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The Manor was too quiet, as if the house itself was resting, trying to free itself from the weight of the past. The silence clung to the walls, hid in the corners, and seemed to soak into every breath.
Draco sat by the window, staring into the darkness, and once again caught himself thinking that since the war had ended, the world had lost its color. He no longer ate, went outside, or spoke. He only waited for night—the only time when he could see him.
He knew his parents were worried. His mother had tried to talk to him several times, but none of it mattered. The last few months had lost all meaning altogether. The days had long merged into one grey mass, and the only thing that kept him going came at night. Only then did Draco feel that he was still able to truly breathe.
But every time he woke up, he understood more clearly: sleep was not enough.
And of course, it was all because of Potter.
Draco still remembered how, at the end of summer, the news had come—Harry Potter was dead. The consequences of that choice in the forest, after which his body had finally given up. For several months he had held on, given testimony, helped the Ministry, defended someone’s innocence—even the Malfoys’. He did what he knew best: he saved others. But he couldn’t save himself.
Draco hated him for that.
Not for dying, but for once again doing everything for everyone else, leaving behind an emptiness that was impossible to live with. A hero who threw himself into the fire to pull out other people’s lives, and never found even the smallest way to save his own.
How am I supposed to live now?
He often asked this question out loud, but the walls never answered. No one could answer him at all—he had surrounded himself with emptiness and silence just so no one would touch him.
During the day, everything seemed grey and faded. The weather changed outside the windows, the elves whispered somewhere in the kitchen, owls brought letters, but he noticed nothing. The sun could shine blindingly bright, yet in his eyes it was only another shade of emptiness.
Everything had lost its meaning.
A world without Potter was wrong, like a damaged copy of something real. Everything seemed to keep going—people lived, made plans, argued about politics, bought new robes. But the moment he remembered that Potter was gone, everything collapsed. Whose life was there to watch, when all the others weren’t even worth his glance?
And the most disgusting thing was that Potter still managed to be the center of everything—even dead.
“Bloody hero,” Draco breathed into the emptiness, clenching his fingers until his knuckles turned white. “Did everything for others and left me here alone. What the hell, Potter? Who am I supposed to argue with now? Who am I supposed to watch so they don’t get themselves into trouble again? Whose stupid life is supposed to annoy me so much that I want to interfere?”
Only silence answered him.
But at night, everything changed. As soon as he fell asleep, reality gave way to the only thing that still had meaning.
The dream always brought him to the same place. A large window stretched almost to the ceiling, and soft moonlight poured into the room. Semi-transparent curtains moved gently in a light draft, and there was something calming in that motion—almost innocent. Beyond the glass lay a lake, smooth as a mirror, with a silver path stretching across its surface, as if it had been laid there on purpose so one could walk all the way to the moon.
Draco hated how beautiful it was.
Too unreal for a place you could only reach in a dream.
And still, every time his heart tightened when he saw Potter.
Today he was standing by the window, turned slightly toward the light, and looked impossibly alive. Black hair falling over his forehead, a look in his eyes where something stubborn flickered, as always. Everything felt painfully real.
“You again,” Draco breathed out, feeling a wave of anger rise in his chest. He stepped closer and stopped sharply, afraid that one more step and the illusion would disappear.
“Did you really think I’d leave?” Harry asked calmly, not moving from his place.
“You already did,” Draco clenched his fists. “You died, Potter, and left me to deal with this shit on my own.”
The curtains stirred again, moonlight slid across Harry’s face, and Draco felt something sharp lodge in his throat, like a lump he couldn’t swallow.
“Are you going to lecture me again?” Harry shifted his gaze from the window straight to him.
“You always get involved where you shouldn’t,” Draco snapped, turning toward the wall. “And never for yourself—always for everyone else. What the hell? Why is it always you? Why did you have to carry this damn world on your shoulders?”
Harry stayed silent. He just looked at him, and that made Draco’s fingers shake.
“Do you even understand,” he went on, almost breaking into a shout, “what you did? Who you left behind? Whose life you turned into a bloody emptiness?”
Only after that did Harry speak quietly:
“Draco, you know I couldn’t do otherwise. We’ve talked about this.”
He said it so simply, without even trying to justify himself. And that was what drove Draco mad the most.
“Of course you couldn’t,” Draco hissed. “Because you’re Potter. The whole world has always mattered more to you than you ever did.”
He wanted to say more, to pour out all the built-up irritation, all the anger and pain, but at some point he noticed his voice was trembling, and that only made it worse.
“You know perfectly well I didn’t have a choice,” Harry lowered his eyes slightly, and weariness flickered in his voice. “Dumbledore told me then that I could stay, but my friends needed me. I was given a chance to return only to finish everything. Death doesn’t let go so easily, Draco. I was given very little time.”
Draco laughed sharply—dry and bitter, so painful it hurt even him. He remembered how furious he had been the very first time he heard this story. Nothing had changed since then: the anger hadn’t gone anywhere, it had only sunk deeper.
“Yes, but you know what?” Draco snapped. “That knowledge doesn’t make it any easier. Do you even realize how pathetic it sounds? You were given a little time—like charity. For a hero who just had to finish everything for everyone else.”
He spoke sharply, almost spitting the words out, yet inside he already felt it—that familiar trap again. The same accusations, the same circle of pain.
Harry stayed silent, and that only made it worse. Draco wanted shouting, an answer, a fight until their voices broke—anything but this silence. But Potter only watched him, as if letting him speak it all out.
“I know you’re hurting. I am too. But nothing can be changed now. It’s all in the past,” Harry finally said quietly. “And we have too little time to waste it on arguments.”
He stepped forward. His footsteps were almost silent on the floor, as if the room itself was adjusting to him, unwilling to disturb the fragile quiet. Draco stayed where he was, only watching, waiting to see what would happen next.
Harry stopped beside him, reached out, and gently touched his hand, threading their fingers together. The movement was so careful, as if he were afraid Draco might disappear before they could even touch.
Draco looked up sharply and met his gaze. In those green eyes there was no familiar defiance—only tired calm and a kind of strength that made him want to both push Harry away and pull him closer at the same time.
The room seemed to freeze with them. Light curtains stirred in the wind, moonlight lay across their faces, and everything around them felt far too real for a dream.
“Potter,” Draco breathed, almost a whisper. There was no hatred left in the word now—only a tremor.
Harry squeezed his hand a little tighter, as if trying to hold him right there, in that single moment.
It was always like this. Every night, first came the arguments—until his throat hurt, until his fingers shook, until the words felt sharp enough to cut the air like knives. In every fight hid Draco’s anger and despair. The feelings were too strong to keep inside and too pointless to change anything. Harry listened, answered, sometimes stayed silent—and that silence annoyed Draco the most.
But then, inevitably, came the quiet. And all that remained was the one thing impossible to refuse: touch. Draco remembered the first time he had allowed himself to reach out, and Harry hadn’t pulled away. Their fingers met, laced together so carefully, as if they were both afraid of destroying this fragile reality.
Since then, it repeated every night. Sometimes it was a barely noticeable touch, sometimes tight embraces he wanted to dissolve into. And Draco hated himself for waiting for it, craving every second of that warmth, even though he knew perfectly well—it was only a dream. Nothing more than an illusion.
But in the dream, Harry was different. Not the stubborn, unbearable hero, but alive and impossibly close. There was no judgment in his green eyes, no sharpness in his voice. He was gentle, open—exactly the way Draco had always secretly wanted him to be. Here, Harry let him hold his hand as long as he needed, allowed him to press closer, to stand still in the silence, to feel his breathing near his temple.
And every night, it was a salvation from rage, emptiness, and endless pain.
But that was exactly what made waking up unbearable. The moment Draco opened his eyes, everything vanished—the soft light, the rustle of curtains, the warmth of Harry’s fingers. The world became cold and empty again, and Draco was left alone. With a hollow ache in his chest and a burning dependence on something that existed only in sleep.
Waking up became torture.
Every morning felt like a sharp blow that knocked the breath out of him. Draco opened his eyes, and the first thing he felt was cold—as if the bed had cooled in a single second and all the air had vanished from the room. Even his fingers ached with emptiness; where Potter’s hand had held him just a moment ago, there was now nothing.
He hated those morning moments. His body trembled, as if after a long fall, his head buzzed with an endless stream of thoughts about the fact that it had been just a dream again. Beautiful, warm, and magical—but slowly killing him with pain.
Sometimes Draco closed his eyes, trying to go back, to hold on to at least a fragment of the dream or its shadow, but it was always useless. The luxury of seeing Potter was available to him only at night, and for that he was grateful, no matter what.
Every day he faded a little more, and every night he came back to life, like a phoenix burning in its own flame and rising again, over and over.
A few days later, in another dream, they were simply sitting on the sofa in silence, holding hands. The wind outside swayed the curtains, and the moonlit path on the surface of the lake blurred and sharpened again.
“Do you remember our first Quidditch match together?” Harry suddenly asked, and Draco looked at him in surprise.
“Why would you suddenly remember that?”
“Just because,” Harry shrugged. “It was fun—especially when you fell off your broom. You bragged so much, threatened to win, and then spent the whole day in the Hospital Wing.”
“Fun?” Draco raised an eyebrow, squeezing his fingers a little tighter. “You think it’s funny that I almost got killed in front of the entire stadium?”
“Well, you were shouting so confidently that Gryffindor was about to learn what real skill looked like,” Harry smirked, glancing at him sideways, “but that never really happened.”
“I got distracted because one idiot in red kept flying right under my nose,” Draco snapped back, though the corner of his mouth twitched.
“I did catch the Snitch that day,” Harry added casually.
“Oh yes, thanks for reminding me,” Draco grimaced. “Half the school talked about nothing else afterward.”
“And the other half talked about how Malfoy spent the entire day whining in the Hospital Wing,” Harry laughed, his shoulder brushing lightly against Draco’s.
“I was not whining!” Draco protested, though Harry’s laughter was infectious, and his lips betrayed him with a smile. “I was actually in pain!”
“Yes, we all noticed—especially when Madam Pomfrey said you could leave, but you kept groaning and complaining,” Harry teased, and Draco felt heat rush traitorously to his ears.
“Of course you’d still cling to those memories,” he muttered, turning toward the window. “Potter lives just to remind me of my most ridiculous moments.”
“What else am I supposed to do?” Harry squeezed his hand gently. “You’d never admit you were funny.”
They both laughed. Draco at first quietly, restrained, then a little louder, feeling as if some invisible weight had finally slipped from his shoulders.
“You know,” he said once his breathing had more or less settled, “I always hated that you were on the other side. I wanted to prove at least once that I was better than you.”
“I think you were a good Seeker,” Harry said seriously.
Draco shot him a sideways look.
“And what, that’s supposed to flatter me, coming from the great Potter?”
“Maybe,” Harry smiled. “Or maybe it just means I wasn’t always your enemy.”
Draco wanted to brush it off, to smirk, to make some familiar sharp remark—but instead he felt something in his chest ache and tremble. The words were simple, yet there was something true in them. Fragments of tense looks during practice, arguments in the Hogwarts corridors, rare moments without war and hatred surfaced in his mind.
Maybe that was why those words hit so hard.
Draco looked back at the lake, the moving curtains, the silver path of moonlight, and suddenly realized that sometimes Potter knew how to find words that cut deeper than Draco wanted to admit. He twisted his mouth, hiding the feeling behind his usual mask.
“You’re disgustingly good with words, Potter,” he muttered at last.
“But I’m better at Quidditch,” Harry teased, laughing again with that lightness their real lives had never had.
Draco didn’t argue. He only squeezed Harry’s hand tighter, as if trying to make sure this moment wouldn’t disappear too quickly.
The next time, the room greeted him with silence and soft light. It felt as if the wind outside had died down, and the curtains barely moved, as though the dream itself had decided not to disturb them that night.
They were half-lying on the sofa. Harry sat a little higher, one arm around Draco’s shoulders, and Draco allowed himself to settle closer than ever before, resting his head against Harry’s chest and listening to the steady, calm beat of his heart. There was more comfort in that sound than in all the words that could ever be said.
Harry slowly, almost absent-mindedly, ran his hand along Draco’s back. The circular motions were so gentle that Draco closed his eyes without thinking. He had never allowed himself to relax like this beside anyone before, but now he felt no tension, no fear—only warmth, wrapping around him completely.
Draco suddenly realized he was breathing more deeply, more calmly than he ever did during the day. Maybe it was because none of this was real, and in this moment, he wanted to let himself rest.
“I really don’t want to leave,” Draco whispered.
He felt Harry’s hand still for a moment. The movement stopped, as if the words had touched something inside him. Only a second later, the hand carefully began to move again, slow and gentle, as though Harry were choosing each touch with care.
Draco opened his eyes and looked up. In the soft moonlight, Harry’s face seemed unreal in its calm, but something flickered in his eyes—a hint of tension, barely visible, yet still there.
And because of that, everything inside Draco tightened with a dull ache.
That evening, sleep did not come at once, as if it were deliberately teasing him, in no hurry to grant him relief. When Draco finally found himself again in the familiar room with the tall window and soft moonlight, he felt a rush of relief—he had been afraid, for a moment, that he would never see Potter again.
They sat side by side on the sofa, just like on the previous nights. Sometimes, in moments like this, Harry would talk about the past, remember their school years, and then they would laugh. There were nights when they simply sat in silence, exchanging only a few quiet words.
Tonight felt the same. Harry’s hand rested over Draco’s, their fingers intertwined, his breathing calm and steady. It seemed they could stay like this forever.
But suddenly Harry spoke, and Draco didn’t like his tone.
“I wanted to talk to you, Draco.”
Draco tensed slightly, slowly turning his head. There was no familiar softness in Harry’s green eyes—fatigue and determination were clearly visible there.
“About what?” Draco asked dryly.
Harry took a deep breath, as if gathering his strength.
“This can’t go on forever. I thought our meetings would help you pull yourself together, return to reality—but I see now that it’s only getting worse.”
“Worse?” Draco almost laughed, but the sound came out dull and sharp with anger. “Do you seriously think I can just go back? To a world where you don’t exist?”
“Draco…” Harry reached out, but Draco jerked his hand away.
“Don’t,” his voice broke. “You come here every night, sit next to me, hold my hand—and now you’re telling me it’s all wrong? You knew from the very beginning that I would cling to you. You knew it perfectly well!”
Harry frowned, pain flashing in his eyes.
“I’m afraid you’re holding on to this alone, that everything else has already lost its meaning. I don’t want you to live only for sleep.”
“Then what am I supposed to live for?!” Draco shouted, jumping to his feet. “For emptiness? For miserable days where every single one reminds me that you’re gone? What do you want from me, Potter? To wake up and smile as if everything is fine?”
“I want you to live,” Harry said, his voice unexpectedly firm. “To truly live—not die every day just for the sake of a dream.”
“Easy for someone who’s already dead to say!” Draco snapped, his anger sharp and raw. “You saved everyone again except yourself, and now I’m the one left alone!”
Harry clenched his fists but did not step back.
“Do you think it’s easy for me? Do you think I wanted to leave?”
“You always did,” Draco hissed. “A hero to the very end. A fool who rushed forward without thinking about himself. You’re the same even here—coming into my dreams to try and save me. But what else should I expect from an illusion?”
“I come here,” Potter cut in sharply, “because you call me.”
Draco froze.
“What?”
Harry stepped closer, and there was no calm left in his voice now.
“You think your imagination is creating me? No, Draco. I’m here because your pain won’t let me go. Because every time you fall asleep, you call for me so strongly that I can’t help but come.”
“Nonsense,” Draco breathed.
“You really think so?” Harry moved even closer, and there was such force in his green eyes that fear crawled up Draco’s spine. “Would your illusion argue with you until your voice breaks? Would you really invent my anger, my exhaustion, my fear of losing you completely?”
“Losing me?” Draco echoed, clinging to the last words.
Harry grabbed his shoulders and looked straight into his eyes.
“Yes. I’m afraid of losing you—even now. Would an illusion say that to you, Malfoy? In your head, we’d be hating each other, throwing spells. You don’t have to believe me—but I’m telling you the truth.”
Draco felt something inside him collapse. The words struck harder than any spell ever could.
This wasn’t a dream.
And it wasn’t a picture created by his mind.
It was the real Potter—or rather, his soul, caught between worlds.
“You…” Draco was struggling for breath, his fingers clutching the fabric at Harry’s chest. “You’re really here.”
For several seconds they just looked at each other. Draco felt his heart pounding in his temples, his chest burning as if he had swallowed fire. Of course, doubts crept in—whether Potter was truly coming to him—but he pushed them away almost immediately. It was too unbelievable. How could that Harry Potter look at him like this? Draco felt something tighten inside him at the realization that he had been given a chance, however small, to be with Harry again—even if only in a dream.
His thoughts were interrupted by Potter’s quiet voice:
“That’s exactly why I want you to stop calling me.”
“What?” Draco almost laughed. The sudden spark of joy vanished instantly, as if it had never existed.
“You have to keep living,” Harry said calmly, but every word cut sharper than a knife. “You need to return to the world where other people are waiting for you. I can’t be your life.”
“How am I supposed to do that?!” Draco broke again, stepping right up to him. There was more pain than anger in his voice. “How am I supposed to live in a place where only emptiness waits for me? Where every day reminds me that you’re gone? How can you ask me for this?”
Harry looked away for just a second, but it was enough for Draco to feel himself breaking apart inside.
“Because you’re needed alive,” Harry finally said. “And I’m not.”
“Shut up,” Draco almost shouted, grabbing his shirt as if he wanted to shake him. “Don’t you dare say that, Potter. You’re all I have left. Without you, there’s nothing there!”
He wanted to go on, but his voice failed him, tears rising to his eyes. He blinked them away angrily, refusing to let them fall. He didn’t care anymore that his feelings were now bare, open, and vulnerable. Draco had already lost Harry once by showing nothing but hatred, and he wouldn’t do that again. If this could change anything, then Harry had to know the truth: he mattered. He was needed. He was irreplaceable.
But instead of answering, Potter suddenly pulled him into an embrace.
It was strong, desperate—holding him so tightly, as if he himself were afraid Draco might disappear. Harry’s hands trembled as they moved along Draco’s back, as though he were trying to calm not only him, but himself as well.
“I don’t want you to break because of me,” Harry whispered into his hair.
Draco felt everything inside him burn. He wanted to pull away, to shout, to accuse him again—but his arms lifted on their own and clutched Potter just as tightly. Too tightly. Desperately. As if his life depended on it—because, in some way, it did.
“It’s too late,” he breathed, his voice shaking.
Harry pulled back for a moment to look into his eyes. Their faces were so close their breaths mingled. In those green eyes was everything at once—pain, tenderness, and something that made Draco’s heart ache until it hurt.
And then Harry kissed him.
The kiss was sharp, almost painful, but Draco responded at once. Without thinking, without hesitation—like he had been waiting for this his entire life. He grabbed Harry’s shoulders, pulling him closer, and their lips met again and again, each time deeper, more desperate.
There was no caution in it—only hunger, the taste of salt, whether from his own tears or Harry’s, and hot, uneven breathing. Draco needed to feel him completely, until it hurt, until air itself stopped mattering.
Harry answered just as desperately. His fingers tangled in the back of Draco’s neck, in his hair, as if afraid he would disappear the moment he let go. The kiss broke every wall, every boundary between them, leaving nothing but the two of them and the fire burning from the inside.
A low sound escaped Draco’s throat, almost unconscious, and it was as if the last chains snapped. Harry pulled him even closer, his hands sliding down Draco’s back, leaving trails of heat in their wake. The rest of the world vanished—everything dissolved until there were only lips, hands, and the shiver that ran through Draco’s body with every new spark of their touch.
For Draco, the kiss was a cry without words, a plea to say: Don’t leave. Stay. Be mine at least here.
He didn’t know how long it lasted. Time lost all meaning; there was only happiness, and he both loved and hated it at once.
When their lips finally parted, Draco didn’t even know who pulled away first. Their foreheads rested together, their breathing ragged and hot, his hands still trembling.
He looked into the green eyes in front of him and understood—no illusion could kiss like that. He could never have imagined something like this. No matter how often Draco had pictured kissing Harry before, it came nowhere close to what was happening now.
“This…” he breathed, the words catching in his throat. “This wasn’t a dream.”
Harry smiled faintly, but there was no joy in his eyes. He shook his head and lifted a hand, gently touching Draco’s cheek. Warm fingers lingered along his cheekbone, his thumb brushing softly over the skin, as if Harry were trying to memorize every detail.
“Our time is still limited,” he said quietly.
Draco froze, unable to look away.
“Don’t say that,” he whispered, clutching Harry’s shirt. “Not now.”
Harry seemed to want to answer. His lips trembled slightly, but the words never came. The room suddenly felt alive—the curtains swayed harder, as if caught by a gust of wind, the moonlight flickered and faded, the outlines began to blur. Draco felt the warmth of the fingers on his cheek weakening, slipping away. He tried to hold on, to pull Harry closer, but his grip slid through his fingers and dissolved into emptiness.
And then the dream broke.
Draco woke up abruptly and immediately realized his eyes were burning with moisture. He blinked and felt a hot drop slowly roll down his temple, leaving a salty trace on his skin. He had never cried upon waking before, not even during the most unbearable nights, when the emptiness pressed down on him so hard he wanted to scream. Draco had always kept his tears inside, locked them away deep where no one could ever see him weak. But now it was impossible. The tears broke free on their own, without asking permission, and he couldn’t stop them.
He lay on his back, breathing heavily, and the same images flared in his mind again and again: warm fingers on his cheek, green eyes without a trace of mockery, and words he had almost heard—but that never had time to be spoken. Draco clenched the sheets until his knuckles turned white, while inside him churned a mix of anger, pain, despair, and something new, something frightening.
Could it really be true? Had Potter truly felt the same? There had been something in his gaze, in that kiss, that couldn’t be mistaken for pity or illusion. It hadn’t been a product of imagination or a comforting fantasy. No, everything had been far too vivid, far too real. Harry had held him as if he had no intention of letting go.
The thought that Potter might have felt anything for him beyond hostility or indifference burned and soothed him at the same time. Draco wanted to believe it, but another voice rose in his chest at once, cruel and cold: Even if it’s his soul and if he comes to you because of pain, in the real world he’s still gone.
And that made him want to howl.
He covered his face with his hands and allowed himself a few more seconds to breathe quietly through the sobs. His chest shook, tears soaked into his skin, but for the first time in many months he didn’t try to crush them down. They held everything—the impossibility of acceptance, hatred for a fate that had taken what mattered most, and the unbearable, desperate happiness that maybe, at least in a dream, he could still be close to him.
***
Several days dragged by painfully slowly. The nights passed without dreams, and Draco was afraid that their last meeting had truly been the final one. He hated himself for that impatience, for the fact that his whole life had narrowed down to waiting—and yet he couldn’t change it.
And when the dream finally came, Draco almost sighed with relief, as if he had returned home. The room looked the same as always: soft light, the lake beyond the window, the faint rustle of wind.
Harry was sitting on the sofa, his gaze lowered to his hands, looking as though he didn’t know where to begin. Draco froze by the door, not daring to take the first step. A few seconds felt like eternity. He was already about to say something sharp to break the silence, but Harry lifted his head and looked straight at him.
Green eyes met grey ones, and Draco felt something in his chest tighten painfully.
Harry stood up first and walked closer, though not too close, leaving a small space between them.
“I…” he hesitated, then finally breathed out. “I wanted to talk about what happened.”
Draco twisted his mouth, trying to hide his real feelings.
“The kiss?” he asked dryly.
“Yes.” Harry didn’t look away. There was caution in his voice—but also a strange kind of determination. “I don’t regret it.”
Draco felt heat rush to his face. He turned away quickly and began staring at the moving curtains, as if they were the most fascinating thing in the world at that moment.
“Neither do I,” he said quietly, surprised at how easily and honestly those two words came out, when his whole life he had hidden the truth behind sarcasm and poison.
Harry seemed to hold his breath. For a moment, his expression softened—but in the next second sadness returned to his eyes, and Draco felt a sharp sting in his chest.
“I was afraid to admit it before,” Harry began slowly, choosing his words carefully, as if each sentence could destroy everything. “It always felt wrong, like I had no right to feel something like that. And then, when I realized I had less and less time left, I decided to stay silent. But now… there’s nothing left to hide.”
Draco clenched his teeth. He wanted to say something sharp, something familiar and biting—but instead what slipped out was the truth.
“At least it finally happened now.”
Potter shook his head, and a tired smile crossed his face—the kind that made Draco’s heart tighten. Slowly, he lifted his hand and brushed his fingers along Draco’s cheek, lingering near his temple as if trying to memorize the feeling.
“But precisely because it happened now,” he said, his voice too soft, “I have to ask you to stop.”
Draco recoiled sharply.
“What are you talking about?”
“Go back to reality,” Harry said calmly, yet there was strength in every word, and that made them sound like a sentence. “Live your life, Draco. You’re meant to have a long, happy one—but not with me. You can’t hold on to these dreams. I don’t know when, but we’ll see each other again. I promise.”
“A happy life?” Draco let out a bitter laugh. “How am I supposed to live happily when every damn day reminds me that you’re gone? Do you even hear yourself? Why are you bringing this up again? Is this some new kind of torture?”
“I don’t want you breaking yourself because of me,” Harry said quietly. “I come to you only because your pain calls me. But if you keep going like this, you’ll destroy yourself.”
Draco felt his chest tighten. He stepped forward, grabbed Harry’s shirt, and pulled him closer.
“Don’t,” he breathed hoarsely. “Don’t ask me to let go. I’ve already lost you once. Do you really think I can do it again?”
Their breaths mixed; only inches separated their faces. Pain flickered in Harry’s eyes—but also tenderness, and that made it worse.
“Draco…”
“I can’t, Potter,” he cut in, his voice shaking. “You have no right to ask me to live in a world where you don’t exist.”
Harry closed his eyes, as if he couldn’t find the words. His fingers touched Draco’s cheek again—more carefully this time—and there was something like farewell in that touch, something Draco refused to accept. He looked at Potter, and his anger slowly faded, giving way to what he feared most—vulnerability.
Draco slowly raised his hand and wrapped it around Harry’s wrist, as if afraid he might pull away. For a few seconds he hesitated. His heart was pounding so loudly it drowned out every thought. Then he stepped forward and chose to kiss him himself.
The kiss was careful—almost too gentle for Draco Malfoy, who had always hidden behind confidence and venom. His lips trembled slightly before he dared to press closer, as if testing how far he was allowed to go. He felt the warmth of Harry’s breath, the faint tremble of his lips, and it made his head spin.
He feared Potter would pull away—but he didn’t. Instead, Harry’s hand moved to the back of Draco’s head, drawing him nearer. Draco stilled for a brief second, then hesitantly brushed his tongue along Harry’s lower lip, as if asking for permission.
Harry answered without hesitation. Their breathing tangled; the kiss deepened, and something inside Draco seemed to break open. The taste was familiar and strange at the same time, and it left him dizzy. Everything felt too real—the gentle pressure, the slow movement of their lips adjusting to each other, the way they found a shared rhythm.
His fingers tightened in the fabric of Harry’s shirt, as though he were holding on to the only thing keeping him in this world. And the longer the kiss lasted, the clearer it became—this was not a dream.
Dreams could not be this warm, this alive.
Draco didn’t immediately understand who had broken the kiss first, and it didn’t matter. The air between them was hot and heavy, filled with their breath, and he felt his heart beating too fast, painfully in his temples. His fingers were still gripping the fabric of Harry’s shirt, and he couldn’t make himself let go.
Potter didn’t rush to break the contact either. His hand remained at the back of Draco’s head, his fingers trembling slightly as they stroked his short hair, as if trying to calm him. Their foreheads nearly touched, their breathing uneven and hot, and for a second Draco thought that if he closed his eyes, he could dissolve into this feeling and never return.
Once again he understood—no illusion could give him this taste, this warmth. This was Potter. His soul, caught somewhere in between, still finding its way back to him.
The thought pierced him so sharply that a lump rose in his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling a tremor run through his whole body, allowing himself a second of weakness as he struggled with the storm inside him.
“You shouldn’t hold on to me like this,” Potter whispered, his voice shaking, the words sounding almost like a plea.
“I don’t know how to do it any other way,” Draco breathed.
Harry pulled back slightly, his palm sliding along Draco’s cheek, lingering there, and then he said the one thing Draco never wanted to hear:
“Draco… I can’t keep doing this.”
At first, the words didn’t settle in his mind. They echoed and seemed to dissolve. Draco blinked at him, and only then did he fully understand what Potter meant.
“What?” His voice broke, sounding too loud in the quiet room.
“This will be our last meeting,” Harry said calmly, though his eyes revealed how painful each word was. “It will be better for you. I know it hurts now, but later you’ll accept it and be able to move on.”
Draco jerked back as if struck across the face, something boiling inside him.
“Move on?” He almost laughed, but the sound came out hoarse and bitter. “Are you mocking me? How am I supposed to accept that I’ll never see you again? Every day is a reminder that you’re gone, Potter! Every damn day! You want me to just accept it, smile, and go drink tea like nothing happened?”
“You’re stronger than you think,” Harry lowered his eyes, though his voice remained steady. “I believe you’ll manage.”
Those words hurt more than if Harry had shouted every insult at him at once. You’ll manage. Of course. The hero says he’ll manage, because he himself no longer has to live. Draco was suffocating with anger and pain.
“Don’t,” he cut in, stepping close again and gripping his shoulders. “Don’t you dare tell me what will be easier for me. You don’t get to decide that! I didn’t ask you to come! But since you’re here, don’t you dare leave again.”
“Draco…”
“No!” His voice trembled, but he refused to fall silent. “You’re always leaving! All your life! First in the Forest, then after the war, and now like this. Do you even understand what you’re doing to me?” Tears rose to his eyes. He blinked angrily at himself but couldn’t stop the shake in his voice. “I won’t let you go, do you hear me?” he breathed, pulling him closer as if afraid Harry would dissolve in his arms. “If this is a dream, let it never end. If this is reality, let it kill me. But I can’t lose you again.”
Draco felt his fingers trembling, his chest tightening painfully, and he knew—one more second and he would break completely.
Potter said nothing. He only looked at him. The green eyes were full of pain, but there was no agreement in them, and that made Draco want to howl.
“You don’t understand…” Harry said quietly. “If we keep doing this, you’ll destroy yourself—and I won’t be able to bear it.”
“Too late!” Draco shouted. “I’m already destroyed!”
He clung to Potter as if he could hold him by force—but everything around them was already changing. The room trembled, the curtains were torn aside as if by a violent wind, the moonlit path on the lake flickered and blurred, as though someone were wiping it away.
“No!” The word tore from his lips, filled with rage, despair, and pleading. “You don’t have the right! You can’t leave me again, Potter!”
“I’m sorry,” Harry said softly, and those two words held more pain than any argument. He lifted his hand and touched Draco’s cheek one last time, his thumb brushing over his skin so gently it made everything worse. “But I have to. And remember—we’ll meet again. I’ll wait for you. Just don’t hurry. Let it be a hundred years from now.”
Draco tried to speak, but his voice failed him. He felt everything around him cracking, mist swallowing the room, erasing its outlines, Harry’s fingers becoming less and less real. In desperation, Draco pressed closer—but his hands were already passing through fabric, through skin, through him.
“No!” he cried again. “Don’t you dare leave!”
And in the same moment, everything vanished.
He woke with a violent jolt. The room greeted him with darkness and cold. His throat burned, his breathing uneven, and hot tears ran down his cheeks.
It was over.
And yet Draco could still feel the warmth on his cheek where Harry had touched him for the last time.
That made it worse.
The world demanded that he go on living—and he had no idea how.
***
Several days after the last dream with Harry stretched into eternity. Draco lived as if by inertia: he got up in the morning, tried to eat at least something, kept up the appearance of conversation with his father and mother, sometimes even read his letters—but all of it felt mechanical. The world had turned grey, and nothing seemed to matter.
His thoughts returned again and again to what he had lost. And the worst part was that he remembered every detail of how good it had felt to be near Harry in those dreams, how for the first time all the sharp words, the hatred and rivalry had disappeared. His fingers still remembered the warmth of another hand, the way Potter hadn’t pulled away when Draco had finally dared to touch him. Even in that fragile reality, Harry had been closer than anyone else ever had in his life.
And the kisses. The memories of them hurt the most.
The first—the one in which they both dissolved. Passionate, hungry, almost painful. Draco remembered how their lips had collided too sharply, how their breathing had faltered and tangled, how his heart had pounded so hard it felt ready to burst from his chest. There had been no tenderness there—only fire and desperate need to hold on. Even now he could almost feel the burning on his lips afterward, the ache in his fingers from gripping the fabric of Harry’s shirt.
The second had been softer, more careful, almost uncertain. And yet it drove him even more insane. Their lips had touched gently, hesitantly, and Draco still remembered how Harry had placed his hand at the back of his head—firm, yet tender. And the feeling that none of it had been an illusion—that was what unsettled him the most.
Sometimes he simply wanted to disappear.
At times, he thought about his mother. Her gaze was growing more worried. She didn’t ask directly, but he could see that she noticed how little he ate and how often he seemed lost in his thoughts. And it was her look that still held him back. Draco understood that if he vanished, it would break her. But he also knew she could never replace the one he had lost.
He tried to imagine his future. An empty Manor, his mother nearby, his father still attempting to control something, rare meetings with old acquaintances, conversations about politics and business. Everything seemed colorless and unnecessary. What was the point of life if every morning would begin with the realization that Potter was no longer here? Draco imagined himself growing older, wrinkles cutting across his face, his hands beginning to tremble—while the emptiness inside remained the same. And the longer he pictured that future, the clearer it became that he would not be able to endure it.
Every evening Draco sat in the dim light of his room and thought about disappearing for so long and so carefully that the idea slowly turned into something almost tangible—a nearly formed plan. All that remained was to make the final decision. He wanted to leave, to end the waiting, to stop waking up each morning with emptiness and the memory of someone else’s hands, to stop feeling how the world squeezed every living thing out of him, leaving behind only mechanical movements.
Draco thought about the poison standing on his bedside table in a small glass vial. The potion itself did not frighten him as much as what would come after. What he feared most was the pain he would cause others—his mother above all. He could already see how her world, fragile as it was, would finally collapse if he disappeared. That thought cut deeper than any fear of his own death.
He was afraid of disappointing the people who still expected something from him—friends, acquaintances. Draco even thought about reputation, about how after his death people might twist his memory into stories connected to Harry, how cruel tongues would find reasons for gossip. It was not a small matter; for a Malfoy, such things still carried weight. But heavier than all of that was the fear that by choosing escape, he would betray the memory he clung to most—that he would disappoint Harry, who had asked him to live.
Doubt came in waves. Sometimes he felt a sharp, almost animal disgust toward himself for even one moment of relief at the thought of the end. Then came pity for his mother, and bitterness at how everything had turned out. Living on seemed impossible, as if reality itself had lost its foundation.
Each time he imagined the next day, he saw unbearable routine: hollow conversations, formal gatherings, discussions about business, polite smiles. All of it empty. Draco thought about leaving his mother a letter of explanation and felt that no words would ever be enough—neither excuses nor apologies. And at that very moment, his memory would return to the warmth of Harry’s hand moving along his back, to the way both kisses had made him feel something for the first time in so long. Those memories, so vivid, were both salvation and torture. They reminded him how deeply he was attached—and how painful it would be to lose even that.
Night after night, Draco replayed everything slowly, as if an endless argument were unfolding inside him. To live on, to adjust, to pretend, to spend his days for the sake of others—that was a kind of slow suicide as well. But to leave, abandoning those who still held on to him—that was another kind of betrayal. The thoughts drove him nearly mad, and he could do nothing to silence them.
He remembered how Harry had asked him to live, how he had spoken about later, about a long life, about meeting somewhere beyond. That hurt the most. To live for a meeting that might come decades from now, stretching the pain across years, felt unbearable.
On that final night, Draco sat on his bed for a long time, holding the vial in his hands, his eyes fixed on the cold glass. He did not hurry, did not make a plan—he simply allowed himself to think. Images flickered in his mind: Harry’s face in the dream, the scent of his hair, the taste of his lips; his mother’s anxious gaze; his father’s voice. Everything merged into one long stream of thought. There was no clarity, no firm answer—only the understanding that whatever he chose would hurt someone. To live meant prolonging the wait for someone who was no longer here. To leave meant abandoning those who still held on to him. And that realization made it heavier still.
When midnight passed, he placed the vial back on the bedside table. Moonlight slid across the glass and rested there in a thin silver line, within which something seemed to shimmer—as if a tiny star trembled inside. Draco stared at it for too long, as though searching for some kind of sign in its reflection.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, silently agreeing with his decision. There was both farewell and acceptance in that breath. Doubt and fear were still there, but somewhere deeper now, no longer sharp enough to stop him.
Draco lay down on his back, listening to his own pulse, which beat more evenly than usual that night. For the first time in a long while, he closed his eyes not with heaviness, but with the sense that the decision had already been made—and that it was easier to breathe because of it.
The vial stood on the bedside table, touched by moonlight.