened the twisted material, his fingertips brushing against the hollow of Draco's throat where his pulse rabbited.
"You're lucky," Harry murmured, smoothing the linen over Draco's shoulders. The words were velvet-wrapped steel. "Lucky I found you, lucky I kept you."
A sound escaped Draco then; something raw and wounded that might have been a protest or plea. His hands fisted in the sheets, his body tensing as if to pull away, but Harry was already there, his arm sliding around Draco's waist to pull him closer.
Draco went rigid, every muscle locked in resistance. Harry could feel the frantic beat of his heart where their chests pressed together, could taste the salt of sweat on his skin when he pressed his lips to the damp hollow behind Draco's ear.
"Shhh," Harry soothed, one hand carding through Draco's hair while the other held him firm. "I know, I know it hurts," His voice dropped to a whisper, the words sinking into Draco's skin like poison. "But I've got you, you're mine now."
The fight drained from Draco's body slowly; first his shoulders, then the tense line of his back, until finally, with a shuddering exhale, he went pliant in Harry's arms.
Outside, the last rays of sunlight faded from the windows, plunging the Room into twilight. Somewhere in the castle, a clock chimed the hour, its echo muffled and distant.
Harry tightened his hold, smiling against Draco's hair.
The Room held its breath.
Draco lay perfectly still on the silk-draped bed, listening to the distant echoes of Hogwarts beyond the walls, the faint murmur of students in some far-off corridor, the occasional crackle of torches in their sconces. The grandfather clock in the corner ticked methodically, each second measured and heavy.
Harry had left nearly an hour ago, after carefully changing Draco's bandages, after pressing a kiss to his forehead, after murmuring promises against his skin that sounded more like threats.
"Be good for me."
Draco's fingers twitched against the sheets.
The wound on his chest ached; a deep, pulsing pain that never quite faded. Harry had removed those invisible magic cuffs, leaving his hands free.
Wandless magic.
The thought came unbidden.
He had been practicing—small things, when Harry wasn't looking. A flicker of the candles here. A tremble of the curtains there. Nothing noticeable. Nothing that would draw attention.
But now.
Now, the Room was empty.
Now, the door was just there.
Now.
Draco exhaled slowly, focusing on the lock.
Nothing.
He tried again, his magic stirring sluggishly beneath his skin.
Open. Please.
A spark. A flicker. The lock trembled.
White-hot fire ripped through his chest, tearing a gasp from his lips. The half-healed wound split open anew, blood seeping through the bandages in warm, sticky rivulets. His vision blurred, his magic recoiling violently, and then, he was on the floor.
The stone was cold beneath his bare knees, the rough surface scraping his skin raw as he dragged himself forward. Each movement sent fresh waves of pain radiating through his ribs, his breath coming in ragged, wet gasps. Blood smeared behind him, dark crimson against grey stone, as he crawled toward the door.
Just a little farther, the door opened.
Draco froze.
Harry stood in the threshold, silhouetted against the torchlight from the corridor beyond. The shadows hollowed his cheeks, turned his eyes into fathomless pits of green. His expression was unreadable.
For a heartbeat, neither moved.
Harry stepped forward.
Draco flinched, his body curling in on itself instinctively but Harry didn't raise his wand, didn't curse him.
He knelt.
The scent of bergamot and parchment enveloped Draco as Harry reached out, his fingers brushing a tear from Draco's cheek with terrifying gentleness.
"After everything I've done for you..." Harry's voice was soft. Wounded. Betrayed.
Draco shuddered.
Harry's hand slid down, pressing hard against the bleeding wound.
Draco screamed.
The pain was blinding, all-consuming before darkness swallowed him whole.
Consciousness returned in slow, disjointed fragments. The scent of healing potions. The weight of blankets.
The cold, unyielding press of metal around his wrist.
Draco's lashes fluttered open.
A cuff, sleek and silver, etched with glowing runes encircled his right wrist. The magic-restraining charm pulsed faintly against his skin, its rhythm matching the sluggish beat of his heart.
Harry sat beside him, his fingers carding through Draco's hair with methodical precision.
"Shh," he murmured, pressing a kiss to Draco's damp forehead. His lips were warm. His breath smelled of mint and something darker, more metallic. "No more tricks, love."
Draco's breath hitched.
Harry smiled.
The seventh floor corridor was silent save for the whisper of Harry's robes against stone. Moonlight streamed through the arched windows, painting silver stripes across the flagstones that vanished beneath his feet as he walked. The tray in his hands was a perfect balance - warm bread wrapped in linen, a porcelain bowl of broth still steaming faintly in the cool night air, a crystal pitcher of water so cold it had begun to frost at the edges.
Harry paused before the blank stretch of wall, counting heartbeats.
Three days, seven hours, twenty-nine minutes since Draco last ate.
Precision mattered, he'd learned that from watching Snape brew, from studying Dumbledore's speeches, from cataloging every flinch and tremor in Draco's body as the Sectumsempra wounds healed.
Timing was everything when breaking someone.
The door materialized without sound, the wood dark and smooth as polished ebony. Harry breathed in deeply through his nose before crossing the threshold, savoring the moment before revelation.
The scent hit him first; sweat and salt and the faint metallic tang of blood from lips bitten raw. Then, the sounds: the shallow, uneven breathing; the rustle of fabric against bare skin; the soft, involuntary whimper when the floorboard creaked beneath Harry's weight.
Candlelight flickered as Harry stepped forward, revealing the scene he'd orchestrated:
Draco lay curled on his side, his once-fine sleeping robes twisted around his too-thin frame. His hair, usually so meticulously groomed, hung lank across his forehead. His fingers clutched weakly at the empty air as if searching for something to hold onto.
Harry set the tray down on the bedside table with deliberate care, the clink of the pitcher against wood made Draco flinch.
"Hello, Draco."
The blond's head snapped up so fast Harry heard his neck crack. His eyes - Merlin, his eyes - were bloodshot and glassy with dehydration, the grey irises nearly swallowed by dilated pupils. They tracked Harry's movements with desperate intensity, lingering on the condensation sliding down the water pitcher.
Harry pulled the chair closer, the legs scraping against stone. He sat, crossing one leg over the other, and watched.
Draco's tongue darted out to wet his cracked lips. It was a mistake - Harry saw the way his face twisted at the taste of blood. The small sound of pain that escaped him was sweeter than any symphony.
"You look thirsty," Harry observed, pouring a single inch of water into the glass. The liquid caught the candlelight, casting prismatic reflections across Draco's cheeks.
Draco's hands twitched toward the glass but Harry caught his wrist, feeling the delicate bones shift beneath paper-thin skin. The pulse beneath his fingers was erratic, fluttering like a dying bird.
"Ah-ah," Harry chided softly. "What do we say?"
A tremor ran through Draco's entire body. His throat worked convulsively, his breath coming in short, panicked bursts. Harry could see the war raging behind his eyes - pride against need, dignity against survival.
When the first tear spilled over, tracking through the dust on Draco's cheek, Harry leaned forward to catch it with his tongue.
"Please," Draco whispered, the word barely audible. "Please, Harry."
Harry smiled, he lifted the glass to Draco's lips, supporting the back of his head like a lover. The first sip spilled down Draco's chin, his body shaking too violently to drink properly. Harry wiped the moisture away with his thumb, pressing just hard enough to bruise.
"It's okay," Harry murmured, stroking Draco's hair as he gulped the water. "I've got you, I'll always take care of you."
The empty glass clinked as Harry set it aside. His fingers trailed down Draco's neck, coming to rest over the frantic pulse at his throat. He could feel every swallow, every stuttering breath, every terrified heartbeat.
This was better than he'd imagined.
The first spoonful trembled in midair, suspended between bowl and lips by Draco's shaking hand. A fat droplet of rich beef broth slid down the silver and splashed silently onto the linen-covered tray. Harry watched its descent with rapt attention, tracking the way it darkened the fabric in an ever-expanding circle of dampness.
Draco's breath came in shallow pants, his entire body coiled tight as a spring. The scent of the stew - slow-cooked venison, root vegetables, thyme from the Hogwarts greenhouses - filled the space between them like a living thing. His stomach cramped violently, but he hesitated still, his gray eyes darting between the food and Harry's face.
Harry waited.
The silence stretched, broken only by the faint dripping of wax from the half-melted candles. Outside, a winter wind howled against the castle walls, but here in the Room, the air was still and heavy with anticipation.
Finally, with a sound that was nearly a sob, Draco brought the spoon to his mouth.
Harry moved then, deliberate as a snake uncoiling. His fingers found Draco's hair just as the first taste hit his tongue, the contact timed perfectly with the moment of relief when warm food finally, finally touched his starved system.
Draco froze.
But Harry didn't stop. his fingers carded through sweat-damp strands, his nails scraping lightly against Draco's scalp in slow, rhythmic motions. The touch was firm enough to be inescapable, gentle enough to mimic comfort.
"Good," Harry murmured, watching the way Draco's throat worked as he swallowed. "That's it, just like that."
The next spoonful came faster, Draco's body overriding his mind's protests. Harry adjusted his strokes to match - longer now, from the crown of his head down to the nape of his neck, each pass timed with a bite.
Draco's shoulders tensed under the touch, but he didn't pull away, not when every fiber of his being was focused on the food, on filling the hollow ache that had been his constant companion these past days.
Harry smiled and pressed closer, his chest nearly touching Draco's back. He could feel the heat radiating through the thin fabric of Draco's shirt, could count each protruding vertebra beneath his fingertips as they trailed down from hair to neck.
"See how I take care of you?" Harry breathed the words against the shell of Draco's ear, feeling the shiver that ran through him at the contact. "No one else would do this, no one else knows what you need like I do."
Draco's grip on the spoon tightened, his knuckles standing out white against his pale skin. But he took another bite. And another. Each one accompanied by Harry's touch - now petting his hair, now tracing the curve of his ear, now massaging the tense muscles of his neck.
The bowl was nearly empty when Harry leaned in closer still, his lips brushing the sensitive skin just below Draco's ear as he whispered:
"Who feeds you, Draco?"
A pause. A tremor. Then, so soft it was nearly inaudible:
"You."
Harry's fingers stilled, gripping tight for just a moment before resuming their stroking. The possessiveness that surged through him was hot and bright, more intoxicating than any spell.
"Again."
"You," Draco repeated, his voice cracking. "Only you."
The last words were barely more than an exhale, but Harry caught them, treasured them, stored them away in the hollow of his ribs where his obsession lived.
Outside, the wind howled on and in the quiet of the Room, Harry Potter continued his careful work - rewriting Draco Malfoy's instincts one touch, one bite, one whispered word at a time.
The late afternoon sunlight streamed through the castle's high arched windows, painting the stone corridors in molten gold. Dust motes danced lazily in the beams, catching the light like scattered diamond fragments as students shuffled between classes. The air smelled of parchment, ink, and the faint metallic tang of magic lingering from recent spells.
Harry walked shoulder-to-shoulder with Ron, their footsteps echoing in comfortable sync against the flagstones. Ron was mid-sentence about the Cannons' latest disastrous match when Harry felt it, the sudden shift in the corridor's atmosphere, like the charged silence before a thunderclap.
"Potter."
The voice cut through the murmur of students like a blade through silk.
Harry turned slowly, his fingers twitching instinctively toward his wand. The sunlight caught on Blaise Zabini's polished prefect badge as he stood blocking the corridor, his dark eyes burning with uncharacteristic intensity.
To his left, Pansy Parkinson's small frame trembled with barely-contained fury, her normally pristine uniform rumpled as if she'd dressed in haste. Theodore Nott lurked half a step behind them, his pale eyes sharp with calculation.
The stream of students parted around them like water around stones, conversations dying mid-sentence as curious onlookers slowed their pace.
Ron stiffened beside Harry. "What's this then?" he muttered, hand drifting toward his own wand.
Pansy took a jerky step forward, her Mary Janes clicking sharply against stone. "Where is he?" Her voice was raw, stripped of its usual aristocratic polish.
Harry arched an eyebrow, letting just enough confusion show in his expression. "Who?"
The reaction was instantaneous. Pansy's face contorted, her carefully maintained mask shattering like dropped porcelain.
"DON'T PLAY STUPID!" Her shriek echoed off the vaulted ceilings, bouncing back at them in distorted waves. Several first-years gasped, pressing themselves against the walls.
Zabini caught Pansy's elbow as she lunged, his long fingers digging into the black fabric of her robe but Harry saw the way his other hand trembled at his side, saw the sweat beading along his hairline despite the corridor's chill.
"Draco's been missing for three weeks," Zabini said, his voice dangerously calm. "And you..." His gaze flickered to Harry's face, searching for something. "You were the last one seen with him."
Harry could feel Ron's questioning glance, could hear the whispers spreading through the gathered students like wildfire. He let his expression shift into something between pity and amusement.
"How should I know?" Harry shrugged, the picture of nonchalance. "Maybe, he finally went to be with his Lord."
The words landed like a curse.
Pansy made a sound Harry had never heard from human lips; something between a sob and a snarl. Her wand appeared in her hand so fast it might have been magic itself, the wood sparking dangerously with unchecked power.
"LIAR!" Spittle flew from her lips, her face flushing an ugly red. "I KNOW you're lying, Potter! WHERE IS HE?"
For one breathless moment, Harry thought she might actually hex him right there in front of half the school. He could see the spell forming on her lips, could practically taste the magic crackling in the air between them.
Then, Nott moved.
A pale hand closed around Pansy's wrist, his touch light but unyielding. "Enough," he murmured, his voice barely audible over Pansy's ragged breathing. "This isn't the place."
Harry watched, fascinated, as something unspoken passed between the Slytherins. Pansy's wand arm trembled, then slowly lowered but her eyes, her eyes burned with a hatred so pure it was almost beautiful.
Ron let out a low whistle. "Blimey," he muttered, shaking his head. "The Slytherins finally cracked without Malfoy, haven't they?"
The tension broke like a snapped wire. Zabini's jaw clenched, his nostrils flaring. Nott's grip on Pansy tightened imperceptibly. And Harry—
Harry felt a smile bloom across his face, slow and secret as a midnight confession.
"Crazy, innit?" he agreed, his voice light.
As they turned to leave, Harry caught Zabini's final glance, not angry, not even suspicious, but knowing. The look of a man who'd seen something he shouldn't have.
The sunlight seemed suddenly too bright, the corridor too narrow. Harry's fingers twitched with the urge to cast, to silence, to claim but he simply adjusted his bag strap and followed Ron toward class, the ghost of that smile still playing about his lips.
Somewhere above them, a window rattled in its frame, though there was no wind.
The stone gargoyle watched Harry approach with blank, unseeing eyes. For a long moment, he simply stood before it, breathing in the damp, mineral scent of the castle walls, listening to the distant echoes of students moving through distant corridors. The lemon drop Dumbledore had given him earlier sat heavy in his palm, its sugary surface gone slightly sticky with sweat.
"Acid Pops," Harry muttered.
The password tasted like ash on his tongue.
The gargoyle sprang aside with a grinding of ancient stone, revealing the spiral staircase that wound its way upward in a slow, relentless corkscrew. As Harry stepped onto the first stair, he noticed the way his shadow stretched long and distorted against the curved walls, twisting grotesquely with each step.
The air grew heavier as he ascended, thick with the scent of burning incense and something older - parchment and polished wood and the faint metallic tang of the countless magical instruments that cluttered Dumbledore's office. The stairs moved with agonizing slowness, giving Harry far too much time to think, to prepare, to simmer in the quiet rage that had been building since he received the summons.
When the staircase finally deposited him before the massive oak door, Harry paused. From within came the muffled sounds of conversation - Dumbledore's calm, measured tones interrupted by a sharper, colder voice that made Harry's fingers curl into fists.
The office was bathed in the golden light of late afternoon, the sun's dying rays catching the whirling silver instruments and setting them ablaze with reflected brilliance. The portraits of former headmasters pretended to doze in their frames, though Harry could feel their attention like physical weight.
And there, seated before Dumbledore's desk like visiting royalty, were Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy.
Lucius sat ramrod straight, his once-pristine hair pulled back in a severe tie that only accentuated the new hollows in his cheeks. His silver-handled cane rested against his knee, the serpent's head glinting maliciously in the firelight.
Narcissa was a study in contrasts beside him; her posture just as perfect, but where Lucius radiated barely-contained fury, she was stillness personified. Only the white-knuckled grip she maintained on her handbag betrayed her tension.
The moment Harry crossed the threshold, the temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees.
"Ah, Harry," Dumbledore's voice was as warm as ever, though his eyes held a new, assessing glint. "Thank you for joining us. Please, sit."
Harry remained standing, his gaze flickered between the Malfoys, taking in the minute details; the way Lucius's fingers spasmed around his cane, the nearly imperceptible tremor in Narcissa's carefully manicured hands.
"You wanted to see me, Headmaster?" Harry kept his voice carefully neutral, though his magic stirred restlessly beneath his skin, responding to the tension in the room.
Dumbledore steepled his fingers, the light catching on his half-moon spectacles. "Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy have come to us with concerns about Draco's... continued absence."
The pause before "absence" was deliberate, Harry felt his jaw tighten.
Narcissa spoke first, her voice like ice over dark water. "You were seen with Draco on the day he disappeared."
Not a question. An accusation.
Harry met her gaze evenly. The resemblance to Draco was striking - the same sharp cheekbones, the same piercing eyes but where Draco's gaze could be read (had been read, by Harry, over and over in the quiet of the Room), Narcissa's was an impenetrable fortress.
"I spoke to him in passing," Harry said with a shrug. "Hardly unusual in a school this size."
Lucius's cane struck the floor with a crack that echoed like gunfire. "Do not toy with us, boy," he hissed, his composure fracturing. "We know you—"
"Lucius." Narcissa's hand closed around her husband's wrist, the movement so swift Harry nearly missed it. Her eyes never left Harry's face. "What my husband means to say is that we're concerned. If Draco shared anything with you, anything at all about where he might have gone..."
Harry felt something hot and vicious uncoil in his chest.
Where he might have gone.
As if they didn't know.
As if they hadn't stood by while their son was branded like livestock.
The image rose unbidden; Draco in the dim light of the Room, the Dark Mark standing livid against his pale skin, the way he'd flinched when Harry first touched it.
"He didn't tell me anything," Harry said, his voice dangerously calm. "But then, why would he? It's not like his parents ever listened so why me?"
The silence that followed was deafening.
Lucius went deathly still. Narcissa's breath hitched, the first real crack in her perfect facade. Even Dumbledore's eyebrows rose slightly behind his spectacles.
"Harry," the headmaster began, but Harry wasn't finished.
"I'm sorry Draco's missing," he continued, though his tone suggested he was anything but. "But maybe you should have thought about that before you let your sixteen-year-old son take the Dark Mark."
The words hung in the air like smoke.
Narcissa made a sound so quiet Harry almost missed it - a barely-there gasp, the ghost of a mother's grief. Lucius was on his feet in an instant, his cane raised like a weapon, his face twisted in rage.
"How dare you! You have no proof —"
"That will do." Dumbledore's voice cut through the tension like a blade. "I believe Harry has answered your questions."
Harry didn't wait to be dismissed.
The door closed behind him with a soft, final click.
The walk back to Gryffindor Tower was a blur. Harry's mind churned with the image of Narcissa's trembling hands, Lucius's impotent rage, the way Dumbledore had watched it all unfold with that infuriating twinkle in his eye.
Most of all, he thought of Draco, of how little his parents truly knew him, of how little they deserved him.
The Fat Lady's portrait swung open at his approach, revealing the common room in all its red-and-gold glory. Harry barely registered the curious glances sent his way as he climbed the stairs to the dormitory.
When he reached his four-poster, he drew the hangings tight with a wave of his wand. Only then did he allow himself to smile, a slow, secret thing that would have chilled the Malfoys to their cores.
They wanted their son back?
Let them try.
The Room of Requirement had changed in the passing month.
Where once there had been struggle, the crash of overturned furniture, the splintering of wood against stone, now there was only quiet. The space had settled into something softer, warmer, the walls lined with bookshelves that hadn't been there before, the bed draped in emerald satin that shimmered in the candlelight. The air smelled faintly of citrus, a far cry from the metallic tang of blood and panic that had lingered in those first weeks.
Harry sat on the edge of the bed, his fingers carding slowly through Draco's hair. The blond was curled against him, his body pliant, his breathing steady. The once-sharp angles of his face had softened slightly, though the shadows beneath his eyes remained. He was thinner than he should be—Harry made sure of that—but no longer trembling with the violent desperation of starvation.
A plate sat balanced on Harry's knee, piled with warm bread, its crust golden and flaky, steam still rising in delicate curls. The scent of rosemary and sea salt filled the space between them, rich and intoxicating.
Draco's fingers twitched where they lay against his own thigh, his gaze fixed on the food with a focus that bordered on reverence.
"They're starting to ask questions," Harry murmured, his voice low, almost conversational. His nails scraped lightly against Draco's scalp, earning a shiver. "The professors. The students. Even the Daily Prophet ran a piece last week: 'The Vanishing of Draco Malfoy.'" He chuckled, amused. "As if you'd just wandered off."
Draco didn't respond, but his throat worked as he swallowed. His eyes flickered to Harry's face, then back to the bread.
Harry tore off a piece, holding it between his fingers. Draco leaned forward instinctively, but Harry pulled back just enough to make him pause.
"Look at me."
Draco obeyed, his grey eyes glassy, his lips slightly parted.
Harry studied him, the way his lashes fluttered, the faint pink that dusted the tops of his cheekbones, the way his breath hitched when Harry's thumb brushed the corner of his mouth.
"They think I had something to do with it," Harry continued, pressing the bread against Draco's bottom lip. "That I was the last one seen with you, that I might have—" He let the words hang, watching the way Draco's pupils dilated. "Hurt you."
Draco took the offered bite, chewing slowly. A crumb clung to his lower lip. Harry leaned in, catching it with his tongue before pulling away.
"Would you tell them if they asked?" Harry whispered, his fingers tightening slightly in Draco's hair. "Would you say I hurt you?"
The silence stretched, thick and heavy.
Draco shook his head.
Harry smiled.
He fed Draco another piece of bread, watching the way his lips closed around his fingers, the way his tongue darted out to catch the last traces of salt.
"Because you're mine now," Harry murmured, more statement than question.
Draco didn't hesitate.
He nodded.
The Gryffindor common room was nearly empty, the fire reduced to glowing embers in the hearth. Outside the tower windows, the sky had darkened to deep indigo, the first stars just beginning to pierce through the twilight. The air smelled of burnt wood and old parchment, the remnants of a long day of studying lingering in the quiet.
Harry stood by the window, his fingers tapping an impatient rhythm against the stone sill. He could feel the minutes slipping by, each one wasted, each one keeping him from where he truly wanted to be.
From who he wanted to be with.
A floorboard creaked behind him.
"Where do you keep going, Harry?"
Hermione's voice was quiet but firm, cutting through the silence like a knife. Harry didn't turn immediately, he exhaled slowly, watching his breath fog the glass before him, his reflection a ghostly outline against the darkened sky.
"Nowhere important," he said, his voice carefully light.
"That's not an answer."
Harry finally turned, his expression schooled into something neutral. Hermione stood a few feet away, her arms crossed, her brow furrowed. The firelight caught in her curls, turning them to molten gold, but her eyes were sharp, too sharp.
"You've been disappearing for hours," she continued, stepping closer. "Every night. Ron thinks you're just sneaking off to practice for the match, but I know you, Harry. This isn't about Quidditch."
Harry's fingers stilled against the windowsill.
"Drop it, Hermione," he said softly.
She blinked, taken aback by the quiet edge in his voice. "What?"
"For your own sake," His gaze held hers, unblinking. "Drop it."
A beat of silence.
Hermione's breath hitched, her fingers tightening around the sleeves of her sweater. Something flickered in her eyes, unease, confusion, a dawning horror.
"What's gotten into you?" she whispered.
Harry smiled. It didn't reach his eyes.
"Nothing," he said. "Just tired."
The lie settled between them, heavy and suffocating. Hermione opened her mouth — to argue, to push, to understand — but Harry was already moving past her, his shoulder brushing hers as he headed for the portrait hole.
He could feel her eyes on his back, burning with questions he would never answer.
It didn't matter.
Nothing mattered except the Room.
Except Draco.
And if Hermione got in the way?
Well.
Harry would mourn her.
But not enough to stop.
The Room of Requirement had settled into a rhythm as the weeks bled together, a quiet, hushed existence where time moved differently.
The light through the high windows shifted from dawn's pale gold to twilight's deep blue, marking days in slow, measured strokes.
Draco sat curled in the window seat, his knees drawn up to his chest, a book lying forgotten in his lap. The pages had stopped turning nearly an hour ago, his fingers resting motionless against the parchment. His gaze was fixed on some distant point beyond the glass, where the world continued on without him. The fading light painted his profile in silver and shadow, catching on the sharp angle of his cheekbone, the delicate curve of his lower lip.
Harry watched him from the doorway, silent.
The air smelled of the chamomile tea he'd brought Draco earlier, now gone cold in its porcelain cup, the leaves settled at the bottom like dark, curling secrets. A single candle flickered on the bedside table, its flame guttering in the still air, casting long, wavering shadows across the floor.
Harry's fingers tightened around the spine of the book he carried, its cover worn soft with age, the edges of its pages gilded and catching the light as he turned it absently in his hands. He'd found it in the Black family library, tucked away between darker tomes, its presence almost innocent amidst the grimoires and books of blood magic.
He stepped forward.
The floorboard beneath his foot creaked; a soft, mournful sound in the quiet.
Draco's head snapped up, his eyes wide, his breath catching. For a moment, Harry saw it; the instinctive fear, the way his fingers twitched against the book in his lap, as if preparing to throw it, to fight.
Then, recognition.
Something shifted in Draco's expression, his shoulders loosening, his lips parting just slightly. His gaze flickered from Harry's face to the book in his hands, and Harry saw the exact moment curiosity won out over caution.
"You're awake," Harry murmured, though it wasn't a question.
Draco swallowed, his throat working. "I—" His voice was rough from disuse. He cleared it, tried again. "I couldn't sleep."
Harry hummed, stepping closer. The rug beneath his feet was soft, its threads worn thin in places. He stopped just before Draco, close enough to see the way his pupils dilated, the faint flush that rose to his cheeks.
"I brought you something," Harry said, holding out the book.
Draco stared at it, his fingers flexing against his own abandoned read. Harry could see the war in his eyes: the ingrained pride, the instinct to refuse warring with the desperate want for something to break the monotony of these walls.
Slowly, hesitantly, Draco reached out.
Their fingers brushed as he took the book, and Harry didn't miss the way Draco's breath hitched at the contact, the way his lashes fluttered.
"Thank you," Draco whispered, his voice barely audible.
Harry's chest tightened.
He let his hand linger, his thumb stroking lightly over Draco's knuckles before pulling away. The absence of contact left Draco's fingers twitching, as if chasing the warmth.
"You've been good," Harry murmured, reaching up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind Draco's ear. His fingertips grazed the shell of it, lingering just a moment too long. "So good for me."
Draco's eyes fell shut at the praise, his lips parting on a soft exhale. He leaned into the touch, just slightly, just enough that Harry could feel the warmth of his skin, the faint tremor running through him.
Harry smiled.
Night fell softly over the Room.
The candle had burned low, its flame flickering weakly, painting the walls in long, dancing shadows. Draco lay curled on his side in the bed, his breathing slow and even, his fingers clutching the new book to his chest even in sleep.
Harry sat in the armchair beside him, his elbows resting on his knees, his chin propped on his folded hands. He didn't blink, didn't look away.
The moonlight through the window caught on Draco's eyelashes, turning them to silver. It traced the curve of his cheek, the bow of his lips, the delicate line of his throat where the blanket had slipped down.
Harry reached out, his fingers hovering just above Draco's cheekbone, not quite touching.
He didn't need to.
Not when Draco was already his in every way that mattered.
The Astronomy Tower stood skeletal against the bruised purple sky, its ancient stones still radiating the day's heat when Harry arrived beneath his cloak. The last golden streaks of sunset had long faded, leaving only the faint silver glow of emerging stars and the occasional flare of distant spellfire to illuminate the scene.
Harry's breath fogged slightly against the fabric of the Invisibility Cloak as he waited, each exhale a brief bloom of warmth against his chin. The air smelled of impending rain and the metallic tang of magic - the distinctive scent that always lingered around powerful enchantments. Beneath his fingers, the rough stone parapet still held traces of warmth from where the sun had beaten against it all afternoon.
When Dumbledore finally appeared on the stairs, his breathing was labored, his movements painfully slow. Moonlight caught on the blackened fingers of his cursed hand as he gripped the railing, each step upward seeming to cost him tremendous effort. Harry watched, motionless, as the headmaster paused halfway up the spiral staircase to catch his breath, his half-moon spectacles flashing white in the dark.
The first pops of Apparition came like firecrackers in the stillness.
Harry didn't turn toward the sound. He kept his gaze fixed on Dumbledore's face as the Death Eaters materialized on the tower, their masks gleaming like polished bone in the moonlight. He saw the exact moment Dumbledore realized what was happening; the slight tightening around his eyes, the almost imperceptible straightening of his shoulders.
"Good evening, Severus," Dumbledore said, his voice carrying clearly in the still air.
Harry's fingers twitched against stone.
The confrontation unfolded with terrible inevitability. Dumbledore's trembling hands. The way his voice broke when he lowered his wand. Snape's black robes billowing like smoke as he stood over him.
"Severus..." Dumbledore's voice was barely audible now. "Please..."
The flash of green light illuminated the entire tower for one blinding second, etching every detail into Harry's retinas, the way Dumbledore's robes fluttered as he fell backward, the shock of the Dark Mark against dark sky, the sickening lurch of his body as it cleared the rail.
Harry didn't move to look over the edge.
He stood perfectly still, listening to the ragged breathing of the Death Eaters, watching Snape's face crumple in the aftermath. He expected grief to claw at his chest. Expected rage to burn through his veins.
Instead, there was only a quiet, crystalline clarity.
Now.
As chaos erupted below, shouts and spellfire and the distant tolling of the school's alarm bells, Harry slipped away unnoticed, his footsteps silent on the stone stairs.
The castle corridors had become rivers of panicked students and harried professors. Flashes of spell light painted the ancient stones in strobes of green and red, each burst followed by the acrid scent of burnt magic. Harry moved like a ghost through the chaos, his cloak brushing against overturned suits of armor and abandoned schoolbags.
A jet of purple light shattered the window beside him, showering the floor with glittering shards.
Harry didn't flinch as glass crunched beneath his boots, his focus fixed on the path ahead. Somewhere behind him, Filch was bellowing for order while Peeves cackled overhead, dropping inkpots on fleeing first-years.
The seventh-floor corridor was eerily quiet when Harry finally reached it. The sounds of battle were muffled here, reduced to distant echoes that reverberated through the stone like far-off thunder. The torches had been extinguished, leaving only the faint blue glow of emergency lanterns to guide his way.
Harry paced three times before the blank stretch of wall, his steps measured despite the adrenaline singing in his veins.
I need to keep him safe.
I need to take him home.
The door materialized without sound, its wood dark and smooth as polished obsidian.
The air was still and warm despite the chaos outside, moonlight streamed through the high windows, casting silver stripes across the rumpled bedsheets where Draco lay curled on his side.
Harry let the Invisibility Cloak slip from his shoulders, the fabric pooling at his feet like liquid shadow. The soft sound of its descent made Draco stir, his pale lashes fluttering against sleep-flushed cheeks.
"Harry?" His voice was thick with sleep, the word slurred at the edges.
"We're leaving." Harry crossed the room in three strides, his boots sinking into the plush carpet.
Draco pushed himself up on unsteady arms, the sheet slipping to reveal the sharp angles of his collarbones. "What's happening?"
"The Death Eaters are here," Harry reached for the wardrobe, pulling out a traveling cloak lined with silver fur. "Snape killed Dumbledore."
The words should have felt heavier, should have landed like stones. Instead, they hung in the air between them, weightless.
Draco's breath hitched, his fingers tightening in the sheets. For a moment, something like recognition flickered in his eyes; some remnant of the boy who had trembled in the girl's bathroom crying that Voldemort was going to kill him.
Then, it was gone, smoothed away by Harry's hand carding through his hair.
"Where will we go?" Draco asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Harry pressed a kiss to his temple, lingering just long enough to feel the rapid flutter of Draco's pulse beneath his lips.
"Home."
3 weeks later
The air in Grimmauld Place hung thick with decades of dust and neglect. Moonlight filtered through grimy windows, casting fractured silver patterns across warped floorboards that groaned underfoot like living things. Somewhere in the walls, pipes knocked like a failing heartbeat.
Severus Snape moved through the shadows with practiced silence, his breath shallow behind the Occlumency walls shielding his presence.
The tracking ritual had burned through three vials of dragon's blood and a lock of Narcissa's hair to lead him here; to this rotting tomb of pureblood arrogance. His fingers tightened around his wand as he ascended the stairs, each creaking step a potential betrayal.
The bedroom door stood slightly ajar.
Through the gap, Snape saw Draco.
His godson lay curled in a nest of silk sheets, his breathing shallow but even. A sheen of sweat glistened at his temples despite the room's chill.
Snape pushed the door open.
The scent hit him first: healing salve undercut by something darker, something metallic that clung to the back of his throat. His eyes tracked the bandages peeking from beneath Draco's sleep shirt, the way his fingers twitched in his sleep.
"Draco," he breathed, crossing the room in three strides.
His hand hovered for a heartbeat before making contact—
Draco's eyes flew open.
For one crystalline moment, recognition flickered in those grey depths. Then, the scream tore through the house like a banshee's wail.
Draco convulsed backward, sheets tangling around his thrashing limbs as he scrambled away. His bare heels kicked against the headboard, his bandaged chest heaving as the first crimson bloom spread across the fabric.
"NO! NO, PLEASE,"
"Draco!" Snape lunged forward, grasping at flailing wrists. "It's Severus!"
"GET AWAY!" Draco's elbow connected with Snape's jaw in a crack of bone on bone. His nails raked bloody furrows across the hand that tried to pin him as he twisted like a trapped animal. "Harry! Harry, help me!"
The wound split fully now, blood soaking through bandages and silk alike. Draco didn't seem to notice the pain, his terror-glazed eyes seeing not his godfather but some imagined executioner.
Snape caught his face between shaking hands. "Look at me! It's-"
"Don't take me back to him!" Draco shrieked, his voice breaking on the words. A spray of blood flecked his lips as his struggles grew wilder, more desperate. "He'll kill me, he'll—"
The door exploded inward.
Snape barely registered the splintering wood before a boot connected with his ribs, sending him crashing into the vanity. Glass shattered as his back hit the mirror, shards raining down like jagged hail.
Through the ringing in his ears, he heard it.
"Shhh, I'm here. I've got you."
Potter.
Crouched over Draco's shuddering form, one hand pressing a fresh bandage to the bleeding wound while the other cradled his head. Draco clung to him like a drowning man, his face buried against Potter's throat as violent tremors wracked his frame.
"T-took me...he was g-going to..."
"I know, love. I know." Potter's fingers carded through sweat-damp hair, his voice dropping to a whisper. "But I won't let anyone take you, never again."
When those green eyes lifted to meet Snape's, there was no boy left in them. Only something cold and sharp and ancient.
Something that smiled as Draco's fingers tightened in his shirt. The air in the bedroom was thick with the scent of blood.
Snape lay sprawled against the shattered remnants of the vanity, his ribs screaming where Potter’s boot had connected. Glass shards bit into his palms as he pushed himself up, his dark eyes locking onto the scene before him.
Potter, crouched over Draco like a possessive shadow, one hand pressing a fresh bandage to the bleeding wound while the other cradled the back of his head. Draco was trembling violently, his fingers knotted in Potter’s shirt, his face buried against his collarbone. His breaths came in ragged, wet gasps, his entire body coiled tight with terror.
"Don’t let him take me back," Draco sobbed, the words muffled against Potter’s skin. "The Dark Lord, he’ll kill me—"
Potter’s fingers tightened in Draco’s hair. His gaze never left Snape’s.
"Do you want him gone, my dear?" he murmured, his voice soft, almost tender.
Draco nodded desperately, his nails digging into Potter’s arms.
"Please."
Potter stood.
Snape barely had time to register the movement before Potter’s wand was in his hand, the wood gleaming darkly in the dim light. His expression was calm, eerily so, as if this were nothing more than a minor inconvenience.
"You stuck your nose too deep this time, Snape," Potter said, his voice devoid of any emotion.
Snape’s wand hand twitched—
Green light erupted from Potter’s wand.
For a fraction of a second, Snape saw it, the curse streaking toward him, the way the air itself seemed to fracture in its wake.
Then, nothing.
The silence that followed was absolute.
Draco’s breath hitched, his fingers still tangled in Harry’s shirt. His eyes were wide, unblinking, fixed on the spot where Snape's prone form laid, eyes unseeing.
Harry lowered his wand.
He turned back to Draco, his expression softening as he cupped his face in both hands.
"Shh," he murmured, brushing his thumbs over Draco’s tear-stained cheeks. "It’s over now. No one will take you away, no one will hurt you."
Draco’s breath shuddered out of him, his body sagging forward into Harry’s embrace.
Harry held him close, his lips pressing against the crown of Draco’s head.
Mine.
The wireless crackled to life with a burst of static, the sound cutting through the heavy silence of Grimmauld Place’s master bedroom. The announcer’s voice was crisp, professional, almost cheerful, as if he were discussing the weather rather than the latest executions.
"...confirmed deaths of Florean Fortescue in yesterday’s raid. The Ministry reminds all citizens that harboring Undesirables is punishable by—"
Harry lounged in the armchair by the window, one leg draped over the armrest, his fingers tapping an idle rhythm against his thigh. The volume was turned just loud enough to hear every word, every damning detail of the war raging beyond these walls.
Outside, the sky was the color of bruised flesh, the distant glow of spellfire flickering along the horizon like false stars.
His gaze never left Draco.
The blond sat on the edge of the bed, his spine rigid, his fingers clenched in the silk sheets. The wireless’s glow painted his face golden, highlighting the angles of his cheekbones, the shadows beneath his eyes. His breath came too fast, his knuckles whitening with every new name recited.
"—scheduled purge of Mudbloods in Bristol—"
A flinch.
Harry’s lips curled.
He rose, crossing the room in slow, measured steps. The floorboards didn’t creak, not for him, not anymore. The house knew better.
Draco didn’t look up until Harry’s shadow fell over him.
“You’re thinking too loud,” Harry murmured, reaching down to tilt Draco’s chin up with two fingers. His skin was warm, his pulse rabbiting under Harry’s touch.
Draco’s throat worked. “They’re killing—”
“Shh,” Harry pressed his thumb to Draco’s lips, silencing him. The wireless droned on in the background, listing more casualties, more atrocities. “None of that matters.”
Draco’s eyes, wide, gray, beautiful flickered toward the wireless.
Harry clicked his tongue. With a lazy wave of his hand, the radio silenced itself mid-sentence, the sudden quiet was deafening.
“It’s not your war anymore,” Harry whispered, leaning down until their foreheads touched. His free hand carded through Draco’s hair, his nails scraping gently against his scalp. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.”
Draco shuddered.
For a moment, Harry thought he might argue. Might pull away. Might remember.
Draco’s lashes fluttered shut, he exhaled, long and slow, his body sagging forward until his forehead rested against Harry’s shoulder.
Defeated.
Perfect.
Harry nuzzled against his hair.
Outside, the world burned.
Inside, Draco was his.