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Chapter Text

Summer at Malfoy Manor came like it always did: stately, languid, and cruelly beautiful.

The sun moved slowly across the sky above Wiltshire, pouring gold into the courtyard fountains and bleeding light through the tall windows. The gardens were perfectly trimmed, blooming in deliberate symmetry — too perfect to feel real, like the air itself was afraid to misbehave. The peacocks called out across the hedges with their strange, high cries and the gravel paths never held a single footprint for long. House-elves cleaned them before the dust had time to settle.

Inside, the corridors were quiet. And Draco Malfoy kept his secrets.

No one spoke of what had happened the year before. Not that anyone knew the full truth.

When Draco returned home in June, his mother had received him with a composed smile and a quiet meal waiting in the solarium. She asked how the term had gone, politely, softly, as though she were inquiring about the weather. And she accepted his vague, polished answers with the grace of someone who understood the danger of digging too deep.

His father was more pointed.

That was when Draco found himself standing in the study, the air thick with old magic and older expectation. The chandelier above cast fractured light across the room, all gleaming silver and shadow. Lucius sat behind the polished mahogany desk with deliberate poise, every line of his body composed, fingers steepled in front of his mouth. His eyes swept over Draco like a ledger being balanced.

“You’ve grown,” Lucius said at last, voice cool, almost amused. “And ambitious, I heard. In... strange directions.”

Draco didn’t flinch. He offered a bland smile, the one he wore like armor. “I prefer to keep my options open.”

“Do you now?” Lucius’s tone was light, but the pause that followed was not. He tilted his head slightly. “That’s not a philosophy we typically encourage.”

“I’m adapting.” Draco kept his stance loose and casual, as if the very idea of being questioned amused him. “The world’s changing.”

Lucius made a soft sound in the back of his throat, almost in agreement. Then: “And your company?”

There it was. Soft, but weighted. Spoken like a man sliding a knife across velvet.

Draco’s spine straightened half a breath before he caught himself. He forced his body to stay relaxed, arms at his sides, chin slightly tilted in mock interest.

“School is small,” he said easily. “There’s more risk in drawing attention by antagonizing the school’s golden boy. It’s smarter to stay close to him instead.”

“Hm.” Lucius’s gaze lingered on him a second too long. “Spoken like a politician. Cunning has its uses, but so does clarity. You know where we stand, Draco.”

Draco smiled again, a little colder this time. “I know where everyone stands. That’s the point.”

Silence stretched between them, taut and soundless. Then Lucius gave the faintest of nods. Barely a motion at all. But Draco understood it. He’d passed.

Nothing more was said. The conversation drifted to ministry affairs, house alliances, and other rehearsed concerns. But the quiet never lifted, that strange, suffocating quiet that came with being measured and not quite trusted.

Draco knew his involvement with Harry had reached certain ears. Of course it had. That was inevitable.

But there had been no other proof. No note. No confession. Only Pettigrew, that sniveling and shaking thing of a man, muttering half-truths between gasps, too afraid to speak in full, too unreliable to be taken seriously. Even he didn’t know everything.

And no one, not even the Dark Lord’s most devout, would take the word of a traitor over the polished, poised denials of Lucius Malfoy’s heir.

They would believe Draco.

They would believe his name.

At least… for now.

***

So Draco carried on.

Early breakfasts were taken in the solarium, where the morning sun filtered through tall, leaded-glass windows and cast fractured light across the white linen tablecloth. The tea was always hot, the toast cut into perfect quarters. Then came fencing on the east lawn, the grass trimmed with surgical precision, the blades polished to a mirror’s shine. His tutor barked commands in clipped tones while Draco parried and lunged, sweat slicking the back of his neck beneath his high-collared whites. 

Afternoons passed in the family library beneath portraits of ancestors whose eyes followed him with cool disapproval. He read because he was meant to. Because it filled the hours. Because it kept his mind busy enough to stop it from wandering to places it wasn’t allowed to go.

Everything was orderly.

Everything looked fine.

His mother brought him many books, old texts on Ancient Magic, Political Theory, and subtle references to wandless casting. He pretended to be interested. He let her sit beside him in the conservatory while she embroidered little stars into the hem of a summer robe and talked idly about the summer society season. He let her believe he was calm.

Except for the truth Draco carried in his chest like a fire that wouldn’t die down.

He was a Seer.

Not in the soft, tea-leaf way Trelawney claimed. Not the classroom foolishness that Draco had once mocked openly.

This was older. Blood born and sharper.

The visions hadn’t returned since that night under the full moon. But the serpent still moved sometimes, coiled in his mind like a second heartbeat, watching in the dark.

So he wandered the edge of the Manor grounds, just beneath the shielding enchantments, where the air tasted like fog and foxglove. He’d stare out across the field until the forest line blurred, caressing the ring he now wore as a necklace around his neck. Trying to summon the Sight, trying to see the serpent again.

But the visions didn’t come.

And the silence, in time, began to ache.

There were, thankfully, small cracks throughout the summer.

The first came by owl, heavy parchment tied to the foot of a familiar black-feathered bird, who tapped impatiently against Draco’s window one morning while he was pretending to sleep through breakfast. He opened the window carefully, aware of how sensitive the Manor’s wards were to outside interference, and let the bird in before it got ideas about shattering the glass.

Inside the envelope: a scrawl from Blaise, writing from Sicily.

“Draco,

You’re missing nothing here. My mother’s latest suitor tried to turn her vineyard into a potion lab, and now he’s a toad. Still, the sun is excellent. Hope you’re bringing something dramatic to wear for the Cup. If we’re going to be stuck in that awful Ministry box, we might as well outshine everyone.

B.”

Pansy’s letter followed two days later, perfumed and aggressively pink.

“Dear Draco,

I’m being forced to attend some idiotic countryside retreat with my mother’s bridge club. It’s full of wizards pretending to be muggles. Please tell me you’ll be at the Cup. If not, I’ll die. Literally. Also, I heard from Astoria Greengrass that you’ve been quiet lately. Are you sick? Brooding? In love? Do write back.

Love,

Pans”

Draco chuckled despite himself.

They didn’t know anything, of course. Not about the serpent. Not about the visions. Not about what he had done, who he had helped. But even still, their letters reached him in a way the Manor’s stillness could not. They reminded him that he existed outside these walls, that the world was still moving, and that he would return to it soon.

Then came another letter from Harry Potter. Not the first, and by now, not entirely a surprise. But still, somehow, it felt like one.

“Draco,

Ron doesn’t know I’m writing you.

Hermione might. She’s too clever for me to hide much.

Anyway. I just thought you’d want to know I’m going to the Cup. I’ll be with the Weasleys, in one of those Ministry tents that look like a broom closet outside and a bloody palace inside. Apparently, Percy did the paperwork himself, which means it will be horribly bureaucratic and squeaky clean.

I still remember what you did. For me. For Sirius.

I haven’t said thank you enough. Maybe I never will. But I mean it.

Maybe I’ll see you there.

Just don’t let your dad kill me.

Harry”

Draco had stared at the page for a full minute before folding it neatly and hiding it beneath his pillow alongside his other letters that Harry had sent him earlier that summer.

“Draco,

I wasn’t sure if I should write again, but the thing is, I keep thinking about that night.

Sometimes I wake up in the Burrow with the sound of it still in my ears. I keep thinking maybe it wasn’t real, but then I remember the look in your eyes, and I know it was.

The Weasleys are loud but they love me. Molly keeps trying to fatten me up, and Ron and I spend half our days in the backyard pretending we’re professional Quidditch scouts. Hermione writes every other day, which is comforting and terrifying in equal measure.

Everything’s normal.

You don’t have to write back. Just... I wanted you to know that it’s nice getting to know you more.

And I missed our letters last winter break.

Harry”

“Draco,

Today Ron and I tried to de-gnome the garden and ended up getting swarmed by suicidal garden gnomes. I have three scratches on my arm and Ron has a lump the size of a Snitch on his head, but Mrs. Weasley just called us “my brave boys” and handed us treacle tart. So I suppose we’re war heroes now.

Fred and George have invented something called a “Puking Pastille.” I won’t explain it. You’ll just have to live in mystery. Or horror. Or both.

Hermione arrived yesterday with a bag full of books and a letter from her parents.

Oh, I tried to fix Ron’s chess set with a Mending Charm and ended up enchanting one of the bishops to speak French. He keeps yelling “SACRÉ BLEU!” every time someone moves a pawn.

It’s not important. None of this is. But I just wanted to tell someone who wasn’t already in the room with me.

You don’t have to write back.

But if you ever want to know what life looks like when it isn’t full of secrets, I guess this is a bit of it.

Harry”

When the letters arrived, the parchments smelled faintly of grass and kitchen smoke, and he imagined Harry scrawling these words at the crooked Burrow table, ink smudged on his knuckles, laughter just out of reach. Draco folded the letter carefully, then unfolded it again, running his thumb over a place where the pen had pressed too hard.

His own reply lay open on the table, ink elegant and practiced.

“Harry,

Thank you for your letters.

The Manor is exactly as you’d imagine it in summer: too still and polished. The gardens bloom like every year, but even the roses look bored.

The days stretch long here, like the way time does when it has nowhere to go. I’ve attended two galas already this month. One was in Wiltshire, the other in Kent. I wore black, obviously, and said the right things at the right time, which is all that’s expected of me lately. Nothing more.

I’m being watched. My father calls it interest. I call it suspicion.

It’s getting harder to send owls without raising suspicion, so if my replies come slower, it’s not disinterest.

But I read your letters twice, always. And I keep them. Folded neatly. Safe.

I’ll write again when I can.

Draco”

And then, on the first Sunday of August, two more owls came.

Not in broad daylight, but at midnight.

They flew through the open skylight of the observatory tower where Draco sometimes sat alone, pretending to study lunar charts. He didn’t recognize them, no family crest, no official seal. But he knew who they were from the moment he touched the parchment.

The ink was slightly faded. The paper was thinner, worn, like it had been folded and re-folded a dozen times. The handwriting was tight and quick. One was signed R. J. Lupin. The other, simply: Padfoot.

Remus’s letter was careful. Kind.

“Draco,

I hope you’re safe and well. I imagine you’re back at the Manor, and I also imagine things are... complicated. I won’t speak of last term... I suspect you’ve had to keep your thoughts hidden enough without my words drawing more suspicion.

Just know this: you did good, and you’re not alone.

Yours in understanding,

R. J. Lupin”

Sirius’s letter was... less subtle.

“Oi,

How’s the dungeon life? Still brooding in brocade?

Jokes aside, thank you again. You’ve got something real in you. Also, tell your dad he still owes me a duel from ‘78.

(Just kidding. Kind of.)

Stay sharp,

Padfoot”

Draco read both letters three times that night. Then he burned them, slowly, carefully, over a crystal flame in the observatory.

If the house-elves had found them, if the ink had been seen, if even a single phrase had been taken out of context — it would’ve meant more questions. Questions he couldn’t afford.

He stared at the ashes long after they cooled.

It wasn’t just that he had helped Sirius Black escape. It wasn’t just that he had stood beside Harry Potter and watched a man transform into a rat and a friend transform into a monster. It wasn’t even the visions, though they had begun to haunt him in moments of stillness, blooming like bruises at the base of his skull... Smoke, fire, masks, and Voldemort’s name and face wrapped in silver threads.

It was something deeper.

It was the moment he’d heard Pettigrew’s voice, cruel and eager and small, saying “He would’ve killed me!”

And something inside him, something cold and clear, had said: I want nothing to do with him.

He had seen what Voldemort did to loyalty. He had seen the cost of serving someone who saw everyone as beneath them. And worse, he had started to notice it in his own home. In the quiet calculation of his father’s footsteps, in the cold precision of his mother’s caution. The contacts were still there. And the whispers still moved through the Manor every night.

His mother was preparing, in her own way. Once, he found her in her tearoom writing letters he had never seen her send. Another time, he passed the hallway and heard her speaking in low tones to Professor Snape, who had begun visiting more frequently now, under reasons both his parents pretended not to question. And Draco wondered, with every quiet glance and every pause, Snape cast his way. Did he know? Did he remember what Draco had done that night? Did he suspect how much Draco had known?

Draco wasn’t stupid. He knew his father still met with visitors who never stayed for tea. He had heard Floo calls in the dead hours of the night that ended with abrupt silences. He had seen the drawer in Lucius’s study where the old mask lay hidden. Still polished and ready.

And maybe once, for what seemed like so long ago, he would’ve dreamed of earning one like it.

But not now.

Now, the idea of carrying that mask, of branding his arm with the Dark Mark, of bowing to a monster made him sick in the deepest part of his stomach.

He had seen what that life led to. And it didn’t end with power. It ended in madness, betrayal, death, and a kind of silence that no gold or bloodline could fill.

He was still a Malfoy. He still loved his mother. He still feared his father, and sometimes admired him more than he should. But there were lines now. There was him, and there was what they wanted him to become.

He closed his eyes and rested his head back against the wall.

***

Luna visited him once, right at the very beginning of summer.

Draco didn’t hear the knock.

He only felt the wards hum just once, soft and brief, like the brush of a fingertip against glass.

He looked up from the ledger he’d been pretending to read, the numbers blurring into meaningless patterns, and closed it with a sigh. The quiet of the west tower's study pressed in like a held breath. He stood, the chair legs scraping gently against the stone floor, and crossed the room.

The door opened without protest, hinges smooth as if they'd been waiting.

And there she was. Luna Lovegood stood barefoot on the cold marble tile, utterly serene, as if the chill had no claim on her. Her cloak was the color of rain-soaked moss, clinging slightly at the hem with moisture, and fastened at the neck with a dull silver clasp shaped like a crescent moon. Draped over one arm, she held a long, canvas-wrapped scroll, bound with waxed string and smudged with what looked like charcoal fingerprints.

Her hair fell loose down her back, tangled with a few tiny feathers and what might have been a quill tip. Her wide eyes were fixed on him with unblinking precision, startling in their clarity.

“Hello, Draco,” she said, as if she visited Manor corridors regularly. “I have something for you.”

He blinked. “Are you aware the Manor has three wards, two scrying enchantments, and an alarm tuned to detect conspiracy?”

She tilted her head. “Yes. That’s why I sent the owl first. Your mother approved.”

Of course she did. He stepped aside.

Luna swept in with the casual grace of a moonbeam, ignoring the room’s pretense as she moved directly to the cleared desk and laid the scroll across its surface. With slow, deliberate fingers, she undid the ties.

“I found this in one of my father’s vaults,” she said, as the fabric unfurled. “It was wrapped in selkie hair and sealed with a blindfold rune. That usually means someone didn’t want it seen.”

The tapestry was old — he suspected it was even older than the Black family’s infamous tree, older than most that survived the last war. The cloth was worn at the edges, its thread dulled by time, but the magic was intact. The figures on it shimmered faintly, etched in wine-colored silk and gold leaf, bloodlines tangled like thorns. No names or crest at the top. Just a root system of interwoven lives through centuries.

Draco stepped closer. “Who are they?”

“No one. Officially,” Luna said, trailing a finger to the left side of the cloth. “But here. Look. Do you see the ring?”

One thread was different. Redder than the rest. Thicker. Moving, almost, like it pulsed beneath the stitches.

“The Carmesí,” Draco breathed.

Luna nodded. “My father thinks this was the last independent record before their bloodline went into hiding. The Ministry erased most of what came after the third magical migration. They didn’t want their power to become well-known again.”

Draco’s eyes traced the red thread. It branched twice, once into a family marked by broken stars, and again into a name that shimmered strangely, half-concealed behind the weave.

“...Rivel?” he read aloud. “That’s not—”

“Not the original name,” Luna finished. “But it’s the last one recorded before the thread disappears. My guess is they changed it. Went underground. Moved into a non-magical region, maybe.”

He followed the lines downward. Generations blurred into time-faded ink and stitched runes. But just before the end, there was something else, a silver charm sewn into the cloth, round and faintly humming.

“A locator rune?” Draco murmured.

“No,” Luna said, her voice soft. “A seedmark. A wayfinder for magic that’s been buried but not broken. If we trace it… We might find someone alive. Someone Carmesí. Living under another name.”

Draco stared at the cloth, heart slow and steady. The ring beneath his shirt pulsed faintly in recognition.

“I’ll need to test the thread,” he muttered. “See how deep the lock goes. Maybe isolate the familial rune… decipher the original dialect…”

He glanced toward Luna, but she had already stepped back, arms folded loosely, watching him with her usual calm that never quite felt passive.

“Be careful. And good luck!”

Draco nodded absently, eyes fixed on the woven sigils.

But despite many attempts and days passing by, Draco hadn’t cracked the tapestry yet.

He’d tried everything short of blood, and even that, he suspected, wouldn’t be enough alone. Still, Draco knew he would find a way. Just… not yet.

***

Then Draco’s days returned to their usual routine.

In the morning, his mother sat at the far left of the breakfast table, the one carved from dark-veined marble, cool to the touch even in summer, polished so diligently it reflected the gleam of the chandelier and the fine white china like a mirror. Her back was straight, the sunlight glinting off the platinum combs in her hair as she sliced through a blood orange with the precision of a Healer's scalpel.

His father, as always, sat at the head. Unreadable. Immaculate. His pale fingers tapped a slow, rhythmic beat against the folded copy of the Daily Prophet, the sound maddening in its restraint. He hadn’t yet spoken, but Draco could feel his attention like a net casted wide and inescapable.

And Draco?

Draco sat in practiced silence, sipping from his cup of rosehip tea, pretending the pastries were easier to swallow than the tightening knot in his chest.

“I saw your name in Witch Weekly,” Narcissa said, eyeing a page of her society column set near her teacup. “Apparently, the Parkinson girl referred to you as a seasonal charm. What exactly does that mean?”

“I imagine it means I’m fashionable for short periods and then brutally discarded,” Draco murmured, biting into a sugared croissant.

Lucius didn’t look up.

“Don’t flirt carelessly, Draco,” Narcissa continued, tone light. “You are not an heir to waste affection on gossip and impulsive girls.”

“Noted,” he said. “I’ll only ruin my reputation when it’s politically advantageous.”

A slight smile touched her lips. “Good boy.”

After breakfast, Draco excused himself under the pretense of studying a historical alchemy ledger in the west library. Which, technically, wasn’t a lie. He was going to the west wing. He just had no intention of reading anything.

He moved carefully through the manor’s cold corridors, the soles of his velvet slippers silent against the marble floors. Somewhere above, the light filtered down through stained-glass windows that made the walls ripple in color. A house-elf scuttled by with a tray of crystal bottles. Everything looked as it always had — elegant, serene, in control.

Which is why the low voice echoing from the drawing room fireplace stopped him cold.

Draco froze beside the marble column, every muscle locked in place, heart crawling up his throat like it meant to strangle him. The voices came from the drawing room, low and purposeful, but he recognized them instantly.

Lucius was speaking.

Not in the way he did at breakfast, all silver tongue and careful boredom, but in that other voice. The one Draco had heard only at a distance, through Ministry doors and behind the veil of polite society.

“I’ve spoken to the boy and watched him closely,” Lucius was saying, clipped and cold. “He doesn’t know anything. He’s always been curious... reading old texts, taking up family interests. If he wandered near Dark Arts books, it was out of boredom or ambition. The usual.”

Draco’s blood ran cold.

Who was Lucius talking to?

A pause. Then the unmistakable fwoosh of Floo powder catching flame.

A second voice answered, soft and too smooth.

“He was seen in the old archive wing,” the voice said, slow and precise. “He is researching something a boy his age shouldn’t.”

Draco pressed himself back against the wall, breath shallow. The column was cool against his spine. The air in the corridor thickened like smoke.

Lucius let out a quiet breath, not quite a laugh. More like disdain.

“My son is clever,” he said. “But he is not subtle. He was reading about the Dark Arts? We should be proud. It shows bloodline. Curiosity. A true legacy.”

“He helped Potter,” the voice said, sharp now.

“He helped himself,” Lucius snapped. “Pettigrew was a fool and got himself captured. And Draco was dragged into it by that idiot child Potter. He pretended to help so that they wouldn’t turn on him. He was a smart boy. That’s all.”

There was another long silence, then Lucius added. “Draco would not lift a finger for Sirius Black out of principle, let alone loyalty. That boy’s sense of superiority is intact, I assure you.”

Then the voice said, cool and certain: “He is being watched.”

“I assumed he would be,” Lucius said flatly. “He’s my son.”

The flames crackled again, then extinguished.

Silence fell.

Draco didn’t move. He stayed there until he heard the soft shuffle of Lucius’s footsteps retreating down the hall, and his voice muttering something idly about the South garden, like nothing at all had happened.

Only when he was sure he was alone again did he let his body unfreeze.

He slid down the side of the column, hands trembling, the weight of the ring around his neck suddenly unbearable. His thoughts crashed in on themselves, over and over.

They didn’t know about his power. Not yet. But they were circling him.

He’d only told three people. Luna. Harry. Dumbledore. That was it. No one else. He’d been careful. And still... still Voldemort’s attention was shifting.

Draco hadn’t said the Dark Lord’s name aloud since that awful night with the Dementors, since Sirius had vanished into the clouds on the back of a borrowed hippogriff.

But he felt it now.

And for the first time all summer, Draco wished that he could take the serpent curling inside his chest and cut it out.

***

That night, the vision came with smoke, thick and clinging, the kind that didn’t just fill the air but claimed it, curling around him like a living thing with memory and motive.

Draco stood inside it with his skin humming like a struck string, breath tight in his throat, vision blurred by heat and shadow that moved even when he didn’t.

Somewhere beyond the fog, laughter echoed, high-pitched, cracked, splintered into pieces too sharp to be joy, too deliberate to be madness. It was the kind of laughter that sounded like victory, the kind that made you want to cover your ears to block out the noise.

A single green spark, rising slow and cruel into the air, then twisting and expanding into a shape that made Draco’s lungs seize as if the dream had reached through and physically gripped him.

The Dark Mark.

He tried to move — to run, to call for something, anything — but the ground beneath him cracked and shifted with every step, old cobblestones splintering into flame, scattered wands broken like hollow bones, as if someone had already fought here and lost.

Figures in cloaks moved like shadows with purpose, their masks glinting like silver death, boots crunching over something limp, and then a sound, a cry, high and human, swallowed whole by the smoke.

And from the center of it all came the serpent.

Not his serpent, not the familiar shape of sight and blood and fire, but another one, darker, slicker, cold as river stone and twice as cruel, winding through bloodied ash with eyes that held no reflection.

It turned to him.

And behind it, in a flicker of firelight and ghost-glow, Draco saw the building, old, leaning forward like it was listening, sign barely legible in the rising heat: Knockturn Alley.

He lurched upright in bed, breath tearing through his throat, sweat-soaked sheets tangled around his legs. His heart thundered, wild and uneven, and for a moment, he didn’t know where he was.

Then he felt it.

Warm. Wet. Sharp. Blood touched his upper lip, metallic and hot, trailing from his nose in a thin, stinging line.

A nosebleed.

A first one.

The first time a vision had left him shaking and split open.

And he knew, with a cold certainty, that whatever was coming was already too close.

Outside, the sky was grey-blue, not yet morning, the kind of hour the world hadn’t decided what it was.

Draco clutched his ring, breathing like someone who’d run a race in their sleep, eyes wide and burning.

He had to go to Knockturn Alley.

Chapter Text

By the time Draco entered the breakfast solarium, he was dressed and composed, and not a single trace of the dream remained on his face. He wore pale blue summer robes tailored to perfection, the fabric so fine it shimmered in the morning light. A silver serpent clasp fastened the collar at his throat, and his hair was immaculate, every strand smoothed into deliberate, effortless precision.

Narcissa was already seated at the end of the long marble table, back straight, posture relaxed in a way that meant she had already evaluated the entire room and found it beneath her concern. She stirred her tea slowly, in elegant, measured circles, and did not look up when he entered.

“You’re up early,” she said mildly.

“I thought I’d go into Diagon Alley,” Draco replied, taking a seat and picking up a piece of toast he had no intention of eating. His appetite was nowhere to be found, but rituals were important.

“The World Cup’s coming,” he added. “I’ll need something appropriate.”

Her eyes flicked toward him, cool, assessing. “You already have formalwear.”

“Yes,” he said lightly, “but it’s last season’s formalwear.”

A pause. She arched one perfectly plucked brow. “And?”

Draco gave her a slight, practiced smile. “And I’d rather not look like a disgraced diplomat’s nephew when we’re meeting the Minister.”

Narcissa’s tea paused mid-stir. That was as close as she came to approval.

“Very well,” she said. “Take Lyric with you.”

“I don’t need a chaperone.”

“You need an escort,” she corrected, her tone clipped but not cold. “It’s not a suggestion.”

Draco exhaled softly, then said with mild theatrics, “Of course. But Lyric gets distracted in Madam Malkin’s. He has that tragic thing for velvet. I’ll be trapped there until nightfall.”

That earned her faintest smirk, not quite a smile, but close enough.

“Fine,” she said. “Take Myle instead. He won’t linger.”

“Done.”

He rose smoothly, crossed to her chair, and pressed a kiss to her cheek.

“Thank you, Mother.”

She didn’t answer, but she raised her teacup like a salute.

An hour later, under the half-shade of a faded shop awning in Diagon Alley, Draco stood with arms folded, one foot tapping a sharp, impatient rhythm against the sun-warmed cobblestones. The day was sticky with summer heat, the air thick with the mingled scents of parchment, polished wood, dragonhide, and roasted nuts from the street vendor a few doors down. Everything pulsed with its usual chaos, children darting between stalls, owls shrieking overhead, and shopkeepers calling out prices with the same theatrical flair they’d been using since before Draco was born.

His escort for the day — Myle, one of the older house-elves with batlike ears and the tight-lipped expression of someone who had personally survived four generations of Malfoys — stood beside him, holding up a long scroll that fluttered slightly in the breeze.

It was a list. A ridiculous one.

“Three ounces of powdered Firedrake scale...” Myle read aloud, squinting. “But Master Draco, this also says essential oils in seven separate glass vials labeled by aura affinity—”

“I’ll be at Madam Malkin,” Draco interrupted smoothly, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve. “And if they’re too busy, I’ll stop by Sugarplum’s. You can go and get those things yourself.”

Myle looked horrified. “But I must stay with—”

“Myle,” Draco said firmly, “this is a terribly urgent errand. You know how long Madam Malkin takes with fittings. You’ll lose the good silk.”

The elf opened his mouth to protest again, but Draco narrowed his eyes. That was what Lucius always did with ministry officials and old family ghosts. It worked.

With a pop of reluctant disapparition, Myle vanished, parchment flapping behind him like a banner of surrender.

Draco exhaled once.

Then he turned, stepped quickly to the edge of the cobblestone plaza, and ducked into the narrow, shaded entrance that veered off Diagon’s polished path. The stairs leading him down and the air growing colder with each step, the scent changing from sugar and ink to mildew, damp ash, and something older still.

Knockturn Alley opened around him like a throat closing in.

It was cooler here, like a damp, sunless chill that lived in the walls, the kind that clung to your skin and sank into your bones. The cobblestones wept with moss in the cracks, slick and uneven beneath Draco’s boots, and the crooked doors that lined the alley seemed to lean toward him ever so slightly.

Shadows moved between the storefronts, figures wrapped in threadbare cloaks and too many layers, faces obscured by hoods or long, tangled hair. A hunched woman hunched over a crate of withered animal bones muttered to herself in a tongue Draco didn’t recognize, while a dirt-streaked boy crouched in a doorway, cradling a jar filled with something faintly glowing and very much alive. The shop windows were cluttered with strange, whispering objects: shriveled hands on velvet cushions, cracked crystal balls leaking silver smoke, and jars of teeth arranged like currency. One door creaked open as he passed and immediately slammed shut, the sound sharp as a slap.

The dream still clung to him like soot, thick in the lungs and smudged across the edges of his thoughts, but he moved forward anyway. The memory of fire. The flash of the black serpent. The shop from his dream. He scanned the signs without really reading them until he found the one that made his pulse spike.

A narrow door. No name. No display. Just a dark wood frame warped by time, and a tiny, crooked window like a half-lidded eye.

The bell above the door didn’t ring when he pushed it open.

Of course it didn’t. Knockturn Alley didn’t waste time on courtesy.

The hinges creaked once with a low, tired sound, and Draco stepped over the threshold into stillness. The air inside was stale and smelled of mothballs and something sweet and rotting.

Shelves loomed around him, towering like crooked trees in a forest that didn’t want him there. Their warped wooden frames strained under the weight of cracked crystal orbs, dusty bottles of thick, red-black ink, stacks of brittle runes, and boxes with handwritten warnings like “Do Not Touch With Bare Skin”.

A single eye, dull and pale, floated inside a murky jar on the closest counter, staring slightly to the left.

No one stood at the register. No sign of a shopkeeper.

Draco stepped further in just as a tall wizard in a high-collared cloak brushed past him on his way out, the hem of his robes sweeping dust from the floor. He carried a wrapped parcel that clicked faintly with whatever was inside and left behind the fading scent of old cologne and burnt sage.

Draco’s heart was hammering now, but he forced his breath slow as he slipped behind one of the crooked display cases at the back of the shop. He crouched in the shadow of a dusty crate labeled Cursed Teeth – 4th Century, wedged between two shelves of crumbling ledgers.

At first, nothing.

Only the sound of stillness, deep and thick, broken only by the occasional creak of the old shop settling in its own bones. Then came the soft rustle of a bead curtain swaying at the back of the shop, each wooden bead tapping gently like a slow, measured heartbeat. Footsteps followed, the shuffling of heavy robes, a faint exhale, the metallic click of a lock being turned.

Then, at last, voices.

“You’re late,” rasped the first, a voice like dry parchment dragged across broken stone. “We don’t have long.”

“Then let’s not waste time,” came the second, sharp and cold, each word cut with the clipped confidence of someone used to being obeyed. “Is the shipment ready?”

Slowly, carefully, Draco leaned forward just enough to see through the narrow space between two warped shelves. Past a stack of rust-stained spellbooks, through the fringe of the bead curtain.

Two figures stood just beyond it, half-wrapped in shadows and the flicker of unsteady candlelight.

The shopkeeper was hunched, skin waxy and pale, with hands that trembled when they moved. The other man stood tall, still, and entirely hidden, his hood pulled low, gloves thick and spotless. But Draco could see a glimpse of a mask of pale bone etched with curling lines that caught the candlelight like a whisper of dark magic.

A Death Eater.

“The powder will be laced through the tents,” the masked man said. “Just a trace. Enough to trigger dizziness and panic. Not death.”

“Not yet,” rasped the shopkeeper. “He doesn’t want death. Not there.”

“Then why go through with it?”

“It’s the message,” the shopkeeper breathed. “The Mark. He wants it seen.”

Draco’s stomach dropped.

“We’ll start with the Muggleborn’s tents,” said the masked man. “Then the fire.”

“And the boy?” the shopkeeper asked.

“The order was clear. If Potter runs, we follow.”

Harry.

Draco’s pulse roared in his ears. They were talking about an event, tents,... the Quidditch World Cup. An attack... planning it in this crumbling shop just a few streets from the ice cream parlor, the owl emporium, and Flourish and Blotts.

“And the watchers?” the shopkeeper asked again. “The ones from the Ministry?”

“There’s one who’s ours already. The others are fools.”

Then the words that turned Draco’s spine to ice:

“What about the Malfoy boy?”

His breath caught.

“He’ll be there,” the masked man said calmly. “With Lucius.”

“They’ve told me to watch out for him.”

“He’s a child, Lucius said there’s nothing to worry about.”

Draco’s foot shifted. Just a fraction.

His heel nudged a low crate behind him. A jar tumbled from the edge. It hit the stone floor with a dry crack and split, spilling a rattling stream of brittle, yellowed lacewing flies.

The silence that followed was instant and absolute.

“Someone’s here.”

Draco’s mind moved faster than his feet, which, unfortunately, weren’t moving at all. His legs felt as if they’d been rooted to the stone beneath him, heavy and clumsy, like he was trying to outrun a dream while still asleep. His breath caught hard in his throat, locked there, as if even sound might betray him.

On the other side of the bead curtain, the voices shifted. They were louder now, moving. The steps that followed were measured and deliberate, the kind of footfalls made by someone who had drawn a wand and wasn’t afraid to use it. And Draco knew that sound. The soft, unmistakable shick of a wand being readied — two of them, maybe more.

His own wand was already in his hand, but his fingers felt like they had been dipped in cold water and left to freeze solid.

He took one slow, quiet and painfully careful step backward.

His hand reached behind him, fumbling across the nearest shelf for balance, anything to brace himself or distract them, he didn’t even know, and his fingers closed around something small and strangely warm.

It was carved... metal, maybe? No, colder than that. Iron. Smooth with age, the grooves of runes etched into its base winding like serpents under his fingers.

And then... It pulsed.

Magic hit him like a slap.

With no time to cry out, no chance to prepare, the ground dropped away beneath him, and the world exploded into wind and force. He was spinning, flung into the air like paper caught in a storm, the carved object searing in his palm, dragging him sideways through magic.

The scream lodged in his throat never made it out.

He hurtled through a tunnel of heat and pressure. And then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped.

Draco hit the rough cobblestone with a bruising thud and lay there for a heartbeat, gasping like he’d broken through the surface of water. Slowly, he pushed himself up to his knees, shaking, heart thundering. Around him, Knockturn Alley shimmered slightly out of focus. But this was the far end, near the black-glass apothecary with the rusted door charms and the wrought-iron stairwell leading back up to Diagon Alley.

He looked down at his hand.

The object was still there, though cracked through the center. A small amulet, bone-white, iron at its edges. Still faintly warm.

A portkey. An illegal one, no doubt. Smuggler’s magic. Emergency escape. Stashed on the shelf, maybe forgotten, or meant for someone else entirely.

Draco had burned it out. And somehow, it had saved his life.

His hands were shaking. His knees ached. But he stood anyway, brushing off soot and the remnants of cracked runes from his robes.

And then — Pop.

Myle materialized at Draco’s elbow with the sharp crack of displaced air, a burst of sound too loud for the alley and too full of frantic breath to be anything but alarming.

“Master Draco!” the house-elf exclaimed, his enormous eyes glistening with distress and guilt. “You were not at Madam Malkin, sir! Myle searched every corner! You vanished!”

“I walked down to Slug & Jigger’s,” Draco said quickly, words clipped and calculated, his voice thinner than usual and wrapped tight in self-control. “They’ve got a new shipment of marrow moss. I wanted to compare textures. See if it was potent enough to bother buying.”

Myle blinked, still trembling. “Oh… yes, Master Draco. But next time —”

“Myle.” Draco sighed, dragging a hand through his hair, smoothing it back into place like a shield. “You’re talking too much and not focusing on your assignment. The one I gave you.”

The elf peered up at him a moment longer, shaking and suspicious, then nodded defeatedly, pressing his long fingers together. “Myle is so sorry, sir. Shall we continue, sir?”

“Fine.”

They climbed the uneven stone stairs out of Knockturn and emerged into the gold-splashed warmth of Diagon Alley. It was like stepping from a crypt into a masquerade. The sun spilled over every awning, glinted off brass shop signs, and sparkled in the ice cream melting down a small child’s wrist as he howled beside a weary-looking witch. Laughter echoed from a group of Hogwarts students window-shopping for broomsticks, and the scent of cinnamon buns drifted from a nearby bakery.

It was ordinary. It was cheerful. It was completely wrong.

But Draco smiled anyway, the expression practiced and polished.

Inside, though, his heart was still in the shadows. In the fire. In the whisper:

They’ll start with the Muggleborn’s tents. Then the fire.

He wants it seen.

The vision hadn’t been a metaphor or madness. It had been real, dangerously real. The plan was already unfurling its roots beneath their feet.

***

When Draco returned to his room, he shut the door gently. No slamming. No sound to break what fragile certainty he still carried.

He crossed to his desk in silence. The leather-bound journal Madam Pomfrey had given him lay waiting, pages half-filled with inked thoughts that twisted between vision and truth. He sat down slowly, fingers cool against the desk's polished surface, and dipped his quill into ink with a hand that trembled more than he would ever admit aloud.

"They’re planning something at the World Cup, he wrote, the words cutting straight into the parchment. It’s not a maybe anymore. It’s real. It’s soon.

The Mark will go up. People will scream."

He paused, the next line catching in his throat.

"And if I tell someone everything I heard… it won’t just be them who pays for it.

It’ll be him. Father is involved in this. I know it."

The words stared back at him.

His hand hovered, the quill dripping a slow bead of ink. It struck the parchment once. Then again. A heartbeat in black.

Finally, he laid it down.

He leaned back, exhaling shakily, and pressed a hand to his chest, just over the spot where the red serpent ring rested beneath his robes.

Its presence was a weight, yes, but also, strangely, an anchor.

The knock on the door was soft, like the brush of silk against glass.

Draco sat up quickly, shoved the journal into the drawer, and composed his face. "Come in."

The door opened with the quiet care of someone who already knew their presence would be noticed.

Narcissa entered in silence, her silhouette drawn in the soft wash of light filtering through the windows in his room. The light caught in the deep folds of her robes and shimmered along the sweep of her pinned hair, mother-of-pearl glinting like frost. On her hands, only two rings: the Malfoy crest, and a slim band of emeralds that sparkled faintly when she moved.

“You’ve been quiet since you came back from Diagon,” she said, her voice gentle, but not idle. Her questions were never idle.

Draco, still at his desk, turned just enough to offer her a wry, almost-smile. “I was trying a new style. Brooding. I hear it’s very on-brand.”

She didn’t laugh, but the smallest curve appeared at the corner of her mouth, as if she’d already guessed that was how he’d deflect.

“You look pale.”

“I always look pale. I’m an aesthetic.”

“Don’t hide behind cleverness, darling.” Her tone softened. “Not with me.”

She crossed the room in a few steps and stood behind him, resting one hand lightly on the back of his chair. The gesture was simple, but to Draco, it felt like gravity.

“What’s on your mind?” she asked, and this time there was no edge to the words. Only invitation.

Draco hesitated, gaze flicking down.

“I suppose I’ve had a falling-out,” he said finally. “With someone. A friend. Or… I thought he was.” His voice grew quieter. “He’s doing something awful. And if I say something, it’ll ruin him. But if I don’t… it could ruin others.”

Narcissa was quiet. And then, at last, she spoke.

“When I was younger,” she said, “I had a friend who believed in dangerous things. He wasn’t evil, not at first. He was… passionate. Rigid and certain in his beliefs. And I thought, perhaps, if I loved him hard enough, I could keep him tethered. That he’d see the world the way I did.”

She glanced down at him. Her face was calm, but something behind her eyes flickered. Regret, perhaps. Or memory sharper than she'd like to admit.

“But there are tides in this world, Draco. Currents older than law or logic. Magic that doesn’t care about good intentions. Sometimes the choice isn’t between saving and condemning. Sometimes it’s between doing what you can live with… or doing nothing at all.”

Draco turned slowly and he met her eyes.

And for once, he didn’t look away.

“I don’t need to know the details,” Narcissa said softly, reaching down to brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead, the touch tender, deliberate. “Just promise me you’ll protect what matters.”

“I will,” Draco said, voice barely above a whisper.

That night, when the manor had fallen into its deep, spellbound hush. When the corridors settled with the sighs of old wards and the sky had turned mirror-black with starlight, Draco returned to his desk.

Not to the journal.

Instead, he reached for plain parchment. Smooth. Unmarked. No names. No crest. Just space.

He didn’t write with ink.

He used magic, taken from a footnote in a Carmesí manuscript that he found buried so deep in his family Vault while researching on how to crack the charm on the tapestry. It lifted the words from mind to paper in borrowed strokes. It wouldn’t trace back to him.

When he was done, the message was simple.

“Be advised.

A dark disturbance is planned during the World Cup.

It will begin in the tents.

You should be watching.”

No name. No location. Just enough. He folded it once and sealed it with another spell.

Then, with another parchment, he wrote a second letter.

“Harry,

Something is coming.

I overheard two men tonight, names and words I couldn’t write here. They are speaking of the World Cup. Of chaos. Of you.

I can’t say more. Owls aren’t safe. Nothing feels safe lately, and perhaps I’m a fool for even writing this.

But I couldn’t stay silent.

Whatever happens, don’t wander far after dark. Keep your wand close. Don’t trust what looks like celebration.

I’ll see you there.

Draco.”

He crossed the marble corridor, silent as a whisper, and stepped out into the courtyard under the pale hush of the moon. The night air was cool and dry, the sky open and waiting.

An owl waited atop the railing. One of the Manor’s quiet watchers.

The owl lifted the letters into the dark without a sound.

And Draco stood alone in the moonlight, heart thudding against his ribs, feeling relief curl in his chest.

Because he was still his father’s son.

But tonight, for the first time, he was no one’s pawn.

***

The morning came slower than usual, filtered through low clouds and distant summer rain. The Manor was quieter, no owls at the windows, no clinking silver in the hall, only the soft breeze of wind through the trees, the faint hum of protective wards wrapping the estate in their invisible shimmer.

Draco hadn’t slept much. The night had left its mark, and though the journal was closed and his face, as always, unreadable, something in him felt newly exposed.

After breakfast, he expected another quiet morning, a book, maybe, or a quiet walk through the south gardens while the house elves reset the fountain runes.

Instead, his mother was waiting in the drawing room. She dressed not in her usual soft silks, but in storm-blue robes that caught the light like tempered steel. Her hair was swept back with sharp precision, and her wand was already in hand.

“Come in,” Narcissa said. Not unkindly. Not gently, either. Like someone inviting you to step onto a dueling platform.

Draco paused in the doorway. “What are you planning, Mother?”

Her gaze turned toward him, and something in it clicked. The kind that made you feel like you'd been seen more fully than you were ready for.

“You’re nearly fourteen,” she said. “And your mind is your most valuable possession. It’s time you learned how to guard it.”

Draco stepped inside. The air shifted behind him as she flicked her wand, casting a soft but irrefutable locking charm on the tall double doors. The sound of the spell was like silk torn from the air.

“Occlumency,” she said. “Your father will want to teach you soon, and he will do it through pressure. Through force. But I would rather teach you through precision. Through discipline.”

She turned to face him fully now, her wand lowered, her posture perfect. “The mind is not a sword, Draco. It is a mirror. And you must learn when to let it reflect… and when to let it break.”

She gestured toward the velvet-backed armchair across from her.

“Sit.”

He sat, heart steady, but suddenly more alert than it had been all morning.

And for a moment, the only sound was the occasional breath of wind stirring the lace curtains and the distant, steady crackle of the fire behind the grate.

“Your mind,” Narcissa said, now standing just behind him, her voice smooth as ink and twice as precise, “is not a room to be locked.”

She circled him slowly, each step deliberate, measured, like part of a dance she knew by heart. Her heels made no sound against the carpet.

“That’s what most Occlumens get wrong. They imagine it as a fortress. A sealed vault. But lock a room too tightly, and someone will always want to pick the door.”

She came to a halt in front of him again, wand held loosely in her fingers, as if it were a quill rather than a blade.

“It’s not a vault,” she continued. “It’s a gallery. A space you curate. You control the portraits. The light. The sound. When someone enters, you don’t throw them out. You guide them. Distract them. Show them the things they expect to see.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, dry amusement flickering over his features. “So... Occlumency is lying. With flair.”

A faint smile touched her lips. “It’s artistry. You don’t bury the truth. You dress it in something else.”

Draco felt a slow, familiar chill slide down his spine. This was her magic. Not fire and thunder, but the kind that rearranged the air itself without leaving a trace. Quiet. Irrefutable.

“And I suppose Legilimency is the intruder in the gallery?”

She inclined her head. “A skilled one can pick the lock, barge in, and demand a tour. But if your gallery is arranged well enough, they’ll leave thinking they saw everything.”

She lifted her wand. He tensed slightly.

“I’ll only touch the edge,” she said gently. “No memories. Just the threshold. This isn’t about secrets. It’s about sensation, feeling how your magic holds the walls.”

Draco nodded once, his breath steady but tight in his chest.

And she cast.

It wasn’t harsh. It wasn’t even sharp. It was like cool silk pressing softly against his temple, just the steady pressure of presence. Her magic wasn’t forceful, and Draco, startled by the sensation, instinctively tried to shove it back. To slam his mind closed like a vault.

“Don’t resist,” Narcissa said calmly, not lowering her wand. “That only makes it louder. Breathe. Lower it. Sink it.”

He blinked.

“Think of fog,” she said gently. “Think of mirrors. Think of curtains drawn across a stage.”

Draco inhaled.

And then exhaled.

And slowly, the tension shifted. The pressure that had felt like a push now glided past him. Her magic didn’t strike anymore; it slipped. It moved across him instead of against him, and the moment it did, something in his chest relaxed.

It was like watching moonlight skim water.

Like a veil brushing a face without touching skin.

Like nothing at all.

Narcissa pulled her wand back with the faintest movement of her wrist. The room returned to stillness.

Her eyes glittered with something unreadable. Not pride, exactly, but recognition.

“Very good,” she said, her voice low, as though any louder would break the quiet. “You have talent. More than I thought. That was your first time?”

Draco gave a stiff nod. He didn’t speak, but he knew what had helped, what made it easier. The serpent in his chest. The coil of red magic. Carmesí blood. He could feel it now, pulsing faintly, like a second heart.

Narcissa stepped back, and her expression changed — not quite softer, but something less guarded.

“There are branches of Occlumency far older than what the Ministry teaches,” she said, tone almost conversational now, like they were discussing music lessons. “In time, you may not only protect your mind… but fight back. Confuse your enemies. Turn the tables around.”

She met his eyes.

“Not all battles are fought with wands, Draco.”

He watched her carefully, her face framed by the flicker of firelight and the soft lines of rain still sliding down outside the windows. Her words weren’t a warning.

“Do you think I’ll need that kind of magic?” he asked quietly.

Narcissa paused.

Then her lips curved, just barely. “It never hurts to be careful, darling. Remember that.”

And then she turned, as elegant as ever, and walked away, her footsteps fading like an afterthought into the hush of the corridor.

Chapter Text

The days leading up to the Quidditch World Cup moved strangely — fast in the sunlight, slow in the shadow.

Draco practiced Occlumency every morning after breakfast. He would sit in his room with the windows flung open, the breeze tugging at the curtains, and let his mind still. At first, it wasn't easy to be consistent. His mind raced too easily, flickering between visions, old dreams, and half-formed fears. But as he learned to shape his awareness like smoke behind glass, the gift began to adjust. He started to understand how it worked, how Occlumency and his gift were not opposites, but mirrors. The sight is a door, always open. Occlumency wasn’t a lock. It wasn’t a wall. It was the curtain drawn across that doorway. Just veiled, until he chose to lift it.

By the third day, the world around him had begun to feel quieter. As if he were learning to see only what needed seeing, and hear only what he chose to let in. And with every breath, the serpent behind his ribs coiled a little calmer.

So as the morning of the Cup slowly approached, Draco felt a bit more ready for what was to come.

Malfoy Manor was alive with motion. House-elves darted through the halls, arms full of polished boots and shrunken trunks. Steam curled up from the kitchens in elegant ribbons, and the peacocks shrieked in protest as Narcissa sent them sweeping through the lower gardens to inspect the hedgerows.

In his bedroom, Draco stood before a full-length mirror, halfway through fastening the silver clasps of his deep green formal robes. His wand was tucked neatly at the small of his back. The red serpent ring rested cool against his chest. His reflection stared back at him: calm, composed, sharp-edged. A boy sculpted for occasions like this — noble-blooded, silver-tongued, untouchable.

They traveled by Apparition. From the marble front steps to the forested fringe of the Quidditch World Cup ground, the air cracked and folded, and then they were there.

They landed with grace, as expected. Narcissa barely wavered. Lucius straightened immediately. Draco stumbled. His father's firm and cold hand caught his arm. “Mind your posture,” Lucius murmured. “Reporters are everywhere.”

The Cup grounds were a marvel of magical excess: tents stretched like jeweled sails across the hillsides, charmed to resemble miniature mansions, circus pavilions, even small castles. Banners rippled overhead, enchanted with moving figures of Quidditch players diving and spinning through the air. The sound of a thousand conversations in half a dozen languages rolled like thunder between the trees.

The Malfoys moved through the grounds like ghosts and passed between security wards without question. No one stopped them. No one ever did.

Lucius was every inch the politician: pale and proud, his cane tapping gently against the ground, his voice just loud enough when greeting other Ministry families to leave an impression. Narcissa, serene and luminous in silver-blue robes, floated beside them, nodding once to each passing eye, her chin held at the perfect angle.

And Draco?

He was the image of them both — polished, handsome, quiet — the portrait of a loyal heir.

Except none of them were what they appeared. Lucius had been missing too many nights. Narcissa had started warding his room with spells she didn’t explain. And Draco… Draco had sent an anonymous warning to the Ministry that might damn them all.

Together, they walked like perfection. But each step was a lie.

Beyond the main encampments and gaudy tents of the common folk, the Ministry section of the World Cup grounds unfurled like a perfectly cast charm. There were no patched canvas or conjured fire pits here, but elegant pavilions, floored with smooth enchanted stone, their ceilings charmed to shimmer with filtered sunlight, no matter the weather. Decorative wards shimmered faintly at the edges, more status than security. Ministry officials floated between conversational circles and enchanted wine trays, their robes crisply pressed, their smiles polished to a bureaucratic gleam.

Draco walked half a step behind his father, close enough to signal deference, far enough to stay alert. He kept his eyes forward, but his ears were open.

“Yaxley,” Lucius said, voice smooth as a blade’s edge, clasping the hand of a broad-shouldered man in richly woven brown. “I hear international logistics was your department’s triumph this year. Well done.”

Yaxley gave a sharp nod, eyes flicking briefly to Draco. “The boy’s grown.”

Lucius smiled thinly. “They tend to do that, if you feed them.”

Next came Lady Selwyn, dressed in layered silks the color of garnets, every finger heavy with rings, her smile lacquered in red. She leaned forward to kiss Narcissa’s cheek and purred, “You look even more spectral this year, darling. It’s wonderful.”

Draco bowed when expected. Answered the right questions. Heard nothing of interest, and everything that mattered.

The names passed by like ceremonial masks: Thicknesse. Mulciber. Nott. Greengrass... Dignified. Poised. Their greetings were precise, their compliments impersonal. And none of them, not a single one, carried the voice Draco remembered from the shop or from the fire.

Draco made a note of every eye that lingered too long on him. He accepted champagne, watered down to near-innocence. He answered questions about school, Quidditch, family with the practiced elegance of someone raised to walk through a crowd and leave no footprint.

He offered a smile to a witch with a brooch shaped like a hawk. He bowed to an old wizard whose cane bore the badger crest.

And all the while, beneath the lace and diplomacy, his thoughts moved like clockwork.

If they were watching him, then Draco needed to let them see exactly what they expected.

And nothing else.

***

The Ministry Box was exactly what it promised — the highest, most exclusive tier in the entire stadium, hovering above the pitch like a floating throne. It offered a perfect view of the entire Quidditch pitch: a dizzying sea of green below, dotted with gold goal hoops and stands packed tight with tens of thousands of roaring, flag-waving fans.

But it wasn’t just the view that made it elite.

It was the company.

The Minister of Magic himself, Cornelius Fudge, stood near the rail, blustering warmly at everyone and gesturing with theatrical excitement. Next to him, Lucius Malfoy nodded in careful intervals, his cane resting beside his chair like a casual threat. The Bulgarian Minister was seated two rows ahead, politely pretending he didn’t understand English while smirking at every third sentence.

Draco sat just behind his parents, his seat angled for both comfort and optics — a precise slouch that suggested ease while still allowing a perfect view of both the pitch and the other private boxes. The Ministry’s warding glimmered faintly overhead, catching bits of sunlight and stadium flare.

He could see the Weasleys’ section to his left. Loud, chaotic, and so aggressively orange. Scarves, hats, face paint, some sort of ghastly dancing mascot charm, all of it clashed against the polished navy and forest-green silks of the Ministry delegates like a declaration of war against aesthetics.

And just beside them, inevitably, sat Harry Potter.

Draco’s gaze drifted lazily toward him.

Harry Potter looked as though he radiated sunlight — eyes wide behind his glasses, expression unguarded, open, delighted. The kind of light that made Draco’s chest twist in ways he preferred not to name. He let his eyes linger longer than necessary, long enough to memorize the angle of the smile.

Of course, that made Harry notice, he turned, his gaze snagging onto Draco in a second. Their eyes met across the distance, and for a moment the roar of the crowd dimmed to something hushed and shimmering, like snowfall in a dream. Harry’s face lit up, absurdly bright, a grin blooming with such unfiltered joy it was nearly incandescent.

Draco’s breath caught. It was unbearable, reckless and radiant.

Next to Harry, Ron Weasley recoiled as though scalded, whipping his head between them with the horror of someone witnessing a Hippogriff and a Hungarian Horntail fall in love. His mouth moved, shaping something sharp, but Draco had already looked away.

“Merlin, that’s intense,” came Blaise’s voice as he dropped into the seat beside him.

Draco didn’t flinch. “You’re late.”

“I was admiring the firewhisky tent.” Blaise gave a graceful shrug. “Priorities.”

Theo slouched into the chair on Draco’s other side, half-buttoned robes and a travel quill still tucked behind his ear. “Sorry. Blaise got into a debate with an international delegate about the social economics of Beater compensation in Eastern leagues.”

Draco blinked once. “That’s absurdly specific.”

“And yet painfully real,” Blaise sighed. “Apparently Bulgaria pays their reserve players in tax breaks and cheese.”

“Did you see Potter?” Theo asked, stretching out his legs. “He looks like he’s about to float off the balcony.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” Draco said flatly.

Blaise snorted. “Right. Sure.”

There was a pause, then Blaise added, “Pansy sends her regrets, by the way. Couldn’t get away from her aunt’s spa estate in Chamonix. Tragic, really. She told me to tell you she’s completely inconsolable and that if you don’t send her a complete breakdown of what Krum’s wearing and whether or not he blinks like a commoner, she’ll hex everyone.”

Draco smirked despite himself. “I’ll tell her Krum’s wearing sheep wool and disappointment.”

“She’ll write you five scrolls of abuse in response,” Theo muttered. “And you’ll love it.”

Draco leaned back in his seat, eyes drifting once more toward the field, and maybe, just maybe, toward a familiar head of messy black hair.

The stadium erupted with enchantments as the commentator, Ludo Bagman, in a suit that looked like it had been hexed by glitter-loving goblins, shouted over the booming speakers, his voice charmed to echo through the valley.

“Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to the four hundred and twenty-second Quidditch World Cup!”

A fresh cheer shook the stands.

“First, let’s welcome the Bulgarian National Team — BULGARIA!”

A roar of red and silver banners swelled in the crowd as seven figures soared out of the players' tunnel, streaking across the sky on gleaming black brooms. At the front, Victor Krum with sharp eyes and a sharper nose, flying like the air owed him something.

Draco gave a single, dignified clap.

Moments later came the Irish, a storm of green and gold, their uniforms sparkling as if dusted in clover and sunlight. One of the Beaters executed a flip midair to wild applause.

“Show-offs,” Lucius muttered under his breath.

Draco smiled faintly.

When the whistle blew, it was like a cannon. The match exploded into motion, brooms slicing through the air, players diving and weaving in a kaleidoscope of speed and strategy. The Irish Chasers passed the Quaffle with inhuman smoothness, moving like a single enchanted organism, while the Bulgarian Beaters responded with brute strength and reckless dives.

The crowd roared. Flags waved like fire. Magical fireworks spelled team crests in the clouds.

Draco… watched.

Sort of.

He tracked the game for formality’s sake — he was Malfoy, after all — but his eyes kept drifting.

To the Bulgarian Minister’s too-passive silence, his fingers tapping in rhythm on his glass.

To Barty Crouch Sr., who sat stiffly at the far end of the row, face unreadable, his every movement mechanical, too restrained.

The scoreboard danced with shifting numbers. Ireland was pulling ahead with beautiful coordination, but the Bulgarian Seeker was stalking the skies like a predator, alone and relentless.

Draco knew when the tide turned.

He could feel it, that shiver of energy, when Krum’s body stiffened, then dove like a stone toward the ground. The crowd gasped. A green blur followed... too late.

And then... Krum’s hand snapped forward.

The Snitch glittered once, caught between two bloodied fingers.

The whistle shrieked. The stands exploded.

Ireland had more points. But Bulgaria had the Snitch.

It was over. Confetti bloomed in the sky like pollen from a fireworks tree. Music blared. A thousand enchanted voices screamed in celebration.

***

Draco moved through the crowds with Blaise and Theo flanking him like bodyguards in expensive tailoring, though only one of them had bothered to button their robes properly. His own robes were still neatly fastened to the throat, silver stitching catching the lantern-light in cool flashes. He kept his hands tucked in his pockets, not out of nerves, but control — the calm eye in a storm of euphoric, champagne-drenched madness.

Harry was gone earlier, swallowed up by a tangle of red hair and knitted jumpers, tugged back into the orbit of the Weasley clan like a star dragged into a too-bright sun. One last glimpse: Harry’s laugh, thrown over his shoulder and a fleeting glance. Then nothing but the blur of orange and movement.

Around them, the world had exploded into celebration.

Fireworks bloomed overhead, bright green and gold, the air thick with the scent of roasted nuts, sugar smoke, and cheap festival wine. People were laughing in every language imaginable — embracing, shouting stats, levitating six feet off the ground in bursts of drunken enthusiasm.

A barefoot Irish witch was conjuring glowing clovers that clung to people’s robes like affectionate insects. Someone nearby had transfigured their shoes into miniature leprechaun mascots, which kept tripping them as they ran in a circle, giggling uncontrollably.

Theo accepted a tankard of something steaming from a passing vendor and sniffed it suspiciously. “This smells like expired victory.”

“It’s mint,” Blaise said, swiping it from him and taking a sip. He made a face. “Mint and regret.”

Draco arched a brow. “You’re both insufferable.”

“We’re festive,” Blaise corrected, tossing conjured glitter over a cluster of celebrating wizards in Bulgarian scarves. “You’re just pretending not to enjoy any of this.”

“I’m enjoying it quietly,” Draco said.

“You need help,” Blaise said cheerfully, then threw an arm around Draco’s shoulder. “Come on, Heir of Brooding. You survived the speeches, the champagne, the forced smiles. You even managed not to hex anyone during the handshakes.”

“Barely,” Theo added.

“Time to celebrate properly,” Blaise finished.

And for once, Draco didn’t resist.

He let them drag him toward the lantern-lit path lined with floating music orbs, his steps light, and behind his eyes, something warmer stirred.

But then Draco noticed.

Lucius was gone.

It hadn’t been immediate. He’d been half-listening to Theo ramble about a half-remembered Irish chant, Blaise twirling sparks off the rim of a floating drink tray, but somewhere between the fifteenth toast, the absence registered.

His father had vanished.

No announcement. No farewell nod. Just… gone. The space where he had been standing minutes ago, just behind Lady Selwyn and across from the Minister, was now empty, the conversational flow folding neatly over the gap like it had always been there.

Draco scanned the crowd again, slower this time, brows pulling together.

And then he saw her.

Two rows away, standing near the edge of the Ministry platform beneath a cluster of floating gold lanterns, Narcissa Malfoy was speaking in a low, sharp voice to one of the manor’s house-elves. Her posture was perfect, her face composed, but Draco had grown up with the tiny signs. The delicate tension in her jaw. The faint lift of her shoulder as she turned away. The way she didn’t blink as she scanned the crowd.

Her gaze swept the rows once to find him and a moment later, she was there, beside him, her hand gloved in black lace, resting on his arm with deceptive calm.

“We’re going back to the tent,” she said.

Draco blinked. “But—” he glanced back at Blaise and Theo, who had already paused mid-laugh, noticing the shift in tone.

“There are too many spells in the air,” she said, her voice still soft but shaped like steel. Another burst of green light boomed above them, sending sparks scattering across the crowd. “And your father is managing something for the Minister. He’ll find us later.”

It was spoken with the absolute authority of someone used to being believed.

But Draco’s gut clenched. This is it. It’s happening.

The fireworks overhead seemed closer than before, their shrieks slicing through the sky like hexes, too sharp for celebration. The shadows between tents stretched longer than they should have, the air buzzing with magic, layered, unstable, unbalanced. The press of bodies no longer felt festive, but claustrophobic, a maze of bright masks and careless laughter wrapped too tightly around something cracking underneath.

And her hand, always elegant and composed, was gripping his arm just a little too tight.

They walked in silence through the crowd, Narcissa’s cloak sweeping the grass like silver mist, her heels clicking in soft, controlled rhythm. Her pace was faster than it should have been for someone “returning early.” People called out greetings, lifted champagne flutes, and waved Ministry badges in toast.

Draco’s senses were sharpened to a knife’s edge now, not with fear, exactly, but with pressure. Like he’d stepped into the final second of a held breath. The serpent didn’t speak, but something inside him shifted, the familiar low coil behind his ribs growing hot, restless.

And the ring. The serpent ring against his chest pulsed once. As if it had turned its head to look. As if it, too, had felt the wrongness in the air and was preparing itself for something it couldn’t yet name.

By the time they reached the tent, a tall, elegant structure at the far edge of the Ministry encampment, lined in silver thread and warded against all but Malfoys, Draco’s heartbeat had risen to match the tempo of the fireworks.

Narcissa stepped inside first, and her hand pulled him in. “Stay here,” she said.

Draco paused at the threshold, frowning. “Why?”

She turned, briefly silhouetted in the amber-gold glow of the interior.

“Because I said so,” she replied. Not unkindly. But not open for argument.

And then she vanished further back into the tent.

Draco stood alone, just inside the ward of the tent, staring back toward the field. The crowd was still moving in cheerful ripples, music still rising, voices still laughing, but something beneath it all had gone still.

Then a scream tore across the camp, high and ragged and real.

Not excited. Not surprised. Terrified.

And just like that, the entire celebration stilled.

The crowd froze mid-motion, drinks suspended, footsteps halted, laughter caught in throats, as though time itself had blinked.

Draco turned, head snapping toward the sound.

Then came the second scream.

And this time, it was followed by the sound of running. And a white shimmering barrier came up, covering the entire ground.

***

He didn’t think. He just ran.

The moment the second scream ripped through the air, sharp and wet like fabric tearing down the middle of the world, Draco turned from the tent and sprinted into the crowd. Behind him, he thought he heard his mother’s voice — calling his name, high and edged with something that might have been fear — but the wind was already pulling it away, dragging it into the rising noise of hundreds of voices cracking at once.

People were running now.

Everywhere.

The elegant campgrounds had become a sea of panic. Smoke was rising from everywhere, dark and curling. The carefully charmed lights overhead flickered out, magical fireworks sputtered midair and fell into the dark. Someone shoved past Draco hard, nearly knocking him into a signpost shaped like a spinning wand; someone else shrieked behind him as a flash of red light shot from somewhere deep in the smoke.

He caught a glimpse of a child crying into the folds of her father’s robes, a woman trying to summon her broom with a shaking wand, a man dragging a heavy trunk behind him like it was his lifeline.

Draco pushed forward, dodging a set of collapsing tent poles and sidestepping a blur of purple flame that burst out of someone’s overturned cauldron stand. The path to the lower encampment twisted downhill through a long corridor of trampled grass and abandoned bags. And the farther he ran, the more his thoughts tightened.

Did the letter even help?

He had written it.

Sent it by owl into the silence of night, believing... hoping that someone would read it and understand. That someone in the Ministry would take it seriously. That the warning, vague though it was, might do something.

Only shouting. Chaos. Firelight rising from somewhere beyond the tree line.

Maybe they thought it was a prank. Maybe they never even opened it.

Maybe he had waited too long.                           

He nearly crashed into a group of wizards disapparating mid-step, skidded sideways through smoke, shoved past a collapsed food stall spilling still-steaming pies onto the grass, and spotted it — the familiar patchwork canvas of the Weasley tent, tilted now, half-lit, one of its front ties burned through and flapping wildly in the rising wind.

He pushed the canvas aside with more force than grace and burst into the entrance.

“Harry!” he shouted, breath catching.

Inside, everything was in motion.

Mr. Weasley was already shouting orders outside the tent, wand drawn. Fred and George Weasley were stuffing something into a bag enchanted to be larger than it looked. Ginny Weasley was pale, gripping her mother’s wrist like a lifeline.

And near the center stood Harry, flanked by Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, wide-eyed and mid-sentence.

“Malfoy—?” Granger said sharply, half-reaching for her wand.

He didn’t look at her.

“You have to move,” Draco said, voice low, urgent, fingers closing tightly around Harry’s sleeve. “Now. We have to go.”

Harry blinked, caught off guard. “Why? What’s happening?”

“I told you,” Draco said, barely above a whisper, eyes scanning the perimeter of the stands, not the field. “In the letter. This is it.”

Harry’s brow furrowed, confusion flickering across his face then he remembered.

“I got it,” he said quickly, quietly. “I... I couldn’t reply. I tried, but the owl wouldn’t fly from the wards. Dumbledore, maybe, or... I don’t know. Something was blocking them.”

His hand found Draco’s wrist now, fingers gripping tight. “Is this the attack you meant?”

“Look at the crowd,” Draco said, voice taut as wire. “They’re not here to play.”

Granger had gone pale, wand now fully drawn. “Malfoy, if this is a joke—”

“It’s not.” Harry’s voice was sharper now, eyes locked on Draco’s. “It’s not.”

“There’s no time,” Draco snapped, a little too loud, then added quickly, “They will start in the tent. You’re not safe here. The field’s going to turn into chaos. You have to trust me.”

Granger stepped forward, arm between them. “Why would we trust you?”

Weasley narrowed his eyes. “What are you playing at, Malfoy?”

“I’m not playing anything!” Draco hissed. “I wouldn’t be here if I were.”

“Then explain!” Granger demanded.

“I can’t!” Draco’s voice broke just slightly, more frustration than fear. “But I know things! Whether I like it or not and now I’m trying to save your ass with it!”

Harry was already moving, grabbing his jacket. “Okay... I do agree that we should run...”

Weasley blinked. “What? You believe him?”

“He wouldn’t lie about this,” Harry said tightly. “Not when it’s mattered.”

Granger stared at Harry, then at Draco. “If this is a trick—”

Draco met her eyes. “Then hex me later. Right now, I’m getting you out.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Harry pushed aside the flap. “Go!”

The woods behind the camp sloped downward into darkness, the path ahead twisted and barely visible between thickets of bramble and tree roots, but it was the only direction left.

Screams tore through the air.

Behind them, the camp had turned to ruin.

Tents flew backward like paper in a storm, stakes ripped from the ground by invisible force, fabric igniting midair. A whirlwind of magic churned through the rows, a hurricane of curses and shouts. Draco glanced back just once and saw it.

Bodies lifted into the sky, arms flailing, spinning like rag dolls as green light sparked around their ankles. Someone was hanging midair, upside down, her face distorted in horror as masked figures circled her below, laughing.

It was a spell he knew. He’d seen it practiced in theory.

The earth shook with the pounding of boots. A formation moving through the field with the confidence of those who knew no one would stop them.

“We have to go faster!” Harry shouted, voice hoarse, yanking Weasley by the sleeve.

Draco didn’t speak.

He ran, every heartbeat echoing with the memory of the serpent ring pressed against his chest, hot now, searing almost, like it could feel the darkness catching up.

They didn’t look back again.

Then, in the darkness of the forest that surrounded them, in the sky above the flames, a green light was rising.

The Mark.

The skull bloomed above them in silence, impossibly large, impossibly green. A sickly, radiant thing with serpent fangs and hollow eyes that seemed to burn through the night sky like a brand pressed against heaven. For a moment, no one spoke. Even the trees seemed to freeze, their leaves holding still in the air like a breath about to break.

The forest had gone deathly quiet.

The serpent ring burned where it touched his skin. It screamed with a pulse of light and heat that struck him through the ribs like a lightning rod. He staggered, vision blurring, the trees around him dimming into shadows and outlines as something ancient surged forward.

And in his mind, he saw flames.

Marching in rows.

He saw masks, gleaming in the light. Silver, blank, devout, and behind them, power.

Power, rising.

And Him.

Like a shadow behind glass, but it was enough. The magic in the forest changed. The very earth hummed. And the serpent inside Draco thrashed, trying to say what it had no words for:

He is watching now.

Then the vision broke.

The noise came rushing back in: spells, footsteps, panicked breathing, someone sobbing in the dark. The green light in the sky flickered and pulsed, casting everything in its path into ghastly color. There were voices now, sharper, louder, professional.

“Aurors!” someone shouted from the trees. “Close in. Sweep the tree line!”

Spells flared overhead and figures in deep blue cloaks began to appear, moving through the crowd with wands raised and eyes scanning, methodical and cold. The Aurors had come.

They had been here all along.

Draco’s breath hitched.

They read the letter.

Someone had listened. Someone had pulled strings, mobilized quietly, and hidden more personnel in the field. That was why they were moving so quickly now, fanning through the woods with military precision, calling out code phrases and locking down bursts of magical energy before they could spiral out of control.

But it didn’t matter now, not to Draco. Not when the Mark still hovered in the sky like a gaping wound and every inch of his skin prickled with something colder than fear and sharper than magic.

Granger was the first to speak. Her voice was thin and stunned, but loud enough to pierce through the brittle hush around them.

“It appeared right above us,” she said, eyes wide as she pointed upward. “It’s... look... It’s here. We’re standing right beneath it.”

They all turned. And she was right.

The skull loomed directly overhead, vast, green, and glowing with an eerie light that pulsed through the treetops. Its hollow eyes stared down like a judgment. The serpent tongue writhed, flickering like fire.

“We need to get away,” Harry said, suddenly and sharply, his voice low and urgent. His eyes darted to the trees beyond. “Now. If we’re found under that—”

“—We won’t get a second chance to explain,” Weasley muttered, already grabbing Granger, pulling her back into motion.

No one argued.

They turned and bolted, crashing into the underbrush without direction, tripping over roots and snapping twigs underfoot. Leaves slapped their faces. Branches clawed at their cloaks. The forest wasn’t thick, but it was wild, and every shadow felt like a trap waiting to spring.

Spells cracked in the distance, loud and fast. Aurors' voices shouted commands. A golden arc of light lanced just past them, sizzling through the air before shattering against a tree, sending embers raining down.

Draco didn’t speak. He just ran.

He didn’t know where he was going, only where not to be. His legs moved on instinct, powered by the same part of him that always recognized the shape of danger before it formed. A flicker in the dark meant left. A strange pause in the wind meant to stop. When something behind them felt too close, he veered, hard, and the others followed.

Every few yards, someone would falter, Weasley gasping, Granger whispering “Wait... Where are we... ” and Draco would turn, eyes sharp, breath tight, and gesture: that way. Duck. Move. Run.

There was no time for questions.

Only motion.

Whether it was magic, intuition, or some strange favor of the Carmesí bloodline guiding his feet, Draco didn’t know.

But they weren’t caught.

When they finally stopped, panting, scratched, robes torn and shoes caked in mud. The green glow of the Dark Mark was still visible through the trees. Fainter now, like a smear of sick light on the edge of the horizon, but still there.

They barely had time to breathe before the woods thinned and the ground dipped, and suddenly they were stumbling onto a patrol path. Golden spells pulsed low across the branches, casting flickers of warning light between the trunks. Blue flames hovered in lanterns, marking safe zones and rally points.

And there — striding toward them, wand drawn, coat flaring behind him — was Arthur Weasley.

“Harry! Hermione! Ron!” he called, his voice tight but unmistakable.

Relief spread across his face for one unguarded second.

Then he saw Draco.

“…Malfoy?”

Draco straightened despite himself. “I was with them,” he said shortly. “We ran.”

Arthur’s eyes lingered on him. Then he gave a single sharp nod.

“No time for questions,” he said briskly. “Stay close. No spells unless I say. And don’t speak to anyone in uniform until we’re through the perimeter. The Aurors are on edge tonight.”

They followed without a word.

And the woods swallowed the Mark behind them. The path back toward the safety camp was narrow and crowded with spells, glowing ribbons of light crisscrossed their feet, warning lines and containment charms, and a line of Ministry tents glimmered ahead like ghost lanterns behind protective wards. Arthur led them swiftly, one hand still on his wand, his voice dropping as another wizard in dark blue robes joined him at the edge of the track.

“We’ve contained most of it,” the Auror said, his robes streaked with soot and his voice hoarse from shouting. “A dozen injuries, nothing fatal, mostly traumatized. A lot of tents got flattened.”

“And the Mark?” Arthur asked, his voice tight.

“We found the source.” The Auror hesitated, glancing at the others. “A house-elf. Belongs to Barty Crouch. Claims it was an accident. Says she doesn’t remember casting it.”

Granger stopped walking. “A house-elf?” she repeated. “You’re saying a house-elf cast the Dark Mark?”

“That’s what we’re reporting,” the Auror said grimly. “Crouch isn’t pleased.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Granger said, her voice rising. “House-elves can’t just do that. They don’t even use wands! They’re bound to their families, they don’t have that kind of autonomy—”

Arthur gave her a quiet look, but she shook her head fiercely. “No. No, this is exactly the problem. They’re treated like disposable tools and blamed when something goes wrong. They have no rights, no voice, and now what, she’s being punished for something she probably didn’t even mean to do?”

Draco let out a sharp breath, the kind that could have been a laugh if it hadn’t carried so much tension. “They’re house-elves. They’re made to serve.”

Granger spun on him like a lightning strike. “No one is made to serve.”

Draco’s jaw tightened, still high from the anxiety, and he fought back. “They want to.”

“They’re forced to!”

“They’re proud of it,” he said. “Ask one. They’re happiest when—”

“Happiest?” Granger’s voice cracked. “They’ve been brainwashed, you idiot! Conditioned to think servitude is loyalty. That’s not happiness, it’s—”

“Oh, right, and now you’re an expert on magical species psychology?” Draco snapped. “You spent a week with a tea towel-wearing elf and think you understand centuries of tradition?”

“At least I see them as people!”

“And at least I’m not rewriting nature to suit my schoolgirl fantasies—”

“Enough!”

Harry’s voice cut through the night like a spell. They both turned to him.

Harry stood between them now, his jaw set, his wand lowered but still drawn. His face was pale in the low light, the ghost of the green skull still visible in the reflection of his glasses.

“We don’t have time for this,” he said flatly. “Not here. Not now.”

Granger looked away first, her face tight, her hands balled into fists.

Draco didn’t move. He could feel the argument still alive in his chest, breathing hard behind his ribs, all the things he still wanted to say, all the instincts clawing at the edge of his throat.

He wanted to defend himself. Wanted to explain that it wasn’t hatred, not exactly, but... habit, the way his world had always worked.

But the look in Harry’s eyes made something twist deep in his gut.

So he swallowed it. And said nothing.

They walked on. The path ahead glowed with containment spells, low blue flames drifting above the dirt, humming like a warning. The forest around them was quiet, but not calm. Like it was waiting.

And Draco walked in silence, unsure whether it was guilt or pride that burned hotter in his chest.

***

The safety zone had been hastily constructed with magical barriers and glowing perimeter flags, the kind that shimmered faintly when stepped too close. Inside, clusters of people huddled together on conjured benches and fold-out cots, their faces pale and exhausted, whispering theories and names into the chill of the early morning air. Some clutched cloaks too tightly, others stared at nothing. No one laughed.

The sky had dulled to a hard, flat grey. The green glow of the Dark Mark had finally faded, but its shape still clung behind Draco’s eyes, like something burned into his vision.

They had barely stepped past the last charm boundary when a voice called his name.

“Mr. Malfoy?”

Draco turned to see a man in deep indigo robes standing by the checkpoint. Not an Auror, his stance was too polite, his hands clasped neatly behind his back, but his sigil badge glowed with Ministry approval. Magical Law Department, upper rank.

The man gave a small, professional nod. “Your family has requested your return. I’m here to escort you back to your tent.”

Arthur Weasley stepped forward, wand still in his hand, expression sharp beneath the soot and worry.

“And which division are you with, exactly?” Arthur asked, glancing pointedly at the man’s collar. “Because I’m in charge of these kids right now. You might forgive me for wanting to be sure who’s collecting him.”

“Understood, sir,” the man said, tilting his badge just slightly so the sigil shimmered brighter. “I’m with the Minister’s internal coordination team. You’re welcome to contact the Department of Public Safety to verify, but I’ve been told to return young Mr. Malfoy to his family without delay.”

Arthur studied him a second longer, then looked at Draco. “You alright, son?”

Draco, who hadn’t been called “son” by anyone other than his mother in years, gave the smallest nod.

He turned to Harry. The boy’s hair was still a disaster with leaves and ash stuck in it, and his eyes hadn’t stopped flicking toward the trees since they left them.

Ron Weasley stood to his right, Hermione Granger to his left. Both looked equally torn between suspicion and fatigue.

Draco hesitated, just for a second.

“Well,” he said finally, voice rough from running, smoke, and shouting. “Try not to get blamed for any more world-ending catastrophes while I’m gone.”

Harry blinked.

Then, faintly, smirked. “Sure.”

Draco turned before the moment could stretch. He followed the Ministry official across the field, into the mist, boots quiet against the grass.

Behind him, Arthur’s voice drifted through the settling quiet.

“You lot are running around with Malfoy now, huh?”

He didn’t hear the answer.

But he didn’t need to.

The silence that followed said enough.

When he reached the Malfoy tent, the sun was just beginning to. From the outside, the tent looked unchanged, silver fastenings glinting with dew, the canvas still pristine, wards humming softly at the seams. But when Draco pushed through the flap, the atmosphere shifted.

It was silent inside, in the way that makes a room feel colder than it should.

His father was standing near the small table in the center, one sleeve rolled just slightly, his gloves tucked under his arm with practiced ease. His posture was casual, but too deliberate.

He turned the moment Draco entered, and for one sharp second, father and son held each other’s eyes.

“You’re back,” Lucius said.

His voice was cool and revealed nothing.

Draco nodded once, trying not to let the weight in his limbs show. “There was panic,” he said. “I ran with the others.”

The lie was half-true, which was the most believable kind.

His mother sat in her usual velvet-backed chair. She didn’t ask anything. Her robe was immaculate, untouched by ash or chaos. Only her eyes met his, cool and unreadable, and in them was something gentler. Understanding.

I know, her gaze said. I won’t speak it. But I know.

Lucius stepped closer, smoothing his sleeve down with a distracted motion. “Curious,” he murmured, almost idly, “that the Ministry was so prepared. Wards were up before the first fire even touched the tents.”

Draco stayed quiet. His boots left faint streaks of dried mud on the woven rug beneath him.

“I saw Aurors apparating into position from points they had no reason to be stationed at,” Lucius continued. “Even Weasley... that blood-traitor... moved like someone briefed. As if…”

He trailed off. Then turned, slowly, to face his son again.

“As if someone warned them.”

Draco didn’t blink.

He’d practiced this expression in mirrors for years. The neutral one. The one that looked just enough like fear to pass for obedience.

Lucius studied him, but only for a second.

Then he reached for his gloves and began to put them on. “No matter, even if the endeavor was shorter than planned,” he said lightly, as if they were speaking about nothing more serious than a weather charm. “The Mark was seen. That’s all that matters.”

He adjusted the last finger of his glove with care. “Confusion is always the beginning. People fear what they don’t understand. It makes them easier to guide.”

Draco said nothing. He stepped to the chair across from his mother and sat, slow and careful, fingers clenching the inside hem of his robes beneath the table where no one could see.

He could still feel the forest in his skin. The scream someone had muffled with a spell.

He could still see Harry in the tree line, eyes bright with something between fury and resolve. The Death Eaters marched like shadows cut from a storm cloud.

And he could feel the ring on his chest — the serpent cold now, silent, but not gone.

He looked at his father, and then at his mother. And he thought, not for the first time, that he might not survive both sides of this war.

Chapter Text

Before everything, the silence at the Manor had been elegant — a hush meant for marble floors and long corridors, the kind of silence that wrapped around polished silver and old portraits like velvet. But now, it pressed down.

They returned from the Quidditch World Cup under the veil of early morning fog. House-elves scrambled to take their cloaks before the front doors had fully opened. Narcissa said nothing on the way in. Lucius had been on the Floo twice before breakfast.

By the second day back, Draco noticed things had changed.

He was being watched. It was not obvious like the way you would expect, but quieter and in the guise of control. Lucius no longer gave him complete freedom to vanish into the gardens or study in the old observatory alone. Wherever Draco went, there seemed to be a house-elf nearby. Or a servant restocking a hallway cabinet. Or his father, appearing in doorways without warning.

And when Lucius did speak, it was never about what had happened. Only what must happen next.

“You’ll be expected to attend the memorial in two weeks,” he said one evening, without looking up from his papers.

Draco nodded, lips tight.

That night, as he passed Narcissa in the upstairs corridor, she placed a gentle hand on his sleeve.

“Practice your Occlumency,” she murmured. “Every morning.”

Draco swallowed. “You think someone’s trying to see?”

Her fingers brushed his wrist once, briefly. “No. I think someone already has.”

She didn’t wait for his reply.

And so Draco practiced.

Every morning before breakfast, he sat in his room with the curtains drawn, pressing his mind into shape. He conjured mirrors, fog, corridors filled with locked doors. He tried not to picture the World Cup. He tried not to think of the Death Eaters and the screams. He tried not to think of Harry, or the green light, or his father’s voice saying, Confusion is always the beginning.

But the more he tried not to think, the more the memories knocked on the door. The shadows were longer now. The wards felt like a cage.

And twice, just twice, Draco caught movement where there shouldn’t have been any — a shape gliding down a hallway at dusk, not a servant, not a ghost, something too quiet, too sharp. Once, he thought he saw someone in his father’s study long after midnight, a tall figure with a gloved hand and a wand that glimmered darkly before the door shut in silence.

The newspapers came two days after the World Cup.

They arrived on silver trays at breakfast, folded with perfect symmetry, still warm from the owl's talons. The Daily Prophet, of course, took the center — black-ink headlines screaming about "Terror at the Cup" and "Mysterious Dark Mark Cast Over Quidditch Grounds" accompanied by swirling photographs of panicked witches, roaring flames, and a spectral green skull still pulsing faintly in the background.

The Ministry had issued a formal statement: contained panic, minor injuries, and an ongoing investigation. No arrests had been made. Suspects were being questioned. And the strange presence of extra Aurors on-site was referred to as “a fortunate precaution”.

Draco read that part twice. He only folded the paper neatly and handed it back to the elf before pouring himself another cup of tea.

The rumors moved faster than ink.

At first, they came from his friends, little scrolls from Blaise and Pansy, sent by owl with overdramatic handwriting and too much perfume sealed in the wax.

Did you see that mask? Do you think it was someone close? You know who I’m talking about…

Someone told me Harry Potter was there again. Is that true? I know you’re friends with him now (ugh) but really, Draco, don’t go soft.

Then it made its way to the higher, more important figures.

The Malfoys hosted three nights before the Hogwarts Express was scheduled to leave. Nothing too grand, just an “end of season gathering,” attended by ten other pure-blood families, most of them connected to the Ministry or old foreign bloodlines. There were oysters flown in from the Brittany coast, enchanted lilies that glowed a soft silver-blue, and a soft harp charmed to pluck itself in a minor key while guests discussed everything but the truth.

“They say it was the Crouch elf,” said one woman, leaning forward with her glass. “But I always thought that family was odd, didn’t you?”

“Oh, absolutely. Especially the Junior one. Joined the Death Eaters, then disappeared, even the Auror couldn’t find him.”

“No, I heard the Dementors kissed him. Good riddance."

“My cousin says the Mark hasn’t been seen in over a decade. This wasn’t some child’s prank.”

Lucius said very little. He watched. He nodded. He smoothed his cufflinks. Narcissa smiled gracefully at everyone and served them exactly the amount of silence that would make her seem both untouchable and informed.

Draco sat beside a window, eating almost nothing, watching the clouds crawl across the evening sky.

***

Draco packed alone on the night before his return to Hogwarts.

No elf hovered at his side, no mother sat in the doorway with last-minute reminders about posture or station. Just him, his wand, his books, and the leather-bound journal, still only half-filled, but heavy with weight. Some sketches looked like prophecies. Others, like memories stolen from someone else’s life. A few he couldn’t bring himself to reread.

He set the journal carefully at the bottom of his trunk, tucked beside his spare robes and spell work drafts.

And then came the tapestry. It had sat untouched for weeks, rolled and stored in the back of his wardrobe like a secret too large to face. A thread pulled from something older than even his family’s fear. He unrolled it just long enough to see the shimmer of the seedmark again, the faint silver charm stitched into the ancestral lines like a whisper waiting to be heard.

Draco sighed, fingers lingering at the edge of the cloth. The protective magic still held. He hadn’t cracked the charm. But too much had happened, too many eyes had turned his way. The Cup, the visions, the Death Eater… everything else had screamed louder for his attention.

With a flick of his wand, he cast a stasis spell over the tapestry, then a gentle shrinking charm. The cloth folded down neatly, unnaturally small, and he tucked it between layers of clothing, hidden beneath his darker robes. He closed the trunk with a soft click.

The serpent ring, still cool and silent, though it pulsed faintly whenever his thoughts grew too loud, he tucked under the collar of his robe, hidden but close.

Then he stood at the mirror. He didn’t look older. Not in the obvious way. But his reflection was quieter. His shoulders sat differently. His eyes were harder to read.

And as the soft breeze from the window stirred the curtains and the Manor stretched with distant creaks, Draco whispered to the ceiling, barely audible even to himself:

“This year will be different.”

Draco had just begun to drift with the kind of drowsy, half-conscious state where his thoughts spun slowly and everything felt soft at the edges. Then the fireplace in his room gave a sudden, low whoosh.

He sat bolt upright.

The flames didn’t crackle. They roared with that unmistakable shimmer of Floo magic, the green light licking up the soot-blackened stone.

Draco scrambled out of bed, wand in hand, heart already pounding with every cursed possibility.

Then a face flickered into view.

“Draco?”

He stumbled forward so fast he nearly tripped over the hem of his sleep robe.

“Harry?!” he half-whispered, half-yelled, voice sharp and stunned. “Are you actually insane? Do you have any idea where you’re calling? You can’t just... this is the Manor! There are wards...!”

Harry blinked at him from the flames, his hair a mess, green eyes tired but alert.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he said. “Didn’t think you’d be able to either. I just wanted to check on you.”

Draco gaped at him. “By breaking into my fireplace?”

“I didn’t break in! I learned how to Floo call. Ron showed me. I said your full name and hoped it wouldn’t set my eyebrows on fire. So far, success.”

Draco dragged a hand down his face. “You could’ve waited for tomorrow... and just... I don’t know... asked me at school?”

Harry grinned, maddeningly casual. “What’s the fun in that?”

Draco muttered something extremely uncharitable under his breath and crossed his arms. But he didn’t back away from the fire.

“So,” Harry said, quieter now, “How are you? Really.”

Draco hesitated.

“…Fine,” he said automatically. Then frowned. “No. Not fine. It’s been… quiet. But not the good kind. My father’s been watching me like I’m a prisoner, and my mother keeps telling me to clear my mind so hard I can’t have one.”

Harry snorted. “At least yours aren’t pretending everything was a completely normal camping trip gone wrong. The Weasleys are still shaking soot out of their socks, but it’s all you know how summer events are.”

They were quiet for a moment.

Then Draco asked, “Did you see the Mark again? When you close your eyes?”

Harry nodded, just once. “Yeah. Sometimes I think I still hear it. The screams.”

Draco swallowed.

“Same.”

Another pause.

Then Harry said, softer than before, “You’re not alone, you know.”

Draco didn’t answer right away. But he stepped a little closer to the fire.

“I know.”

Harry hesitated, then added, “Listen… I’m really sorry Hermione and Ron are still a bit suspicious of you. I’ve tried talking to them. It’s not that they don’t remember what you did... Helping us get Sirius out, warning us at the World Cup. They do. They’re grateful. Honestly. They just… need time.”

Draco’s face flickered with something, relief maybe, or guilt. He nodded slowly.

“I’m sorry, too,” he said. “For snapping at Granger. About the house-elves. It’s just… hard to break a belief when you’ve been raised on it.”

Harry gave a short laugh. “Don’t worry about it. Hermione’s intense. Ron and I joke about it all the time. You’ll get used to her.”

Draco almost smiled, the tension in his shoulders easing a little. “I think she threatened to curse me into socks.”

“Sounds about right.” Harry’s grin softened. “But really, I’m glad I got to talk to you again.”

Draco looked at him, quiet, like he was trying to decide whether or not to believe that.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “Me too.”

Harry shifted a little, eyes flicking off to the side like he could sense the time slipping past them, like he was only just remembering that he wasn’t exactly welcome in Malfoy Manor’s hearth.

“Well,” he said, scratching the back of his neck, “I should probably... go before your father wakes up and sentences me to a slow, extremely painful death.”

Draco snorted, startled. “You wouldn’t even see it coming. Probably something tasteful.”

“Elegant murder,” Harry agreed solemnly. “A velvet rope around the crime scene.”

Draco shook his head, and for the first time in weeks, the corner of his mouth curled up, hesitant but real.

Harry’s smile softened.

“Good night, Draco,” he said, voice lower now, almost shy. “I’ll… see you at school.”

Draco nodded, gaze lingering in the firelight.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “See you.”

Harry gave a small wave, then disappeared with a quiet whoosh, the flames drawing inward and shrinking until they were nothing more than ash-colored embers.

Draco stood there a long moment after, the hearth dark, the Manor silent, the weight of the night settling over him like a too-heavy quilt.

He turned away at last, back to the shadows of his room.

And in the green-gold flicker of the flames, it almost felt warm.

***

The station had been its usual chaos of steam and shouts with owls shrieking in their cages, children running toward the red engine with half-fastened cloaks, mothers calling after forgotten hats. The platform was filled with noise and color, but to Draco, it felt far away, like watching someone else's memory through frosted glass.

Lucius hadn’t come.

Narcissa had. Dressed in a sea-grey traveling cloak and gloves that shimmered like pearls, she kissed his cheek without smudging a single hair. Her voice had been soft and even.

“Be watchful,” she said. Not “write me,” or “be good,” or “have a safe term.” Just that: be watchful.

And Draco had understood.

The train’s whistle tore through the air, and he’d boarded with the same smooth, polished gait as every year, his prefect-worthy posture undisturbed by the churning in his chest. Once the train slid free from the station, shaking loose the last threads of London smoke, he made for an empty compartment. Crabbe and Goyle trailed behind without question like lumbering shadows, loyal by instinct more than choice. He didn’t bother with the door spell, only slid it shut, the click soft as a sigh.

Blaise and Theo had written last week: their families were skipping the platform and sending them directly to Hogsmeade by private Floo, a decision dripping with quiet parental paranoia after the events at the World Cup. Pansy was in France. Still.

Her letter had arrived late, full of dramatic underlines and sighing metaphors about French weather, French fashion, and French boys who apparently had no sense of personal space. Underneath that, in smaller ink, she’d written: Don’t get too serious without me.

So this time, the compartment was much quieter. For a while, there was only the hush and rumble of the tracks, the countryside sweeping past in golds and greens, watercolor-blurred. Draco lounged across one bench, legs stretched, head tilted to the window as if trying to memorize the shape of the clouds.

“You're... different,” Goyle said finally, scratching his cheek with all the delicacy of a troll.

Crabbe nodded. “Not sneering as much.”

Draco smirked — not the old, sharp-edged kind, but something tired and more human. “Maybe I’ve grown past all that,” he said. “Doesn’t mean I’ve gone soft. I still enjoy watching idiots trip over their own feet. I just don’t need to push them anymore.”

Goyle frowned, trying to picture a world without Draco's cutting jabs. “So… no more hexing first-years for snoring?”

“Tempting,” Draco mused. “But no. Not unless they really deserve it.”

Crabbe gave a shrug, wide and lazy. “Whatever. We're fine with anything.”

“Yeah,” Goyle agreed. “You still tell the best jokes.”

Draco’s mouth twitched again. “They’re not jokes. They’re observations.”

And with that, silence returned, but companionable in its own crooked way. The three of them sat in their separate corners, the train carrying them onward through a country that didn’t know them, didn’t care.

Draco watched the sky through the glass. The clouds moved like sails on a pale sea, endless and strange. Somewhere behind them: the forest, the fire, the mark. Ahead: something shapeless and sharp.

But for now, there was only the steady clatter beneath them, a quiet reminder in steel and rhythm.

You are moving forward. Ready or not.

By the time he stepped down onto the platform at Hogsmeade, the sky had already gone lilac, and the castle loomed across the lake like something out of a dream — tall towers glowing gold, boats already vanishing into the mist. He joined the last wave of students filing through the gates, ignoring the chill in the air and the ache in his knees from sitting too long.

The Great Hall was exactly as loud, golden and alive as he remembered it. The floating candles had returned, swaying gently overhead like a fleet of stars captured in wax. Platters of food shimmered into place, and the house banners rippled with unseen wind. The ceiling, enchanted as ever to reflect the sky, was now a deep twilight velvet, streaked with the last light of day.

He slid into the Slytherin table beside Blaise, who looked vaguely windblown and utterly uninterested in whatever Professor Sprout was saying two tables over.

“There you are,” Blaise said without turning. “You look like someone who’s either spent the rest of the summer practicing black magic or becoming a poet.”

“Both,” Draco said smoothly, pouring himself a cup of pumpkin juice. “But I didn’t get good at either.”

Theo arrived moments later and collapsed dramatically beside them with a sigh that suggested the carriage ride from the village had aged him ten years.

“You wouldn’t believe the rumors,” Blaise said, eyes already scanning the Gryffindor table. “They say the Triwizard Tournament’s coming back.”

“It’s not a rumor,” Theo added, leaning over from his side of the bench, voice low and knowing. “My uncle’s working on it. There’s a whole security detail and international press. Two other schools are arriving next month.”

“And they’re not here to sightsee,” Daphne, on the other side of the table, said with a smirk. “They’re bringing champions.”

Draco raised a brow. “Let me guess. You’re planning to flirt your way into a Beauxbatons entourage?”

“If they look half as good as the postcards, yes.”

More laughter, more food, more chatter building around them but Draco only half-listened.

“You should have seen the look on Professor Flitwick’s face when that Hufflepuff sneezed during the Sorting Hat song,” Theo was saying now, balancing his fork and gesturing wildly. “Nearly launched himself off the chair. I thought Blaise was going to choke laughing.”

“I did not laugh,” Blaise said, adjusting his sleeves with mock offense. “I merely found the moment energetically amusing.”

“Energetically,” Draco repeated. “That’s what we’re calling it now?”

“Better than calling it what it was,” Daphne said from across the table, flicking her wand to re-charm her goblet into refilling. “Which is: completely un-Slytherin behavior. Giggling in public, Blaise?”

“I was charmed,” he said dryly. “Something about seeing Flitwick nearly fall into a plate of pudding restored my faith in the absurd.”

Theo smirked. “You should write that on your family crest.”

“I’ll write it on yours instead. We fall for pudding. It suits you.”

As the laughter rippled around the table again, Draco leaned back slightly, letting the warmth of the Hall press against the cold spaces that had settled inside him over the summer. There were still gaps and places in his thoughts where things didn’t sit quite right. But here, for now, he didn’t have to explain himself. Not to Blaise, who had always known how to read between the lines. Not to Theo, who never asked questions when silence said enough.

He glanced toward the Gryffindor table.

Potter was sitting between Granger and Weasley, his hair still as messy as ever, one arm draped lazily over the back of the bench. He wasn’t laughing in the open, whole-hearted way he used to but he was smirking at something Granger said. His shoulders were tense, though. His fingers drummed against his plate. He looked up, just for a second, and their eyes met.

A flicker. Nothing more. But it was enough.

Blaise noticed.

“You going to tell me what that was about?” he murmured under his breath, not even looking up from the bread roll he was buttering.

“Tell you what?” Draco said smoothly, already turning back to his plate.

“That you and Potter now send secret letters and shared glances over roast beef?”

Crabbe snorted mid-bite and nearly choked on a mouthful of treacle tart. Goyle slapped the table, laughing through crumbs. Draco didn’t flinch, but Theo nearly dropped his fork. Draco didn’t flinch, but Theo nearly dropped his fork. “Wait, what?”

“Blaise is hallucinating,” Draco said coolly. “Too much pudding. It’s gone to his head.”

“I’m serious,” Blaise said, eyes still on his plate. “You looked like you were trying not to kiss him.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You were.”

Daphne looked between them with raised eyebrows. “Are we pretending not to talk about Potter now? I thought you were all over him last year. Has he written you poetry, Malfoy?”

Draco gave her a long look. “No, but I don’t think he had ever read one to know how poetry works.”

They all laughed again, and the moment passed. The candles above flickered. Someone at the Ravenclaw table hiccupped out a spark. Peeves cackled faintly from the far end of the Hall.

Dumbledore finally rose to speak, his goblet held in one long hand, his robes a sweeping tapestry of embroidered midnight blue. The noise softened without being told to, like the castle itself leaned in to listen.

“Welcome, students new and old, to another year at Hogwarts,” he said, voice warm and light, yet somehow large enough to fill the entire Hall. “Before you all drift into sugar comas and start hexing each other over the last éclair, I’d like to make a few important announcements…”

Draco tuned out the first part, something about Filch banning more joke products, Hagrid’s latest beast adoption being “temporarily contained,” and a reminder that the Forbidden Forest remained very much forbidden, especially for “those of you who like to ask if that rule still applies every year”.

Then the great oak doors at the end of the Hall swung wide with a groan of old hinges, and a man entered with a presence that slammed into the room like a sudden wind.

The change in the Hall was instant, even if no one said it aloud.

He was hunched, limping, his coat worn and scorched at the edges, one eye spinning madly in its socket while the other scanned the students like he was cataloguing threats. His staff clicked with every step. His face was a roadmap of scars. And when he passed the Slytherin table, Draco could smell the smoke and metal that clung to him like an old battlefield.

Professor Dumbledore smiled as if nothing were strange at all.

“May I introduce our new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor,” he said, gesturing toward the figure now taking a seat at the high table, “Professor Alastor Moody.”

There was a pause of wariness.

Then a polite ripple of applause moved through the Hall.

Draco didn’t clap.

He couldn’t.

The moment Moody sat, something shifted in Draco.

His ring, the Carmesí ring hidden beneath his robes, warmed faintly against his skin. Like a candle flickering against fog.

Draco narrowed his eyes and watched as Moody took a long swig from the battered hip flask resting on the table beside his plate. One boot thudded under the table with a strange, metallic echo. His magical eye swiveled once toward the Gryffindor table, then to the Hufflepuffs, then landed on Draco.

Draco stared back, steady, unreadable.

“Creepy, isn’t he?” whispered Daphne Greengrass from his right. “Looks like someone cursed a war relic and gave it a teaching license.”

Draco kept his gaze fixed on Moody.

The sensation passed, but not cleanly. It left a smear in its wake, a kind of static behind his eyes.

It didn’t feel like Sirius Black, who had burned like wildfire at the edges of his sight, grief and rage. And didn’t feel like Remus Lupin, whose presence had stirred something deeper, older, like moonlight stretched too thin over teeth.

This was different.

Cause behind Moody, Draco saw masks. Smoke over a mirror. One over another. And behind them, a mouth full of teeth.

***

Draco stepped out onto the stone courtyard after the feast. And there, sitting cross-legged on the low wall, as though she'd been waiting for someone to notice the sky with her, was Luna Lovegood.

She looked up as he approached, her earrings, monstera this time, swinging gently, her eyes distant and unblinking, as though she'd seen him before he’d even turned the corner.

“Oh. Hello, Draco,” she said dreamily. “You’re taller.”

Draco blinked. “Am I?”

She nodded solemnly, then reached into the woven satchel at her side. “I brought you something. From the expedition.”

“Expedition?” Draco asked, raising an eyebrow as she stood and pressed a small, wrapped bundle into his hands.

“With my father,” she explained, brushing her fingers over the hem of her robes, which looked like they'd seen wind and salt and sand. “We spent the whole summer in Norway looking for Crumple-Horned Snorkack. So I couldn’t send many letters.”

Draco looked down at the bundle. It was wrapped in pale green cloth, tied with a bit of twine. He untied it carefully and found a bottle of dried herbs and a little bit of wild honey mixed together.

The liquid shimmered faintly in the light.

Draco stared at it for a moment longer, then slipped it into his pocket.

“I... thanks,” he said, glancing at her. “And here I thought you’d disappeared off the face of the Earth after your visit to the Manor.”

Luna tilted her head thoughtfully. “Close. No reliable owls were where we were. Something about magnetic interference. But I did get your letter. And the gift.”

Her voice softened slightly, the cadence slowing in a way that caught Draco off guard. “Thank you for that, by the way. The charmed candles were beautiful. I kept them wrapped next to my bed. It stopped the nightmares.”

Draco looked away, but his chest lit up with something akin to happiness. “It was nothing. Just a charm,” he said, too quickly.

“It was kind,” she said, simply. “And kind things matter more than people admit.”

Then she wandered off across the grass, humming something under her breath, eyes turned to the fading stars like they might start speaking to her at any moment.

***

The next morning, Draco slipped into the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom just shy of late, the door clicking shut behind him. The room smelled faintly of charred parchment and damp stone, leftover traces of yesterday’s hexwork still lingering in the air.

Parchment snapped open across desks like wings catching wind, crisp and eager. Quills scratched in restless little bursts. Chairs scraped unevenly against the flagstone floor as students jostled for position, laughter rising in short, bright spikes. The atmosphere crackled with energy, that particular kind of bravado unique to teenage wizards who still believed danger was a story told to other people.

“I heard he keeps his enemies’ teeth in a pouch on his belt,” someone said near the front.

“No, it’s his own teeth,” another corrected eagerly. “He replaces them when he gets cursed. Keeps spares.”

“Bet he’s seen a vampire fight. Twice. And won both.”

“Please,” came Pansy’s slight sneer, she apparently had arrived at the castle sometime in the night, “you can smell the dragon blood in his coat. No one wins clean in a vampire fight.”

Draco slid into his usual seat near the back, the worn desk slightly warped from years of spell-scars. Blaise was already sprawled next to him with practiced disinterest, long fingers tapping idly against the spine of his textbook. Across from them, Pansy turned her silver ring in slow circles on her finger, just elegantly bored, as if daring the lesson to be more interesting than her summer in France.

Across the room, Ron Weasley was attempting to walk with an exaggerated limp, arm flailing, while Lavender giggled behind her hands. Harry Potter, by contrast, looked unimpressed by the joke, rubbing his temple with two fingers, his bag still half-unpacked beside him.

“Ten galleons says he curses someone before the hour’s out,” Blaise murmured, leaning in with a half-smile.

Draco didn’t answer. He barely heard the bet.

His mind was already moving with anticipation.

Because they all knew what was coming.

Unforgivable Curses.

The phrase moved through the air like smoke, whispered between students with a kind of hushed awe, like saying it too loudly might summon the curses themselves. Even here, in the stone comfort of Hogwarts, they carried weight. Words that didn’t belong in classrooms. Magic that wasn’t supposed to be real, or at least not reachable.

And yet here they were.

Draco sat straighter. Adjusted the cuff of his robes. He wasn’t sure what unsettled him more: the fact that he knew what spell was coming… or the fact that he didn’t feel surprised at all.

The door slammed open. A heavy wooden crash against stone, and Mad-Eye Moody hobbled in, dragging his cane like a war drum across the floor, his magical eye spinning in all directions... one rotation, two... before settling, almost unnaturally, on Draco.

It lingered only a moment but Draco felt it like a jolt.

Moody said nothing at first. Just stared out over the class, as if sizing them up, which ones would survive, which ones would fold.

Then, without preamble: “You lot think you know fear.”

A murmur rippled across the room.

He walked to the front, threw a crate onto the desk, and snapped it open. Inside: a spider. Large, twitching, its legs curling against the sides of the box.

He held up his wand. “Let’s begin.”

The words themselves. Imperio. Crucio. Avada Kedavra. They weren’t new to Draco.

He’d read about them before he turned eleven. He’d heard them dissected like curious artifacts during long, sharp-tongued dinners with visiting relatives: clinical descriptions passed between wineglasses and cigars. Once, he’d even been the target of a weak Imperius curse, a “lesson” from his father in the drawing room when he was twelve. A test.

“Resist it,” Lucius had said, calm as ever, as if it were no more dangerous than a locked door. Draco had passed. Barely.

So when Moody raised his wand and growled “Imperio”, Draco didn’t gasp or lean forward like the rest of the class. He simply crossed his arms, wary, his mind already calculating.

The spider arced into the air and danced. It twirled, pirouetted on invisible strings, legs twitching in delight as it somersaulted in time with the flicks of Moody’s wand. A few students laughed. Ron Weasley barked out a disbelieving snort. Lavender Brown clapped once, then stifled it with a hand to her mouth.

Draco didn’t laugh. He didn’t find it amusing. Because control wasn’t theatrical. It was cold. Absolute. It left no room for joy.

Then came Crucio. And the laughter stopped.

The spider writhed midair. Spasmed violently. It flung itself against the edge of the desk as if trying to escape its own nerves. Its legs curled inward like a dying flame. The noise it made was a high, wet chitter and so raw that it bypassed the brain entirely and lodged in the bones.

Draco went still.

He felt his skin tighten. It wasn’t the spell itself — he knew what the Cruciatus Curse could do — but because of something he saw in Moody’s face.

The twist in his jaw. The glint in his one good eye. And worse, the magical one, whirring slowly, seemed to linger directly on him.

Draco met it for a moment. And felt something slowly brush through his mind.

He shifted in his seat, subtly, one boot pressing against the floor as if to steady himself. His heart thumped in his throat. Veiled. Curtain. There’s nothing to see here. And the sensation passed like Draco had just imagined it there in the first place.

Then the third spell came. Avada Kedavra. Green light. A burst of magic that was final. The spider didn’t scream or twist. It just stopped.

Dead.

The silence that followed was heavier than the spell.

Moody lowered his wand. “These are not spells to joke with,” he said, voice rough and quiet. “They are not spells to admire. They are not spells to use… unless you want your soul split into pieces so fine it’ll never fit back together again.”

Beside Draco, Blaise exhaled softly. Pansy looked faintly sick. Even Theodore had stopped tapping his quill.

Across the room, Harry Potter sat motionless.

Moody turned, that cursed eye swiveling unnaturally. “Potter,” he said, and the whole room went still again. “You know what that last one does. Don’t you?”

Harry’s voice, when it came, was barely a whisper. “Yes.”

Moody nodded once with the slow, grim acknowledgment of a man who’d seen too many ends. “You’d know better than anyone.” Then, more gently: “And I reckon you’ll never forget.”

Draco looked away. His hand, clenched beneath the desk, ached from how tightly he’d curled it into his palm.

***

Draco emerged with Blaise and Theo on either side of him, Pansy close behind, her arms crossed and her nose wrinkled in disgust.

The corridor outside Moody’s classroom was dim, the torches flickering low on the walls, casting long, dancing shadows that made the worn stone look deeper and more haunted somehow. Students were pouring out in clumps, some too quiet, some too loud, the memory of the spider’s twitching legs and that horrible green flash still clinging to every one of them.

“Well,” Blaise said, dryly, “that was a lovely bit of psychological scarring. Do we write him a thank-you note or just add him to the family curse list?”

“That man shouldn’t be allowed within a hundred feet of students,” Pansy muttered, still pale. “He’s practically rotting.”

“Speak for yourself,” Theo added. “I rather liked it. Gave me a few new ideas.”

Draco was quiet, shoulders tight, hands stuffed into his robes as they walked. The image of Moody casting the Cruciatus still echoed in his chest like a bell. Except it wasn’t the curse itself that bothered him, not really.

It was the way Moody had looked at him when he cast it. And the spell Legilimency itself before it. Quiet, quick, but unmistakable. Draco would recognize it anywhere. He’d been waiting for this. Braced for the moment someone tried to break through his mind since the beginning of summer.

But why Moody? What did he want?

“You’ve gone weird again,” Blaise said, nudging him.

Before Draco could reply, a voice called out behind them, tentative, almost casual.

“Hey....Draco. Wait up a second.”

Draco paused, already halfway down the corridor, his robes swishing in his usual practiced stride. At the sound of Harry’s voice, he turned slowly just as his friends turned too, all of them wearing expressions that could only be described as hungrily entertained.

Harry was jogging up the hall, slightly breathless, the strap of his satchel slipping off one shoulder, his hair a chaotic mess of wind and bad decisions. As always.

“Oh, look,” Pansy said dramatically, placing a hand over her heart like she might swoon. “The Gryffindor has come to confess his forbidden love.”

Theo gave a low whistle. “Maybe he wants to comfort you after that class Draco.”

Blaise tilted his head toward Draco and murmured, “Try not to swoon too hard. We’re still on school property.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “All of you, vanish before I find a reason to practice offensive charms.”

With laughter and a few overly dramatic parting bows, the Slytherins scattered down the hall, their voices trailing like smoke.

And just like that, it was quiet.

Harry slowed to a stop a few feet away, breathless, dragging a hand through his hair in a hopeless attempt to tame it. “Sorry,” he said sheepishly. “Didn’t mean to crash your dramatic exit.”

Draco, halfway down the corridor, stopped and turned just enough to shoot him a dry look. Arms crossed, brow arched. “It’s fine. My friends probably enjoyed the spectacle more than the exit anyway.”

A beat passed.

“You looked like you were about to bolt in class,” Harry said quietly.

Draco’s instinct was to deflect, to smirk or toss out something sharp and clever.

But instead, he just said, “About as alright as someone can be after watching a man torture a spider to death in front of a classroom full of children.”

Harry frowned, shifting on his feet. “You okay?” he asked again, more seriously this time.

Draco glanced up and caught Harry watching.

“Moody gives off the vibe of someone who’s constantly looking for an excuse,” Draco said. “I wasn’t keen to offer mine.”

Harry’s gaze sharpened. “I noticed. You… looked different when he came near you.”

Draco stiffened slightly, then shrugged, brushing it off. “It’s fine. I’m used to people staring like they’re waiting for me to explode.”

Harry didn’t answer right away.

“I don’t think it’s just you,” he said after a moment. “Moody’s watching everyone but it feels like more than just paranoia. Like he’s looking for something. Or someone.”

Draco looked at him then, some of the usual snark draining from his expression.

“There’ve been whispers,” Harry added, voice softer now. “From Ron’s dad. He won’t say much, but… the Death Eaters are getting bolder.”

Draco didn’t flinch at the word but he went very still. Too still.

“You think they’ll come here?” he asked, casual in tone, but not in posture.

Harry stared down at the flagstones. “I don’t know. Maybe. Just… be careful. Alright?”

Draco tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly, a wry note in his voice. “That sounds suspiciously like you worrying about me, Potter.”

Harry met his gaze, unflinching. “I am.”

That stopped Draco cold. No clever remark came. No quip, no scoff.

People didn’t worry about him. They warned him. Controlled him. Expected things from him.

But Harry…

Draco looked away, voice quieter than he meant it to be. “I’ll try.”

Harry gave a small, crooked smile. “You free later? I thought maybe we could… study. Or something.”

Draco blinked, momentarily thrown. Then a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Potter. I don’t think I’ve ever heard your name and the word study in the same sentence.”

Harry flushed slightly, but held his ground. “Well, miracles happen. Do you want to or not?”

Draco let out an exaggerated sigh. “Fine. But only because I live in constant hope of fixing your abysmal essay structure.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Draco laughed softly. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Potter.”

They fell into an easy silence, something lighter settling between them — still fragile, still new, but warmer than the corridor’s chill.

Then—

“Oi, Harry! You proposing, or just admiring his cheekbones?”

Harry spun around, nearly tripping over his own feet. “Ron! Bloody hell. Shut up!”

Ron Weasley stepped out from behind a pillar, arms crossed and wearing the face of someone who’s been forced to witness a crime against common sense. “I leave you alone for five minutes and you’re making heart-eyes at Malfoy in the middle of a hallway?”

Draco sighed dramatically. “Is this a Gryffindor thing? Do all your romantic encounters come with color commentary?”

Weasley ignored him. “Look, I’m just saying. If you two are going to snog, do it somewhere private. Or warn the rest of us first.”

Harry buried his face in his hands. “You’re actually the worst.”

Weasley beamed. “It’s part of my charm.”

Draco shot him a sideways glance. “Relax, Weasley. If I wanted to seduce your best friend, I’d use actual charm. Not textbooks.”

Weasley blinked. “Wait. Is that what’s happening?”

Harry groaned audibly.

Draco smirked. “You’re a bit slow, but you get there eventually.”

Harry nudged Draco lightly with his elbow. “You’re not helping.”

“Oh, I’m very helpful,” Draco murmured, amused. “Just not in the ways you expect.”

Harry gave him a look that was half exasperated, half… something else.

Then the air changed.

The corridor seemed to drop in temperature. The torches flickered low, the stone underfoot humming faintly with tension.

A long shadow slid across the floor.

Mad-Eye Moody emerged from the darkness like something summoned, all scars and menace. His magical eye spun wildly, locking on all three boys at once. The butt of his staff struck the floor with a sharp crack.

“What’s this?” he barked. “Whispers in the dark? Plotting your next act of mischief? Or maybe planning to blow the bloody castle up?”

They all froze.

Even Weasley, who rarely met a detention he didn’t earn, stood straight like a scolded first-year.

Harry stepped forward quickly. “No, Professor. Just talking. That’s all.”

Moody’s normal eye narrowed. The magical one kept spinning, unconvinced.

Harry added, calm but careful, “We weren’t doing anything wrong. We’re just… friends.”

Draco didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. That cursed eye of Moody’s saw too much. Especially now. Especially while his ring still radiated the faintest warmth against his finger.

Moody gave a grunt, half scoff half growl. “Hmph. Keep your noses clean. You never know who’s watching.”

With that, he swept past them like a stormfront, his coat flaring behind him like a warning.

They exhaled in unison.

Harry glanced sideways. “So… that wasn’t terrifying at all.”

Draco smirked faintly. “You leapt to my defense. I’m touched. Should I write you a thank-you card? Or dedicate a tragic poem in your honor?”

Harry laughed, a bit too loudly. “Please don’t immortalize me in verse.”

Weasley groaned. “Merlin, I feel like I just third-wheeled a cursed romance novel.”

Draco’s smirk widened, slow and self-satisfied. “If the shoe fits.”

Weasley rolled his eyes hard enough to give himself whiplash. “I’m going to bed before one of you starts quoting sonnets.”

He stomped off, muttering about “terrible life choices.”

Harry stayed behind.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Draco said, more quietly, “You didn’t have to say anything. To Moody.”

Harry shrugged. “I wanted to anyway.”

Draco looked at him for a long moment. Then he nodded, turning to go.

“See you in the library tonight, Potter.”

Harry watched him walk away, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“Yeah. See you.”

***

Potion class with Snape was never quiet. Quills scratching parchment. Cauldrons hissing. Bottles clinking softly in quick succession. The faint shushing of powdered ingredients stirred into clockwise swirls. And always, the low hum of student voices trading steps in cautious whispers, careful not to draw too much attention.

Today, the assignment was a Strengthening Solution. The kind that could enhance physical endurance if brewed correctly, or cause temporary muscle spasms if not.

Hermione Granger, two benches over, was already two steps ahead, her coppery potion simmering a perfect shade of amethyst. Ron Weasley, beside her, had managed to scorch the rim of his cauldron and was trying to scrape it clean without Snape noticing. Harry Potter, for once, seemed to be keeping up, his potion only slightly off-color, his eyes darting occasionally toward Draco’s side of the room.

Draco, for his part, worked methodically. Measured. Precise. His potion was a little darker than the textbook suggested, but the consistency was right. Theo sat beside him, lazily flipping through notes. Pansy had somehow gotten glitter on her gloves again and was muttering about cosmetic transfiguration.

Snape glided between rows like a shadow, robes trailing, voice slicing in low barbs whenever someone dared to fumble.

“Miss Brown, if your solution hisses before it boils, it’s not brewing, it’s warning you.”

“Mr. Finnegan, I assume you’re trying to lift weights with your potion? No? Then why is your mortar full of iron filings?”

He passed behind Draco’s bench only once during the class, pausing just long enough to inspect the contents of his cauldron. He didn’t speak. He just nodded with the barest flick and moved on.

When the bell finally rang, Snape’s voice cut through the scrape of stools and the clatter of students packing up.

“Mr. Malfoy. Stay behind.”

A few eyebrows lifted, but no one said anything. Blaise gave him a mildly sympathetic look as he slung his satchel over one shoulder and left with Theo and the others.

Draco waited until the room emptied, then turned slowly toward the front bench, where Snape had returned to his desk and was arranging parchment with unnecessary precision.

When Draco reached him, Snape didn’t look up right away. Then:

“Your mother wrote to me.”

Draco tensed slightly. “I thought she might.”

Snape finally met his eyes, sharp, unreadable, that usual flicker of disdain replaced by something... cooler.

“She is concerned,” Snape said. “Though she would never use the word. She asked that I watch your progress, especially in certain disciplines.”

He reached into a drawer and withdrew a small bundle of folded parchment. Neat, aged, but clearly personal.

“These are notes,” he said, “on defensive Occlumency. Some are mine. Some are not. You’ll find a few references in there that aren’t covered in school texts.”

Draco hesitated. “Is this… homework?”

Snape’s mouth twitched. “Consider it as anything you want. Keep it from prying eyes. And the sort of scrutiny you may attract, or have already.”

Draco took the bundle slowly. The parchment was warm. Familiar. One page smelled faintly of lilac and dried ink.

“My mother asked this of you?”

Snape didn’t answer directly. He turned back to his desk.

“She doesn’t trust many people,” he said. “But she trusts that you’re clever enough to take a warning without needing a lecture.”

Draco gave a small nod, fingers tightening around the papers.

“I’ll read them.”

Draco stepped out into the dim corridor, the parchment pressed tight to his chest and he didn’t look back.

***

Later that evening, Draco found himself in the library beside Harry, the two of them tucked away at a table near the back where the lamps hummed quietly and the dust motes swirled like drifting snow.

Harry hadn’t asked what Draco was working on. He didn’t even glance at the parchment Draco carefully unfolded, didn’t press or pry when he caught sight of Snape’s compact, spidery handwriting. And that, strangely, was what made it easier.

Draco hadn’t meant to bring the notes, not at first, but in Harry’s quiet company, the walls didn’t need to be so high. He could study without shielding everything. Harry worked on something mundane, muttering about essays and misbehaving quills, and Draco spent the hour parsing the dense magical theory Snape had scribbled in coded fragments.

They didn’t speak much. They didn’t need to. There was something oddly grounding and steady about it. And when they eventually packed up and parted ways, Harry simply nodded and said, “See you tomorrow,” like it was obvious. Like of course Draco would be there.

Back in the Slytherin dormitory, Blaise had brought up a bottle of contraband Firewhisky someone had smuggled from home, and Theo was challenging anyone who’d listen to name the complete list of Ministers for Magic, past to present. But Draco had gone past them and gone straight for his bed, claiming he was tired.

Now he sat cross-legged on the green velvet runner of his bed, wand balanced lightly in his palm, the curtains drawn around him against the flickering candlelight of the common room beyond.

He exhaled slowly and looked down at the notes.

The Occlumency spell wasn’t one taught at Hogwarts. It was ancient magic, the kind passed down in whispers and private libraries, the kind omitted from textbooks because the wrong wand could turn it from shield to weapon. Narcissa had given him the first thread: the mind as a gallery, the necessity of misdirection over force. And Snape’s notes had refined the picture, all edge and precision, like everything else Snape touched.

Now Draco practiced it nightly, alone, beneath the lake.

He closed his eyes.

He imagined a corridor, long and marbled, lined with portraits of false memories: sunlit gardens that never ended, idle conversations that never mattered, his father smiling in ways he never had. He layered his mind with fog and velvet, curated stories and palatable lies. And behind it all, beyond the mirrored doors and quiet grandeur, he built the vault: small, dark, sealed.

It was there that the serpent lived.

That was where he hid the visions, the dreams, the flash of green light, the echo of Moody’s eye pinning him to his seat, the memory of pain in a spider’s twitching legs.

He broke the trance with a sharp breath.

The silence of the dorm pressed in again. The lake’s filtered light shimmered faintly through the enchanted glass, cool and green. A grindylow floated past the window, blinked its soft yellow eyes at him, then vanished into shadow.

Draco opened his eyes and stared at the drawn curtain in front of him.

The stakes were higher now. That much was clear.

Moody was testing him already, circling like a predator, daring him to slip. His sight had begun to shift again, subtle and slow, like something inside him was waiting to change, to wake. Whatever power stirred beneath the surface, it wasn’t finished. The Green Mark hadn’t closed a chapter.

It had opened one.

The Tournament was coming. The world was watching. And Voldemort was stirring in the silence.

Chapter Text

In the next week, rumors started spinning through the school. First, there had been the sudden shifting of classes, a few lessons canceled outright, others shuffled into odd corners of the castle with no explanation. Then there were the house-elves whispering among themselves, speaking in nervous tones about new kitchens being prepared, rooms being dusted that hadn’t been opened in years.

And finally, Dumbledore had announced it at breakfast two days before, his voice rising above the clatter of cutlery and the steam of pumpkin porridge:

“Hogwarts will soon welcome visitors from abroad,” he’d said, his eyes twinkling like candlelight reflected on water. “Students from Beauxbatons Academy and Durmstrang Institute will be joining us for a very special occasion. I trust you will extend them the same hospitality we would hope to receive in their halls.”

That was all he’d said, no details, no timelines. And the castle had buzzed ever since.

The wind shifted that morning, sharp and bright, pulling with it the first real chill of September and a kind of electric pressure in the air that no one could quite explain. It hummed through the halls, twisted into students' laughter, and seemed to gather like storm light at the edge of the Hogwarts grounds, where a crowd was already forming. Draco stood near the back of the group, just outside the main cluster of students crowding the front lawn, his green and silver scarf wound tightly around his neck, arms crossed as the others muttered and strained for a glimpse of the spectacle they’d all been promised.

The wind pulled at his robes.

Harry stood just a little to the left ahead of Draco, hands deep in his pockets, his face tilted to the horizon with a strange, quiet look. While Ron Weasley was trying and failing to push his way through the knot of taller Gryffindors, Granger was clutching a notebook like she might take notes on the weather.

Draco found himself watching that expression longer than he meant to, until Theo elbowed him gently.

And then a sound. Low, rhythmic, the hum of something large and heavy moving just beyond the rise of the hill.

Students craned their necks. A few younger ones stood on tiptoe. Even Draco leaned forward slightly.

There it was, a ripple through the crowd, followed by a sharp hiss of wind and the heavy groan of massive wheels parting the trees. A carriage the size of a cottage, drawn by a dozen winged horses the color of thunderclouds, soared down from the sky and landed in a burst of autumn leaves, its gilded wheels settling into the grass with a weight that felt ceremonial.

The Beauxbatons carriage gleamed like a polished pearl, its windows fogged with perfume and frost, and when the door opened, students in shades of pale blue and ivory emerged, tall and elegant and perfectly tailored.

The crowd exhaled. There were sighs from the Ravenclaws. Someone dropped their quill. A Hufflepuff actually clutched their chest.

Draco, for his part, tilted his head. The girls were beautiful, of course, graceful, with long necks and cheekbones like sculpture. He appreciated them. He even nodded in quiet approval.

But it wasn’t until the Durmstrang ship broke the surface of the lake, dragging mist behind it like a shroud, that he stared.

They disembarked in heavy boots and dark crimson coats, shoulders squared and lined in black fur, their posture more military than academic. They were taller than he expected. Broader. Their faces had the kind of harsh beauty with hard eyes, thin smiles, and a tension in their stance like they were still waiting for a command to fall back into formation. One of them locked eyes with Draco for a second too long, and he didn’t look away.

A few students cheered. Most were silent. The Durmstrang contingent made its way up the path behind their headmaster, who wore a beard like a curtain and robes thick enough to stop an arrow.

Across the field, at the Gryffindor group, Harry was staring, not at the visitors, but at Draco.

Draco noticed. Of course.

When the students filed back into the Great Hall that evening, the world inside it had changed.

The long house tables had been shifted and widened, their ends rounded and elegantly joined to accommodate the incoming guests. New flags now hung alongside the house banners, shimmering silk in Beauxbatons' delicate sky-blue and embroidered frost-silver, and a bold blood-red Durmstrang standard stitched with a black, jagged rune Draco couldn’t quite translate. The enchanted ceiling mirrored the gathering twilight, a deep, starlit indigo scattered with pale clouds. Dozens of golden globes floated lower than usual, casting soft halos over the crowd. The atmosphere shimmered with anticipation.

Draco slid into his seat beside Blaise and Theo, both of whom had saved him a space near the end of the Slytherin table. Across the room, the Gryffindor side was craning necks and whispering urgently, their eyes fixed on the wide double doors.

Then the doors swung open.

The Beauxbatons students entered first, a procession of grace and polish, each step quiet as snowfall. Their uniforms shimmered faintly, pale blue silk catching the candlelight. The girls walked with heads high and eyes soft, trailing fragrance and frost in their wake, as if the air around them had grown colder just from their arrival. At their front, tall and imposing, swept Madame Olympe Maxime with her hair drawn up in a jeweled net, her expression serene but unreadable.

“She’s so tall,” Theo whispered, too loudly. “Even taller than Hargid.”

“Do shut up,” muttered Blaise, without looking away.

Not long after, a low rumble filled the Hall, the heavy footfalls of Durmstrang.

They entered like soldiers, cloaks flaring, boots hitting stone in perfect rhythm. Their red uniforms glinted like dragonhide, and more than one student gripped their wand a little tighter as the group passed. Their headmaster, Igor Karkaroff, followed at a leisurely pace with fur-lined sleeves folded, beard neatly oiled, eyes flicking over the Hall like he was already judging it.

Dumbledore rose at the front of the Hall, arms spread, and the murmuring dimmed.

“It gives me the greatest pleasure,” he said, his voice ringing clearly, “to welcome our honored guests from Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, and from Durmstrang Institute.”

A ripple of applause passed through the Hall, enthusiastic from Hufflepuff and Gryffindor, polite from Ravenclaw, guarded from Slytherin.

“You will find,” Dumbledore continued, “that we have much to learn from one another. This is not simply a visit, it is a celebration of magical unity, tradition, and challenge.”

He turned, and with a wave of his wand, the final curtain dropped from the raised platform at the head of the Hall.

There stood a large, ancient cup. It flared slightly at the top, and from its hollow mouth rose a pale blue flame. The flickering light threw shifting shadows across the marble floor.

A murmur spread again, sharper this time. The Goblet of Fire.

“I am pleased,” Dumbledore said, smiling now, “to announce the return of the Triwizard Tournament.”

Gasps and excited whispers exploded.

Theo leaned in. “Told you.”

Draco didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed on the Goblet, and on the cold flame that didn’t warm the room but seemed to mark it with something older, deeper.

“Three champions,” Dumbledore continued. “One from each school. Chosen by the Goblet. Bound by a magical contract. This is not a task for the faint of heart or those under the age of seventeen. For your safety, these rules will be enforced most stringently.”

As Dumbledore paused, two men stepped forward from the side of the Hall. One in pinstriped robes with the easy grin of someone used to applause, the other upright, tight-lipped, and clearly less interested in theatrics.

“May I also introduce two of our esteemed judges for the Tournament,” Dumbledore said. “Ludo Bagman, Head of Magical Games and Sports—”

Bagman, round-faced, pink-cheeked, waved cheerfully and smiled like he’d just won a Quidditch cup himself.

“—and Barty Crouch, Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation.”

Crouch gave a single, clipped nod before stepping back into the shadows as though the announcement had already bored him. He did not smile. He barely blinked.

The flames from the Goblet licked higher for just a moment, then settled again.

And that was when Draco felt it. Low and cold and curling somewhere beneath his ribs, like a breath caught too deep. It wasn’t magic exactly, but it pressed at the edges of his perception like storm air before lightning.

His gaze flicked back to Crouch. Something was off. In the way he stood. Like a spell of manners, dressed in skin.

Draco sat straighter in his seat, and the serpent ring warmed faintly, just enough for him to feel it against his skin. Another symbol. And it was the same as the one he saw behind Moody.

Ever since he had trained his mind through Occlumency and the careful discipline of channeling, the flood of chaotic symbols had finally begun to reduce. No more meaningless flickers across his vision of things that didn’t matter. He had learned how to guide it, to narrow the stream until only what was essential broke through.

The signs came only in dreams. Sharper. Louder. And now the sign wanted him to focus.

Whatever the Triwizard Tournament was meant to be… It would not end the way it was supposed to.

***

Excited voices and the faint smell of candle wax filled the air outside the Great Hall. The feast had ended, but the magic of it lingered, the banners still swayed, and the Goblet of Fire’s blue flame burned steadily behind its glass case like a challenge carved from light.

Students poured into the courtyard beneath the deep purple night sky, the stars sharp above them, the wind brisk and playful as it whipped at scarves and loose sleeves. Lanterns bobbed on floating charms along the arched walkways, casting everything in a warm amber glow that softened the sharp edges of stone and shadow.

Draco stepped out onto the ground with his hands tucked casually into his sleeves, then followed by Blaise and Pansy, the three of them moving in that deliberate, effortless formation that suggested they not only belonged but had a claim to the very stone beneath their feet. Clusters of students leaning in close, whispering feverishly about the Goblet, the champions, the thrill of it all.

Behind them, Crabbe and Goyle were busy shoving each other over the last bite of a melted chocolate frog, their laughter loud and unbothered. Neither was watching where they were going as they stumbled sideways, nearly colliding with Draco, who stepped back just in time, shooting them a look of cold disdain.

"I'm betting Diggory," Pansy said, flicking imaginary lint from her cloak with theatrical indifference. “He’s tall, polite, handsome in that my parents fund the Quidditch program kind of way. Exactly the sort of poster-boy they’ll pick.”

“Too obvious,” Blaise countered, tugging at his gloves. “They’ll want someone with flair. Corner, maybe. That Ravenclaw with the dragon pets.”

“They’re not real dragons,” Theo muttered from behind, not bothering to catch up. “They’re glorified salamanders. I saw one eat its own tail.”

Daphne arched a brow. “Flair is good, but they’ll want someone controllable. Someone brave but not reckless. A champion who can be paraded in front of the foreign press without accidentally swearing or setting themselves on fire.”

“Merlin, that rules out half of Gryffindor,” Pansy said sweetly.

Draco finally spoke, his voice dry and precise. “You’re all missing the point. The Goblet will choose someone worthy. This is an international tournament and it obviously has standards.”

“Oh, listen to him,” Pansy said, bumping his shoulder lightly. “He’s already imagining the interview questions.”

“Just realistic,” Draco replied, his gaze drifting across the courtyard. “Diggory’s a contender, sure. But he’s too polished. Too perfect. Makes people uneasy.”

“Unlike you, of course,” Theo said, catching up and tossing him a look. “You radiate comfort and humility.”

Draco smirked. “Naturally. I’m the ideal dark horse. Pure-blood, competent, fashionable. If I entered, the Goblet would spit out my name just to make a point.”

“You’re not old enough,” Daphne said with a pointed glance.

“Minor details anyway.” Draco waved her off.

A burst of laughter drifted across the courtyard like birdsong, light and effortless. A group of Beauxbatons students came into view — tall, elegant, wrapped in robes of soft winter-blue lined with silver thread, the fabric fluttering as though enchanted to never wrinkle. The scent of lilac and bergamot lingered in their wake. They spoke quickly among themselves in a dialect of French so smooth it seemed half-magic, their words braided with laughter and the musical cadence of practiced grace.

Draco straightened instinctively. His spine aligned, his smile shifted. Blaise and Pansy both noticed.

“Oh no,” Pansy muttered, eyeing the approaching group. “He’s about to weaponize a romantic language.”

Blaise smirked. “Clear the field. Veela proximity alert.”

Draco ignored them and stepped forward, offering a half-bow so precise it looked effortless.

“Good evening, ladies,” he said, his French flawless. “I’m delighted to make your acquaintance. Welcome to Hogwarts.”

The girls turned, mid-conversation, eyebrows lifting. One with auburn braids pinned like a crown blinked once, then smiled with clear curiosity.

“Your accent is… superb,” she said, smiling. “And your French — did you learn it in school, or…?”

“At home,” Draco said, shrugging slightly. “My mother insists that language is a weapon. As important as magic.”

“Dramatique,” Blaise coughed behind him, clearly amused.

Pansy leaned toward Theo and whispered, “If he starts quoting poetry, I’m setting myself on fire.”

But the Beauxbatons girls giggled with genuine intrigue. Another stepped forward with a mole at the corner of her lip and perfect posture.

“My name is Sophie,” she said. “And this is Céleste, and Margaux.”

“Charmed,” Draco replied smoothly.

“Tell us,” Margaux asked, switching to English with a slight accent, “how long has your school been preparing for the Tournament? There are wards on nearly every path.”

“They started reinforcing the perimeter in late August,” Draco said. “But knowing Dumbledore, he’ll pretend it was all a spontaneous act of hospitality.”

Céleste tilted her head. “And you? Will you enter?”

Draco laughed. “I’m not of age,” he said. “But I suspect even if I were, the Goblet would choose me.”

More laughter. They lingered a moment longer before drifting off toward the castle steps, their skirts catching light like frost.

Once they were out of earshot, Blaise elbowed him. “What was that, exactly?”

“Diplomatic outreach,” Draco said with a straight face.

Pansy snorted. “Please. That was you being unbearable in two languages.”

Draco just smiled. “Three, actually. If you count charm.”

From across the courtyard, Harry stood near Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, half-shielded by a pillar. He was watching. Draco saw him.

The Durmstrang, however, remained in a tight group by the northern end of the courtyard, standing in clusters with the sharp posture of soldiers rather than students, boots planted firmly, voices low and clipped in thickly accented English and murmuring Russian.

It wasn’t long before their attention turned unmistakably toward one spot.

Harry Potter.

Even among wizards, fame like his was not a candle... it was a bonfire. And the moment one of the Durmstrang boys recognized the shape of his scar in the lantern light, the rest followed quickly, like wolves catching a scent.

They approached in a loose half-circle with the slow, deliberate steps of people approaching something sacred or dangerous. Their uniforms were severe, cut in thick, dark wool and accented in crimson, not showy like Beauxbatons, but unmistakably martial. A few wore dragonhide across their shoulders, and one had silver runes stitched into his collar like teeth.

Draco, lounging against the stone column a few meters away, didn’t bother to hide his smirk.

Harry Potter tensed the moment he noticed them. His posture shifted subtly. A shoulder drawn up too tightly. Fingers flexing slightly at his sides. The look of someone who would rather be anywhere else than in the center of a spotlight.

The tallest Durmstrang boy stepped forward. “Is it true?” he asked, his accent thick and deliberate. “That you fought Him. The Dark One.”

Harry blinked at him. “I was a baby.”

The boy tilted his head. “And yet you lived.”

Harry let out a breath and scratched his chin. “Yeah, it’s a great party trick. I don’t recommend trying it.”

Another Durmstrang student, older, with sharp eyes and a mess of braided hair, spoke next. “In our school, we study legacy. Those who change the shape of magic. You are part of that.”

“Brilliant,” Harry said dryly. “Does that mean I get a commemorative plate, or do I have to pose for a statue too?”

Weasley stepped up beside him, arms crossed. “Is this a conversation or a museum tour? Because if someone whips out a quill and asks for a lock of hair, I’m hexing them.”

“Ron,” Granger hissed, elbowing him in the ribs.

The first Durmstrang boy didn’t flinch. “We meant no offense. We are simply curious.”

“Well, curiosity kills the cat,” Harry said flatly. “And unfortunately for you, I’m not a cat. Or a display case.”

“History must be remembered,” another offered.

Harry arched an eyebrow. “So does personal space.”

One of the Durmstrang boys, tall with deep-set eyes, turned to Granger next. “Your name then?” he asked, voice smooth.

She blinked. “Hermione Granger.”

He repeated it slowly — Ermionee Grangé — with a small, deliberate nod. “A sharp name. It fits you.”

Hermione turned vaguely pink.

Weasley’s face, by contrast, turned red for entirely different reasons.

“Right,” he muttered, tugging at his sleeve, “that’s enough. They’re flirting now. I can’t stand to watch.”

The Durmstrang students exchanged a few quiet words in their own language, then inclined their heads respectfully.

“We hope to see you in the tournament,” the tall one said to Harry. “If the Goblet chooses.”

Harry gave a noncommittal shrug. “If the Goblet’s that desperate for entertainment, I’ll start practicing juggling. I’m not old enough anyway, and even if I do, I still wouldn’t put my name in it.”

They turned and walked away, boots clicking against the flagstones.

Granger exhaled slowly. “That was… intense.”

Weasley rolled his eyes. “They looked at him like he was a relic.”

Harry stared after them, face unreadable. “More like a cursed object,” he muttered.

And Draco, watching all of it unfold like a play staged just for him, found he wasn’t entirely sure what was more entertaining, the foreign fascination with Potter… or Potter’s refusal to let it define him.

***

Breakfast was winding down. Most of the platters were picked clean, and the noise had dulled into that low, humming chatter that came with full stomachs and half-finished schedules.

Draco rose, brushing crumbs from his sleeve, and slung his satchel over one shoulder. He could feel the stares before he even reached the aisle — lingering ones from the Beauxbatons girls, a curious glance from a Ravenclaw, and—

There it was. That particular heat at the edge of his senses. Harry Potter.

“Hey. Wait up, Draco.”

Draco turned slowly, already half-smiling. There was something especially satisfying about hearing that voice say his name like it meant trouble.

“Harry,” he replied smoothly, and tilted his head. “Can I help you?”

Harry didn’t rise to the bait. He jerked his head toward the archway beyond the hall. “Got a minute?”

That caught Draco’s attention. A few students were watching more openly now. The Weasley girl had stopped mid-sentence. One of the Durmstrang boys looked mildly amused.

Draco stepped aside, gesturing like he was offering a private audience. “If you’re going to challenge me to a duel, I’d rather not do it between the sausages and the pumpkin juice.”

Harry rolled his eyes and followed. The corridor was quieter, blessedly cooler, the chatter from the hall fading behind them.

Draco leaned against the nearest column, the carved stone cool through his robe, and arched a brow. “So?”

Harry slowed to a stop beside him, breathing a little faster than he probably meant to. He was clearly trying to look casual with one hand shoved into his pocket and the other tugging slightly at the hem of his robe. His hair, as usual, was a disaster. A slight one this time, like he’d run a hand through it in frustration, but it still refused to behave.

Draco gave him a once-over. “What, do you want to borrow my homework or something? Or are you here to lecture me on the dangers of flirting with foreign dignitaries in the courtyard?”

Harry huffed out a breath, half a scoff, half a laugh. “No, I don’t want your bloody homework.” He glanced over his shoulder, scanning the corridor, then took one small step closer and lowered his voice. “Just... about last night.”

That caught Draco’s attention.

He straightened slightly, folding his arms loosely. “Go on, then. I’m listening.”

Harry scratched at the back of his neck, clearly regretting this already but too deep to back out. “You were… I don’t know. Talking. With the Beauxbatons girls. All… polished. Like you were giving a press conference.”

Draco allowed the corner of his mouth to twitch. “Oh. That.”

Harry nodded, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “In French.”

Draco blinked once, deliberately slow. “I’m sorry, you’ll have to be more specific. I converse in multiple languages, Potter, I’d hate to confuse you.”

“You speak it,” Harry said, gesturing vaguely like the words were floating somewhere just out of reach. “French. Like not just a few phrases. You actually speak it. Fluently. Like someone raised in a Parisian opera house.”

Draco let the silence hang in the air, just long enough to watch Harry start shifting on his feet.

“You were listening?”

“Not on purpose,” Harry said quickly, and then, after a beat, “I was just... nearby. Standing. With ears.”

Draco snorted, unable to stop himself. A real laugh, not his usual drawl. “You really do have the subtlety of a bludger.”

Harry crossed his arms, brows slightly raised. “Well, you didn’t exactly whisper. And the girls... well, they were practically swooning.”

Draco lifted a brow, tone deliberately airy. “Were they? Huh. I must have been too focused on being charming in a second language to notice.”

Harry gave him a flat look, the kind that might’ve been deadly if not for the faint curl at the corner of his mouth. “Oh, come off it. You were basking in it.”

Draco shrugged one elegant shoulder, lips curling with amusement. “What can I say? It’s not my fault Hogwarts has tragically limited appreciation for a refined education. Or foreign languages. Or poetry. Or me.”

Harry stepped a little closer, close enough that the corridor felt more private, more charged. “You didn’t mention you were fluent. Not that you’re exactly humble about anything, but that still caught me off guard.”

“Multilingual,” Draco corrected, sounding positively delighted with himself. “But no, I don’t tend to broadcast my accomplishments. I prefer to let them unfold naturally. Unlike some people, who announce themselves with fireworks.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Right. Very modest of you. I’m sure you’re just aching to be overlooked.”

Draco tilted his head, eyes glinting. “Says the boy who managed to glare an entire group of Durmstrang students into nervous silence last night. Honestly, Potter, you practically hissed at them just for pronouncing your name like it belonged in a textbook.”

“They were being weird about it,” Harry muttered, glancing away. “Like I was something they found in a sealed vault. One that might explode.”

Draco laughed under his breath. “Well, maybe they were hoping you’d glow in the dark. Durmstrang does have a taste for the dramatic. They do love a magical miracle, especially one with a tragic backstory.”

Harry gave him a sidelong look, skeptical but not entirely unfriendly. “You seem to know a lot about them. Durmstrang. Noticed you watching them.”

Draco arched a brow. “Did you?”

Harry nodded. “Yeah. You looked... impressed. Or interested. Or maybe both.”

Draco held his gaze for a moment, just long enough to make Harry fidget again. “They have excellent posture,” he said finally, tone casual and unbothered.

Harry blinked, brow furrowing. “That’s not an answer.”

Draco leaned in just slightly, enough that his voice dropped into something low and cool. “Neither was your question.”

Potter swallowed once, throat working.

Before Draco could press the moment further, a group of younger Hufflepuffs passed by, giggling and shoving each other. One glanced up and did a double-take at the sight of the two of them standing there, talking like they weren’t supposed to.

The spell broke.

Draco straightened his satchel, voice clipped. “See you in class, Potter.”

He turned, steps precise, cloak trailing like punctuation. But as he walked, he couldn’t quite keep the smirk from tugging at his mouth. Harry’s voice, low and curious and just a touch too eager, still echoed in his ears.

***

The next few days didn’t leave Draco much room for idle speculation or teenage drama anyway. Not when the entire school was brimming with energy after the arrival of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, eager voices, whispered bets, and eyes constantly flicking toward the Goblet of Fire that stood flickering blue in its casket, burning day and night without pause or smoke. Everywhere Draco went, someone was speculating.

Three names. One per school. Glory. Danger. Immortality in textbooks.

It was exactly the sort of myth-making Hogwarts students lived for, and the Triwizard Tournament had cracked open a layer of the castle that usually remained politely quiet, its hunger for legacy.

Even Draco felt it. Not the urge to enter, he wasn’t old enough, and frankly didn’t care to get himself disfigured in a magical obstacle course designed by a half-mad committee. But something about the way people looked at the Goblet made his skin buzz. Greed. Wonder. It felt too much like the way people looked at Harry.

Then it started one morning at breakfast. His plate was half-filled with toast and poached eggs, his copy of A History of Magical Europe open beside him, when an unfamiliar owl swooped low over the Slytherin table and dropped a pale green envelope onto his plate. It was sealed in old-fashioned wax. No signature.

Draco blinked.

Blaise leaned over immediately, smirking. “Who’s your secret admirer, then?”

Draco ignored him. He picked up the letter, broke the wax, and unfolded a single piece of parchment with neat, slanted handwriting.

“Your eyes are silver when you’re focused. You pretend not to care, but your hand tightens on your wand when no one’s looking. You’re better than they know.”

No name. No clue.

He stared at it for a full minute before folding it again and tucking it into his robe pocket, saying nothing. He told himself it was probably a prank. But he checked the Slytherin common room fire logs later anyway, just in case someone had tampered with their owl schedule.

The next morning, another letter came.

By the third, he stopped opening them at the table.

Whatever the sender’s intention, the timing was uncanny. He had other things to worry about. Not anonymous affections. Not cryptic flirtations. But darker questions. Questions that had begun not with a vision or a symbol, but with a conversation in the corridor outside the library. One that started, strangely enough, with a book.

He had been scanning the restricted theory shelf for something tangential to Occlumency, mumbling old debates on memory displacement and echo cognition, when someone beside him reached overhead with casual ease and pulled down a book bound in red leather, marked with runes Draco didn’t recognize.

“You’d like this,” said a voice, smooth and accented. “It traces mind fracturing in ancient war wands.”

Draco turned slightly. The boy was tall, lean, with dark auburn hair pulled into a loose tie at the base of his neck. Durmstrang robes, neatly tailored, and a polished silver pin in the shape of a black sun at his collar.

“Sergei Volkov,” he said, with a nod. “And you are?”

Draco had recognized him. Earlier that day, Draco had been half-listening over the rim of his goblet, seated two places down from Krum and his Durmstrang friend at the Slytherin end of the Great Hall. Their voices were low, meant to be private, but Volkov’s voice talking about the ethics of using and understanding Dark Art spells had carried all the way to Draco’s place.

“Draco Malfoy,” He answered automatically. “And you're the one who spoke about Dark Arts theory during lunchtime.”

Volkov’s mouth twitched. “I spoke of understanding it. There’s a difference.”

Draco tilted his head. “Is there?”

They didn’t speak long that day. But two days later, they passed again in the library. And the day after, again. Each time, their words grew a little longer, quieter, deeper, just theory and curiosity.

“Durmstrang has fewer restrictions,” Volkov said one evening, seated across from Draco at a shadowed table tucked behind the Transmutation stacks. “We study soul structures. Dislocation magic. Emotional tethers. The things that make identity… fray.”

Draco had gone still at that. “Fray?”

Volkov turned a page in his book. “Have you ever felt like you’ve seen something before it’s happened? Or dreamt something that didn’t belong to you?”

Draco didn’t answer immediately. His hand, almost unconsciously, rested over the serpent ring under his robe.

“Vision from the future?” Volkov added, voice low. “Sight born from shadow? Most think it’s madness. But some say it’s memory. Not yours, but the world's. Magic clinging where time has torn.”

That night, Draco returned to the Slytherin common room with a mind ringing like a bell. He didn’t write down all of it, just fragments in the margins of his journal beside a diagram of mirrored sigil loops.

***

Draco could’ve sworn he spent more time in the library these days than anywhere else, and more surprisingly still, often with company far outside his usual entourage.

Draco sat at one of the deep tables near the Restricted Section, a stack of bloodline registries and magical identification tomes to his left, and a single, ancient tapestry folded neatly in front of him.

Opposite him sat Luna Lovegood. Her hair, unbraided today, shimmered in the afternoon light like spun moonlight, and her wand was tucked behind one ear. She was humming softly again while absently sketching a diagram of seedmark symbols in the margin of a loaned Arithmantic volume.

“You know,” Luna said dreamily, without looking up, “if you keep glaring at that page like it owes you something, it might get nervous and start blinking.”

Draco didn’t look up. His brows stayed drawn together, his fingers stained faintly with ink from the quick, irritated scribbles of his notes.

“I think this one means binding,” she said, tapping her quill against a looped rune, “or maybe hidden bloom. The translations are old, I don’t think we can compare them to today’s grammar.”

Draco exhaled, fingers tightening around the edge of the tapestry. “What’s the point of preserving a bloodline if they buried their own trail?”

Luna said mildly. “They weren’t trying to be remembered. Just… not forgotten entirely.”

They’d spent three evenings now decoding the embedded rune that stitched near the final branch of the Carmesí tree. But not until Luna suggested that they ask Professor Flitwick, her Head of House, that they finally make progress.

It was in a late afternoon when the sun slanted through the high windows of the Charms classroom, casting long golden bars across desks scattered with scorch marks and smoke-stained parchment. The air was thick with the smell of singed quill feathers and ozone. Someone’s inkwell had exploded ten minutes ago, and the resulting splatter still clung to the ceiling in a pattern that vaguely resembled an unfortunate thestral.

At the front of the room, Professor Flitwick stood atop his usual stack of spellbooks, wand raised like a maestro preparing to conduct an orchestra of barely-controlled chaos.

“Excellent effort today!” he called, voice chipper despite the blackened patch near the chalkboard where someone’s Bombarda had misfired. “The Exploding Charm is a volatile bit of magic, but handled with care and not aimed at your classmate’s satchel. It’s quite useful for precision spell breaking and controlled magical demolition!”

Draco brushed ash from the hem of his sleeve, suppressing a sigh as a Gryffindor behind him tried to put out the smoldering remains of her textbook with a muttered Aguamenti. The charm had gone about as well as expected for a class full of distracted teenagers and half-learned control techniques.

Flitwick clapped his hands twice, sparks flitting from his fingertips. “For homework: two feet on spell stability theory and the ethical applications of explosive magic! And please, do try not to test it on the staircases!”

As students gathered their belongings and filtered out while coughing and laughing, a few still checking their eyebrows, Draco lingered, waiting until the room emptied and quiet settled like dust in the corners.

He approached Flitwick’s desk, straightening his robes. “Professor.”

Flitwick turned, brushing soot off his vest. “Ah, Mr. Malfoy. Not too tattered, I hope?”

“I’ve had worse,” Draco said smoothly. “Actually, I had a question... not about today’s lesson. About a charm we found, embedded in a ward sigil. Protection on a seedmark.”

Flitwick blinked, and then his expression shifted into something more scholarly, more alert. “Seedmark? Now that’s not the kind of magic one typically finds in a student project. Protective trees. Blood-etched runes, if I’m not mistaken?”

Draco gave a short nod. “We’ve deciphered most of it. But there’s a rune near the final branch that doesn’t respond to the standard decoding charm. It’s shielded. Could be keyed to intent or bloodline, but... I thought a charm theory source might help.”

Flitwick hummed thoughtfully, tapping his wand against his sleeve. “An embedded rune like that... yes, likely layered with some recursive protection. You’d need to identify the original spell’s core. And for that, you’d want something outside the standard curriculum.”

He regarded Draco for a long moment. Then, at last, he smiled.

“Well, if you’re doing clandestine ancestral magic, Mr. Malfoy, I do hope you’ll at least cite your sources.”

Draco said nothing, though a flicker of amusement crossed his face.

With a flick of his wand, Flitwick summoned a small, iron-banded ledger from a locked cabinet and scrawled a note inside. He tore out a slip of parchment, still warm from the spellwork, and passed it over.

“This will give you limited access to the Sub-Tower Reference Collection. It’s not quite the Restricted Section, but you’ll find more... flexible theory down there. Particularly on charm layering, magical symbolism, and yes, runic detonators.”

Draco took the slip carefully. The ink shimmered faintly with access permissions and date wards.

“Thank you, Professor.”

And after three evenings, two deconstruction charms and two translation spells, now the rune sat before them, fully revealed, englamoured, pulsing softly against the woven thread. It glowed silver-gold, faintly warm to the touch.

“It’s not a locator spell,” Draco murmured, eyes narrowed.

Luna nodded. “A seedmark doesn’t find people. It lets them find you.”

Draco hesitated.

“Which means,” he said slowly, “if I cast through it... If I channel into it... It might draw them. Whoever’s left.”

“If they want to be drawn,” Luna said.

The library’s hush had deepened. Even the candles nearby seemed to flicker in rhythm. Draco reached into his collar and pulled the red serpent ring from beneath his shirt, and placed it against the seedmark thread. And whispered an invitation. The effect was quiet. But the rune flared briefly as if it had breathed in. And then the air around him shifted.

Draco gasped softly from contact... Presence. Like eyes opening behind a curtain.

He couldn’t explain it, not even to himself. But the moment he touched the rune, something ancient turned its face toward him. A heartbeat answering his own. The thread on the tapestry shimmered once again and then dulled.

Luna leaned forward, her voice quieter than usual. “I think they heard you.”

Draco stared at the tapestry, heart loud in his chest. “But they didn’t answer.”

“Not yet,” Luna said gently. “But they know you’re here now. That you’re one of them.”

Draco exhaled slowly, the sound shaking loose something he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in. Hope. The connection hadn’t opened a door. But it had knocked on one. Loud enough to be noticed.

He folded the tapestry with precise care, tucking it back into the protective charm Luna had added and they both went back to his books.

Luna turned another page and began humming something soft. The silence between them wasn’t awkward. It never was with Luna, but Draco was grateful for it today. His head had been noisy all week. The Goblet’s fire still burned in the Entrance Hall, daring names to fall into it. The letters from his secret admirer were now tucked in a velvet pouch inside his trunk.

It was then that Luna noticed something.

“Oh look,” she said, as dreamily as if pointing out a passing cloud. “There’s Hermione Granger with her recruitment forms. I think she’s starting a club.”

Draco looked up.

Sure enough, across the library’s open mezzanine, Hermione Granger was speaking in a quiet but urgent voice to a pair of fourth-years, waving a stack of parchment flyers that read:

S.P.E.W. — The Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare

Draco made a noise that was half a scoff and half a sigh. “She’s still on about the house-elf thing?”

Luna didn’t blink. “She’s always been on about it. Most people are only brave when it’s convenient. She’s brave all the time.”

Draco shifted in his chair and watched Granger as she explained something with fast-moving hands and that firm, bright edge in her voice that he remembered from the World Cup.

He remembered her standing in the firelight, furious, telling him that house-elves didn’t choose to serve, they were conditioned to. And he remembered how quickly he’d snapped back that they were made to serve, that it was their nature.

He hated that memory. Not because it was cruel, but because part of him had believed it... and still somewhat believed now. Still… it wasn’t easy to let go of something you were raised on like gospel.

Luna must have seen something in his expression, because she stood up, dusted her hands on her skirt, and said, “Wait here.”

“What—?”

But she was already halfway across the floor.

Within a minute, she was leading Granger back toward the table like a wandering professor returning a student to class.

Granger looked confused, vaguely wary. “Lovegood, what’s this about?”

Draco didn’t rise when Luna gestured to him. “He’s thinking.”

Granger folded her arms. “That’s dangerous.”

Draco gave her a thin smile. “I’d say the same about you, but you started a revolution over house services.”

Granger’s eyes narrowed. “S.P.E.W. is not a joke.”

“I didn’t say it was,” Draco said quickly, and to his own surprise, it came out more serious than snide. “Look. I don’t plan to join your club anytime in the future. But I remember what you said. At the World Cup. And I… think I’m starting to see it.”

Granger blinked, taken aback.

“I was raised to think a certain way,” he continued, voice quieter now, more measured. “That legacy matters more than kindness. That blood defines magic. And that creatures like house-elves existed to serve, because that’s how it’s always been.”

Granger’s jaw tightened. “That doesn’t make it right.”

“I didn’t say it did,” he said, and there was no edge to it. Just tired honesty. “I’m not defending it. I’m saying it’s hard. To... untangle something that’s wrapped around your bones since before you even knew what it was.”

She didn’t interrupt. Which was rare and telling.

Draco rubbed the back of his neck. “But... I'm starting to see it. I watch how they move in the Manor, how they flinch before they speak, how they lower their eyes even when no one’s asking them to.”

Granger’s voice softened. “Exactly. You don’t owe loyalty to something that hurts you. That keeps you small. That binds you.”

He looked at her with the cautious respect of someone seeing a rival in a different light. “You always talk about rights like they’re obvious. Like everyone should’ve seen it ages ago.”

“Because they should have,” she said. “Just because something is old tradition doesn’t make it sacred. Or good.”

A beat of quiet passed between them.

“I’m not there yet,” Draco said finally. “I’m not going to knit anything for an elf or sign a petition. But I’m thinking. I’m.. working on it.”

Granger studied him for a moment, then gave a slow nod. “I don’t expect everyone to agree with me. But I do expect people to care enough to think about what they’re standing on.”

Draco met her eyes. “And I do.”

Then, softer: “Thanks for still saying it, even when people didn’t want to hear.”

Her mouth twitched, almost a real smile. “I never really expected you to be the one listening.”

“Neither did I,” he muttered.

Luna, still nearby, beamed like the conversation had gone exactly the way she’d hoped it would. “Progress,” she said dreamily, “is just thoughts growing roots.”

Granger raised an eyebrow. “That’s not in Hogwarts: A History, is it?”

“No,” Luna said, “but it probably should be.”

Then Granger gave the faintest nod, tucked one of her flyers into a nearby shelf, and walked away.

Luna sat back down and resumed humming.

Draco exhaled slowly, like a muscle he hadn’t realized was tensed had finally let go. He picked up his quill again and underlined one more sentence in his book.

Chapter Text

The fire in the Goblet had been flickering at the edge of Draco’s dreams for three nights, like a threat, like something watching him through smoke. But this time, Draco recognized it now. It was how the serpent stirred when it wanted him to see. The dream came fast. There was only darkness. And in the middle of it, fire. The Goblet burned in the center of the dream like a living wound, its flames an otherworldly blue, high and wild and consuming the edges of everything. It surged like a heartbeat trying to speak in flame.

And curling around it, rising in and out of the firelight, was his serpent.

It was clearer than it had ever been, massive and gleaming, its scales like molten silver in the blue light, its eyes twin embers that did not blink. It coiled with slow, purposeful grace around the Goblet, tongue flicking in warning. But it didn’t look at Draco.

It looked at Harry.

Because he was there, standing at the center of the fire.

Harry stood still, his face unreadable, his eyes hidden in shadow. The flames surrounded him, backlit in harsh silhouette, the fire licking at the edges of his robes, sparks catching in his hair like stars.

Then the serpent reared back, its body tightening.

The Goblet split open with a sound that felt like it cracked straight through Draco’s ribs, a sound like splintered glass and distant thunder. And something spilled out of the flames, down through the floorless dark like it had been waiting.

Chains.

Long, blackened iron chains, slick with shadow, that whipped out of the fire and lashed around Harry like vines. They wrapped his arms, his chest, his throat and pulled him downward into the dark even as the flames reached upward. And still, Harry didn’t scream.

Only looked toward Draco.

Draco jolted awake with a ragged gasp, his lungs clawing for air, the phantom clatter of chains still ringing like iron through his skull. He sat bolt upright, drenched in sweat, heart thrashing, but the world didn’t come back with him all at once.

A spike of sharp and blinding pain bloomed behind his eyes, and for a breathless moment, everything went black. The room vanished.

Then, slowly, the dim outlines of his dorm room bled back into view. The curtains trembling with unseen wind, the heavy air pressing down as if the nightmare had followed him out, curled tight around his chest and settled there, heavy and waiting.

The Slytherin dorm was still, everybody else had left for breakfast.

The serpent in him moved. It twisted low in his spine and up along the back of his skull, humming through his bones like it was trying to find a way out. It was the same pressure from before, that strange magical static, that vision-fog. But this time, it wanted to be seen.

Draco didn’t even change out of his sleep shirt, just threw a cloak around his shoulders, grabbed his wand, and slipped from the dormitory with footsteps careful but urgent. His feet knew where to go.

He found Harry near the Great Hall corridor. His tie was half-undone, his shirt wrinkled, hair worse than usual, sticking up like he’d tried to flatten it and given up halfway.

Draco didn’t call his name.

Harry stopped mid-step, turning quickly. His eyes landed on Draco, and something in his posture changed in recognition.

Draco walked straight up to him, boots quiet on the stone.

“I had a vision,” he said quickly. “This time it’s very clear. And it was about you.”

Harry’s brow furrowed, and he took a half-step closer. “What kind of vision?”

Draco glanced down the empty corridor then back at Harry. “The Tournament. You’re involved in it. Somehow.”

Harry blinked. “What, like… metaphorically involved? I’m in danger because the school’s full of international weirdos and deadly challenges?”

Draco gave a sharp shake of his head. “No. Not metaphorically. It was specific. There was the Goblet, fire, chains, and you. Someone’s going to use the Tournament. As cover. Or even worse.”

Harry was quiet for a moment, the edge of his mouth twitching downward. “Are you sure?” he asked finally, and his voice was quieter now. It was not dismissive or mocking, they had long passed that stage, which Draco was grateful for.

Draco hesitated, his jaw tight. “I’m sure of it.” He hated how serious they felt.

“Alright,” Harry said. “Then this time we tell someone. Dumbledore. Or McGonagall. Someone who’ll take it seriously.”

Draco blinked. “Oh... Okay. You just seem... quick to listen to me these days.”

“I’ve seen enough not to laugh at fire and visions,” Harry muttered. “And I’ve learned not to ignore warning signs that come wrapped in serpents and weird prophetic energy.”

Draco gave him a laugh. “Charming.”

“Not really,” Harry said, but there was a trace of a smile beneath it. “Just tired.”

They turned and started down the corridor, side by side, their footsteps echoing in practiced rhythm. Draco hadn’t even noticed how tight his grip was, his fingers aching, bloodless at the tips, until he forced himself to loosen it.

But then the torches along the corridor flickered. And everything changed because they never made it to the office. They had just passed the arched doors of the Great Hall, planning to cut through it on their way to the teacher’s corridor. The heavy wooden doors stood open, and voices spilled out — a low hum of conversation, curious and uncertain. Inside, students and teachers were clustered in loose groups, standing around in clumps, looking toward the raised platform at the front of the Hall. The Goblet of Fire stood there still, blue flames flickering steadily.

Someone was going to speak. There was clearly an announcement coming. But the usual buzz of chatter felt wrong, strained. As if everyone sensed something off-kilter but hadn’t yet put a name to it.

Harry slowed his pace first. Draco followed his gaze.

Then the Goblet of Fire flared violently. 

A sudden eruption of deep, electric blue that bathed the Hall in a magical glow so fierce it cast shadows against the ceiling. Conversations died instantly. Silverware stilled mid-air. Even the enchanted ceiling above seemed to dim in response.

The flame crackled and hissed, and then expelled a small slip of parchment into the air like it had been waiting for exactly this moment.

Gasps rippled through the crowd as the parchment fluttered downward.

Dumbledore stepped forward from his place at the front, robes trailing behind him like storm clouds. He caught the parchment mid-fall.

His eyes flicked down to read it, “Viktor Krum.”

The Durmstrang students erupted into applause. There were cheers, claps on the back, and even one or two loud stomps of boots on stone as Krum rose from the end of the Slytherin table where he’d been sitting, his heavy frame casting a long shadow as he walked toward the front, head low, expression stony.

The flame steadied. Then it flared again. Another gasp. Another parchment.

“Fleur Delacour.”

This time, it was the Beauxbatons table that rose in a shimmering wave of cheers and clapping. Fleur stood gracefully, hair catching the firelight, and with a slight, proud nod, strode toward Dumbledore, chin high, cloak trailing like smoke.

Then, again, the Goblet flared. And a third parchment flew out.

Dumbledore caught it, hands precise. His voice rang clear.

“Cedric Diggory.”

Hufflepuff exploded with rowdy joy and awed celebration. Cedric looked nearly as shocked as anyone, but he stood, composed, offering a polite nod to his table before walking steadily toward the front.

That was it. Three champions. The room buzzed with chatter. Whispers surged through the crowd like wind in dry leaves. Students began to rise, shifting toward the exits now that the announcement was done.

Harry turned to Draco, lips parting. “We’ll go now. Before...”

Then the Goblet roared to life again. This time it wasn’t a flare. It was an explosion.

A shockwave of blue fire burst out of the cup, surging high into the air. The enchanted candles flickered wildly. Gasps and startled shouts echoed around the Hall.

A fourth parchment spat free, curled around the edges. It drifted down slowly.

Dumbledore caught it. Stared at it. Then his voice cut through the rising murmurs. “Harry Potter.”

The words dropped like a stone into deep water.

Harry Potter. Silence swallowed the room like the air itself had frozen. Even the torches seemed to dim, casting the Great Hall in a half-light that made every expression sharper, starker.

The heads of every table turned in eerie unison. Mouths open, hands stilled in mid-motion, half-finished meals abandoned, goblets suspended in midair.

Beauxbatons students stared, their eyes wide, expressions shifting between surprise and polite confusion. The Durmstrang contingent frowned as one, some rising slightly in their seats, as if trying to get a better look at him, to understand the trick they were clearly sure had just been played.

Even Cedric Diggory, already halfway toward the antechamber with a quiet, confident smile, stopped mid-step. His name had been called minutes ago. He turned, brows drawing together in disbelief.

And Harry stood completely still right beside Draco.

Draco’s heart pounded in his ears, loud enough that he thought surely someone else must hear it too.

This was it again.

Draco leaned toward Harry, barely moving, his voice a whisper too fragile for the room’s silence. As if he feared even the walls might hear. “Harry… did you put your name in the Goblet?”

Harry turned his head just slightly. And with an even smaller voice, like it was being pulled out of him against his will, Harry said, “No.”

It echoed in Draco’s ears far louder than it should have. Because he believed him.

“Harry,” Dumbledore said again, more gently this time, his voice carrying across the Hall with a kind of weary calm. “Come forward, please.”

Draco glanced at Dumbledore, then at the rest of the Hall. All eyes were still on Harry. Some whispering had begun now, faint and speculative. Still, Harry stood frozen.

So Draco did the only thing he could think of, he reached out and with great care, touched Harry’s elbow, just enough to break whatever spell had taken hold of him.

Harry flinched ever so slightly. His eyes snapped to Draco’s, green and stormy and completely bewildered.

“It must be a mistake,” Draco murmured under his breath. “Dumbledore will help you clear it up. He’ll know what to do.”

Harry’s expression hardened immediately. He gave Draco a sharp look, sharper than Draco had expected, not angry exactly, but the deep resentment of someone who’d been caught in fate’s plan too many times before.

Draco shut his mouth, chastened. But he didn’t look away.

But Harry gave the smallest of nods then squared his shoulders and stepped forward.

Harry’s footsteps echoed too loudly on the stone floor as he crossed the Great Hall, every eye in the room tracking him like a spell had fixed him in place. He looked pale, the firelight casting flickers of gold and shadow across his face, but he kept walking, shoulders squared the way they always did when he didn’t know whether to fight or flee.

Draco watched him go, something like static buzzing under his skin.

And then Dumbledore stepped down from the dais. He met Harry halfway, his long robes swaying around him. His expression, while outwardly calm, was too taut.

“Harry,” Dumbledore said, voice low, almost too low to hear over the gathering murmur. “Did you put your name in the Goblet of Fire?”

Harry’s eyes widened slightly. “No, sir. I didn’t.”

“Did you ask an older student to do it for you?”

“No,” Harry said again, firmer this time. “I swear. I didn’t.”

There was a beat of stillness. Then Dumbledore’s hand came down on his shoulder, anchoring Harry in his place.

“Very well,” Dumbledore said, voice rising, projecting now. “It appears the Goblet has selected a fourth champion.”

A ripple tore through the room. But this time, the noise was sharper. Louder. Angry.

The Durmstrang delegation stood as one, eyes narrowed. Karkaroff’s face twisted, and he took a half-step forward, his cloak flaring out behind him. “This is not possible,” he said, his voice slicing through the air like ice. “The Goblet cannot choose a fourth. There are rules!”

Madame Maxime rose more slowly, but her frown was just as deep. “If the Goblet is faulty, perhaps we must delay...”

“I assure you,” Dumbledore cut in smoothly, “the Goblet is not faulty. And yet… it has spoken.”

Harry stood under the weight of a thousand stares. Accusations bloomed in every direction. Some whispered, others shouted. From the Slytherin table came the first hissing phrase. “Cheater.”

A fifth-year student whom Draco recognized. Her voice rang out. “Of course he did it! Potter always wants the attention.”

Ron Weasley looked like he’d swallowed a Bludger. Hermione Granger had gone absolutely still beside him, eyes darting from Harry to the Goblet, lips parted.

Dumbledore still didn’t let go of Harry’s shoulder.

“The rules are binding,” Dumbledore said, his voice solemn and unshakable. “Anyone whose name emerges from the Goblet is magically compelled to compete.”

The Hall fell into a heavy silence.

Magically compelled.

Harry turned toward him slowly, disbelief etched deep into his face. But behind it, something sharper, panic, thinly veiled. “You mean… I have to?” he asked, voice tight. “There’s nothing you can do?”

Dumbledore looked at him for a long moment, and in that silence was something too complex to name... Regret, caution, calculation, and the weight of a responsibility he hadn’t wanted to bear.

“No,” he said quietly. “I’m afraid I can’t.”

The words fell like a gavel.

Without another moment’s hesitation, Dumbledore steered Harry toward the side chamber, where the other champions were waiting. Three who had walked in willingly, and one who hadn’t asked for any of it.

The doors closed behind them with a soft, echoing thud.

Draco stood motionless at the edge of the crowd, eyes fixed on that door. He didn’t feel envy.

Not the way he might have, once. Not the old, childish hunger to be chosen, to shine brighter, to outdo Harry Potter at his own myth. That part of him had burned out somewhere along the way. No, what he felt now was something far simpler.

He just wanted to follow. Because Harry had looked back, just once before disappearing, and Draco had seen it, clearer than a vision. The weariness. The confusion. The look of someone already bracing for battle. And Draco wanted to be there for him.

***

The days that followed were like watching a tapestry come undone, thread by thread, moment by moment.
Even before Harry had stepped back into the Great Hall, the whispers had begun, curling through corridors like smoke. By the next morning, they were no longer whispers.

Where once there had been awed gazes and eager greetings, now there were sidelong looks, sharp, measuring, mistrustful. Students who used to wave or stop to talk now passed with tight mouths or muttered remarks. Some turned away when he entered a room. Others didn’t bother hiding their sneers.

Gryffindor House had splintered, some defended him fiercely, others avoided eye contact altogether. Ravenclaws eyed him with cold skepticism. Hufflepuffs, disappointed and betrayed, treated him like a cheater who has robbed their house’s glory. And the Slytherins? They were having the time of their lives, smirking in the corridors, tossing barbed comments his way like confetti.

Draco sat at the edge of one of the long, curved couches, an open copy of Wandlore & Ritual Theory resting on his lap but entirely unread, his fingers idle against the pages. His tea had gone cold.

The Slytherin common room was unusually lively with gossip, low laughter, and the kind of delicious tension that came when someone else was finally the center of trouble. The fire burned green-blue in the hearth, throwing slanting light across polished black floors, and the lake shadows above the enchanted ceiling moved like silent watchers. The tables were spread with parchment, inkpots, and biscuits smuggled from breakfast.

Across the Slytherin common room, Pansy was perched on the arm of Theo’s chair, relaying the latest rumor with breathless delight.

“—I’m telling you, someone said Potter charmed the Goblet to think he was a seventeen-year-old girl,” she finished with a triumphant grin.

Theo nearly choked on his tea. “What, hoping it would fall in love with him and whisper his name in?” He snorted. “Romantic.”

Blaise let out a groan and sprawled dramatically across the sofa. “Imagine the poor Goblet. Traumatized forever.”

Draco didn’t look up. The corner of his mouth twitched.

Pansy stretched, catlike, and fixed him with a sideways glance. “But really… if anyone was clever enough to cheat the Goblet, it’d be you, Draco. Not Potter. You actually have subtlety.”

Draco raised an eyebrow and turned a page. “Subtlety is wasted on idiots. If I’d cheated, everyone would know by now just because it would’ve been done well.”

Theo leaned forward, grinning. “So you’re saying you didn’t slip his name in… but you could have.”

Blaise leaned toward him conspiratorially. “Honestly, it would explain the way you’ve been watching him lately. Like you're waiting for him to burst into flames.”

Draco sighed heavily and finally closed his book with a thump. “If I wanted him dead, I’d have just pushed him into the Black Lake during a flying lesson. Less paperwork.”

Pansy laughed, delighted. “Oh, come off it. You like him now. Admit it. You get all dreamy-eyed when he’s brooding in the library. It’s disgusting.”

“I do not get dreamy-eyed—” Draco began, but Blaise cut in with a smug grin.

“He does. Saw it myself before. Harry walked by, and Draco looked like he was trying to divine the secrets of the universe from the back of his head.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “You’re all insufferable.”

“Possibly,” Pansy said sweetly. “But you haven’t denied it.”

Draco muttered something under his breath and glanced toward the window, where the moonlight reflected pale on the glass. His smirk faded, just a little.

“You do know something, don’t you?” Pansy asked, suddenly softer. “You always do. I’ve seen the way you go quiet before something happens.”

Theo and Blaise exchanged glances, the mood shifting slightly.

Draco didn’t answer at first. Then, with a shrug. “Maybe...”

He picked up his book again, but his mind wasn’t on the page.

Draco’s familiar mask, worn even with his friend, covered the sick twist of knowing that something dark was already in motion, curling in the corners of fate like smoke beneath a locked door.

He couldn’t stop thinking about it. Harry, once again caught up in a spectacle that smelled of danger and blood. But Draco had seen the shadows behind the flame.

That night, after the spectacle in the Great Hall, Draco made his way alone through the darkened castle to the one person who might listen.

Dumbledore was already waiting.

Of course he was. He always knew when Draco was coming.

“You’ve seen something,” the Headmaster said, without preamble.

Draco didn’t sit. His voice was tight. “That Goblet is wrong. This isn’t fate or prophecy. It’s rigged. I saw it.”

Dumbledore tapped his fingers lightly against his chair, his eyes the same pale, unreadable blue as ever.

Draco stepped forward, barely keeping the frustration from boiling over. “You can stop this. You should have. Are you seriously going to let him be bound to some ancient contract like it’s all part of the fun?”

“It is not a game,” Dumbledore said, too softly.

“Then why?” Draco snapped.

The old man’s expression didn’t shift. “Because some doors, once opened, must be walked through.”

Cryptic. Useless. That was always Dumbledore’s way.

Draco respected the Headmaster. He even liked him, in a cautious sort of way. But every time he looked at Dumbledore, the man seemed far away. Like he was watching a future no one else could see, playing a game on a board that Draco only had glimpses of the edge.

Draco’s voice dropped, but the words came sharp and certain. “What if this is a trap? What if someone’s luring Harry into his death?”

Dumbledore paused just for a breath.

“Then we let them,” he said.

The words hit Draco like a slap.

But Dumbledore continued, calm and maddening. “Let them move. Let them believe the plan is working. Predictable danger is far easier to counter than a hidden one.”

Draco left the office with the weight of stone on his shoulders.

The castle felt colder, closer. Like it was folding in around him. He was angry. Frustrated. And underneath it all, a sick twist of something else.

He felt lied to.

Everything was stupid. So monumentally stupid, he thought, with sharp-edged contempt. Who builds a magical system where a fourteen-year-old can be thrown into mortal peril and no one can do a damned thing about it?

Draco’s fingers twitched against each other, his eyes narrowing.

Draco’s thoughts snapped back into the Slytherin’s common room when Theo spoke.

“Some of the seventh-years are starting a smear campaign,” Theo said, lazily popping a biscuit into his mouth. “They’re planning to put up new flyers by dinner. You know, attention-seeking, glory-hog, that whole routine.”

“Hardly surprising,” Pansy said, brushing imaginary lint off her skirt. “Hufflepuff’s already turning on him, and they practically worshipped him last year. One more shove and they’ll exile him to the dungeons.”

She turned to Draco, eyes narrowing slightly. “You’re not going to join in, are you?”

Draco looked up from his book. “Do I look like I want to?”

Theo raised a hand in mock surrender. “We just figured you’d at least want front-row seats.”

Draco paused. His face didn’t change, but his voice lowered a notch.

“Not this time.”

A beat of silence followed.

Blaise studied him for a moment, something unreadable flickering behind his gaze. “You’ve really changed.”

From the corner, Crabbe blinked up from the game of Exploding Snap he was losing. “He told us we don’t have to hex anyone just to be funny anymore.”

“Yeah,” Goyle added, mouth full of fudge. “Said we’re not bullies. We’re just misunderstood.”

Crabbe nodded solemnly, as if this was a great revelation. “And we can still laugh when people fall down stairs. Just not… push them down.”

Draco didn’t look up, but one corner of his mouth twitched. “Progress,” he murmured.

Blaise shook his head with a faint smile. “Incredible. Malfoy, reformed prince of Slytherin.”

Pansy snorted. “Don’t push it.”

Draco leaned back and closed his book without marking the page.

And no matter what the others whispered. No matter what lies would snake across the walls in charmed ink or flit between scrolls passed under desks, Draco knew the truth was never as simple as it looked from the outside.

***

So when Harry slipped out of the library one night after dinner with Ron Weasley, cutting through the lesser-used eastern corridor past the faded tapestry of Merlin throttling a banshee, Draco followed. He kept a careful distance, footsteps silent on the stone.

But then they stopped, just beyond the archway where the torchlight painted their faces in flickering gold, and the quiet shattered.

“I didn’t put my name in!” Harry shouted, his voice echoing off the walls. His hands were clenched at his sides, shoulders taut with fury. “How many bloody times do I have to say it?”

Weasley rounded on him, eyes bright with something sharper than disbelief. “Oh, come off it, Harry! You expect me to believe it just... just floated in there? All by itself?”

Harry’s expression twisted, incredulous. “I don’t even want this, Ron! I didn’t ask for it!”

Weasley scoffed, bitter. “No? Because from where I’m standing, it looks exactly like something you’d do. Big bloody hero moment. Front page of the Daily Prophet. Again.”

“I didn’t want the attention!” Harry shouted. “I never asked for any of it! Do you honestly think I’d risk my life for a tournament when I can’t even sleep through the night without seeing—”

“Save it,” Weasley cut in. “You’ve always loved it. The fame, the drama. It’s you, Harry. Stop pretending you're just some unlucky kid.”

That was when Draco stepped forward, no longer able to pretend he hadn’t been there, couldn’t keep the words in his mouth. “Are you serious right now?”

Both boys turned. Weasley blinked. “What?”

Draco stepped between them, glaring at Weasley with incredulous disbelief. “You’re his best friend. And you’re standing here acting like he asked for this?”

Weasley’s ears went red. “You don’t know anything about it, Malfoy. Stay out of it.”

“No,” Draco said, sharper now. “I think I know enough. Merlin, if you don’t believe him, who else is supposed to?”

Harry looked between them, too stunned to speak.

Draco turned back to him. “You don’t want to be in the Tournament.”

“Obviously,” Harry muttered.

“Exactly.” He turned on Weasley again. “So unless you have actual proof, beyond your bruised ego, I’d suggest not attacking the only person in this school who didn’t ask to be a walking headline.”

“Don’t talk to me like I don’t care about him,” Weasley snapped, voice cracking. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No,” Draco said coldly. “But I know what jealousy looks like.”

The silence that followed was thick and sharp. Weasley flushed, turned on his heel, and stormed off, fists still clenched at his sides.

Draco sighed, the sound low and sharp in the quiet corridor, and dragged a hand through his hair like he might be able to smooth out the tangled thoughts in his head along with it.

Across from him, Harry stood frozen in the corridor, arms crossed. “Well,” he said after a moment, “that was dramatic.”

Draco didn’t roll his eyes, though he thought about it. Instead, he glanced sideways. “You’re welcome.”

A ghost of a smile tugged at Harry's mouth. “Thanks. For stepping in. I didn’t expect that.”

Draco shifted his weight, shoulders tightening with a tension he masked in a shrug. “Someone had to say it. He’s an idiot if he doesn’t trust you.”

Harry's laugh was soft, almost soundless, a breath more than a chuckle. “Yeah. Well. He is an idiot sometimes.”

“Only sometimes?”

“Alright, often,” Harry said, letting the grin spread across his face. “But he’s still my friend.”

Predictably Gryffindor. But somehow they didn't annoy Draco the way they might have once. He narrowed his eyes. “You sure about that?”

A simple nod, but a solemn one. “Yeah. I want to work it out. With him. Myself.”

There was a long second where Draco said nothing, then gave a soft huff of amusement. “Fine. Be noble about it. I could never understand Gryffindor anyway.”

“Understandable,” Harry said, clearly amused.

Draco allowed himself a crooked smile in return, but fell silent again, walking a few more paces before speaking. “You’re calmer than I expected. About people’s reaction.”

Still walking, Harry gave an easy shrug, though his eyes didn’t match the gesture. “I’ve been called a liar since I was eleven. Been nearly killed every year since. This? It’s familiar.”

That made Draco stop. Just like that, all motion ceased. His steps halted, his breath caught. “That’s the problem, Potter. It shouldn’t be.”

Harry paused mid-step. Turned. And then, slowly, faced him.

“You’ve got something around you,” Draco went on, voice lower now. “It’s like gravity. Always pulling the worst things toward you.”

Harry looked at him, eyes shadowed. “That doesn’t stop you from following me though.”

Draco hesitated. Then, quiet as a breath. “I never said I wasn’t cursed, too.”

They stood there in the corridor, the torches crackling softly above them, the castle holding its breath. The silence stretched... charged. The kind of silence where things shift, unspoken but undeniable.

Then, slowly, Draco reached into his robes and pulled out a ring.

Silver, old. The torchlight caught on the subtle glint of a serpent coiled in blood-red enamel around the band. He turned it between his fingers, watching it glint as he spoke.

“Speaking of being cursed… and getting dragged into things you never asked for.” He glanced at Harry. “I think it’s time I told you everything. About my visions.”

Harry’s brow furrowed. “Your vision?”

Draco shook his head. “Not even my friends. Well. Luna knew. But… Luna knows things before I do anyway.”

Harry gave a small nod, watching the ring carefully now. “So… what is it?”

“A ring from the Carmesí bloodline,” Draco said quietly. “My bloodline. On my father’s side. That’s where the Sight comes from. The visions. The signs.” He turned the ring slowly in his hand, letting the red enamel catch the low light. “It ruined most of them. Drove them mad, or worse.”

He paused, his voice softening. “But not me. Not yet.”

Harry didn’t answer right away. The torches above them flickered, casting long ripples of gold across the stone floor.

“The source of your visions, huh…” Harry murmured, half to himself.

Draco nodded once.

Without speaking, Harry slid down the wall until he was sitting, knees pulled up to his chest. A beat later, Draco joined him. They sat shoulder to shoulder in the quiet corridor, the air between them warm with shared understanding.

Hogwarts hummed faintly around them. Pipes breathing behind stone, portraits turning in their frames, the distant echo of Filch swearing about something Peeves had undoubtedly destroyed. For a moment, they both just existed there. Side by side.

Draco stared at the ring, still turning it in his fingers. “I hide it,” he said finally. “The Sight. I had to.” He gave a hollow sort of laugh. “My father… he doesn’t believe in gifts. Only control.”

Harry looked over at him then said, “Your mother doesn’t know too?”

Draco shook his head. “No. My mother… she worries. But she’s quieter about it. She thinks the best way to protect me is to make me small. Safe. Silent.”

“And you?” Harry asked softly.

Draco glanced at him. “I learned to fake things early.”

Harry exhaled, resting his chin on his arms. “Mine aren’t better... They either tried to kill me or put me in a cupboard.”

Draco blinked. “Was that a joke or—?”

“Bit of both.”

“And then, my godfather,” Harry said after a moment, voice low but steady. “Sirius Black.”

He paused, as if just saying the name settled something in his chest.

“He’s the closest thing I’ve got to family. He’s… wild. Messy. Honest. I think I love him just for not pretending I’m normal.”

Draco glanced at him, the sharpness in his expression softening.

Harry gave a small, hollow laugh. “When I found out he was innocent... That he hadn’t betrayed my parents, everything shifted. For the first time, I thought… maybe I had someone. Someone who chose me. Who wanted to be there.”

His voice faltered for a beat.

“I kept thinking about what it would be like, you know? Having a home. Being part of something again. I thought... Maybe when it was all over, we’d live together. Just us. I held onto that.”

He swallowed.

“But over the summer, he went back into hiding. Too risky, he said. Too many eyes on me. He sent two letters before September. Just two.”

Harry's gaze dropped to the floor, and his voice grew quiet. “I know he’s trying to protect me. I know that. But it still feels like…”

“Being left behind,” Draco said gently.

Harry didn’t look at him, but his shoulders eased, and he nodded. “Yeah.”

A silence settled over them, deeper than before. Carved from the same place of want and almost.

Harry stared down at his hands. “It’s stupid. I finally get to have someone, and now he has to vanish all over again.”

Draco’s voice was soft. “It’s not stupid.”

Harry looked over at him, surprised by the quiet certainty in those words.

Draco gave a faint shrug. “Some of us spend our whole lives surrounded by people and still feel alone. You got a glimpse of what it’s like to have someone real. Of course you’d want it back.”

They lapsed back into silence. Two boys, carved out by legacy and fear and the sharp edges of family.

But for the first time in a long while, neither of them felt entirely alone. They were tangled in each other’s truths now. And that, somehow, felt like the beginning of something new.

***

Draco had never been the sort of person to admit to stress. It was unflattering, unbecoming, and generally beneath someone raised in a house where emotion was folded neatly and stored behind silk-draped portraits. Feelings were for less disciplined people. For those who didn’t have an image to maintain.

But now, with Harry Potter’s name still echoing through the stone corridors like an incantation no one wanted to admit they’d heard, and the Triwizard Tournament looming ahead like a golden stage built over quicksand, Draco found himself… thinking. Too much. About too many things.

And somewhere in the background of it all was the silent pulse of the Carmesí seedmark. Draco had traced the charm on the tapestry with a mental rune-call, a quiet invitation sent through blood and magic to whatever distant relative might still be alive. And something had stirred in response. But no message had come. Just a lingering presence.

He found he couldn’t sit still anymore. His usual haunts, the common room, the Great Hall, even the Quidditch stands, felt too loud, too filled with eyes and expectations. So he walked. Mostly alone. Through lesser-used corridors with threadbare tapestries and suits of armor so dusty even Filch had given up on them. It helped him concentrate. Or at least it helped him look like he was concentrating, which, in Draco’s world, was often just as important.

Because he had started trying to see.

Not in the accidental, jarring way Carmesí's magic had always worked for him with those sharp, involuntary flashes that left him cold, shaking, and breathless. He was trying to control it now. Shape it. He wanted to understand it, to use it. He wanted to choose what he saw. Anything about the upcoming Tournament.

So he practiced. In secret, of course. He would sit in the library with his ring turned inward on his thumb, pretending to read while his eyes tracked the flickering candlelight. He let himself slip into that fuzzy space just past focus, where the world softened and blurred and maybe something else could bleed through.

It worked, sometimes. Once, the candle’s flame warped and twisted until he felt heat and the suffocating burn of smoke. A flash of scale and tooth, enormous and gone in an instant, like a creature turning just out of sight.

And once, a shimmer of golden chains, glittering wet like they’d just been pulled from a lake. He had no idea what that meant, but he remembered it. The weight of it.

But the serpent didn’t always take kindly to being pressed. If Draco pushed too far, too fast, the visions turned harsh and fractured. There were times, multiple times, when he’d tried to force clarity, a sickening pressure built behind his eyes until his nose bled onto the library table.

The serpents, silent though they were, did not tolerate impatience. They recoiled when the path was forced, curling back into the darkness of his mind.

So the visions that Draco did get, even though they were blurry, fragmented and inconsistent. But they were something.

And Draco, being Draco, decided that was enough to build a strategy around. If he could see before things happened, he could be prepared. He could be useful. For Harry.

Of course, it didn’t go over smoothly with Harry himself.

They were in the courtyard again, late afternoon, sitting on the low stone wall beneath the south tower. The sun was sinking behind the battlements, casting the grass in gold and the stone in long, deep shadows. Most of the school was still at dinner, and the only sounds were the wind pushing at the ivy and the occasional caw of a crow somewhere above.

Draco had just finished explaining what he’d seen. What he was planning to do next. What he was willing to do.

Harry stared at him like he’d grown antlers. Or worse, like he was dangerous.

“Let me get this straight,” Harry said slowly. “You’re trying to force a vision about the Tournament so you can help me cheat?”

Draco scoffed, offended. “Not cheat. Prepare. Merlin, Potter, I’m not going to slip you a howler that screams the answers. I’m just trying to keep you from dying.”

Harry shook his head. “I don’t want that kind of help.”

“Why not?” Draco asked, too quickly. “Is your Gryffindor pride really that fragile?”

Harry stood up suddenly, fists clenched at his sides, jaw tight. “Because I didn’t ask for this!” he snapped. “I didn’t put my name in. I didn’t want glory. I don’t want people clapping when I survive things I never wanted to face in the first place. I don’t want to win this like it’s a House Cup with fire-breathing mascots. I just want to get through it without anyone else getting hurt. And not by cutting corners or warping fate.”

Draco stood too, bristling. “You’re acting like I’m poisoning the well when all I’m doing is using what I’ve got. I have this power. Why shouldn’t I use it?”

Harry looked at him hard. “Because you don’t even know what it does to you.”

The silence that followed was sharper than any argument.

Harry’s tone softened, but only a little. “You told me yourself. The Carmesí family went mad. You said their gift devoured them from the inside out. That it turned them into monsters. You swore you wouldn’t use it like that.”

“I’m not,” Draco said, but his voice didn’t have the conviction he wanted it to. “I’m not using it like they did.”

“Really?” Harry’s eyes narrowed. “Because it looks a lot like obsession to me. Like you’re clinging to this power so hard, you’re not even thinking about what it’s costing you.”

Draco turned away. His hands tightened around the edge of the stone wall. He didn’t want to admit that Harry was right. Not even in his own head. He didn’t want to face the fact that lately, everything had started to revolve around the visions. Around seeing more. Around getting ahead of what was coming.

And it wasn’t just about helping Harry. Not anymore.

It was about control. About not being powerless like he’d felt third year. About knowing the rules before anyone else and using them to win. Because Draco Malfoy had spent his whole life being told what to do, who to be, how to act.

The adults in his life had spoken in layers. They played games with smiling faces and carefully worded pleasantries, nodding while sharpening knives behind their backs. His father was a master of it. The Ministry did it too. Even Dumbledore, for all his twinkle-eyed benevolence, also played chess with lives and called it wisdom.

The visions, fragmented as they were, gave him a glimpse past the surface. Hints of what people were really planning. What they were hiding. Who was lying and who was about to move next. For the first time in his life, Draco wasn’t a pawn on someone else’s board.

He could play the game back.

And wasn’t that what magic was for? Not just surviving, but bending the world to your will?

That’s what scared Harry, he realized. Not just the Carmesí magic. Not just the danger. But what it might turn him into.

Because Harry didn’t want the game. He didn’t want power, or strategy, or glory. He never had.

And Draco was building a war plan.

He swallowed hard, knuckles pale against the stone wall, and for a flickering moment, he wasn’t sure if he was still protecting Harry… Or just making sure he wouldn’t lose him.

“I can handle it,” Draco muttered, not meeting Harry’s gaze.

Harry stepped closer. “That’s what they all thought, didn’t they?”

And then, because the universe had an impeccable sense of irony, or because she really did have some strange magic of her own, Luna appeared behind them, cradling a small potted plant and wearing an expression so blank it was almost deliberate.

“You’re both very loud,” she said, in that gentle, observational tone that made it impossible to tell if she was annoyed or just making conversation.

Draco turned toward her like a man grabbing a lifeline. “Potter thinks I’m going to go mad.”

Luna blinked at him. “You might,” she said simply.

He gaped. “What?”

She tilted her head, the way she did when she was about to drop something quietly devastating. “The Carmesí didn’t go mad all at once. It was like a fever. It crept in a little more each time they forced a vision that wasn’t meant to be seen. They stopped listening to the power and started trying to wield it like a wand. But it doesn’t work like that. It pushes back.”

Draco raked a hand through his hair, clearly trying not to let that sink in too deeply. “Why does everything magical come with a footnote about inevitable moral decay?”

“Because power isn’t meant to serve you,” Luna said, still soft but unshakably certain. “It’s meant to test you.”

Harry sat down again, quieter now. Some of the tension had drained from his shoulders, but his eyes were still steady.

“I just don’t want you to lose yourself over this,” he said, glancing up at Draco. “Not for me.”

Draco opened his mouth, ready with something sarcastic or dismissive, but nothing came out. For once, there was no clever retort, no eye-roll, no smug little smirk to toss over his shoulder.

He just let out a slow breath.

“Fine,” he said, eventually. “I won’t force anything. No more staring at candles. No smoke rituals. No trying to mug the future for spoilers.”

Luna smiled, serene as ever, and handed him a small box.

“This helps with headaches,” she said.

Draco looked down at it suspiciously. “What is it?”

“Chamomile tea,” she replied. “It’s calming.”

Draco muttered something under his breath about calm being a relative concept, but he didn’t hand the box back.

Chapter Text

Draco didn’t avoid Harry because he was angry. That would’ve been easier. Anger was familiar, quick, sharp, and clean. You could wear it like armor. But this… this was something heavier. Hesitant. Like stepping into a conversation already in progress and realizing you no longer knew your place in it.

So he stopped sitting near Harry in the library, even when Luna gave him long, lingering looks over the top of her upside-down book. He skipped the quiet evening walks, the ones where they somehow always ended up next to each other, shoulder brushing shoulder. He passed Harry in the corridors, eyes fixed straight ahead, pretending not to notice the way Harry slowed just slightly, like he was waiting.

Because the truth was, Draco didn’t know what to say. He still didn’t understand why using his gift was a problem. Slytherins used what they had. That was the point, wasn’t it? You took what was in front of you — bloodline, brilliance, ambition, vision — and sharpened it until it cut clean through the world. It wasn’t cheating if it was yours.

So why had Harry looked at him like that? Like Draco wasn’t being clever or brave, but reckless. Blindfolded. Walking straight toward a cliff he couldn’t see.

The thing was, Draco wasn’t sure Harry was wrong.

And that uncertainty lodged under his skin like a splinter he couldn’t dig out. It made him second-guess the things that used to feel like instinct. It made him pull back, just slightly, from the one person he’d started to feel... safe around.

It wasn’t anger keeping him away. It was guilt. And a strange, gnawing embarrassment at not knowing whether he’d already crossed a line without realizing it.

So Draco kept quiet. He told himself it was restraint. But deep down, it felt a lot more like avoidance.

He let Harry prepare for the First Task with Weasley and Granger, watching from a distance as the three of them huddled in corners of the library or slipped through corridors like a trio of conspirators. He didn’t follow when Harry disappeared under that damn Invisibility Cloak. Though he always seemed to know when it happened, as if the castle itself tugged a thread inside him the moment Harry vanished from sight.

Draco didn’t ask what the Task was. Didn’t try to prod or pry or push with his magic, even though he could feel the temptation curling in the back of his mind. Because he had a feeling. Everyone did. The signs were there if you were paying attention.

There was too much fire in the castle lately. Too many strange sounds echoing through the halls at night, low, distant rumbles that didn’t sound like anything Hogwarts should’ve been housing. Whispers of broken fencing near the training grounds. Scratches scorched deep into stone.

And Hagrid had gone pale one morning in Care of Magical Creatures when someone asked if the dragons were eating properly.

Dragons.

That word wasn’t being said aloud, but it didn’t need to be. It was in the way people moved, quicker and warier. In the way professors exchanged glances across the Great Hall when they thought no one was watching.

Draco saw it all. But still, he said nothing.

Because if he opened his mouth, he might not be able to stop himself from warning Harry, from interfering, from using it. From proving, once again, that he didn’t know where the line was.

And then, the serpent came back in his dream.

Draco found himself standing in a vast field of black glass with moonlight stretched in ribbons across the fractured surface, as if the stars themselves had fallen and melted there. The sky above was unnaturally still. The wind came in sharp, slicing gusts, carrying the scent of thunder.

And from a jagged split in the ground ahead of him, it emerged.

The red serpent.

It rose in a slow, deliberate coil, impossibly massive. Its scales shimmered like blood lit from within, every movement throwing crimson flashes across the broken ground. Its eyes held the depth of stars, ancient and alive.

The serpent looked at him.

And then, impossibly... It spoke.

Your power is growing.

Draco blinked, stunned. The words hadn’t come through the air. They resonated inside him, buzzing in his bones, blooming behind his eyes, like a bell rung deep in the core of his skull.

“You… you can speak?” he whispered.

His voice sounded absurdly small in the vastness of the dream. He stared at the serpent, all instincts screaming to run but he stood frozen in wonder. Terror and awe coiled together in his chest.

You carry the ring. You carry the name. And with it… You carry me.

Draco’s breath hitched. “What are you talking about?”

The serpent’s eyes narrowed. Its body undulated, slow and hypnotic, curling in great spirals around him. He could feel the heat of it, the weight of its presence pressing against the edges of the dream.

They can sense you now. You shine in the dark like a flare. You will need help. All the help you can get. This is not the end.

The ground trembled beneath his feet. Faint cracks spread through the glass like veins. The air thrummed with rising energy.

The serpent circled closer. Its head lowered to his eye level, impossibly silent for something so large.

You cannot outrun what is inside you. But you can guide it. If you learn.

As it spoke, the ring on Draco’s finger seared against his skin. Just enough pain to remind him it was there. That it had always been there. Watching. Waiting.

And then the serpent vanished, dissolving into a column of fire and smoke that spun upward like a scream.

Draco opened his eyes. His room was silent. Still. Cold.

Above his bed, the enchanted window that showed the lake was dark and undisturbed, the water pressing against the glass like nothing had changed.

He looked down. The ring on his finger shimmered in the moonlight, the red enamel catching the light like an eye half-lidded in thought. Something in it felt… awake.

***

The First Task happened on a bitterly cold morning, with a sharpness in the air that seemed to slice through even the thickest wool cloaks. Hogwarts was alight with restless energy from the moment breakfast began. Students whispering over porridge, speculating, betting, bragging, nervously fidgeting with scarves as if they were suiting up for battle themselves. By midmorning, a path had been cleared through the castle grounds leading toward the makeshift arena. A wide, open enclosure spilled into the rocky edge of the Forbidden Forest. Raised stands had been constructed overnight by the professors and the school staff, and by the time Draco and his friends arrived, the seats were already buzzing.

He sat high in the Slytherin section, between Blaise and Pansy, arms folded tight beneath his robes. The wind blew hard, dragging the banners and the cheers with it, and the whole place smelled of fresh hay and scorched earth. The enchantments placed over the arena shimmered faintly in the air like heat waves, protections, shields, illusions layered thick to contain whatever chaos was about to come.

“What kind of dragon do you think it is?” Pansy asked, eyes squinting toward the center of the arena. “Someone said they saw Hagrid nearly cry this morning, which means it’s the rarer type.”

Theo, leaning forward, grinned. “I don’t care about its breed, I hope it eats that Durmstrang brute. He smirked at me in the corridor like I was a snack.”

“You are a snack,” Blaise said, deadpan. “Just not for dragons.”

Draco gave a hollow sort of laugh, more breath than sound.

His eyes drifted toward the opposite stand, where the Gryffindors were already gathered. He spotted Weasley first, sitting stiffly beside Granger, who was wringing her hands in her lap as though trying to squeeze calm from her own bones. Weasley kept biting his lip, clearly trying not to glance at the arena gate every few seconds, but failing miserably. The tension radiating from them was almost comical.

Just beyond them, higher in the stands, the professors sat in their reserved row. Most watched the arena with thinly veiled concern or calculated disinterest. Professor McGonagall sat straight, knuckles white where they gripped the arm of her chair. Hagrid leaned forward with a kind of childlike anticipation, oblivious to the tension around him.

But it was Dumbledore who caught Draco’s attention, unnervingly still, his gaze fixed not on the crowd or even the arena, but just past it. Something was unnerving in that focus, something too calm. Draco couldn’t help the flicker of doubt that curled low in his stomach. This was the man who had allowed dragons into a school-sanctioned task and now he sat like a statue, letting children walk into flame.

Above the stadium, the sky had soured to a bruised, moody grey, and the wind snapped through the treetops like an impatient whisper, ruffling robes and tugging at the enchanted flags that floated in the air. The crowd stirred with rising anticipation.

Cedric Diggory stepped into the arena first.

The enchanted barrier of rock and mist peeled back like a curtain, revealing the hulking, ash-scaled form of a Swedish Short-Snout. Its hide shimmered faintly with silvery-blue iridescence, its breath steaming against the cold air. It was beautiful, elegant in its lethality.

Diggory didn’t hesitate. He lifted his wand and transfigured a nearby rock into a barking dog, letting it scamper toward the dragon’s feet. The Short-Snout snarled and followed the distraction, tail lashing, claws gouging deep furrows into the earth. The moment the dragon lunged, Diggory made his move.

Draco leaned forward unconsciously.

Diggory dashed for the golden egg nestled among the real ones, spells flashing at his fingertips—but the dragon was too quick. It turned with a hiss and let out a stream of fire that clipped Diggory’s shoulder and seared across his face.

Gasps echoed through the stands.

But Diggory didn’t stop. With a wince and a final sprint, he snatched the egg and rolled to safety. The crowd erupted in cheers, half in awe, half in relief.

“Lucky it wasn’t worse,” Theo murmured beside Draco. “Those things don’t stop for anything.”

Draco didn’t respond. His eyes stayed on the smoke curling above the arena.

Next was Fleur Delacour.

She glided into the field, wand poised, cloak fluttering like pale flame behind her. The Common Welsh Green unfurled with a growl, wings arching high like cathedral windows of bone and scale.

Delacour whispered something and the beast faltered. Its eyelids drooped. In seconds, it was asleep, the tension in the crowd releasing in a surprised, delighted laugh.

But as she reached for the egg, the dragon let out a snore, and with it, a sudden burst of flame. Delacour’s skirt caught fire.

She cursed in French, waved her wand, and doused the flames in one fluid motion, her poise never breaking. She retrieved the egg with a calm nod and left the field to roaring applause.

Viktor Krum entered next.

The Chinese Fireball was gold and crimson, with eyes like molten metal and flames curling constantly from its nostrils. Krum didn’t waste time as he cast the Conjunctivitis Curse immediately, striking the dragon blind. It howled, stumbling back, head shaking violently. Krum made for the egg, fast and focused, but the blinded Fireball thrashed in panic, its tail crashing down and smashing several of the real dragon eggs into dust.

The judges whispered. The crowd tensed.

Krum retrieved his golden egg, but the cheers were more subdued. He had passed, yes, but Krum had also destroyed the other dragon eggs left in the nest so he got his point deducted.

Draco watched it all. Not just textbook diagrams and family stories. They were massive, creatures of magic and myth, their very presence warping the air around them.

And Harry was going to be thrown into the middle of it like a stone into a volcano.

Even now, after everything, the visions, the warnings, the ring pulsing with secrets, Draco couldn’t believe the school was letting this happen. That Dumbledore was letting this happen.

And then... It was Harry’s turn.

A hush fell over the stands like a blanket dropped from the sky. Even the wind seemed to pause, as though the very air was waiting to see what would happen next.

Draco sat motionless in the high Slytherin stands, arms folded tightly, hands tucked beneath his sleeves to keep them from trembling. His face was unreadable, but his gaze was fixed on Harry as he stepped into the arena.

The clouds above, heavy and low all morning, finally broke. Sunlight pierced through in a golden shaft, backlighting Harry as he emerged from the gate. It caught on his messy hair, threw his shadow long across the cracked stone ground, and for a moment, he looked impossibly small beneath the sky.

Then the Hungarian Horntail roared. The sound split the silence like a knife, echoing off the stadium walls. Flames followed, bright and furious, licking across the ground in a rush of orange and gold.

Harry ran.

From the Slytherin section, the students leaned forward as one, gasps, jeers, and scattered laughter trailing like wind-blown paper. Some watched with breathless fascination, others with cruel delight.

Draco watched Harry summon the broom in a blur of motion, “Accio Firebolt” and vault into the air as if gravity had no claim on him. Watched him fly in wild, desperate arcs, too fast, too reckless, a blur of black robes and flaring dragonfire. The Horntail twisted below, wings slicing the air, claws raking where Harry had been a second before.

There was a terrible and heart-stopping moment when the dragon lunged. Its claw slashed through the air, a breath from catching him. Gasps rippled through the crowd. Harry didn’t flinch.

He spun the broom into a spiraling dive, pulling up just as the Horntail reared back with a blast of fire that scorched the sky. Smoke billowed. Ash danced in the sunlight. And then Harry surged upward.

Draco’s heart caught as Harry cut a perfect arc through the air, then dove again straight at the nest.

It was madness. Brilliance. A gamble made of instinct and nerve.

And it worked. With a single, snatching sweep of his hand, Harry grabbed the golden egg mid-dive and veered away just as the dragon snapped its jaws where he’d been a second before.

The crowd exploded. Screams. Cheers. Stomping feet. Applause like thunder.

People leapt to their feet, yelling his name, waving banners, sobbing and shouting and laughing in a storm of noise.

The wind tugged at his hair, the sound of the crowd washing over him like static, distant and dull.

He stared down into the arena.

Harry hovered there, chest rising and falling, the egg clutched in one arm, the Firebolt trembling slightly under him.

Alive.

Of course he is, Draco thought, something tight and unfamiliar twisting in his chest.

Even the professors clapped. Even Karkaroff managed a tight nod of respect.

When Harry’s gaze found the Slytherin section, when his eyes locked on Draco’s, there was a pause.

Draco looked down. He felt Harry’s frown more than he saw it. The wind caught the banners again. The moment passed.

Draco said nothing. And Harry flew back to the ground alone.

***

The school, predictably, had opinions about the fact that Harry Potter survived.

Some of the students still sneered when he walked past. The usual suspects, Slytherin’s lower years, a few older Ravenclaws who liked to mutter about attention-seeking and favoritism, the sort who clung to rules as though they’d invented them.

But there was a shift now, undeniable: Hufflepuffs offered awkward nods, younger Gryffindors clapped him on the back in corridors, and even some Beauxbatons girls giggled behind their hands when Harry passed.

It annoyed Draco more than he wanted to admit. But Draco didn’t have time to linger on Harry Potter’s crisis or even his own. Not entirely, anyway. Since his own schedule had grown quite social.

He’d found himself speaking more often to the Beauxbatons students. Particularly one, a tall, sharp-witted girl named Céleste Lavellan with perfect posture and a deadly tongue, whom he had spoken to once on the first night she came here. She and Draco got along well, especially once she discovered he spoke fluent French and enjoyed ancient runes.

They took to sitting together during lunches, often at the edge of the courtyard or tucked beneath the overhang of the greenhouses, wherever the light was soft and the noise of the castle a little distant. Their conversations flowed easily now, half in English, half in French, with occasional Latin when quoting spells or referencing obscure magical texts. More than once, other students passed by and blinked, confused by the sudden switches in tongue, the melodic cadence of their exchanges.

Céleste spoke with the same elegance she cast spells, precise, fluid, and never without intention. She had very firm views on magical etiquette, on bloodline responsibility, and the preservation of legacy but not in the way Draco had expected.

“I do not hate the old ways,” she said once, cutting into her fruit with careful grace. “But I also do not think they are sacred. We are not meant to kneel before tradition like it is some golden idol.”

Draco, who had grown up hearing the word legacy used like a weapon or a chain, looked at her carefully. “So what does France do with its golden idols?”

She smiled, half wry. “We cut their heads off in the revolution, non?”

And then, quieter: “But even revolutions forget things. Le Ministère de la Magie, they says they are progressive. That they value integration with the Muggle-born. But they still keep the old bloodlines close. They still rely on the families with the old gifts.”

Draco’s gaze dropped to the ring on his finger.

“They let the newspapers mock the purebloods. They parade their Nouvelle Politique to make the Muggle-born feel comfortable. But in private meetings, they still want us at the table. They still want power that cannot be manufactured.”

Draco hesitated. “So it’s a lie.”

“It’s a performance,” Céleste said simply. “The British Ministry copies us very well, I think.”

He studied her across the table. There was nothing cold in her tone, only clarity, like frost on glass. She didn’t speak with bitterness. She spoke with understanding.

“There is danger in forgetting where magic comes from,” she said, picking a piece of pear from her plate. “Old magic is not polite. It is not democratic. That terrifies modern politicians.”

Draco didn’t respond right away. He looked down at his notes, the margin filled with her curling script beside his sharper, more angular strokes. There was something oddly comforting about their differences, how their views clashed but never fractured.

He’d been raised to believe tradition was a shield, then learned to fear it when it became a trap.

But Céleste… she seemed to walk between the two. Not chained by legacy. Not deceived by modern illusion.

And Draco now felt them shifting, quietly and steadily as if her words were moving the foundations beneath him one thought at a time.

“She reminds me of you,” Blaise said dryly one afternoon at lunch. “Except French. And possibly more terrifying.”

“She’s not terrifying,” Draco muttered, slicing his apple into paper-thin pieces. “She’s intelligent.”

“And deadly,” Pansy added, sipping her pumpkin juice. “Which, let’s be honest, is probably why you like her. She looks like she knows exactly where to hide a body.”

Draco shrugged. “It’s called taste.”

Then there was the Durmstrang student.

Sergei Volkov, the one who, early on, had first brought up soul magic and the deeper theories of the Dark Arts. Draco found himself noticing him more often after the First Task. Not by accident. It was as though the silence between them had grown roots.

Sometimes they crossed paths in the school yard, lingering at the edge of the courtyard where the shadows fell long between the statues. Other times, they wandered and caught each other on the greenhouse paths.

They walked slowly. No hurry. Just space between the noise of competition. The gardens were quieter in the afternoons, the filtered light casting strange shapes through enchanted leaves and glass panels overhead.

Volkov spoke in the calm, clipped tones. His accent curled around his words, but his thoughts were sharp.

"Durmstrang doesn't treat the Dark Arts like a curse," he told Draco one day, as they strolled the moss-lined path behind Greenhouse Five. The glass walls shimmered, muffling the sound of chattering Herbology students inside. “We study it as you would study a storm. Or an avalanche. Something elemental. Just… powerful and dangerous to the careless.”

Draco hummed quietly. “And the careful?”

Volkov glanced at him sidelong, a smile just ghosting his mouth. “They survive.”

That night, Volkov spoke of concepts that made Draco’s blood feel too warm.

“Dislocation magic,” he said, tracing something into the condensation of a greenhouse pane with his finger. “The breaking of the self. Detaching a part of your consciousness... temporarily. Useful for resisting mind control, interrogation. Even if you're reckless enough, prophecy.”

“Sounds like madness,” Draco murmured.

“It is madness,” Volkov agreed. “But controlled madness is still power. In the right hands.”

They spoke, too, of soul structure: the subtle bindings between memory, emotion, and magical focus. How grief could fuel a spell. How anger could sharpen it. How obsession could anchor it in place.

“Durmstrang teaches us to recognize the threads,” Volkov said. “Before someone else pulls them.”

Draco listened. Sometimes asked questions. Sometimes just walked beside him, hands in his pockets, eyes flicking to the strange runes Volkov absentmindedly etched into the stone walls as they passed, and how his arms flexed beneath his shirt.

What disturbed Draco most wasn’t the content of the conversations.

It was how right some of it sounded.

Durmstrang’s philosophy didn’t chase morality. It chased mastery. They weren’t afraid of the dark because they’d already stepped into it, studied the way their shadows moved, and learned how to walk in time with them.

One time, as they turned down a narrow path lined with overgrown ivy, Sergei’s gaze dropped briefly to Draco’s hand.

“That ring,” he said, almost offhanded, “Subtle, but powerful. It suits you.” His eyes flicked back up to meet Draco’s, something sly and unreadable curling at the corner of his mouth. “Danger looks good on you, Malfoy.”

Draco arched a brow, letting the corner of his mouth lift just enough to be seen. “Careful, Volkov,” he said, voice dry. “Flatter me too much and I might start thinking you actually like me.”

Volkov’s grin widened, unbothered. “Who says I don’t?”

Draco looked away, pretending to study the pattern of. “Merlin help me,” he muttered under his breath but he didn’t walk any faster.

And Volkov didn’t stop watching him. It was comfortable. And dangerously distracting.

That is, until Theo leaned across the Slytherin table at dinner, smirking like he was about to deliver the headline of the year.

“So,” he said, voice casual as he reached for the breadbasket, “has Potter confessed his undying obsession yet, or is he still stuck in the brooding-and-staring phase?”

Draco glanced up from his plate, brows knitting. “What are you on about now?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb,” Pansy said, sliding onto the bench beside Theo with all the grace of a cat who knew exactly where she wasn’t wanted. “He nearly dropped his cutlery when he saw you walk into Arithmancy with that girl Céleste yesterday. It was almost tragic.”

Theo snorted. “Tragic for the fork, maybe. And what about this morning? You and that Durmstrang bloke. What’s his name, Alexei?”

“Sergei,” Draco corrected automatically.

“Right, Sergei,” Theo said, drawling the name with exaggerated foreign inflection. “You two were deep in some kind of dark-art-death-spiral debate, and Potter looked like he was going to spontaneously combust. I swear, he actually glared at your back for ten straight minutes.”

“I’m fairly certain that’s just his face,” Draco said dryly.

“Oh no, darling,” Pansy said, fluttering her lashes. “That was not just his face. That was jealousy. Messy, unspoken, why-is-he-laughing-with-someone-else jealousy. Classic Gryffindor meltdown.”

“Frankly,” Blaise added from further down the table, “I’m starting to wonder if he’s going to try and hex your new friends out of sheer territorial spite. You might want to warn Céleste.”

Draco rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “This is ridiculous.”

“Is it?” Theo asked, tilting his head. “Because I’m seeing a pattern. A dramatic, emotionally-suppressed, Potter-shaped pattern.”

Draco didn’t answer. Instead, he speared a piece of roasted beetroot with a little too much force and pretended not to think about it.

They were wrong. Obviously.

Still, later that evening, as he walked through the upper corridor near the Defense classroom, he saw Harry up ahead, leaning against the windowsill, arms crossed, gaze angled downward like he was thinking. The moment Draco got close, Harry’s eyes flicked up, met his —

Then jerked away too fast to be casual.

Draco didn’t say anything. He kept walking. Head high. Expression neutral. But something twisted in his chest.

Later, when he met up with Céleste near the back of the library with her notes spread neatly across the table, annotated in a looping, elegant script and Draco tried to focus on translation discrepancies in pre-Goblin War scrolls.

Céleste was mid-sentence about the evolution of contractual runes when Draco noticed movement at the far end of the aisle.

Harry.

Lingering a little too long by the Charms section. Holding a book upside down. Pretending, and doing a poor job of it, not to glance in their direction every other minute.

Céleste didn’t seem to notice, or if she did, she was polite enough to ignore it. Draco kept his tone even, eyes firmly on his parchment, but a traitorous smirk threatened at the edge of his mouth.

It was almost satisfying. Because now he couldn’t stop thinking about the way Harry had looked at him.

Chapter Text

The castle had never felt more alive, students from Durmstrang, Beauxbatons, and Hogwarts filling the corridors with laughter, swapping stories, and trading spells between classes like sweets. A group of sixth-year students from Ravenclaw and Beauxbatons had started a dueling club near the courtyard fountain. Even the Slytherins, usually too proud to mingle, had warmed to late-night chess games with Durmstrang students over bottles of fire-cider.

And in the center of it, the champions themselves had begun to drift closer, bound by the shared madness of nearly being incinerated for glory.

Draco had seen it happening slowly. Cedric Diggory and Fleur Delacour were sitting beside each other at breakfast, talking over a translated text on magical trap runes. Viktor Krum was laughing with Diggory during a sparring demonstration in the courtyard. But it was Harry and Cedric who surprised him most.

At first, it had been awkward smiles and shared shrugs after their respective dragon dances. Then a few passing comments. Now?

Draco watched them from the edge of the courtyard one crisp afternoon, pretending to read but very much not reading. Harry and Diggory stood by the statue of Agrippa, laughing about something, Diggory gesturing animatedly, Harry nearly doubling over, sunlight catching in his hair like gold thread. They looked easy together. Comfortable.

Familiar.

Draco’s stomach twisted with something he did not name.

He tried not to glare, but his eyes narrowed on instinct, his gaze catching and holding. Cedric Diggory was everything Draco wasn’t sure he could ever be, polished and golden, the kind of boy carved for daylight. The kind people followed not out of fear, but admiration. He wasn’t haunted by prophecy, or shadowed by bloodlines, or cracked open by things that whispered behind doors.

And Harry was smiling like he used to. Like before the Goblet had swallowed the year and spat out something sharp and jagged in its place. Like the chaos had lifted, just slightly, and Harry could breathe again in someone else’s sun.

Draco closed his book without meaning to. His hands had gone still, fingers pressing the pages together until the spine groaned in quiet protest.

A soft voice slid in beside him. “Jealousy,” said Céleste, not looking up from her Divination chart, “is so very unbecoming on you.”

Draco didn’t flinch. “I’m not jealous,” he muttered, too quickly.

“Of course not,” she said, smiling faintly. “Just coincidentally brooding every time Potter looks at someone else like they matter.”

He didn’t answer. Just stared harder across the courtyard. Before this, it had almost pleased him — the way Harry used to watch him from across the Great Hall, jaw tight, fists clenched, like he couldn’t stand the sight of Draco with anyone else.

Let him feel it, Draco had thought. Let him burn a little too.

But now the table had turned.

Now Harry was the one with someone else orbiting close and Draco was the one staring across the room, gut a tight coil of sharp, breathless tension. It was different when it wasn't his name that was being called. And the worst part was he’d done this. He pressed his fingertips hard into the closed cover of his book, but it didn’t help. The ache wouldn’t be shut out that easily.

Because it wasn’t jealousy, not really. It was regret.

***

That morning’s lesson was, at least in theory, focused on hex reversal. At least, that’s what the chalkboard claimed with white letters carved in jagged, aggressive strokes across the slate, as though written by someone who had less interest in the lesson itself than in the illusion of structure.

Draco sat near the far end of the second row, where shadows pooled like spilled ink, where the light from the high windows dared not reach. His hands were folded with careful precision on his desk. Beside them, a quill rested unused, perfectly parallel to the edge of a blank sheet of parchment. His whole posture was carved stillness, composed to the point of defiance.

He felt Harry before he saw him. Instead of drifting toward his usual seat, swallowed by the buzz and blur of Gryffindors, Harry walked straight toward him. Blaise looked up, half a smirk forming, but didn’t get a word out before Harry sat down in the empty seat beside Draco like he belonged there, like this wasn’t war.

Draco still didn’t look. But the heat of Harry’s gaze pressed against his temple. He could feel it, a flame just short of touch. His pulse betrayed him, sharp in his throat. He wanted to lean into it. Just a breath. Just enough to feel if Harry’s shoulder would meet his.

Then, softly, Harry said, “Hello.”

Draco’s voice was slow at first but he still answered back. “Hello.”

But Harry leaned closer, breath a thread against his skin. That whisper of warmth made the hairs on Draco’s neck rise. “Draco,” he whispered, “what’s going on? You’re avoiding me.”

Draco’s eyes fixed on the chalkboard, refusing the trap of green eyes and truth. “I’m not.”

“You are.” Harry’s whisper grew sharper, like a spell not yet cast. “Is this about the task? I’m fine. Look—” He held out his arms and hands, perfect and unmarked. “Not a single scratch. I don’t understand why you’re making such a fuss—”

Draco turned then, fast, sudden as a snapped wand. “Then maybe you should go and brag to Cedric if you think I’m such a fuss.”

The words flew out harder than he meant. Sharper.

Because when Harry looked at him like that — all concern and confusion and that awful open-hearted want to understand — Draco could feel the shape of everything he was not supposed to feel pressing at the walls of his chest. And he was afraid.

Harry blinked, taken aback. “Cedric? Diggory? What... What does he have to do with anything now?”

Then Professor Moody paced behind them, his steps uneven but relentless, the heavy clunk of his wooden leg striking the flagstones like a muffled war drum. Each turn was sharp like the sound of a trap being set and reset, again and again.

And Draco felt it before he saw it. That sudden tightening in the air, like it was waiting for something to break. The wards felt off.

His vision flickered.

The mask.

He had seen it. Twice actually. Where a face split open and soaked in fire, and behind it was not a man. Behind it was something that smiled too widely beneath.

“Potter. Malfoy. Are you boys not paying attention in my class?”

The voice cut through the hum in his head, sharp and rasping. It was the kind of voice that had once belonged to someone else, now rebuilt with something less human. Draco looked up. “No, Professor.”

Harry shifted next to him, just slightly. An elbow nudged his, light but deliberate. When Draco turned his head, he saw the line of Harry’s jaw clenched tight, and his wand hand inching subtly toward his robe pocket, like instinct.

Moody’s real eye, bloodshot and dull, regarded him with the disinterest of a man staring at a piece of furniture. But the magical eye, the one that spun with that unnatural click, locked onto him with a stillness that was worse than motion. It froze mid-spin. Tracked him. Didn’t blink.

Draco’s skin prickled beneath his collar, heat pulsing under the serpent’s coil.

“Recite the counter to the Red Rot Hex,” Moody said, tone flat.

Draco replied, keeping his voice neutral and smooth. “Cauteram exsanguis, with a precision counter if the casting exceeded three seconds.”

Moody grunted and took one slow, unsteady step forward. His walking stick tapped the stone once, then dragged slightly, as if the moment required a kind of theatrical rhythm.

“You’ve got tidy thoughts,” Moody said, and it wasn’t a compliment. It came out like an accusation disguised as a grin, the kind that curled just enough to show it could sharpen if needed. “Too tidy for a boy your age.”

Draco tilted his head, a gesture bordering on polite but cool. Measured. “I revise,” he said evenly.

A rough chuckle came from somewhere within the class, the nervous noise of someone grateful not to be the one under scrutiny. Moody didn’t look away. Didn’t blink.

“Let’s try something,” he said, and there was no time to ask what.

Because a sudden, icy pressure began to press against the edge of Draco’s mind.

It was Legilimency.

Draco didn’t flinch. Not in his shoulders, not in his breath. His spine remained straight, his posture exact. If anything, he stilled more, like a lake freezing in the first breath of winter.

He let the curtain fall. Draco had learned better than to fortify. He had studied his mother's methods, trained beneath Snape’s silence. Occlumency was not brute force, it was misdirection.

The first thoughts he offered were shallow, clean: the ache of boredom across his collarbone, the sharp smell of old ink, the persistent sting of a headache he didn’t have. Candle wax. Dust. The scrape of a chair leg. A mind that read like a distracted schoolboy’s.

Bland. Manageable. Safe.

But Moody didn’t pull back. The pressure deepened, not violently but insistently. Like a trickle of cold water seeking every crack. Like breath fogging against a glass wall, testing for heat.

Draco let the curtain ripple.

He fed the spell a flicker of motion: the image of his quill moving over parchment, the slow blur of handwriting, the soft hiss of rain against the high tower windows. A page from a Charms textbook. A passage about wand movement, half-remembered and barely considered.

But beneath that thin film of thoughts. Nothing. No serpent. No ring. No visions, no letters tucked in robes. He held them all behind the second layer, the deeper weave Snape had taught him to stitch.

Moody’s magical eye twitched. The pressure increased.

Draco focused on his breathing. Anchored himself to the image of wax dripping onto his notes. Counted it.

One. Two. Three.

And then, something slipped. He let the image of fire flicker, a controlled burn in the corner of his mind. Just the impression of something too bright to look at. A dragon’s wing. A shimmer of scale. Then gone.

A flash of red in a field of grey.

Moody’s magic recoiled. Sharp, sudden, and searing like metal yanked from flame.

And in that wild, unspoken moment — too fast to think, too reckless to plan — Draco pushed back. He didn’t try to breach, not in the way one might attack, not with brute force or intent to wound. No, it was a reach.

To his surprise, he felt something.

Emotion.

Anger. Sly and serpentine. Not a flare of frustration, but something deeper. Twisted. Cultivated.

Deceit. Cold and practiced like layers of masks worn too long. One stacked atop another until the skin beneath forgot what it had once looked like.

Just for a heartbeat. A blink. The edge of something feral wrapped in human shape.

And then. snap. Like a jaw clamping shut. Teeth too sharp. Too many.

Draco flinched, only slightly, barely a twitch in his shoulders. Because whatever Moody was, he was not what he claimed. Not only what he claimed.

Moody blinked. Once.

The magical eye jerked to the left, sharply like a gear snapping into place. The sound it made wasn’t real, but Draco heard it anyway. Like a clock striking some invisible hour. Then, with a low mechanical whir, it settled again, pinning him in place.

“You’re better than I thought,” Moody said.

His voice was low, rasping but not impressed. “Someone’s been training you.”

Draco didn’t speak. He didn’t confirm. He didn’t need to.

Snape’s name hung in the air between them like smoke, unsaid but bitter on the tongue. Moody’s upper lip curled faintly, like he wanted to spit it out. Like it tasted like something rotten.

“Keep your shields up, then,” he muttered. “If you can.”

Then he turned with a grunt, the kind that felt performative, as if the body had grown tired of the theater it was forced to wear. His shoulder brushed Draco’s desk on the way past. The wooden walking stick tapped once. Twice. Then dragged behind him like a crooked second step.

The rest of the lesson resumed... Sort of. Students returned to their books, murmuring to each other under their breath, quills scratching nervously at parchment.

Draco’s hands remained still atop the desk, breath shallow and measured, heart beating a fraction too fast beneath his robes.

But he had touched something real. And he knew something now. And whatever Moody is here for, he was not there to teach.

Beside him, Harry leaned in just slightly, his voice pitched low, quiet enough not to be heard over the flutter of turning pages. “You alright?”

“Fine,” Draco said flatly. A pause. Then, quieter. “Focus on your notes, Potter.”

***

The dungeons were colder. The torches burned lower than usual, even at full brightness, their flames clinging to the sconces like they didn’t want to be noticed. The lesson moved forward in the usual rhythm: cauldrons hissed, knives scraped across cutting boards, and Snape glided between tables like a shadow that had forgotten how to be human. Draco answered when asked.

When the bell rang, the class emptied in a clatter of chairs and half-capped ink bottles, but Draco didn’t move. His quill lay still. His hands folded once more on the desk, in that same careful, quiet way.

Snape paused at his desk, eyeing the lingering figure with the faint irritation of a man not unused to being approached but never quite welcoming it. “Yes?”

Draco stood slowly, the legs of his chair scraping faintly against the cold stone floor, a quiet sound that still felt too loud in the hush that had settled over the dungeon. He waited, unmoving, as the last pair of footsteps receded down the corridor — a shuffle, a murmur, then the echoing fade into silence. When it was certain they were alone, when even the torchlight seemed to dim in anticipation, he spoke.

“There’s something wrong with Moody.”

Snape didn’t look up. His voice was soft but edged with iron. “Close the door.”

Draco obeyed. The heavy wooden door swung inward with the deep groan of ancient hinges, and the latch fell into place with a soft, metallic click. The sound echoed strangely. It was followed by nothing. Only the steady burn of the torches and the dry, ticking sound of a quill left idle in Snape’s hand.

When Snape did raise his gaze, his eyes were dark, unblinking, and Draco felt the weight of being seen in a way that had nothing to do with sight.

“If you want to say something then say it,” Snape murmured. “I suggest you don’t waste my time.”

Draco’s voice was low, almost reluctant. His mind weighed the words he might say. “He used Legilimency on me.”

“Hm.”

It was no surprise. No shift in expression, no blink of alarm. But the air between them changed, thickened and condensed.

“And?” Snape asked.

“I held,” Draco said, his tone carefully neutral. “But I saw something. I felt something.”

Snape’s gaze sharpened, the darkness in his eyes gaining a cutting edge. “You pushed back.”

It wasn’t a question. “That was a dangerous move, Mr. Malfoy.”

Draco knew that, of course, but he didn’t say it. The warning had already carved itself into the base of his skull. He could still feel the echo of it — that moment Moody’s mind had recoiled, teeth bared, and something older-than-hate had looked back at him from behind the mask.

Draco tilted his chin slightly. Not defiant, but not shrinking either. “What do you think he wants from me?”

Snape leaned back, just slightly, folding his arms. His voice, when it came, was low and cool. “He’s looking for something to blame. Someone.”

He paused, studying Draco’s face. “I assume you’ve heard the news?”

Draco nodded, voice quiet. “The Death Eaters.” He could still see the headlines scorched across the Prophet in red-black ink. The kind of ink that didn’t wash off.

Snape continued, voice silked with warning. “I should only be afraid if you’re hiding something, Mr. Malfoy. And if you are… I suggest you hide it well.”

Draco inhaled slowly as though drawing breath through a veil. “And you want to know what it is.”

Snape was silent for a beat. Then: “You’re carrying something now. I can feel it.”

He took a single step forward, and the low torchlight caught the edge of his robes, giving the impression of shadow bleeding into shadow. His voice lowered further, barely more than a breath.

“Your magic has changed. It moves differently. There’s a presence in it. Something powerful. Dangerous.”

Draco didn’t deny it. But he didn’t yield either. His next words were careful, chosen like chess pieces.

“You won’t get an answer. Not yet.”

Snape regarded him with a gaze that had reduced stronger men to ash. But when he spoke, his voice dipped even softer, slipping below the range of ordinary conversation, until it was something like the whisper of a spell meant never to be repeated.

“Be careful.”

He said it like a curse.

“Some things that protect you,” Snape continued, “also bind you. And there is a fine line between a guardian and a chain.”

Draco met his gaze then, steady and unflinching. “I know what I’m doing.”

Snape's mouth twitched. “You believe you do,” he said. “And sometimes, that’s enough.”

A pause. Weighted. Then, quieter still. “But not always.”

Then Snape turned, all movement sharp and final. His robes flared slightly with the motion, and he picked up his quill once more, dipping it in ink as if nothing had passed between them but grades and grammar.

The scratch of the quill resumed, deliberate and methodical.

“You may leave now,” he said, eyes already on the stack of half-marked essays before him.

But Draco didn’t leave.

He remained by the doorway, hands clasped neatly behind his back, eyes steady, breath even. His thoughts fluttered between everything and nothing like scattered parchment in a crosswind. It felt impulsive, maybe. But also… inevitable. Like a decision that had already been made somewhere deeper than thought.

“I’d like to assist you,” he said at last, voice calm, composed. “In Potions.”

Snape didn’t respond immediately. He finished the line of notation he was working on, dried the ink with a lazy flick of his wand, then set the parchment aside with meticulous care. The quiet between them stretched, and Draco could feel the castle breathing around them, cool stone and flickering torchlight, the subtle hum of old wards humming in the mortar.

Then, without looking up, Snape asked, “Why?”

Draco didn’t hesitate. “Because the dungeons are quieter than anywhere else in this castle. Because I’d rather spend two hours slicing roots than making small talk with people who think I don’t notice them watching me.”

That made Snape look up with that singular stillness he reserved for when someone had said something unexpectedly true.

Draco held his gaze. “And because my mother seems to trust you more than anyone. Which is… rare. Lately.”

Snape said nothing for a long moment. Silence bloomed again, heavier this time.

He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms with the quiet grace of someone who could turn movement into judgment.

“I assume,” Snape said, voice slow, “that this is more than a polite attempt at extra credit.”

Draco nodded once. “It is.”

“Then say what you mean.”

“I want to be useful,” Draco said. “Not just clever. Useful. I want to focus. To control it. Potions give me that.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed in assessment. Like he was rearranging a puzzle he had already half-solved and was waiting to see whether Draco would confirm what he suspected.

Draco didn’t elaborate. He stood straight and still. Unflinching. The request wasn’t a plea. It was a statement. Of alignment. Of discipline. Maybe even of trust.

Or perhaps it was armor, plain and practical, forged from routine and quiet and something that made sense.

At last, Snape sighed like a decision had been set into place.

“Very well,” he said. “You may report to the classroom every Tuesday and Thursday. One hour before class. You’ll stay twenty minutes after. You’ll clean glassware, prepare ingredients, and assist with leveling measures.”

Draco nodded. “Understood.”

“You will not correct other students. You will not intervene unless instructed.”

“Of course.”

Snape’s gaze lingered. “And if you attempt to practice Occlumency while bottling a caustic infusion, I suggest you take care not to confuse the two.”

Draco’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. “No promises.”

Snape didn’t smile either. But something passed through his expression, dry amusement, perhaps. Or memory.

“Good,” he said, as final as a bell toll.

Draco inclined his head and turned to go. His steps were quiet, absorbed by the thick stones of the corridor.

As he passed through the threshold, something in his chest uncoiled just slightly.

The idea of returning to the dungeons in routine, beneath layers of stone and silence, surrounded by cauldrons and chalk-smudged counters and instructions that didn’t lie. It felt safe. Familiar.

***

Draco found a note folded neatly beneath the cover of his Potions text on the banquet table. He hadn’t seen anyone slip it there, only noticed it when he put it away to continue having his meal. It was written on thick, ivory paper. The handwriting was angular and precise, each letter penned in dark ink with just enough pressure to bruise the parchment, same as the previous love note. But this time with a simple initial.

“Old tower. After supper.

V.”

There was no signature beyond that but Draco didn’t need one.

Draco found Volkov in the old study tower just before curfew, where the fire burned small and the windows fogged with a cold, steady rain. The room was silent, save for and the occasional creak of old beams shifting under the weight of the wind.

Volkov sat curled in the deep alcove by the window, legs drawn up, a book resting lightly on his knee. The candlelight caught on the edge of his dark hair, casting shadows across the sharp line of his cheekbone. He looked up when Draco entered and offered a small, knowing smile.

“You’re late.”

“You didn’t say when,” Draco replied, stepping inside and shutting the door behind him.

Volkov shrugged, the movement graceful and unconcerned. Then he held up the book with one hand. “Then I suppose you’re right on time.”

He tossed it in one fluid movement and Draco caught it reflexively. The book was worn leather, cool to the touch. No title on the spine, no seal or mark of origin. Just a strange etched symbol on the cover, faintly glowing beneath the candlelight.

“I thought you might want this,” Volkov said. “It’s not catalogued. Found it in a locked shelf near the edge of the ship. Buried behind illusion wards. Half the entries are handwritten. But it’s not cursed. I checked.”

Draco raised a brow. “That’s a very specific kind of reassurance.”

Volkov only smiled, gaze unreadable. “Isn’t it?”

Draco didn’t respond. Instead, he crossed the room, dropped into the worn chair across from the window seat, and opened the book.

The first page was inked in black and bronze, the lettering delicate and strange, written in a looping script that shifted slightly when he looked at it too long. The title sprawled across the page like a spell:

On the Thread Between Dream and Flesh: A Study of Soul-Reflections in Mythic Magic

Draco stared at it. The words shimmered faintly, then settled.

Volkov’s voice broke the quiet again, softer this time. “I didn’t know exactly what you were looking for. But it felt like the kind of thing that might… help you.”

That was what made Draco pause. Because Volkov always seemed to feel things before Draco said them. Always had something just useful enough to be worth trusting, but never quite explained. And this book was just a casual find.

Draco closed it gently, fingers still resting on the cover. “Why give this to me?”

Volkov tilted his head, candlelight dancing in his eyes. “Because you won’t waste what’s inside it.”

Draco didn’t look away, but something in his posture shifted. He had grown up surrounded by people who offered gifts with strings hidden in the folds. He knew what interest felt like when it came edged with intent.

And Sergei Volkov was dangerous in the same way old magic was cold and impossible to predict.

Still, Draco didn’t hand the book back.

The language was strange, not structured like textbook magic with neat categories and quantifiable theories. It moved like memory. The author wrote of bridges between waking and sleep, of the shadow the body casts inside the soul, of creatures that surfaced from places deeper than thought.

“The Nethervel is not a familiar, but a mirror. Not an echo, but a breath made flesh. It walks the line between the seen and the hidden, the conscious and the ancient. Only a few ever see it. Fewer still survive what it shows them.”

Draco’s heart clenched. The serpent.

He could feel it again in the hollow of his chest, quiet and waiting. He turned the page slowly, reverently, as if rushing might wake something still half-dreaming in the ink.

The next passage was underlined, faintly smudged in the margin by a previous reader’s fingertip:

“Some Nethervel come in sleep. Some appear in crisis. Some wait until the bearer has cracked open the last mask and asked a question they are finally afraid to answer. They are protectors, but also thresholds...”

Draco didn’t move. He barely breathed.

The memory of it surged up again, unbidden: the shimmer of blood-red scales, eyes like stars collapsing in on themselves, and the weight of it moving through him. The room felt colder all of a sudden. The sense of something vast and watching, waiting at the edge of thought.

He closed the book. The sound was soft, but final.

Across the room, Volkov watched him with quiet intensity, the fire casting flickers of gold across his cheek. “You’ve seen one.”

It wasn’t a question. Draco didn’t answer. Because he had. And he knew now that the serpent wasn’t some strange magical anomaly, or a half-formed echo of his Carmesí bloodline.

It was his soul’s shape. His Nethervel.

He didn’t know how he knew, but it settled into him like gravity. Still, he wouldn’t speak it aloud. Not here. Not to Volkov. Not when the serpent had been silent for so long. Not when it had only just begun to stir again.

“It’s a myth, Volkov. Of course, I have never seen one.” Draco said, tone neutral, carefully composed.

Volkov studied him for a long moment. He didn’t push. But something flickered behind his eyes... Disappointment, perhaps. Or wariness. Or something harder to name.

Draco stood, slipping the book into his bag with careful hands. As he did, he felt the weight of its pages still humming, like the words inside were not finished with him.

“Draco.” Volkov’s voice, when it came, was stripped of its usual calm precision. “The notes… the ones you’ve been finding in your books. On the tables. Pressed into your pockets.”

Draco didn’t move.

“They’re from me,” Volkov said.

The room went still like the stone itself was holding its breath.

Draco turned slowly. He didn’t look angry or even surprised. Just… tired in a way he rarely let himself be seen. The kind of tired that came from carrying too much magic, too many truths, and not enough time.

“I thought they might be,” he said, his voice unreadable.

Volkov stood, unfolding himself from the shadowed alcove by the fire. His movements were smooth, too smooth, like someone used to navigating dangerous conversations.

“You didn’t say anything,” he said quietly.

“You didn’t sign them.”

“I thought…” He hesitated, uncharacteristically uncertain. “I thought maybe you wanted me to say it without saying it.”

Draco’s silence stretched long enough to mark time by flickering candlelight. Then, softly: “I can’t give you what you want.”

Volkov’s jaw tightened. But he didn’t look away. “Is there someone else?”

“No.”

“Then why?”

Draco’s eyes dropped to the floor. “Because I need things to be simple right now. And this…” He gestured vaguely between them. “This isn’t.”

Volkov exhaled through his nose. “It wouldn’t have to be complicated.”

Draco looked up, and something sharper sparked in his tone. “Yes, it would. You think you know me, Volkov, but you don’t. You only see what I show you.”

“Then tell me,” Volkov said, stepping closer. “Let me see more.”

Draco flinched inside, where the ring always hummed when someone got too close. He shook his head. “I would like to. Honestly. But maybe not in that way. I just want to be your friend.”

There was a long pause. Volkov’s expression didn’t shift completely but something behind his eyes hardened. His smile didn’t come. Only a small, clipped nod.

“I understand... You’re right to be careful...” he said.

Draco tilted his head, cautious now. “What are you talking about?”

“About trust.” Volkov’s tone was cooler, more deliberate now. The soft trace of intimacy was gone. “I’m not saying you’re wrong to keep secrets. But I know what happens when you keep them too long. They rot. They unravel. Especially when you're convinced you're the only one knowing it exists.”

The fire crackled behind them, and a log split with a sharp pop, sending sparks skipping across the stone floor like spilled truth.

Draco didn’t answer. He held Volkov’s gaze, his own unreadable now. Something inside him folded tighter.

He didn’t know whether Volkov meant it as a warning. Or a threat. Or if there was even a difference anymore.

“I’ll see you around,” Draco said finally, his voice cool and low.

Volkov didn’t smile. And when he stepped back into the shadows, it was like watching a door close and a trap mouth wide open.

***

The letter arrived in the early blue hours of morning, when the castle still lay draped in its pre-dawn hush, and even the ghosts moved like smoke rather than memory.

Draco had fallen asleep at his desk again.

The book “On the Thread Between Dream and Flesh: A Study of Soul-Reflections in Mythic Magic” lay open beneath his cheek, spine cracked and pages smeared faintly with the oil of his skin, and the ink from his notes had half-dried beneath his wrist, leaving ghost-words on his palm. The candle had long burnt out, but the sweet and heavy scent of melted wax still clung to the air.

He hadn’t meant to sleep. He’d been trying to transcribe a passage about spiritual thresholds, the invisible doors between consciousness and vision, but somewhere between the third line and the fourth diagram, the ache in his skull had grown too sharp to ignore.

He woke to a faint shimmer pulsing at the edge of his vision. It hovered just above the desk, suspended midair, humming so quietly it might’ve been imagined. The room remained still, shadows undisturbed, curtains unmoved. Only the shimmer pulsed, soft as breath.

Draco stirred, blinking blearily as sleep drained from his limbs like melted frost. He sat up slowly, muscles protesting, spine stiff with the awkward angle of hours spent slumped over parchment.

And then, with the softest sigh of displaced air, a folded letter materialized on the desk. It landed in absolute silence, wrapped in black twine that looped three times and held closed by an unmarked seal, dark wax as smooth and blank as stone.

Draco went very still. His pulse, already quickened from the shock of waking. He sat up straighter, brushing sleep from his eyes with the back of his hand, and looked down at the letter. He reached for it. The twine loosened with unnatural ease, and the wax cracked open.

The parchment inside was thick and textured, not quite like paper. The handwriting was fine and angular.

He hadn’t read the first line yet, but already his pulse had changed.

“Dear Reader,

If you are reading this, then the tether has finally woken. I had wondered how long it would take. The seedmark trembled some time ago — enough to wake even the deepest roots. You carry it now, don’t you? I can feel it.

You are not alone in it.

There are so few of us left, and even fewer who still carry the Sight the way it once lived. Raw, wild, unshaped. I imagine it’s beginning to hurt. That’s how it starts, for most of us.

Headaches, yes? Fatigue. Cold that won’t leave your bones. And worse,  the kind of dreams that wake you with your lungs burning and your hands shaking and no one in the waking world who can tell you if what you saw was memory or omen.

You’re not imagining it. And it will only grow stronger.

I don’t mean to frighten you. Only to warn you. The Carmesí magic doesn’t sleep. And once it stirs, it does not go back to silence. But there are ways to carry it. To sharpen the pain into clarity. To make it serve you.

If you want guidance, real guidance, not the kind that comes in half-truths and riddles, write back. You don’t need to say much. Just sign your name in red.

And if you’re not ready... then burn this. I’ll understand.

K.”

Draco read the letter twice, then a third time, slower, his fingers tightening on the edge of the parchment as his breath thinned in his throat. They felt it. And they understood what it was doing to him. Because it had started hurting.

At first, it had only been a pulse behind his eyes. An ache, the kind that came with too many hours studying or the weight of too many unspoken things. But it had grown. A ringing in the ears during quiet hours, a sharp jolt in his fingers when his mind slipped toward something forbidden, some edge of truth his body wasn't yet ready to hold.

Then came the fatigue. The kind that sleep didn’t touch. A slow erosion of energy, like something was feeding from him, awakening through him, and needing something he hadn’t learned to give. And the dreams. It got more vivid, visions and warnings that he couldn't name, but recognized in the bones of his chest. He would wake with his pulse roaring and his ribs aching, like he had been screaming in another body.

Draco set the letter down carefully and stared at the unmarked seal for a long moment, his fingers hovering near the wax like it might pulse again. Then he reached for his quill. And signed only one word.

“Draco.”

When he folded the parchment, the ink shimmered once. A faint gleam, silvered and alive for a heartbeat, then gone. The wax seal formed without spell or fire, a fresh pool of dark wax swelled into being, smoothing itself into place. And then the air rippled faintly, and the letter seemed to blur at the edges, sinking into a grey that didn’t belong to light or shade. As if the dark itself had reached out, gathered it gently, and pulled it away into nowhere.

Chapter Text

Like a soft beginning of winter, the first snowfall came: pale flakes drifting down through the greyed December light, catching in the edges of the student’s cloaks and eyelashes. By breakfast, the world outside the Great Hall’s enchanted windows had turned pale silver, the lake sheened with thin frost, the trees along the northern edge dusted in white like ink sketches blurred by wind.

Inside the castle, the shift was immediate.

Charms lessons filled with floating snowflakes and warming spells. The scent of cinnamon and clove from the kitchens was winding up through the stairwells. Hufflepuffs pinning small sprouts of enchanted holly to their robes. Ravenclaws swapping predictions about the first frost date like it was a Divination final. And Gryffindors — loud, predictable Gryffindors — hollering over who would be fool enough to ask Angelina Johnson before the Quidditch match calendar was finalized.

It was mid-morning when the notices went up.

Parchment, gold-edged and humming faintly with enchantment, was posted just outside the House common rooms and the Great Hall entrance.

“The Yule Ball

A celebration of unity and tradition

Hosted in the Great Hall on the twenty-fourth of December

Formal attire required. Pairs encouraged.”

By noon, it was all anyone talked about.

Draco sat beneath the high arched window of the Transfiguration antechamber, absently flicking the tassel of his quill against his knee while Theo and Blaise whispered like middle-aged society wives two seats away. Their parchment lay forgotten between them, now that conversation had shifted from numbers to names.

“I heard Selwyn’s already bought matching robes,” Theo muttered, elbow on the table. “Green velvet. She’s calling it serpentine couture.”

Blaise snorted. “She’d pair her dress with the Basilisk if it guaranteed press coverage.”

“Did you see Li and Vaisey?” Theo went on. “Not even subtle. She hexed his quill into a flower and he just smiled like it was romantic instead of a safety hazard.”

“Tragic,” Blaise murmured. “I give them a week. Maybe two.”

Draco had heard the rumors too. About who was asking whom. About the first-years daring each other to send notes signed in lipstick and charm-scented ink. It was all absurd, of course.

Absurd and strangely loud.

As if the whole school had been wrapped in tinsel and the clumsy hope of everyone trying to pair themselves off.

Blaise nudged him. “You’re being very regal today. Aren’t you going to tell us who you’ll be taking?”

Draco arched a brow. “Why would I ruin the suspense?”

Theo grinned. “So that Selwyn stops threatening to put love poison in your pumpkin juice.”

Draco gave a faint, noncommittal smirk. He didn’t mind the gossip. It filled the air like perfume, excessive, pleasant from a distance, and entirely avoidable if you walked fast enough. And truthfully, part of him liked being the subject of speculation. It was easier to be talked about than truly seen.

But the invitations had started. And despite all his best efforts to stay just out of reach, to walk faster between classes, to avoid lingering in open corridors, to wear the sharp-edged expression that usually kept people at bay — he hadn’t escaped them.

It began just after lunch, when the castle was still full of warmth and noise, and the corridors hummed with post-meal chatter and the first stirrings of seasonal nerves. He’d been walking back from the Owlery, gloves still chilled from the wind outside, the edge of a folded letter pressed carefully between two fingers.

His mind had been elsewhere when she caught up with him beneath the western staircase.

Slytherin fifth-year. Plum-colored scarf. Hair charmed into soft, perfect waves that bounced with her every step.

“Draco Malfoy,” she said. Poised. Like she’d practiced and whispered the words to her reflection in the mirror until they stopped sounding nervous. “Would you consider going to the Yule Ball with me?”

He stopped walking and turned to look at her.

She was pretty and composed. Graceful. There was nothing wrong with the question. No trick in it. And yet… the moment tasted like chalk on the back of his tongue. Dry. Off.

Draco inclined his head slightly, a soft, almost regretful motion. “No,” he said, quiet and clear.

She blinked, taken off guard. Her lips parted as though she might ask why, but she didn’t.

“I appreciate the ask,” he added, a little more gently. “But no.”

She nodded once. With dignity. Stepping back as though she’d rehearsed that part, too. “All right.”

And then she turned and was gone, boots clicking briskly across the stone.

That should’ve been it.

But an hour later, as the sky outside dimmed and the castle shifted into its evening hush, he was approached again, this time by two boys from Ravenclaw. Back to back. One waited until the other had left before swooping in, as if the walls hadn’t just heard the same question twice.

The first was clever about it. He used a metaphor from Charms class, something about resonance and compatible cores, trying to sound casual. And Draco was trying his best not to laugh right there. It would be undignified of him to do that.

The second was simpler. Direct. He just asked with wide and oblivious eyes. Draco declined them both.

Afterward, he sat alone in the potions storeroom, the door pulled nearly shut behind him, leaving only a sliver of light filtering in from the classroom beyond. The room smelled of salt and silverroot, dried belladonna, the faint metallic tang of preserved scales and cork-sealed glass. His fingers moved in practiced motions, carefully refolding flamelock sachets and tucking them into copper-lined drawers, each one sealed with a soft click of containment magic.

He let the silence seep into his bones. He didn’t mind the attention. Not really.

He didn’t even mind being wanted, that part had never frightened him. Not when it was distant, when it stayed in the realm of formal smiles and careful invitations, when it could be deflected with grace and no bruised feelings. But this year, something in him resisted the idea of going with anyone at all.

Because the part of his mind that might have entertained someone’s hand at his elbow or a warm voice in his ear was already occupied. Filled up. With too many visions and too many warnings, half-formed dreams that smelled like smoke and blood, and letters that left his fingers tingling after he touched them.

His thoughts were tangled with old magic, deep magic, and the strange, slow pull of something approaching that he couldn’t yet name.

And with Harry.

Though he would never say that out loud. Not even to himself. And certainly not when they weren’t speaking. Which was, as it happened, his fault. And his choice. He had distanced himself for a reason. The lines between them were already too thin and too easy to cross when the world felt like it was spinning off-balance.

So no, he wouldn’t go to the Ball with anyone else.

***

The snow had melted into a thin sheen of frost — the kind that glittered under your foot while waiting to betray you with a single misstep. It glazed the stone paths and caught the weak winter sunlight and scattering it in sharp, glinting shards. Draco lingered on the second-floor balcony, half-shrouded in shadow, a silent silhouette leaning against the cold railing. His gloves rested lightly on the carved stone, his breath misting faintly in the air. From his perch, he could see the latest school drama unfolding.

The argument wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. Ron Weasley had never mastered the art of subtlety — his frustration carried in his whole body, in the way his loud voice bounced off the courtyard walls. And Hermione Granger, for all her polish and pointed logic, didn’t shrink when challenged. If anything, she expanded. Voice rising, spine straightening, words clipped and cutting like charms sharpened at the edges.

Draco couldn’t hear every word, not from this height and with the wind tearing away fragments of sentences, but he didn’t have to. The tone was unmistakable. And the names were enough.

“Krum—” Weasley barked, like the name itself was an insult.

“Jealous—,” Granger snapped back, her chin tilting upward in defiance, her voice laced with equal parts fury and disappointment.

There it was.

Viktor Krum. His name had been drifting through the halls of Hogwarts ever since the Yule Ball announcements went up. Whispers clung to him in every corridor: a celebrity, yes, but also older, sharper, confident in ways most Hogwarts boys hadn’t yet earned.

Granger had caught his attention weeks ago in the library, and to the surprise of many, she had kept it long enough for her name to make its way into the same breath as his, long enough for Weasley to unravel in full view of whoever happened to be watching.

Like Draco.

He watched as Granger turned on her heel, her coat flaring dramatically with the movement, dark boots crunching over the frosted flagstones like punctuation. Her gaze was fixed forward, sharp as a blade, and she walked like she dared someone to follow her.

Weasley didn’t. He stood there, still and red-faced, hands clenched at his sides, looking like he wasn’t sure whether to shout after her or swallow the words instead.

Draco smirked faintly, leaning just a little further over the balcony as he waited until the last echoes of Weasley’s footsteps had vanished into one of the side halls. Then, without any real plan, he descended the narrow stairwell.

He didn’t intend to stop her. Not exactly. But as he crossed the courtyard, hands buried in his coat pockets, he noticed her pause near the low wall where frost clung to the ivy like powdered glass. She shook snow from her sleeve with an impatient snap of her wrist, lips pressed into a hard line.

He drifted closer, not hurried, until they stood just far enough from the main path that their voices wouldn’t carry.

“You should go with him,” Draco said casually.

Granger jerked slightly, not expecting a voice, let alone his. She turned toward him, brows drawn tight, her expression sharp and wary.

“With Krum,” Draco added, more clearly this time. “To the Ball. You should say yes.”

Her eyes narrowed, dark and defensive. “Why are you telling me this?”

He tilted his head slightly, watching her with the kind of calm that came from having nothing to lose in the conversation. “Because Weasley thinks the world owes him an explanation. And you don’t.”

She blinked in surprise. And then something in her jaw, which had been locked rigid, softened just enough for the muscles to loosen.

“You’re not exactly his champion,” she said carefully.

“No,” Draco said, his lips curling into a faint, knowing smile. “But I recognize the shape of resentment. I know what it looks like when someone gets angry at you for stepping into a spotlight they think was meant for them.”

Granger studied him for a long moment. Her breath came a little slower now, steadier. Then, more softly, almost cautiously.“And why do you care?”

“I don’t,” Draco replied, and there was no venom in it. If anything, it was oddly gentle and honest. “Not about Krum. Or you, much, if I’m being fair. But I think you’ve earned it. Fun, I mean. Whatever it is. And you shouldn’t let someone else’s insecurity stop that.”

Granger didn’t argue. But something changed. Her spine straightened. Her eyes cleared. And when she turned to walk away, it was with purpose, not retreat. Draco watched her go and felt the strange satisfaction of having said exactly what he wanted with no strings, no lies.

***

He found Luna near the entrance to the greenhouse arcades, her silhouette lit from behind by the low winter sun. Her coat was buttoned all the way to her throat, and her pale grey scarf trailed behind her like a banner.

Her head tilted slightly, pale eyes squinting at the sky as if she’s deciphering some celestial pattern invisible to anyone else. Her breath curled into smoke and vanished before it ever touched the ground.

Draco hadn’t meant to speak to anyone. He’d only been passing, satchel slung over one shoulder, mind full of things he wasn’t ready to unpack.

But Luna turned as he neared, eyes open and clear, already smiling like she’d been expecting him.

“Hello, Draco,” she said calmly, as if they’d agreed to meet here and simply forgotten to tell him.

He paused beside her. “What are you doing?”

“Watching the greenhouse roof melt,” she said serenely. “The icicles drip differently when the wind changes. It’s rather soothing.”

He blinked. “Of course.”

Luna looked over at him, tilting her head. “You’re quieter than usual.”

Draco shrugged, gaze wandering toward the edge of the frozen garden beds. “There’s a lot of noise already.”

She nodded, not pressing. Just stood beside him in silence, her presence as calm and unapologetic as snowfall.

They watched the slow thaw of a nearby vine, its frost beginning to slough off in shining pieces. Somewhere above them, a charmed lantern flickered to life, casting warm light onto the path.

And that’s when the thought came. A soft, passing idea that settled into his chest without resistance.

“Hey, you’re curious about the Yule Ball, right?” he asked suddenly.

Luna nodded. “I am. I like enchanted snow, and I wonder if the harp really does play by itself.”

Draco smirked faintly. “Of course you do.”

A beat passed, and he shifted, voice lighter than it felt. “Are you… going with anyone?”

“No,” she said simply, without a trace of disappointment. “And it’s only fourth-year students and above.”

He nodded once, then hesitated again, which wasn’t like him. But Luna had a way of untethering his line of thought. “Well, you can come with someone older...” He trailed off, unsure if it was bravery or absurdity that was about to make him finish the thought.

Luna tilted her head, and for once, her eyes were not full of dream light or stardust.

“Maybe. But don’t ask me,” she said.

Draco’s mouth froze around the rest of the sentence.

She wasn’t cruel. But there was a clarity in her that cut through his hesitation with more grace than he was prepared for.

“Why not?” he asked, and to his own surprise, the question came out earnest and stripped of its usual clever armor.

Luna reached out, plucked a half-melted snowflake from the edge of his cloak with two fingers. She watched it vanish against her skin.

“Because you’re still in the middle of something,” she said gently. “And I don’t want to be a pause in someone else’s story.”

He stared at her with no deflection or retort ready.

She reached out again, touched his wrist lightly then let go.

“I hope you have fun though,” Luna added, stepping back with a faint smile. “With the person you actually want to go with.”

And then she turned and walked away, scarf trailing, leaving behind only the echo of thought on Draco’s mind.

Draco remained still for a long moment, snow drifted down around him in slow spirals, soft and soundless, collecting on the shoulders of his cloak and melting into the heavy wool. The path ahead stretched empty through the blue-tinted snow, untouched save for his own footprints trailing behind him.

The castle loomed just beyond, warm-lit and golden, windows blinking to life one by one as the sky deepened into indigo. It looked far away, despite the short walk.

“Draco?”

He turned before thinking.

Harry stood just a few paces away. Hair wind-swept and untidy, glasses fogged at the edges. His scarf was crooked, the end fluttering like it had lost its grip on his neck, and he held one glove in his hand like he’d pulled it off mid-sprint and forgotten about the other entirely.

Harry looked like he hadn’t planned to be here at all. Like his feet had carried him before his mind caught up.

Draco blinked, too surprised to mask it.

Harry rubbed the back of his neck, eyes skittering away for a moment — over Draco’s shoulder, toward the trees, down to the snow-covered stones — before finally settling on Draco’s face. And this time, he didn’t look away.

“Sorry,” he said, breath forming clouds between them. “I didn’t mean to... I saw you walking this way and I just…”

He trailed off, exhaled sharply through his nose, and tried again.

“I didn’t know what happened. With us.”

Draco held himself with a quiet stillness that felt like it might shatter if pressed too hard.

Harry’s voice lowered. “You stopped talking to me. Stopped looking at me. At first I thought maybe it was something I said. Or didn’t say. Then I figured maybe it wasn’t about me at all.”

A pause.

“But that made it worse, I think.”

There was no heat or accusation in Harry’s tone. And somehow, that made it harder. Because Draco had been ready for anger and built a hundred different defenses for it. But not this. Not the boy in front of him looking like he’d tried to understand and gotten lost somewhere along the way.

Snow crunched under Harry’s boot as he shifted his weight, tentatively.

“I just want to know,” he said, quieter now. “Was it something I did? Or did you just… decide I wasn’t worth it anymore?”

Draco’s breath hitched. For one brief, painful second, he wanted to say Of course it’s not you. He wanted to say you were the only thing that made sense. But instead, his voice came quiet, shaped by hesitation and too many half-swallowed truths. “I’m not angry at you.”

Harry’s brow creased, uncertain. “You’re… not?”

Draco shook his head once. “No.”

Harry shifted, his breath catching faintly in the cold. “Then why did you stop talking to me?”

Draco’s eyes flicked away, toward the sharp-edged hedges that were covered in frost, the kind of winter detail that looked like glasswork.

“I’m just…” He hesitated, and for a moment, it looked like he might stop there. But then his voice returned, quieter. “I’m trying to figure out who I am.”

Harry opened his mouth, but Draco didn’t give him a chance to interrupt.

“What I believe,” he continued. “What parts of me still belong to the boy I was raised to be, and what parts I get to keep, or change, or burn down entirely.”

Draco went on, slower now. “Everything I used to know... The things I was so sure were true... They’re crumbling. And I keep trying to make sense of what I’ve become. What I’m still becoming.”

He paused, then gave a sharp, humorless huff of breath. “And then you’re there.”

Harry tilted his head slightly. “Me?”

Draco looked back at him, expression unreadable. “It’s like standing in front of something I can’t define.”

He stopped again. It wasn’t because he’d run out of things to say, but because he knew what the next words were. He just couldn’t say them out loud. Not yet. The silence between them stretched, but didn’t break. Far above, an owl winged silently toward the towers, its shadow brushing over the snow.

When Draco looked up again, Harry was still watching him with that steady, unguarded gaze, all open sincerity, frustratingly simple. That kind of hope. It made something twist in his chest.

“I’m not good at this,” Harry said, after a beat.

Draco arched a brow, some of the tension in his shoulders shifting. “You don’t say.”

Harry smiled, faintly. “I mean it. I say the wrong things. Or nothing at all. I get stuck in my head, and by the time I figure out what I should’ve said, it’s already too late.”

Draco gave a dry, almost reluctant laugh. “Welcome to the club.”

“But I’m trying,” Harry said, stepping just half a pace closer, voice soft. “With you. I want to try.”

That landed heavier than it should have.  Draco didn’t answer right away. But he didn’t turn away, either. Then Harry shifted his weight, awkward and uncertain. A smile, half-formed and hesitant, tugged at one corner of his mouth.

“So…” he began, voice lower than usual, eyes darting up and away. “Would you want to go to the Ball with me?”

Draco blinked once. Just once but in that moment, his entire body seemed to hesitate. His heart, the damned thing, always inconvenient, skipped a beat in the kind of way that left an ache behind. “You mean as—?”

Harry didn’t let him finish. The words came out in a rush, messy and urgent, as if he’d rehearsed them a hundred times and still hadn’t gotten them quite right.

“As whatever you want it to be,” he said quickly, tripping a little over the phrase. “A date. Not a date. I just... don’t want to go with anyone else.”

There it was: the truth, laid bare in that quiet little admission, hovering in the narrow space between them.

Draco felt the warmth rise before he could do a single thing about it. It spread through him like a slow spill of wine, rich and heady and far too dangerous. His throat was tight with heat and surprise.

He dropped his gaze, pretending for a second that he hadn’t heard, hadn’t felt, hadn’t started hoping. But the snow offered no answers, and when he looked back up, Harry was still there waiting, smiling now in that crooked, nervous way that made Draco’s chest hurt.

“Yes,” he said. The word was soft, barely more than a breath.

Harry’s smile widened, slow and warm, no longer tentative like the sun finally pushing through clouds.

Draco tried not to smile back. Instead he asked with a sort of casualness that didn’t fool Harry in the slightest. “So, why don’t you ask Cedric Diggory to be your date?”

Harry blinked. “What? This again? Seriously, where is this coming from?”

Draco tilted his head just enough to make it look casual, even as the sharpness in his voice betrayed him. “You’ve been awfully chummy lately. All those library sessions. Private chats by the lake. I thought maybe he’d be your first choice.”

Harry’s eyes widened, and color rushed to his cheeks so fast it looked like it hurt. “What? No. No... God, no. Cedric’s just... he was helping me with the Second Task, that’s all. You know, the egg, the clue... I didn’t even ask him, he offered. He’s just... nice. Too nice. And... actually... he’s the one who told me to ask you.”

Draco froze, caught off guard. “What?”

“Yeah,” Harry mumbled, and now he was properly blushing, all the way to the tips of his ears, red and raw against the pale hush of the falling snow. His words tangled, breathless, too many at once, like they’d been dammed up and were only now spilling free. “He said, and I quote: Stop being an idiot and go talk to him. So. I did. Well. I’m trying.”

Draco held Harry’s gaze, and suddenly the world narrowed — the sky, the snow, the castle behind them — all dimmed into something distant and peripheral. It was only Harry now, Harry with his ridiculous hair and his too-honest face and that voice, nervous and earnest and breaking just slightly on the edges.

The cold slipped under Draco’s collar, but he barely felt it, not compared to the warmth of that look, that reckless little confession half-hidden in Harry’s voice. It burned brighter than the winter around them, and Draco didn’t know what to do with that.

Then he let out a sharp laugh, tilting his head, curling his mouth into something too smooth to be sincere. “I’m messing with you, Potter. I’m not jealous.”

That was a lie. A dangerous, embarrassing lie. But he delivered it smoothly, with a grin just sharp enough to hide behind.

Harry narrowed his eyes, but his shoulders relaxed. “You definitely are.”

Draco smirked. “You just imagine it. Potter.”

They stood there for a moment longer, close and breathless in a pocket of winter, snow curling around them like confetti that had gotten lost on its way to a celebration. Draco could hear Harry’s breathing, shallow and uncertain, and his own heartbeat thudding out of time with it.

Then Harry just cleared his throat, awkward again. “I should... uh, go. I left Ron in the common room with an exploding Snap game and a ruined essay.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like a regular Wednesday.”

Harry grinned, that quick, infectious grin that made Draco’s stomach tighten. “You’d be surprised.”

Draco watched him walk away, snow catching in the fringe of his messy hair like stardust. He waited until Harry disappeared around the corner before letting the smile fade, just a little, replaced by something softer.

Something almost like longing.

***

That weekend, two hours before the Ball, the dormitory had been completely overtake.

Gone were the dim greys and green-tinged gloom that usually marked the Slytherin boys’ chambers; in their place, rich lamplight flickered from sconces charmed to mimic candle-glow, keeping the December chill at bay. The floor was cluttered with open boxes, discarded robes, shoe polish charms that kept fizzing faintly in the corners, and half a dozen mirrors floating midair at slightly different angles.

The room smelled of firewhiskey cologne, expensive polish, and anticipation. It’s the kind of slow-burning energy that builds before a storm or a particularly well-planned social event. It was a scent familiar to the Slytherin dorms on nights like this: half war preparation, half fashion display.

Draco stood in front of the tallest mirror, adjusting the final clasp on his black dress robes. The silk was tailored to an inch of its life, with silver-threaded embroidery curling in elegant spirals up the left side, a serpent. And his ring that he wore on his finger now, just for tonight.

Behind him, Theo Nott was in the middle of what had become a full thesis on the symbolism of dress color.

“Red is fine, if you want to look like a Gryffindor’s fever dream,” he said, adjusting the cuffs of his dark sapphire jacket. “But indigo is power. Regal. Shadow-adjacent. Very my great-uncle plotted a coup and then disappeared mysteriously without leaving a body.”

In the corner, Crabbe was slumped in an armchair, fast asleep with one boot still on and his dress shirt hopelessly creased beneath him. Goyle was nowhere to be seen, last anyone checked, he’d mumbled something about treacle tart and vanished toward the kitchens.

From the bed, Blaise let out a low snort of laughter. He reclined across Pansy’s discarded cloak with his shirt unbuttoned, a silver chain glinting against his chest. “Please. If you show up in indigo, Daphne’s going to flay you where you stand. She’s already laid claim to the color this evening.”

Theo arched a brow, defiant. “She won’t know until it’s too late and I’m already stunning in it.”

“She’ll know,” Blaise said. “Daphne always knows.”

From the vanity, Pansy made a low noise of agreement. She sat perched with practiced elegance on the stool. Green silk draped over her, the pearl detailing on her sleeves shimmering faintly with every movement. She was sharpening an earring clasp with her wand like it might double as a weapon.

Draco turned toward her and raised his own wand. “Close your eyes.”

She obeyed without question, tilting her chin up. His spell was soft as a whisper. A line of smoky eyeliner curled itself along the edge of her lashes, dark and exact. Another charm brought out the slope of her cheekbones, catching the firelight with a smoothness of moon-glow.

She opened one eye to inspect her reflection, then gave him a slow smirk. “You missed your calling.”

“Tragic,” he said. “The fashion world weeps every day.”

“No, really.” She turned to face him fully now, expression hovering just above sincere. “If you haven’t died by the end of school, you should consider doing this professionally.”

“It’s brilliant,” Theo said, smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle from his sleeve, “he could open a salon for purebloods to have their existential crises while getting their brows shaped.”

“Don’t we already have that?” Blaise murmured, deadpan, without looking up.

The laughter came easily, threading between them like old magic, warm and familiar. They were, after all, purebloods — descendants of names older than most castles, raised on ritual and rivalry and expectations wrapped in silk.

But here, in their half-lit dormitory, with shoes half-tied and charms half-finished, they were still just teenagers preparing for a night of pageantry they were too cynical to admit they were excited for.

“So,” Pansy said, dabbing her lips with enchanted gloss, “what do we think will happen tonight? Public breakups? Spiked punch? Student setting the curtains on fire?”

Theo smirked. “I’m hoping for at least one duel and a secret engagement.”

Draco chuckled. “Do you think they’ll follow the actual traditions this year?”

Blaise arched a brow. “You mean the ones where the Ball ends in ritual pairing and minor bloodletting?”

“Those were the original Yule Balls,” Pansy said with a dramatic wave of her hand. “Pre-Ministry sanitation. I read about one where two heirs eloped mid-waltz and their families cursed each other’s sheep herds for a decade.”

Theo sighed dreamily. “Romance.”

“But really,” Blaise, who is still toying with the silver chain at his neck, spoke in a different tone. “Do you think they’ll push anything more... political tonight?”

The mood shifted, a non-Slytherin might not have noticed it. But in this room, with these people, it was as loud as a slammed door.

Pansy glanced sideways, suddenly very still. Theo’s fingers stilled on his cuffs, his eyes dropping to the rug beneath their feet.

Draco straightened, instinctively. “What do you mean?”

Blaise twisted his ring around his finger once, twice. “My uncle’s been sending me letters. Strange ones. He’s never vague, but lately… It’s all half-things. Implied things. He used to be blunt as a curse.”

Pansy’s voice, when it came, was deceptively light, but her eyes were cold. “My mum’s been having tea with people she can’t stand. Every week. Last time I floo-called home, they all acted like I’d interrupted something. No one would even say who was in the house.”

Theo muttered, barely audible, “Mine told me not to trust anyone. Then sent me new protective charms. Said they were just in case.”

Draco didn’t answer at first. Because he knew that feeling. That creeping, silent warning, the way the adults began speaking in half-phrases, stopping midsentence when you entered the room. Eyes flicking behind you. Even the families who claimed neutrality, especially they, had begun making moves in the shadows. Because in their world, neutrality wasn’t safety. It was a pause between allegiances.

“They’re getting ready for something.”

Blaise nodded. “Yeah.”

Theo’s voice was flat. “And we’re either going to be part of it… or in the way.”

A pause followed. Then Pansy rose with a practiced grace, smoothing down the non-existent wrinkles from her dress. Her face was composed, but her fingers tightened slightly on the silk.

“Well,” she said, with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, “at least we’ll be the best-dressed pawns on the board.”

And like smoke slipping through fingers, the mood shifted back. The spell of honesty passed, sealed away in their family's deepest vaults.

Draco let himself be pulled into Pansy’s words. Just for tonight. Let the weight of the world rest on the other side of the castle doors. Here, they were still students. Still almost untouched. Almost.

Pansy tilted her head suddenly, her smirk returning like a flipped coin. “So,” she said, “what time are you meeting your mystery date, Draco?”

The room stilled just enough to suggest ears had perked.

“I’m not meeting anyone,” he said, which was technically true.

Blaise snorted. “You got ready like a cursed prince in a gothic novel just to walk in alone and glare at people?”

Draco gave him a sharp look. “It’s called presence.”

Theo made a dramatic gesture. “Yes, yes, we know. You’re the aesthetic backbone of the entire House. But spill, Draco. Word is, you turned down two Ravenclaws and a fifth-year who tried to bribe your owl.”

Draco said nothing, though the corner of his mouth twitched. He hated how obvious he’d become.

Pansy didn’t let it drop. “You’re being very... composed tonight. Suspiciously composed. Like you’re trying not to seem like you’ve been nervous since breakfast.”

That earned a ripple of chuckles, though Theo cut in with a frown. “Wait. You don’t think it’s Potter, do you?”

Blaise gave a low whistle. “Now that would be a plot twist.”

Draco busied himself with smoothing down his already perfect hair.

“Interesting you’re not denying it,” Pansy sang.

“He’s not going with Potter,” Theo scoffed, though he watched Draco carefully now. “He couldn’t be.”

Draco finally spoke, voice as smooth as glass. “And why couldn’t I?”

“So it is Potter,” Blaise said, with a grin so wide it might’ve been illegal.

Draco gave an elegant sigh. “If it were hypothetically Potter, it wouldn’t be any of your concern.”

“Oh, darling,” Pansy purred, standing and adjusting the fall of her dress. “It’s only our concern. You’re ours first. If he breaks your heart, we hex him in alphabetical order.”

Theo: “Dibs on C.”

Blaise: “What’s B?”

“Bat-Bogey Hex,” Pansy supplied. “Obvious choice.”

They all laughed again, the sound warm and a little wicked.

***

The halls echoed faintly with music, soft and charmed and distant.

The Slytherins moved in a small, elegant cluster. Their laughter was carefully measured, posture was impossibly straight. Blaise and Theo led the way, charming frost along their sleeves and the tips of their hair for flair. Pansy floated between them and Draco, her heels silent on the stone, perfume laced with something spiced and rare.

Draco walked a step behind, letting his friends soak up the attention.

Crabbe had reappeared at some point, suspiciously smelling of custard. Goyle followed too, still half-asleep, blinking blearily with his collar askew and one sleeve unbuttoned, but loyally trailing the group like a shadow that hadn’t quite woken up.

The corridor leading to the Great Hall had been warded in a soft, silvery glow that shimmered faintly over stone, catching at the edges of polished shoes and velvet cloaks. The arch ahead gleamed with gentle magic, and just beneath it, stood two familiar figures.

Harry.

And, trailing beside him with the energy of a man approaching an execution, Ron Weasley.

Draco’s steps faltered, just a bit.

Harry was standing too still with his arms hanging stiff at his sides, and every few seconds his hand would twitch toward his robes like he wanted to adjust them but then remember he didn’t know what to do with them. His hair had gone past messy-charming and into the realm of "possibly attacked by pixies". There wasn’t a single strand behaving, and he hadn’t even tried to tame it.

The black dress robes were clearly borrowed — boxy in the shoulders, slightly too long in the sleeves. If there had been a department of mourning widow clothing for teenage boys, Harry had shopped there.

And Ron Weasley... Draco didn’t know where to begin with him.

His maroon robes clung in all the wrong places, the color doing his skin tone no favors, and the ruffled collar curled up toward his jaw like it was trying to choke him. His expression was the perfect portrait of someone who had given up not only on appearances, but on the concept of dignity itself.

The Slytherins slowed as almost at the same time, like predators catching the scent of something wounded.

And then, just as Draco predicted, the humor began to circle.

Theo leaned toward Blaise, a whisper already forming at the edge of a smirk. Pansy bit her lip, eyes glinting with sharp delight. Someone behind Draco, Crabbe maybe, let out a snort he didn’t bother to finish stifling.

Draco didn’t laugh.

Instead, he turned smoothly on his heel, his robes swooping against the stone floor and fixed them with a look that froze the laughter in their throats. It was the kind of look that Slytherins understood instinctively.

A warning. Not tonight. Not with him. And that was enough.

Theo swallowed the joke that had just reached his lips. Blaise blinked, then looked away. Pansy, after a pause, gave Draco the faintest nod, half apologetic, half understanding.

Excuses began to murmur into the air: “Need to check my coat,” “Think I’ll go claim a table,” “Did someone say mulled cider?”

They drifted into the Great Hall in twos and threes, silenced for now, their claws carefully sheathed and their sneer tucked away neatly behind their fangs.

Harry hadn’t noticed the scene that had just played out across the corridor. He was too busy shifting his weight from foot to foot, rocking slightly like he might bolt, then thinking better of it. His shoes were a size too big so he kept scuffing the stone floor with them. His eyes scanned the hallway with a growing urgency.

Beside him, Weasley muttered something in defeat. Whatever it was, Draco didn’t bother asking him to repeat it. He exhaled sharply through his nose, breath clouding pale in the silver-blue air.

Honestly. This was pathetic.

He turned, boots clicking lightly against the stone as he strode the remaining steps.

Harry saw him coming, and the way his shoulders lifted a little too fast made something jump in Draco’s chest.

He blinked slowly, gloved fingers rising to rub at his temple. “Merlin’s teeth,” he muttered, half to himself.

Harry opened his mouth, to explain or apologize — he didn’t seem sure which.

Draco didn’t let him. He shook his head once and reached into his cloak. His wand slid free in one smooth motion, already rising to aim.

Weasley squinted, recoiling slightly. “What—?”

Draco ignored the question. He wasn’t doing this for Weasley. Not really. He just wanted to make Harry happy. That was the embarrassing truth of it, and absolutely rooted in his bones. If helping Weasley meant smoothing that furrow in Harry’s brow, then fine.

But the incantation was already leaving Draco’s mouth, crisp and clean.

“Vestitus Formare.”

The change was immediate.

Weasley’s robes tugged at the seams with a quiet, tailored ripple. The sleeves drew back to the proper length. The fit was corrected at the shoulders. The awful ruffles reformed into simple, structured cuffs. The maroon deepened into something richer like red wine. It still wasn’t stylish, but it looked presentable now.

Weasley looked down, stunned. “What the—?”

Draco didn’t answer. He’d already turned toward Harry.

The second spell was softer, more deliberate. “Vestitus Formare”. A glow moved slowly over Harry’s robes. The stiff collar reshaped itself, folding sharply and elegantly. The sleeves adjusted. The shoulders pulled into alignment, wrinkles fading away like breath on a mirror. The dull fabric settled into a clean matte finish — respectable, classic. And Draco, because he couldn’t help himself, flicked away a stray thread from Harry’s lapel with unnecessary precision.

Harry stared at him, eyes wide.

Draco stepped back, giving the once-over like a disapproving tailor. “There,” he said finally, voice breezy. “Now you don’t look like you escaped from the laundry bin.”

Weasley was still turning in place, holding out his sleeves as if they might suddenly vanish. “You can do that?”

Draco gave a light shrug, like it was nothing. “Useful charm. All my acquaintances learnt and mastered it since they were eight and attended their first gala.”

Harry smiled then. “Thanks.”

Draco waved him off. “Please. It was hurting me more than you.”

Which, strictly speaking, wasn’t true. Because the heat curling beneath his collar and creeping up his cheek said otherwise.

Harry stepped closer. Not much, just enough that Draco could feel the shape of his presence, warm and close. His gaze caught on Draco’s face, lingering.

“You look…” he began. He trailed off, the word hanging unspoken in the space between them.

Draco tilted his head, brow arched, smirk coiling at the edges of his mouth. “Careful, Potter. You lot only get so many compliments per year. Would be a shame to waste them all before the dancing starts.”

Harry huffed a soft laugh, and in that moment, he looked lighter. It melted something in his shoulders, the tension finally loosening its grip.

Behind them, Weasley made a noise like he’d bitten a lemon by mistake. “I’m going in,” he grumbled, already tugging at the sleeves Draco had just repaired. “Before someone noticed my tie and its ugly shade of brown.”

He moved toward the Hall, but then stopped, turned slightly just at the threshold and muttered, barely audible over the flickering sconces, “Thanks, Malfoy.”

Draco nodded once, “Don’t mention it.”

And Weasley didn’t.

The corridor fell quiet again, the echo of footsteps fading into the music beginning to drift out from the Great Hall beyond.

Harry shifted beside him, less nervous now, but still standing close. “Ready?” he asked.

Draco reached up to adjust the fall of his cloak to give himself a second to steady his breath. Then he looked at Harry and nodded. “As I’ll ever be.”

Side by side, they stepped into the light.

Chapter Text

Inside, the Great Hall had been transformed beyond recognition: the walls draped in endless velvet panels the color of deep dusk, the enchanted ceiling is alive with swirling constellations. The familiar long banquet tables had now been replaced by smaller ones, each one decorated with blooming garlands of charmed evergreens and pale winter roses. The chandeliers floated lower tonight, closer to the guests, and shimmered in soft rhythm to the music rising from the far corner of the room.

It was gilded, dreamlike, and humming with anticipation.

Draco felt the shift the moment they passed through the doors. A ripple of attention, curiosity, gossip and every other emotion swept through the crowd.

The champions had already begun walking. Fleur Delacour glided ahead in robes that shimmered and her hair swept into a style so effortless it made the other girls nearby straighten their posture instinctively. At her side, Roger Davies walked stiffly, his eyes glazed in a way that suggested he still hadn’t recovered from the shock of being asked. Cedric Diggory was just behind them, confident and radiant in formal black, his date Cho Chang holding his arm with a sense of serene grace.

And Hermione Granger. Draco caught the flash of her before he fully registered it. A blur of periwinkle-blue silk and carefully curled hair, her features softer than usual. She looked... Confidence. Elegance. Viktor Krum stood beside her, stolid and square-shouldered, his usual intensity mellowed into something that might almost have been contentment.

Draco felt the corner of his mouth twitch into a smile. He hadn’t forgotten their conversation in the courtyard. And now, watching her glide forward, radiant and sure, he was oddly glad.

Draco let his gaze drift lazily across the ballroom, pretending to admire the decor, but really, he was scanning.

And then he saw him.

Moody stood unmoved, his scarred face set in a permanent scowl. The magical eye ticked and spun restlessly, sweeping across the room in sharp, jarring circles. He gripped his flask like a weapon and eyed the passing tray of canapés as though it might explode at any moment.

Draco’s jaw tightened only for a second. He wouldn't let that man ruin his night. Not when professors were scattered across the room like guardians. Not when Dumbledore was only a few paces away, looking entirely too relaxed. Not when McGonagall was watching everything with hawk-like precision and a visible distaste for nonsense.

No. Moody could lurk all he liked. Tonight, Draco Malfoy was not going to be afraid.

On the floor, students moved in color and motion. Some clinging tight, others laughing too loudly, flushed and bright beneath the enchanted lights. There were whispered bets on mistletoe, eyes darting toward professors before sneaking gulps from pocketed flasks, daring the night to last forever.

Beside him, Harry shifted, tight, uncertain. Draco caught it out of the corner of his eyes, the way Harry’s fingers brushed his robes, the way he glanced ahead and then down again, as if checking whether the floor might give out beneath them. Or maybe just to avoid the eyes already beginning to turn.

It wasn’t scandalous. But it was enough to be remembered. And Draco knew it. He could feel the attention, the eyes tracking them across the floor. The kind of scrutiny born from the sheer impossibility of the image: Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy, stepping into the Hall as if they weren’t meant to hate each other.

Draco didn’t flinch.

Somewhere near the columns, half-shadowed behind a garland of pine and glass globes, he saw Snape watching. His expression unreadable, his eyes gleamed sharp and narrow but not quite disapproving. Not surprised, either.

Draco inhaled slowly, feeling the air settle into his lungs like cooled wine. He let it go, smooth and silent. He was here. And he had chosen this.

He nudged Harry gently with one gloved finger. “Don’t look so nervous, Potter.”

Harry blinked, then gave a small, crooked smile. “I’m not.”

“You’re gripping your suit and creasing it, after I have fixed it for you.”

Harry glanced down, startled, and saw his white-knuckled grip. He let out a soft laugh, loosening his hand. “Sorry. Force of habit.”

Draco allowed himself a chuckle of amusement then turned to Harry again. And this time, he didn’t bother hiding the smile that curved across his mouth.

“Well,” he said, voice amused, “shall we dance, then?”

Harry looked at him and for a heartbeat, Draco saw everything written across his face: careful, nerves, something too soft to name. But under it all was that stubborn little spark, the one Harry always carried, the one that lit him from the inside out when he decided to do something terrifying anyway.

He smiled, too.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Let’s.”

***

The first notes of the Champion’s Waltz drifted into the air with a bright, golden and deceptively light. Joyous in a way that felt almost defiant, as if the music itself refused to acknowledge the tensions still coiled beneath so many polished shoes.

One by one, the champions stepped forward into the light.

Fleur Delacour moved like a spell in motion, her gown trailing behind her like falling stars, Roger Davies’s step stiff at her side but careful, reverent. Cedric Diggory and Cho Chang followed, dancing in a picture-perfect way. Then Victor Krum, surprisingly fluid despite his stocky frame, led Hermione Granger with unexpected ease. Her laughter rang bright and sure, echoing through the hall like it belonged there.

And Harry with Draco, hand in hand, stepping in the rhythm of the waltz.

The room still stared, they haven’t even stopped it ever since Draco stepped inside this room. They didn’t see this coming.

Because no one had. The school hadn’t noticed the glances they exchanged across classrooms when they thought no one noticed. Or the late-night conversations in hallways too empty to lie. Or the way Draco had started speaking like he was rewriting himself, line by line.

None of that had been public. Until now.

Their names had always lived in the same sentence, but only when followed by words like fought, hexed, or nearly killed. And yet here they were.

It made people nervous. The name Malfoy still weighed heavily in certain mouths. And already, behind the glimmering chandeliers and enchanted snow, the whispers were spinning themselves into shape. There were families, old and dangerous, who would hear about this before the song finished its second stanza.

Draco knew it. He felt it like a pressure in the ribs, an old wound flaring beneath the embroidery of his robes.

From the Slytherin alcove, of course, came more theatrical reactions.

Theo was making gagging motions behind a floating punch bowl. Blaise, ever the dramatist, lifted an invisible goblet in mock-toast, smirking like a cat who’d predicted this weeks ago. And Pansy had clasped both hands to her chest in faux-swoon, mouthing “True love! How scandalous!” to no one in particular, but loud enough to draw a few amused glances.

Draco caught sight of them over Harry’s shoulder and rolled his eyes. “They’re going to mock me for weeks,” he murmured.

Harry glanced back, lips twitching into a barely-contained smile. “Honestly? They’re more supportive than I expected.”

“They’re horrid,” Draco said with practiced disdain. Then, quieter. “And I love them. Unfortunately.”

Harry’s fingers tightened over his. Just enough for Draco to feel it. Like heat beneath the skin. Like a secret slipped into his palm.

The music was languid and golden, and the pairs danced around them in a blur of silk and light. Draco barely registered them. The only thing he saw was Harry, too close and pulling him forward with that grin that should not be allowed in public, that smile that always looked like it belonged to someone in love.

They were spinning now, caught in the champagne fizz of rhythm, fast and loud, not perfect but maybe that was the point. The song had tipped into something reckless. Steps loosened. Laughter scattered like confetti.

And Draco was falling.

Harry caught him and lifted him off the polished floor in a bold sweep. The moment spilled like light through stained glass. Draco let go. Just for a second. Just long enough to forget who he was and what this wasn’t. The world blurred, candlelight stretched into gold ribbons, faces into streaks of heat and breath. But Harry’s warm hand anchored him. Pulled him in, spun him around, held him upright in a world gone delirious.

Draco exhaled too sharply, too aware of everything. The way Harry’s collar gaped slightly at the throat, the damp curl of hair near his temple, the way his smile had started to look like it meant something.

He pulled back, breath catching, flipped the step mid-beat, and took the lead in a swift turn. They nearly collided with someone in a whirl of fabric, startled laughter, an elbow grazing past. Shoulders bumped. Their feet tangled.

Draco recovered in a blink, but his heart was in chaos. “Left foot, Potter,” he panted, swinging Harry back out with a bit too much force. “Try using it.”

Harry grinned at him, red-cheeked and glorious, the kind of grin that made everything else vanish. “You said you wanted chaos.”

“I said I wanted rhythm, not catastrophe.”

“I’m a catastrophe.”

Draco looked at him for one dizzy, unguarded second. “Exactly. I should be knighted for my bravery.”

Another spin, this one jagged, graceless, but he didn’t care. Their hands stayed locked, no matter how off-beat their feet were. Draco could feel the pulse at Harry’s wrist, quick as his own. And somewhere in all the stumbling and spinning, something warm began to rise, not just in the room, not just from the firelit music, but between them. It rose through Harry’s laughter, low and reckless and true. Through the press of his hand. Through the blur of motion and the breath they shared.

The final chord rang out like a bell, clear and golden. Applause erupted like a wave, rolling across the floor, but Draco barely heard it over the pleasantly buzzing ringing in his ears.

He then thought, distantly, of his father. Of the letters that would be written. The reports that would fly. But the thought was gone as quickly as it came. Not tonight.

Then the music shifted, no more careful formality reserved for the champions but a sudden crash of strings and drums and a burst of enchanted starlight above the floor. The chandeliers pulsed once with color, and the band launched into something wilder, faster, irreverent. It sent a ripple of surprised delight through the crowd. Students flooded the floor, robes swishing, laughter rising, shoes kicked off, or heels abandoned at the edge. Just pure movement and music and the shared relief of forgetting.

Harry didn’t let go of Draco’s hand. He tugged Draco forward without a word, a grin splitting his face, hair messier than ever now, eyes bright behind his glasses. Draco stumbled into the chaos, half-protesting, half-laughing, his pulse already caught in the music’s rhythm.

They spun again, but this time looser, freer. Steps not choreographed, but improvised barely on the right beat. Their fingers slipped and caught again. They twisted past giggling fourth-years doing more bouncing than dancing, past the Patil sisters twirling like firework sparks, past Ron Weasley attempting something that might’ve once been a jig. Blaise danced with a Hufflepuff Draco didn’t recognize, utterly unbothered. Pansy and Daphne had linked arms together and twirled dramatically.

Someone whooped nearby. Someone levitated a handful of rose petals that burst into light midair.

Draco’s head tilted back with a laugh he didn’t realize was his, breath catching as Harry spun him into another half-circle. Their hands broke apart, then met again, palms sliding together, uncertain but sure enough.

Draco couldn’t remember the last time he felt so unguarded. So full. And when he looked at Harry — flushed, breathless, grinning — he thought, This. This is a dangerous thing.

By the time they wandered off the dance floor, their feet were aching, the hems of their robes scuffed and slightly askew from too many spins and missteps. Draco’s hair, once a perfectly sculpted masterpiece, had surrendered just a little, a single strand slipping free to fall across his brow in a charming way.

They stumbled toward the refreshments — breathless, rumpled, grinning like they’d gotten away with something. Harry grabbed two glasses of punch with hands that still trembled slightly from the adrenaline.

“Here,” he said, offering one with mock ceremony. “For your bravery in the field.”

Draco took it, raising the cup with an arched brow before sipping. He made a face.

“Sweet,” he said. “With distinct undertones of regret.”

Harry laughed, brushing hair back from his forehead. “So you’re not dying, then.”

“Not yet.” Draco hesitated, then lowered the cup, his voice softer. “Thank you.”

Harry blinked, surprised. “I think I’m the one who should be thanking you.”

But Draco shook his head. “No. You don’t get it.” He looked down at his drink, then back up. “I needed this. To choose something good. Out loud. In front of everyone. With you.”

Harry let his hand brush against Draco’s. Just a touch. Quick and certain. Draco felt the spark of it still in his palm.

They stood there for a moment, lingering at the edge of the crowd, watching the blur of students twirl past in every shade of silk. Music wound through the air like ribbon, sweeter now, and the room had begun to glow with the warm haze of too many shared smiles and half-full cups.

Something flickered in the corner of Draco’s eye. A familiar shape, not quite the way he remembered her, but close. He turned. And there was Luna.

She stood near the far edge of the hall beneath the enchanted arches of starlight. Her robes were a pale, iridescent lilac, shifting with her every movement like moonlight on water. She was laughing — head thrown back, eyes closed, full and bright and unguarded — at something a boy beside her had just said. He was Ravenclaw, taller than her by a head, with windblown dark hair and ink on his cuffs.

Luna spotted him. She beamed, eyes alight, and lifted a hand to wave. Across the space between them, she mouthed, Congratulations.

Draco’s smile broke across his face before he could think to temper it, bright and entirely unguarded.

Then a familiar voice cut in. “There you two are,” Granger said, appearing beside them with slightly frizzed curls and the flushed cheeks of someone who had just finished a brisk but efficient waltz.

“Let’s just say,” Granger’s tone was lighter than usual, “I was surprised tonight too. But I mean, I’ve noticed but didn’t think you guys would go all public like this.”

Her eyes flicked between them. Her expression was careful, polite curiosity edging into amusement, as if she was waiting to see if they’d acknowledge what everyone else was starting to suspect.

Harry snorted. “You were too busy with your boyfriend to notice.”

Granger flushed instantly. “He is not my boyfriend.”

Harry leaned back slightly, smug. “Right. Tell that to Ron. He’s still going on about it. Honestly, my ears haven’t recovered.”

Draco laughed at that. The kind that slipped out before he remembered to hold it back.

Harry turned to him, eyebrows raised. “Why are you laughing?”

Draco tilted his head, the smirk already forming. “Because it’s funny.”

Before Harry could reply, a crash echoed from behind them. Someone had tripped over their own robes near the refreshment table, and now a goblet of pumpkin fizz was dripping down Theo’s back while Pansy solemnly tried to dry him off with a handkerchief.

“I told you not to eat anything glowing,” Pansy drawled, utterly unfazed.

Granger gave the scene a pained look, then turned back to Draco and Harry with a sigh. “Honestly, is no one behaving tonight?”

“I am,” Draco offered dryly, eyes still on Harry. “More or less.”

“That’s debatable,” Harry muttered, nudging him lightly with his elbow, a casual touch, but Draco felt it like static under his skin.

At that exact moment, Weasley skidded past, his robes slightly singed. “Hermione!” he bellowed over the music. “Fred and George just set up a portable fireworks hex in the east alcove. It’s like the sky threw up inside!”

Granger groaned. “Ronald, I swear to Merlin, if something catches fire again—”

But Weasley had already sprinted off, chasing after a zig-zagging stray firework that had escaped its enchantment and was now zipping under tables, sending guests into frantic leaps and shrieks.

“Well,” Hermione said, pinching the bridge of her nose, “that’s my cue.”

She glanced once more between Draco and Harry, her expression softening, the amusement still there.

“Just… try not to cause a scandal until after the dessert course, will you?”

“No promises,” Draco said, with a slow blink.

Hermione rolled her eyes and vanished into the crowd.

Then the music shifted, a softer number now, something older, threaded with lilac and light.

Harry smiled crookedly. “So... You want to dance again or something?”

Draco paused. Then smiled. “Yeah,” he said. “Why not?”

And this time, when Harry reached for his hand, Draco didn’t hesitate. He took it, fingers sliding against fingers, and let himself be pulled back into the glow and murmur of the hall, where the music spun on and the night was still wide open.

***

Draco sat at a small table near the edge of the dance floor, the pulse of the music still echoing faintly in his ribs, as if his body hadn’t quite accepted that the song had ended. He pressed the chilled glass of punch lightly to his lips, letting the sweet, fruity taste coat his tongue and ground him in something real.

He was flushed from dancing, more than he liked to admit. And now, with his gloves removed and his chest rising slowly with each measured breath, he let the music and the lights blur softly in his periphery.

Harry stood a few paces away, deep in conversation with Weasley near the edge of the crowd, half-lit by the flickering bursts of stray fireworks still sputtering from the alcove. One flared mid-air behind them, casting red-gold light over their faces for a second before fizzling into sparks. Their voices didn’t carry over the music and chaos, but Draco didn’t need to hear the words. Weasley looked surprisingly at ease, one hand gesturing animatedly as he spoke, the other holding a plate stacked with what looked like salvaged trifle. Harry was listening, nodding, his expression serious but softer.

The room glowed in soft golds and silvers now, the dancers moving more slowly, the music falling into gentler rhythms. Couples leaned into one another beneath garlanded archways. Some students had already begun to sneak out, their laughter echoing faintly through the open corridors that led back toward the dormitories and the grounds.

Professors had begun to relax. Flitwick tapping his toe to the beat, Sprout quietly charming the holly to release its fragrance in bursts, even McGonagall sharing a very dry, very small glass of wine with Madame Maxime near the staff table.

It should have felt safe. But it didn’t. The warmth didn’t return. Shadows stretched longer across the floor, pooling at the corners of the ballroom like spilled ink. And a chill crept down Draco’s spine.

Not the pleasant kind, not the shiver that comes from being watched in a way you want to be. This was different. It was instinct, the kind that lived in the bones, in the quiet part of the brain that knew when a predator had entered the clearing.

He straightened slightly. The music, still playing, sounded more distant, the melody slightly askew. No one else seemed to notice. Laughter still curled through the air. Dresses still spun, heels still clicked. But Draco’s skin was crawling.

He turned slowly, eyes drawn toward the raised dais at the head of the room where the professors sat. A gap. One chair, fourth from the left, was empty.

Moody.

Draco’s brows knit. The absence was so jarring now that he saw it. The lack of that constant pressure. No rotating eye swiveling through students’ skulls. No half-filled flask clutched like a threat. No looming figure hunched between Snape’s cold disdain and McGonagall’s sharp grace.

He scanned the crowd again, slowly, the way his mother had taught him to search a room without people noticing. No sign of him. Not by the columns. Not along the outer wall. Not lurking in the shadow. Not anywhere.

And now that Draco thought about it. Had he ever really been there? Earlier in the evening, yes, he’d seen the man. A glimpse. But no movement. No voice.  As if Moody had been there only enough to be noticed. Not enough to be real.

Draco’s fingers tightened around his glass. It trembled slightly in his hand. Some thread inside him pulled taut. His ring warmed up again like a warning. You are looking in the right place.

Then he caught sight of Luna, perched serenely in the corner of the hall on a gilded bench beside a harp twice her size. She was plucking it gently with lazy, curious fingers that coaxed out haunting, discordant notes. It might have been a song, or it might have been an experiment.

She looked up as Draco approached, a dreamy smile already forming, as if she’d been expecting him.

“Oh, hello Draco,” she said, still plucking aimlessly at the harp strings. “You want a song?”

Draco arched a brow. “Have you seen Moody?”

Luna tilted her head, considering. “Not up close. But I think he slipped out through the west corridor a little while ago. He is so enigmatic and mysterious, isn’t he?”

“Thanks,” Draco said to Luna and nodded.

She was still half-lost in her harp but looked up and said. “You’re welcome. But please do be careful when you’re following him.”

Draco turned away, jaw tight, and scanned the room automatically.

His eyes found Harry almost immediately, still near the edge of the crowd, deep in whatever conversation he was having now with Weasley. The lights from a nearby chandelier danced across his face, and Draco felt that small, stupid tug in his chest again. He didn’t want to leave him alone.

So Draco cut through the blur of music and candlelight with long, purposeful strides.

Harry was mid-sentence, head tilted toward Ron, but Draco didn’t stop. His hand touched Harry’s elbow first and then his voice followed. “We need to go.”

Harry blinked, startled. “What?”

“Moody’s gone,” Draco said, eyes scanning the crowd behind Harry, watching for something. Anything.

Harry frowned, confused. “Professor Moody? What’s wrong with—”

“No,” Draco cut in, sharper now, his voice tightening. “He was never really here. Not properly.”

Harry straightened, the ease slipping from his expression. “Draco, we haven’t even—”

“We’ll come back,” Draco said quickly, then glanced over his shoulder like something might be gaining on them. “Just. Come with me.”

Harry’s gaze flicked toward Weasley, who stood a few steps away with a drink in hand and an expression that said What now?

“What’s going on?” Harry asked again, voice lower this time, more serious.

Draco didn’t know exactly. Only that the air felt wrong. That the back of his neck had gone cold and prickled like static. That his serpent, coiled and asleep for too long, had begun to scream Move.

Draco turned toward the grand doors. One step, then another, before hesitating, breath catching. He looked back over his shoulder.

His voice softened and was unwillingly honest. “Please.”

Harry stared at Draco for a long beat, then gave a small nod, already following. “Okay. But—”

They pushed through the crowd, slipping between dancing couples and startled glances, and Harry added under his breath, a lopsided grin ghosting over his lips, “You owed me a slow dance later.”

Draco paused mid-stride, just enough for Harry to catch the side of his face as he turned.

His smile was crooked. “Of course this is what you care most about.”

Harry didn’t lie. “Yes. Been waiting for it all evening.”

Draco reached back, found Harry’s wrist with a warm grip, and tugged him into the shadows of the corridor. His voice drifted back, casual on the surface, but humming with something deeper.

“You will have your slow dance later, Potter. Could be two if we’re hurry.”

Outside, the castle felt like a different world entirely. Gone was the golden warmth of the ballroom, the laughter and music and the firelit glow. Out here, the corridors were quiet beneath the weight of curfew.

Draco and Harry moved fast, cloaks sweeping behind them. They’d slipped through the side passage of the west corridor, past frost-dusted arches and into the rear gardens, where no torchlight reached and even the air seemed colder. The only illumination came from the moon, casting blue-white light across snowdrifts and ivy-laced walls.

The night air bit deep. Raw, cutting and breath-stealing.

“So what is it with you and Moody?” Harry asked, keeping his voice low as they slipped down the corridor.

Draco shot him a look over his shoulder. “There are signs, Potter. Practically screaming at me every time he’s near. Something’s off, he’s hiding something.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “You sure it’s not just the usual curse? Every Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher ends up dodgy eventually. Maybe he just gives you a weird vibe.”

Draco hissed out a breath, half irritation, half urgency. “It’s not just a vibe. It’s... more. The kind of wrong that tastes like copper. Just... Shut up and follow me.”

He glanced back again, lips quirking. “You get to sneak out with me. Isn’t that romantic for you?”

“Fine,” Harry said, trying and failing to suppress a smirk.

Draco tightened his cloak around his shoulders. “We’ll check the outer courtyard first,” he said quietly, eyes scanning the darkness ahead. “Then the lower passage near the Astronomy tower. If he’s not patrolling…”

“He’s doing something worse,” Harry finished, falling into step beside him.

Draco glanced at him, a little impressed. “Exactly.”

Harry’s boots crunched through packed snow, rhythm quick and purposeful. “I still don’t get it, though. Why tonight?”

“Because no one’s looking at him,” Draco replied. “Everyone’s too busy waltzing or watching who came in with whom. It’s the perfect time to disappear.”

“But why disappear?” Harry pressed. “What would he be doing?”

Draco stopped and turned toward him. Moonlight carved his features into something colder, sharper. “Setting up. Preparing something. I don’t know what yet... but if we find him, if we see anything, we’ll have proof. And you know what that means.”

Harry looked at him. There was no doubt or hesitation in his expression. This is something old and familiar, and it rose in his eyes like the echo of every time he’d chased a trail others ignored. Reckless.

Draco recognized it instantly and rolled his eyes. Gryffindors.

“Alright,” Harry said, voice steadier now. “Let’s find him.”

***

The courtyard unfolded ahead of them with a wide expanse of snow, framed by winter-white hedges. At its center stood the frozen fountain, its stone figures glazed in ice, glittering under the pale wash of moonlight. The wind had begun to rise, like a cold ribbon threading through ivy-cloaked walls.

And with it came something else. Voices. Urgent.

Draco froze mid-stride, spine snapping straight, a chill working its way from his collar to the base of his spine. He lifted one gloved hand in a silent command. Beside him, Harry stopped immediately, breath catching, eyes already scanning the dark.

They were just at the edge of the cloister archway, a few steps back from the courtyard’s covered gallery. Ahead, barely illuminated by a flickering sconce set far down the corridor, stood two figures locked in tense proximity, half-concealed by the alcove’s curve.

Draco didn’t need to squint to recognize one of them.

Tall. Black robes falling like liquid. Squared shoulders and rigid posture. Snape.

The other man was harder to make out, shorter, lean beneath a fur-lined cloak thrown hastily around narrow shoulders. His movements were sharp, almost twitching with agitation. His voice, even clipped, carried a kind of panic threaded through practiced menace. Karkaroff.

Draco pressed back against the cold stone, cloak whispering softly as it caught on the wall, and Harry followed without a word, both of them leaning just enough toward the corner to hear, not enough to be seen. The air was thin here, every breath quiet, every heartbeat echoing louder than it should.

The conversation wasn’t loud, they could barely hear the words.

“—told you already,” came Karkaroff’s voice, tight and hoarse.

“Igor,” Snape said, “lower your voice.”

“You don’t understand—he’s here. He’s close. I feel it—”

“Feelings are not facts.” Snape’s reply cut like ice. “If he suspects—”

“You think he doesn’t?”

A pause.

Then Karkaroff’s voice, quieter now but almost desperate: “You think he doesn’t know where I am? What I did—what we—”

“You were cleared.” Snape’s tone was flat and final. But it wasn’t comforting. It sounded more like dismissal. Or even a warning.

Karkaroff leaned forward slightly, stepping into the faint light, and Harry sucked in a breath. His face looked grey.

“He’s watching me,” he hissed. “I’ve seen the signs. The mark—”

Snape moved then, quick as a strike. His hand shot out and clamped down on Karkaroff’s wrist, hard enough that the other man jolted.

“Do not say that here,” Snape bit out. “Not out loud.”

Draco was staring straight ahead, jaw clenched, every line of him coiled, every instinct screaming. Because Snape had just moved and turned his head, his eyes flicked toward the shadows as if something in the air had changed. As if he could feel them breathing there.

But before Draco could even whisper the word, Harry had grabbed his hand and torn him away from the spot.

They slipped back through the shadow of the corridor, ducking low through the side passage near the broken gargoyle. The snow muffled their retreat, but Harry didn’t slow until they were halfway back to the greenhouses.

Draco’s heart was pounding, lungs sharp with the cold air slicing through.

Only once they’d put enough distance between themselves and the courtyard did they stop. The castle loomed above them, glowing faintly through frost-veined windows. Somewhere inside, the music had started again with the swell of violins rising, but the sound got muffled by snow and distance.

Harry leaned forward, hands braced on his knees, catching his breath. “Sorry,” he said, voice rough with cold. “It was just... instinct. I felt like we needed to get out of there.”

Draco was staring ahead, unmoving, his breath coming in slow, controlled puffs. His jaw was tight. His eyes unfocused.

“We weren’t supposed to hear that,” he said at last, voice low.

“No kidding,” Harry muttered, straightening.

There was a beat of silence. Then Harry glanced over. “Do you think it was real? What Karkaroff said?”

Draco's brows drew together. “About someone watching him? The Mark?”

Harry nodded slowly, still watching Draco’s face. “Snape stopped him before he could say it, but you heard him. Karkaroff was panicked. He said the mark... He meant that mark, didn’t he?”

Draco inhaled. “I don’t know what I heard. But I know who I trust.”

Harry turned to face him fully now, his brow furrowing. “You trust Snape?”

Draco didn’t flinch, but something behind his eyes sharpened. “I do,” he said quietly. “My mother trusts him. And she’s… difficult, to put it politely. She doesn’t give out trust easily.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, and Death Eaters practice in blood oaths, but that doesn’t make them trustworthy.”

Draco’s mouth twitched between amusement and a scowl. “Snape isn’t careless. Whatever he said tonight, it could’ve been caution. That doesn’t mean guilt.”

Harry looked at him for a beat longer, like he was weighing something. Then: “You think he’s not guilty?”

Draco hesitated. “I think… he knows what he’s doing. And if he’s involved in anything dark, he wouldn’t do it in an exposed courtyard.”

Harry fell quiet. He chewed his lip, stared off into the dark.

“I didn’t feel anything off about Karkaroff,” Draco added after a moment. “No chills. No vision. Nothing. Not from Snape either.”

That gave Harry pause. He didn’t answer right away. Then he sighed, dragging a hand through his hair, ruffling it further. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. I trust you. That’s enough.”

After that, they wandered around the moonlit courtyard, but there was no sign of Moody. No strange footprints, no leftover spells. Just cold air, moonlight, and the occasional distant echo of music bleeding out from the ballroom. They looped back through the corridors, retraced their steps twice, even checked the small, disused side hall that led to the staff wing, but it was as if Moody had simply vanished.

Then somewhere deeper in the castle, a bell rang, low and ceremonial. Its echo rolled through the halls like a ripple through still water, the signal for the next phase of the Champion festivities: the second round of dancing, followed by staged interviews, photographs, and all the forced smiles the night could demand.

Draco paused at the corner of the hall, shoulders tense. The sound pulled him out of the shadows, out of the strange signs and half-formed warnings, and dropped him right back into the too-bright normalcy of the Triwizard Tournament. He exhaled sharply through his nose, brushing his hand down the front of his robes to smooth the creases of tension.

They’d be noticed if they didn’t return soon. Whispers would start. His absence, especially, would light a fire under the rumor mill. And Merlin, he’d already given them enough to talk about tonight. Whatever Moody was hiding, it wasn’t going to reveal itself now.

He turned toward Harry, who looked reluctant but no less alert.

“Let’s go,” Draco said, his voice quiet but clipped. “Time to do your Champion duties.”

Harry blinked. “We’re just giving up? No more lurking?”

Draco gave him a look, dry as parchment. “I think that’s enough secrets for one night.”

Harry huffed a laugh and pushed his fringe back. “Shame. I was starting to enjoy our late-night adventuring.”

Draco turned, his cloak flaring slightly as he headed back toward the echo of music. “Careful, Potter. Say that too loudly and people might think you like spending time with me.”

Harry followed, grinning. “Terrifying thought.”

Then Harry tugged his sleeve with no warning or explanation, and broke into a quick sprint toward the courtyard steps, laughing so hard it tangled in his breath, wild and bright and loud.

Draco swore and bolted after him, silk robes flaring like wings, his shoes slipping once, catching, and then carrying him forward with reckless abandon. And maybe the first time all year, he didn’t care about anything at all.

Not about the clothes. Not about the rules. Not about who might be watching.

By the time they reached the marble steps leading back into the castle, they collapsed against one of the pillars, gasping, bent with laughter. Their breath came in clouds, their lungs burning, their smiles impossible to hide. Overhead, the sky stretched wide and clear, scattered with stars and possibility.

Harry leaned forward, palms on his knees, barely able to speak through the grin. “We are going to be in so much trouble.”

Draco, folded against the stone beside him, tried to answer, failed, and finally wheezed, “If anyone asks, I was not with you tonight.”

Harry barked another laugh. “Brilliant. That’ll definitely hold up in a hearing.”

They looked at each other.

Silence. The kind that felt thick with breath and something unnamed, suspended between one heartbeat and the next.

Draco’s laughter faded slowly. The grin still lingered at the corners of his mouth, but his eyes had gone wide. Harry was leaning in, too close and not nearly close enough, his hair messy with snowmelt, his cheeks flushed from running and joy and maybe something more. His green eyes caught the starlight above.

Draco’s chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm. His lips parted. What if.

Harry’s did the same.

Just one step closer. One breath shorter. One choice. It wouldn’t take much.

But—

“Well, well. Look who’s returning from their moonlit detour.”

They both froze, instinctively stepping apart a fraction.

Sergei Volkov appeared out of the dark hallway, his sharp suit immaculate, one eyebrow raised in lazy suspicion. He looked far too pleased to have caught them coming in from the cold.

“Snuck out to snog, did you?” he asked, his accent curling lightly around the syllables.

Harry flushed instantly, eyes going wide — but instead of stammering out an excuse, he squared his shoulders and narrowed his gaze. “So what? Got a problem with that?”

Volkov smiled, unbothered. “Not at all. I just thought champions were supposed to save the drama for the floor.”

Draco stepped in smoothly. “Just sightseeing,” he said, voice crisp with polite dismissal. “The stars are quite something tonight.”

Volkov looked at him for a beat, then gave a faint nod and stepped aside, letting them pass without another word. He slipped back into the Great Hall without another word, calm and confident as ever.

Harry exhaled, watching him go. “I hate that guy.”

Draco snorted, a laugh escaping before he could suppress it. “Don’t worry,” he said, a smirk playing at his mouth. “He’ll be the one jealous when we slow dance to the next song.”

Harry blinked, thrown for half a second. Then he grinned, bright and real, something warmer sparking behind his eyes.

“I’m holding you to that.”

“You’re lucky I’m in a generous mood,” Draco muttered, already pulling open the door. “But if you step on my foot again, I’m shoving you into the string section.”

“I make one mistake—”

“You made several.”

Still bickering, still brushing shoulders, they stepped back into the golden glow of the ballroom — just as the music shifted, slow and sweet, calling them forward. They walked quickly through the archway, and the castle light spilled over them in waves as they stepped back inside. The hush of snow vanished behind them, the door easing shut with a quiet thunk, like a page turning. The cold, the secrets, the almost all sealed on the other side.

But Harry still held his hand and Draco didn’t let go.

Chapter Text

After the Ball, the days passed by quietly. The snow grew thicker along the castle walls, blanketing the grounds in uninterrupted white. The corridors filled again with the crisp, chalky smell of parchment and wet wool. And students returned to their routines with a sort of half-hearted focus: studying by lamplight, cramming for quizzes, groaning about essays with ink-stained hands and half-formed excuses.

Draco moved through it all with a practiced ease. His robes were always pressed, his quills always sharp, his words quick and dry, but not cruel. There were fewer barbs now, fewer walls. He still guarded himself though, some habits did not break easily.

But there was a softness that crept in when Draco didn’t notice. A lightness behind his smirk when Harry slouched into the chair across from him in the library, cheeks pink from the cold and hair even more of a mess than usual. He’d drum his fingers restlessly on the desk like a boy who’d never learned how to be still, and mutter darkly about misplacing his Transfiguration notes for the third time that week.

Draco would scoff, pull the missing parchment from between the pages of Intermediate Transfiguration Theory, where Harry had left it two days ago, and slide it across the desk without comment.

They didn’t walk hand in hand down the corridors. There were no stolen kisses between stacks of cauldrons, no secret notes slipped into sleeves or scarves. But it was something.

There were glances, lingering just long enough to fray the edge of plausible deniability. Sometimes, Harry would nudge Draco’s boot under the table without looking up from his Potions book, and Draco would nudge back. Once, in Potion class, Harry bumped Draco’s shoulder with his own, pretending it was the crowded bench. Draco had muttered, “Infuriating Gryffindor,” then slid over the correct vial with a sigh, fingers brushing Harry’s for a half-second too long.

One night, as wind rattled faintly against the high windows, long after most students had gone to bed, after even Madam Pince had given up trying to shoo them away. The lamps burned lower, shadows stretching across the tables like spilled ink, and their voices stayed low. Harry leaned across the table. The light gilded his cheekbones and caught in the green of his eyes, and his voice, when he spoke, was quieter than usual.

“It’s in the egg,” he murmured, glancing at the large golden thing wrapped in velvet beside his elbow. “The next clue. I couldn’t figure it out until I took it underwater.”

Draco set down his quill. “Let me guess. It starts screaming in Mermish and gives you a riddle about how friendship is the real treasure.”

Harry huffed a quiet laugh. “Close. It said: Come seek us where our voices sound, we cannot sing above the ground, and while you’re searching, ponder this, you’ll have but one hour to reclaim what we’ll take.”

He ran his fingers along the edge of the table, then hesitated. “Something you’ll sorely miss.”

Harry’s hand stilled. He didn’t look up at first. Just breathed, long and steady, before his eyes lifted toward Draco. Draco held his gaze, calm on the surface but suddenly aware of the way his pulse tripped under his skin. He didn’t smile. But something in him warmed, quiet and unexpected, like thawing frost.

Draco said, soft and dry, “If it’s your Firebolt, I’m going to be disappointed.”

Harry smirked faintly, gaze dropping. “Reckon I’d miss that too.”

And the moment passed, but not entirely. It lingered, trailing behind them like a line of whispered spells.

Their friends noticed. Of course they did. How could they not? It was all over their face. The castle may have been full of ghosts and enchantments, but nothing spread faster than gossip.

Theo was the first to strike, his voice just loud enough at breakfast to be impossible to ignore, pitched perfectly between mischief and murder. Blaise, mid-sip, nearly choked on his coffee.

“So,” Theo announced, elbow perched artfully on the edge of his porridge bowl, “this is real love now, is it? When can we expect wedding invitations? Or are you two still at the scandalous rendezvous behind greenhouses phase of the romance?”

Draco didn’t even glance up from Magical Theory and Arithmancy, Volume II. “No,” he said coolly, and flipped a page. “And none of you will be invited. Especially not you.”

Blaise gave a slow, thoughtful sip of his tea, then tilted his head. “If there’s a wedding. Your father’s going to kill you before you get to the part where you say I do.”

There was no laughter in his voice, just that faint amused tone. But Draco knew that wasn’t entirely a joke.

Draco didn’t doubt it for a second. The whispers had moved too fast, wormed through the castle corridors and spilled from the mouths of portraits before the last waltz had even ended. Word of his arrival at the Yule Ball beside Harry Potter had already circled the great tables of the Winter Court, no doubt framed in scandal and speculation.

And the very next morning, just after breakfast, an owl had arrived at the Slytherin table. Pale feathers, perfect posture, parchment sealed in dark green wax. His mother’s handwriting.

“Draco,

I trust the Yule Ball was... memorable.

Naturally, I’ve already heard a number of things. Not all of them are consistent, and few of them are worth putting any weight behind. Still, when enough people start whispering the same thing, one begins to wonder where the silence lies.

I imagine you danced. I hope you danced. Life offers too few moments to be young and golden and unburdened. But I also hope you were cautious about who you danced with and about what that dance might come to represent. The world is not always kind to those who let their choices be seen too clearly. Especially when those choices are... unconventional.

I will not ask you to explain anything in writing. I assume, if there is something I am meant to understand, you will see fit to tell me when you are ready.

You know your father.

But you also know me, and I trust you remember that my love is not given conditionally.

We will speak soon. I expect you to write, even if only to say you are well.

And do remember to wear gloves in the snow. I know how easily your hands freeze.

With all my love,

Mother”

It was exactly the kind of letter she always sent — polite, poised, laced with affection, and threaded so expertly with questions. She hadn’t named names. She never needed to.

He hadn’t answered. The letter still sat folded in the drawer of his table, tucked between worn gloves and a spare ink bottle. And that choice had felt heavier than anything he could have written.

Pansy only raised a brow. “You always had a taste for drama,” she said smoothly, reaching for her marmalade. “Honestly, you’ll probably marry him just to prove you can. That’s how this ends. In flames. With fireworks.”

“Lovely,” Draco muttered, turning another page with far too much elegance for someone under siege.

On Harry’s side of things, the teasing was less poetic and more relentless.

Seamus Finnigan had taken to humming the wedding march under his breath every time Harry entered a room, often adding the occasional “my true love, my darling dragon boy” with full dramatic vibrato. Dean Thomas had started taking bets on how long it would take Harry to come to class wearing green silk robes “just to match.”

Neville Longbottom simply looked perpetually startled, as though he’d missed a chapter and was still waiting for a correction to arrive by owl post. He blinked often, glanced between Harry and Draco like someone checking coordinates, and occasionally made quiet, sympathetic noises as if this was simply too much for one morning.

But it was Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger who watched.

Weasley especially. He didn’t speak about it. Not for days. His silences stretched like bridges across empty space. His gaze followed Harry across common rooms and corridors, sometimes unreadable, sometimes tired, but never unkind.

Until one afternoon, while most of the castle was tucked away in the library or killing time in warm corners between classes, Weasley found Draco on his way down from the Astronomy Tower, his arms full of books. The light from the high-arched windows above him filtered through in hazy ribbons of pale gold and falling snow.

“Oi. Malfoy.”

Draco blinked, the echo of the voice was stark against the hush of the stairwell. He turned, footsteps pausing halfway down the wide stone stairs.

Weasley stood on the landing below, arms crossed. His brow was drawn, and his mouth was set in that familiar way, stubborn and honest and entirely unwilling to pretend he hadn’t been thinking this over for days.

It wasn’t anger, or houses and feuds, or even adolescent pride.

“I want to talk,” Weasley said.

Draco blinked once, glancing over his shoulder as if to check for an ambush. “Are you sure?” he said dryly. “Talking doesn’t feel like your brand. I’m disoriented.”

Weasley rolled his eyes. “Look, I’m not going to hex you, alright?” He stepped forward, voice lower. “I just... can we talk? Two minutes. That’s all.”

Draco hesitated. Then sighed and nodded. “Fine. Two minutes.”

They stepped aside, down a short corridor that opened onto the clockwork balcony, a little-used alcove where the stone railing was dusted with snow.  Granger was already there, leaning against the curved wall, arms folded, waiting. Of course she was here. Of course she had known this conversation would happen before either boy had fully decided to have it.

Draco tensed, but she raised a hand before he could speak.

“I’m not here to moderate,” she said calmly. “I’m just... here.”

And somehow that was worse, or maybe better, but he nodded and said nothing.

Weasley sat on the low bench tucked beneath the arch, elbows braced on his knees. He didn’t look at Draco, not at first. Just stared out over the snowy courtyard below, jaw tight.

Draco remained standing, spine straight, hands clasped lightly behind his back. He tilted his head, watching.

“I don’t know what’s going on between you and Harry,” Weasley said, his voice low and serious. “And I’m not gonna act like I get it. I don’t. Probably never will. But I’ve known him a long time, since he was just a scrawny kid who didn’t know how to let people in.”

Weasley went on, steady now. “He’s not great with words. Not when it matters. And when it comes to what he wants, he’s worse. Most of the time, he thinks he doesn’t deserve it.”

Granger was still watching, eyes unreadable, quiet as stone.

“So if this,” Weasley said, finally looking up at Draco, “whatever this is... If it means something to you... good. But if you’re doing this to screw with his head, or get back at your father, or prove something to the rest of the wizarding world—”

He looked Draco in the eye. “Don’t.”

The silence afterward settled heavy, like snowfall blanketing every jagged thing. Time seemed to slow down, and somewhere beneath them, the faint hum of the castle carried on.

Draco let the weight of Weasley’s word sit with him. Let the meaning of it pass through. And then, when he did speak, it was quieter than expected. “I’m not going to hurt him,” Draco said.

Weasley studied him for a long moment, then nodded. “Good.”

He stood, brushing snow off his sleeve, voice lightening just slightly as he added, “Because if you do, Hermione has a hex ready that’ll turn your hair green for a year. Possibly longer, depending on the level of betrayal.”

Draco blinked, looking quickly at Granger. “You don’t.”

She gave him a mild smile. “I absolutely do.”

“And it’s very thorough,” Weasley added. “Scalp deep. Not even a glamour charm can cover it.”

Draco huffed, but reluctantly amused. “That’s barbaric. My mother would never speak to me again.”

“Good,” Weasley said, already walking away. “That means she and I have something in common.”

Draco watched him go, the sound of retreating footsteps echoing lightly down the hall.

He turned to Granger, who hadn’t moved. She stood framed by the archway, snow light catching at the edge of her curls, casting a faint halo around her in the soft dawn-gray of the courtyard. In her gaze there was no malice, only consideration. And maybe, beneath it, the faintest trace of something far more dangerous: hope.

Draco inclined his head. A thank you.

But she didn’t turn to leave. Instead, she said softly, “You’ve changed a lot. Since last year.”

Draco stilled.

“You helped Sirius Black,” she went on, stepping forward just enough that the stone closed the distance gently. “You helped Professor Lupin. You didn’t have to. That… still surprised me. I don’t think I realized how much until now.”

Draco met her gaze, unsure whether to speak. She didn’t give him the space to.

“Harry’s been advocating for you for months,” she continued, a small, wry smile touching her lips. “Telling us there’s more to you. That you’re not who you were. That maybe you never were, not fully. I didn’t know what to think. I still don’t, entirely.”

She paused, eyes softening just a little. “But I can see why he said it. I see it now. You make him happy... And that makes me happy too,” she added quietly.

He opened his mouth, for what, he wasn’t sure. A thank you? A defense? A joke? But Granger held up a hand, gently cutting him off with a glance that said I know you, even if I’m still learning how.

“That’s all,” she said. “That’s all I needed to say.”

She stepped back, turned, and walked after Weasley, her cloak catching the light behind her like a trailing spell, the faint sound of her heels fading into the soft hush of snow and stone.

Draco stood alone on the balcony a moment longer, wind tugging at the edges of his robe, the cold pressing gently against the space she had left. And a smile slowly pulled at the edge of his mouth.

***

Then, it was in one night while Draco was helping Professor Snape with Potion that trouble came. The dungeon air was heavy with stillness, thick with the earthy perfume of steeped roots and bitter oils. Lanternlight flickered against the flagstones, casting shadows along the tall racks of bottled essence and powdered leaves, each labeled in Snape’s exacting, spidery script. A copper cauldron simmered faintly at the far end of the bench.

Draco stood beside the worktable, sleeves rolled with care, mortar in one hand and wand in the other, crushing dried fluxweed into a fine, pale dust. His movements were practiced. He had grown used to this room and the silence it demanded.

Snape, across the bench, sliced valerian root with smooth, precise motions. His dark eyes flicked up once and then lingered.

Draco could feel the weight of that gaze without actually looking up.

When Snape finally spoke, his voice was its usual blend of silk and frost. “So.” A single syllable, drawn out, filled with implications.

Draco exhaled through his nose. “If you’re going to say his name, just say it.”

Snape’s brow lifted, almost amused. “I wasn’t aware I needed to.”

Draco looked up then, dusted fingers braced against the edge of the table. “You have thoughts.”

“I always have thoughts,” Snape said, returning his attention to his blade. “But rarely do I indulge them in gossip.”

He let the silence stretch between them for a beat. Then with a note that was too smooth to be unintentional: “You are aware of your father’s position on the matter?”

Draco’s hands stilled and turned his gaze back to the powdered fluxweed and said quietly, “I’m aware of a great many things.”

Snape paused in his slicing. He didn’t smile but his voice shifted, ever so slightly, into something that might’ve been dry approval.

“Then I trust you know how to conduct yourself accordingly.”

Draco met his eyes with no fear. Only a kind of brittle resolve. “I won’t be careless.”

Snape gave a small nod, permission or perhaps warning, impossible to say,  and turned back to his work.

For a few minutes, the only sound was the careful scrape of blade on board, the low burble of the potion, and the occasional clink of glass against wood as Draco sorted ingredients into small dishes. Then Snape frowned. He reached for the next component. A sealed jar from the shelf marked Mandragora: Mature (Dried, Grade A), and found nothing. The space on the shelf was empty.

Draco noticed. He looked up. “What is it Professor?”

Snape didn’t answer at first. He moved with that particular kind of silence that meant something was wrong. He picked up one labeled jar, examined it with a practiced flick of his wrist, then replaced it. Another. Then another. Each returned with increasing care.

And then, he slowly opened the lower cabinet, the one lined with softly padded shelves where rarer ingredients were kept, too sensitive for general use. Still nothing. He was motionless for a beat too long. Then he said. “Lacewing flies. The mature batch. Gone.”

Draco looked up sharply. “Gone as in moved, or gone as in—”

“Missing,” Snape said flatly. “As in taken.”

A silence settled over the room, delicate and brittle as spun glass.

Draco stepped forward and crouched beside the open cabinet, scanning the shelf with narrowed eyes. “It was there earlier this week. I remember logging it. Ten vials.”

Snape’s eyes flicked toward him. “Yes,” he said. “And now, we are at zero.”

Draco stood. “But what—?”

“I will handle it,” Snape interrupted, turning back toward the worktable. “You don’t need to concern yourself.”

Draco hesitated, then stepped forward. “If someone’s stealing potion ingredients, of course it’s my concern. I’m your assistant. And more than that, I have a theory—”

“I said I will handle it,” Snape said again with a tone that meant the discussion was over, whether or not Draco agreed.

Draco clenched his jaw, frustrated, but nodded.

Snape turned away, cloak brushing the stone floor, his silhouette long and hunched slightly in thought. He pulled a black-bound ledger from the shelf and opened it, flipping through pages filled with his tight, meticulous handwriting.

“If you see anything strange,” he added without turning back, “you may tell me. Discreetly. Otherwise, go about your duties. Let me worry about this.”

Draco lingered a moment longer, unsure if he was being dismissed as a student or protected as something more. Then, quietly, he stepped away from the table and left the dungeon, the door hissing shut behind him with a whisper of displaced air.

***

It was midday, though the sun did little more than cast a pale, watery light across the field. The grass had dulled to a muted green-gray, with thin rimes of frost clinging to the edges of each blade. The goalposts loomed in the distance, tall and skeletal against the wintry sky, and the stands stood half-shadowed and empty, their banners long since taken down for the season.

Draco found himself tucked beneath the eastern bleachers with Luna Lovegood, sharing a half-cracked bench worn smooth by time and weather, the remnants of their lunch wrapped in parchment between them. A crust of pumpkin pastry here, half an apple there.

Above them, the wooden beams groaned softly as the breeze curled through the slats, and from beyond the pitch came the distant sound of laughter and shouted instructions. A small group of students swooped across the far end of the sky. Quidditch had been canceled for the year, thanks to the Triwizard Tournament, but a cluster of die-hards, likely Ravenclaws, judging by the silver-blue glint of scarves and the way they kept trying to fly in elaborate V-shaped formations, were still trying to practice.

They were discussing schoolwork, vaguely about Arithmancy, and the alarming number of students convinced that moon phases influenced magical focus. Luna was giggling through a tale about the Ravenclaw common room, how the first-years had started a betting pool on whether Draco and Harry were secretly engaged. One of them had allegedly begun sketching invitation ideas in the margins of their Transfiguration notes.

“I’ve never seen so many debates about floral arrangements,” Luna said serenely, brushing plum juice from her chin with the sleeve of her cloak. “It’s lovely, really. The idea of it, not the arguments. Someone threatened to hex someone else over lilies versus hellebores.”

Draco groaned into his hand. “Please tell me they’re at least going with silver. If I hear about another Gryffindor suggesting red and gold, I’ll vanish myself.”

Luna only smiled, far too serene for the chill in the air or the topic. “People do love a story, Draco. And yours has a very interesting plot.”

Draco was about to reply, probably with something scathing about his life not being a romantic novella, when the sensation prickled at the back of his neck. Subtle, at first. Just the faintest pull. And his serpent rose again. A warning.

Draco scanned around the field. Empty.

Luna, who had gone curiously quiet, turned her head very slightly and narrowed her eyes toward the line of forest beyond the field, though she didn’t seem to focus on anything in particular.

“You feel it too,” Draco said, not a question.

Luna nodded, her voice distant. “There’s a shift coming. The kind you can’t see until it’s already here. Something’s coming up.”

Draco shivered and wasn’t sure if it was from the wind or her voice.

“You should be careful,” she added softly. “You’re going to be important to whatever happens next. And people always try to break the important ones first.”

He didn’t know what to say to that, not to Luna, whose words often sounded like riddles spun from prophecy and honey. But before the silence could stretch too far, the air changed again with the swoop of an owl.

It drifted downward, wings stretched out, feathers pale and fine as parchment.

Draco rose to his feet slowly, hand outstretched before the bird even landed. It offered no sound of greeting, just extended its leg with silent dignity.

The letter it carried was sealed in familiar green wax, the Malfoy crest pressed in deep, clean relief.

From his mother again. He didn’t open it. Not here. He slid the parchment into the inner pocket of his robes, fingers lingering for a moment before pulling away.

Luna gave him a look that was somewhat pity, somewhat knowing.

Draco didn’t look at her, instead he turned back toward the castle with no more conversation, the owl already vanishing into the pale stretch of winter sky behind them.

Later, in the quiet hush of the old astronomy observation alcove, far from the dormitories, past a spiral stair and behind a half-forgotten tapestry, Draco found himself alone. The room was high and narrow, with a single arched window that looked out over the forest. The sky outside was clear, starlight sharp and silver, scattered like shattered ice across the deep blue.

Draco sat on the built-in bench beneath the window, knees drawn slightly up, the letter unfolded in his lap like something dangerous. The ink was dark and deliberate, his mother’s handwriting elegant and exact.

“My dear dragon,

I trust you are well. I do not expect a reply last time. I have always known that silence, in certain seasons, is safer than words.

Still, I must write.

Everything has shifted. You’ve felt it, I’m sure. In the corridors, in the eyes that linger longer than they should. The Ministry talked heavily now. The Board has grown restless. Whispers move faster than owls, and Hogwarts is under scrutiny, more dangerous than ever before.

There is doubt in Dumbledore now. And that means there is danger.

Your father has grown... unpredictable. Restless in a way I do not recognize. He speaks of old ties and older debts, of bloodlines and allegiances turning like tides. I do not know all he knows. But I know the shape of danger. And I know when it’s close.

He asks fewer questions about you now. And that worries me more than if he asked too many.

Whatever you are doing, whatever you are becoming... hide it well. There are things I cannot protect you from. But there is still so much I would try.

Write if you can. Or don’t. But now I think of you more often than I dare admit aloud.

With all my love,

Mother”

Draco folded the parchment slowly, the sound of the paper bending sharply in the quiet room. His fingers were steady, his breath shallow but even, drawn in carefully through parted lips. Something cold settled in his chest. A kind of clarity that came when the world outside your control finally made itself known.

Chapter Text

February came and went, barely noticed until it was almost gone. The castle, still wrapped in cold chill and long shadows, drifted through the tail end of winter.

The vision, as before, came without warning. It was silence. The kind that felt unnatural, suspended. A vacuum of sound so complete it felt carved. There was no wind, no breath, not even the low, familiar murmur of the castle — that constant, subtle heartbeat of magic and stone. And then: water. It had no edge, no distant shore or sky reflecting at it. Just endless, black-blue depth that stretched in every direction.

Draco was sinking through it. Slowly at first, like a feather falling, weightless and deliberate. His robes rippled around him, and his hair streamed above him in strands of silver smoke. The descent was painless, almost peaceful.

The cold came after that was deep. A cold that seeped past skin and sinew, pressing into his lungs like ice. It thudded behind his ribs, a rhythmic pulse beneath his heart, just below the place where the serpent always curled.

And then like always, his serpent appeared. Emerging from the dark like a thought returning. It swam in slow, deliberate arcs around him, its body coiling through the dark water like ink unfurling across glass. Draco reached toward it, or tried to. But his limbs moved like they had been dipped in lead. Sluggish. Distant. His mouth opened without command, a reflex carved into bone, and water filled him. Something in him was being pulled under.

The serpent didn’t help. It didn’t come to save him. It only circled closer until its form brushed along his cheek, smooth and cold as polished metal, and lingered there.

This is the cost. This is the edge you walk. This is what awaits if you are not ready.

As he sank deeper and deeper into the dark, he understood. He was being warned.

Draco woke with the cold taste of water still caught in his throat. His hair clung damply to his forehead, soaked with sweat, and the sheets beneath him were twisted tight, damp where his fists had curled into them in the dark. The weight in his chest told him it hadn’t been just a dream. The dense, electric knot of pressure that lived just beneath his breastbone, the place where the serpent usually slept, coiled and still, humming in silence. Now it stirred. Unsettled.

Resentful, resigned, Draco reached for the sleeve of his nightshirt and wiped the blood from beneath his nose with practiced indifference. The streak of red was bright against the pale linen, but he barely looked at it. The physical toll no longer startled him. Not the throbbing behind his eyes, not the nausea that came and went like a tide. Not even the way the world sometimes blurred at the edges when the visions took hold, and reality stuttered and came back only in fragments.

He exhaled slowly, letting his head drop back against the headboard, the serpent’s restlessness still pulsing low in his ribs. He didn’t sleep the rest of the night.

By morning, Draco was dressed and in the dungeons before the first bell had rung, the stone corridors still half-lit, torches guttering in their sconces with reluctant flame.

He found Snape in his office, seated behind a desk cluttered with parchment and glassware, hunched over a sixth-year essay written in handwriting that looked like a dying spider’s last words. A jar of preserved mandrake root sat beside him, its contents floating in viscous amber, the roots curled like claws in suspended animation.

Snape did not look up when Draco entered. “I assume,” he said dryly, “that you are not here to submit your homework, which, if my memory serves, is now three days late.”

Draco didn’t flinch. “I need your advice on water-breathing solutions.”

That got Snape’s attention. The quill in his hand paused mid-sentence, ink blotted. He looked up slowly, dark eyes scanning Draco’s face with the precision of someone trained to notice the smallest shifts in posture, breath and fear.

“For recreational swimming,” Snape asked, voice deceptively mild, “or impending trauma?”

Draco’s lips twitched. “Let’s assume the latter.” No point pretending this was about fun. Nothing in Draco’s life was ever just about fun anymore.

Snape held his gaze for a long, unreadable moment, then rose in one smooth motion and crossed the room to a tall, narrow cabinet with double-lock wards and etched silver hinges. He opened it with a flick of his fingers, revealing rows of meticulously arranged vials, each labeled in Latin and guarded with spells only a master of the craft would dare use.

“The standard Gillywater infusion,” Snape said, selecting one vial, “will give you fifteen to twenty minutes underwater. Slight gill development, temporary finning of the fingers, unpleasant taste. Crude, but effective.”

He set the vial aside, reached deeper, and drew out another darker glass, sealed with green wax. “However,” he continued, “if you want to be certain, and I rather suspect you do, the Diluvium Draught is more potent. It extends water-breathing up to an hour, strengthens the body against cold pressure, and mildly enhances low-light vision beneath the surface. You’ll feel the change in your lungs within seconds.”

Draco leaned slightly forward. “Drawbacks?”

Snape’s mouth twisted slightly in a flicker of dark amusement. “It’s difficult to brew. Requires three days to settle properly in low heat, and it’s highly toxic in doses exceeding four sips. Take five, and you may wake up with lungs full of blood. If you wake up at all.”

He glanced sideways at Draco. “Much like ambition.”

Draco absorbed the information with a slow nod. “I’d like to make my own.”

“Of course you would.” There was no contempt in it, only inevitability.

Snape moved to his desk, plucked a parchment from beneath a stack of essays, and scrawled a short list of ingredients in his precise, clipped script. He handed it to Draco without ceremony.

Half the components were rare. A third were temperamental. One was explicitly illegal for student use outside supervised environments. Snape didn’t mention it. He never did when it mattered.

As Draco turned to leave, folding the list carefully into his robe, Snape added without looking up, “If you’re brewing, ward the cauldron with ice sigils. Cold keeps it docile. And whatever you do —”

He paused, just long enough to make the words matter. “Don’t hesitate. The potion doesn’t forgive uncertainty.”

Draco paused in the doorway, hand on the stone frame, the list burning cold in his pocket. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

Snape didn’t answer. But something in the lines around his mouth, in the way his shoulders softened. Slightly.

Over the next several nights, Draco returned again and again to the potions prep room, long after the castle had fallen into sleep. He brewed in silence, alone, with only a single enchanted lantern floating near his shoulder, its light casting a pale gold halo and drawing his shadow long and slender across the dungeon walls. He moved with grace. His knife never slipped. Every root was measured to the grain, every stir counted by breath. It was the kind of focus that bordered on ritual.

After everything was done, he had brewed two vials of Diluvium Draught, chilled in a frost-warded basin, sealed with green wax and spell-locked with a charm keyed to his touch. He brought them everywhere. Even to breakfast, tucked quietly into the inner lining of his robes. Even to bed, resting beneath his pillow like a second wand.

Because the serpent had shown him what happened if he didn’t. And he refused to be unprepared.

He gave one vial to Harry one morning without explanation, passing them across the table at breakfast like he was handing over salt or a spare quill.

Harry looked at him, eyebrows drawn in soft confusion. He turned the vial over in his fingers, brow furrowing. “Is this —?”

But he didn’t finish the question. Because Draco didn’t answer. He was already back to reading the Daily Prophet, or pretending to, his spoon slowly turning in a bowl of untouched porridge.

Harry stared at him for a moment longer. Then he pocketed the vials quietly, his hand brushing the inside of his robes with something like care. Like a solution to a question he hasn’t asked yet.

The Great Hall was filled with the usual noise, but around Draco and Harry, the air felt oddly still. Draco barely noticed it. His thoughts pressed in like cold water. The potion still tingled faintly at his fingertips from when he passed it to Harry, and the heat of that moment hadn’t quite left him. He hadn’t asked for details about what came next, but something in his bones already knew. The magic clinging to him had begun to whisper again.

From the raised dais at the front of the hall, Snape’s gaze cut through the air like a blade. Watching Draco over the rim of his goblet, expression unreadable but far too focused for comfort. Next to him, Moody was less discreet. His enchanted eye spun freely, twitching left, right, and then locking on Draco with eerie precision. The other eye followed half a second too late. His scarred mouth twitched once, something that might’ve been a smirk. Or a warning.

Draco straightened slightly, spine pulled taut like a wire. He glanced back at Harry, who was now cutting into a piece of toast, chewing slowly, head slightly bowed. Nothing dramatic. It was a morning like any other. Something about the normality of it settled in Draco’s chest like warmth.

***

The summon arrived with no rush to it, no dramatic owl through a high window or enchanted voice echoing through stone halls.  A folded note, thick as pressed velvet, parchment the color of old ivory, edged in ink so fine it might have been etched by spell work rather than pen. At the center, gleamed the unmistakable seal of the Headmaster, Dumbledore’s sigil.

It had been delivered by the Slytherin prefect — pale-faced, wide-eyed, as if she’d been asked to carry something sacred and volatile all at once.  Draco took the note without a word.

Around them, the Great Hall felt thinner. There were seats left empty. The Champions were gone. The Beauxbatons and Durmstrang seats were sparser than usual, thinned of students Draco now realized must be helping their champions prepare.

The second task was in motion. He stood slowly. The hem of his cloak brushed against the stone floor as he stepped back from the bench.

From across the hall, he felt eyes on him, Céleste, still seated at the end of the Ravenclaw table. Her plate was untouched. Her gaze was steady. She didn’t smile, but she nodded once, she probably already guessed what the next task entailed. Volkov, by contrast, was nowhere in sight at the Slytherin table. Draco’s eyes drifted across the Slytherin table once, but didn’t linger. He noted the absence and let it go. There wasn’t enough time for him. Not now.

He turned from the table. Behind him, the sounds of the Great Hall resumed but all of it already fading behind the thrum of what waited next.

The hallway this morning still held the chill of late winter, but more subtle, as if it was waiting for the first breath of spring right around the corner. The light above was just beginning to spill through the high arching windows, slanted and pale. There was a hush in the air, subtle and expectant, when he passed through the corridors. He reached the spiraling staircase, the one no student took lightly, and paused before the stone gargoyle that guarded its base. But it didn’t ask for a password. It simply stepped aside without a sound.

Draco inhaled once and stepped onto the stairs. It began to turn beneath him, rising in a perfect spiral that seemed to stretch higher than the tower should allow. With every rotation, the cold grew more distant, the light more golden. And he ascended toward the place where power wore half-moon spectacles and pretended it didn’t play games.

Dumbledore’s office was warm, unnaturally so, like a room that had been carefully charmed not just for temperature but for comfort. The kind that sank into your skin and tried to lull you into forgetting why you’d come in the first place. Golden light pooled across worn carpets. The fire murmured low in the grate. Delicate instruments whirred softly in the corners, their polished brass arms ticking in slow, deliberate circles. Somewhere behind it all lingered the faint scent of lemon tea, bergamot, and something like old books left too long in sunlit libraries.

The Headmaster stood near the arched window, his silhouette outlined in the cold light that spilled in from the morning beyond. His hands were clasped loosely behind his back, and his eyes were cast down to the glimmering sweep of the Black Lake.

Draco stepped inside and the door closed behind him with quiet precision.

“Thank you for coming,” Dumbledore said, still facing the glass. “I hope the request didn’t interrupt anything… vital.”

There was a softness to his tone, the kind of people mistook for kindness. Draco had learned better.

He said nothing in return.

Dumbledore waited for a moment longer, then finally turned. His eyes, which are too bright and too blue kind of unnatural, pinned Draco down to his place.

There was no smile. But there was the suggestion of one. The kind old men wore in fairy tales, just before they sent a boy into the woods with a sword and a lesson wrapped in metaphor. “I imagine,” Dumbledore said softly, “that by now, you’ve begun to suspect what the second task entails.”

Draco tilted his head, the picture of polite disinterest. “I wouldn’t presume to guess.” A lie, of course. But some games required you to bluff.

Dumbledore didn’t call him on it. “A rescue,” he said simply. “From the Black Lake.”

His voice barely rose above the hum of the instruments. “The champions will dive beneath the surface to retrieve someone who has been placed there… someone dear to them. Held in stasis. For safekeeping.”

Safekeeping. The word curled around Draco’s spine.

He didn’t blink. “And they’ll be safe?”

“Quite,” Dumbledore said. “Every possible protection has been applied. Nothing will touch them. They will not suffer. They will not drown.”

Draco’s mouth was a thin, unreadable line. “What is it you’re asking me?” he said, though he already knew.

Dumbledore took a step forward. The light shifted slightly on his robes, catching at the edge of his sleeve like gold dust.

“I am asking,” he said gently, “that you be the one Harry rescues.”

There it was. The shape of the thought that had been circling Draco for days now. He had wondered. In some quiet, shameful part of him, he had guessed.

Because he wanted it to be him. The one Harry would choose. The one Harry would dive into cold black water for — with that furious, determined look on his face and his wand clenched tight in his hand.

And now it was real.

The fire crackled once, sharp and out of place, before falling silent again.

“And yes,” Dumbledore continued, his tone grave now, “I understand what this places upon you. With everything that’s... unfolded lately. The attention. The scrutiny.”

“You mean my father,” Draco said, his voice colder than the window glass.

“I mean the weight of things that do not belong on young shoulders,” Dumbledore replied. “But find their way there anyway.”

Draco looked at him. And for the first time, he saw the man. Not the legend. But someone old. Worn. Threadbare beneath the robes. Like someone who had once tried to shape the world and now spent every ounce of willpower simply trying to hold it still long enough for others to survive it.

Draco said nothing. Because what could he say?

“I am not asking you to trust the Tournament,” Dumbledore said, softly now. “But I am asking you to trust that no harm will come to you beneath that lake. And that Harry, of all people, will bring you back.”

Draco looked down at his gloves. A faint stain still marked the side of one finger from the potion he’d brewed several nights before. Something about the moment felt already written.

“And if I say no?” he asked quietly.

Dumbledore did not hesitate. “Then I will find someone else,” he said, gently. “But I believe it would be a mistake. For you. And for him.”

Draco met his gaze again. Because words like safe and protection meant very little in a world where even love could be used like a blade.

Still, he nodded.

Dumbledore’s eyes warmed, just a fraction. But Draco didn’t feel warmth. Only the weight. The shape of inevitability. The sensation of water rising just behind the skin, pressing against his lungs like it was already remembering how to take him. Without a word, he reached into the inner seam of his sleeve, fingers closing around the slim glass vial nestled there, Diluvium Draught, sealed tight and warmed by the heat of his skin. His thumb traced the smooth curve of it, found the wax at the cork’s edge. Familiar. Solid. Ready.

He’d known this was coming. The serpents had shown him.

Across the room, Dumbledore gestured gently to the tall-backed chair near the hearth, its red velvet worn pale at the edges. The fire beside it burned too softly to be real.

“The sleep will be brief,” Dumbledore said, his voice the softest it had been. “A spell-assisted rest. You’ll wake when you're brought out of the water.”

There was something final in the way he said it. Something that said this wasn’t about sleep at all but surrender.

Draco moved toward the chair, the sound of his steps muffled by the thick rugs beneath. He sat, slowly, letting the weight settle, hands folded in his lap. His breath came steady, but deeper now. Like he was already adjusting to a different kind of air. Dumbledore remained standing. His expression was unreadable. A soft blue glow bloomed at the tip of his wand, casting faint shadows along the curves of the chair and the lines of Draco’s jaw.

“I’m sure you’ve been told this already,” the Headmaster murmured, “but courage takes many forms. Some louder than others.”

Draco’s gaze didn’t move. “Some quieter,” he said, “because they know screaming won’t help.”

Dumbledore paused and nodded once, solemn.

And then the spell was cast. Just a quiet rush, the sudden drop in pressure, the slow, silver dimming of light, the feel of air shifting in the lungs before they are no longer needed. The world tilted. And sleep came for him not like darkness, but like water. Cool. Soundless. Endless. It wrapped around him gently, drawing him down through layers of thought and fear and memory until all that was left was stillness and the sense that somewhere beneath him, the lake was waiting.

***

It felt like being lowered into memory. Not falling and not quite sinking either, as if someone had carefully unhooked him from time and thought and lowered him gently through the folds of something older than sleep. His body floated downward, slipping through layers of sensation not meant for waking minds — the kind of feeling reserved for deep forests, forgotten mirrors, and the last breath before drowning.

The cold came first. Not the bite of winter or the sting of ice. It wrapped around him like deep velvet and pressed into the hollow spaces of his ribs. A hush of deep waters untouched by sound or sunlight settled over him. Then came the pressure. Soft like fingertips brushing against his temples but then firmer, heavier, as though a thousand whispered thoughts were being piled behind his eyes all at once, and none of them were his.

He heard them, too, though not with his ears.

Voices.

Like the ghost of a song sung underwater. A rhythm. A faint sound. Muffled syllables drifted like foam riding the back of a wave. He couldn’t understand them. But he knew they were there.

He slipped in and out of it. The line between dream and sensation thinned like ice, but never quite breaking. Sometimes he felt the drag of water across his skin, slow and heavy. Sometimes there was only stillness, thick and perfect and endless, the kind that came before a storm.

Time stretched. He felt the spell wards shimmering faintly around his head, soft like lullabies. Felt the distant thrum of magic as others moved through the water above — one of them Harry, though Draco’s mind could barely place the thought.

And somewhere far above the hush and drift and shadow, the second task had begun.

Then—

A flicker.

A shift so slight it might have been imagined, the barest ripple across the still surface of his mind, like something brushing against the skin of a thought.

The serpent.

Then the ring burned. A sudden flare, searing against his chest like a brand. The contrast was jarring: the impossible cold of the water with that unbearable, golden heat blooming against bone.

Draco. Wake up.

And just like that, awareness surged back into him, sharp and immediate, slicing through the quiet weight of the dream like a blade drawn through silk.

His lungs seized. His chest tightened.

The bubble, the protective spell meant to hold air while he slept beneath the lake, was trembling around him, warping at the edges, the thin membrane of magic fluttering like wet parchment caught in the wind. It shimmered once. Then again, weaker.

Draco blinked and the lake around him swam into clarity, but it was wrong now. The water was too dark, too dense. The cold, which had once felt distant, began to bite deeper, curling like frost through his blood. He tried to move his fingers but they felt clumsy, numb, like bone inside a glove that didn’t belong to him.

And that’s when he heard it.

Clank. Metal. Movement.

A blur cut through the water, fast and wild, and suddenly Harry was there, right there, no longer just a thought lingering in the background of a fading dream.

Harry’s shirt billowed around him, pressed close to his frame by the weight of the water. His hair drifted in long, dark strands, haloed in the soft glow of his wand light that barely pierced the gloom. His green eyes were wide, frantic, locked on Draco with a kind of focus that could burn through anything.

He was pulling, quick and desperate, at something near Draco’s wrist.

His chain.

It had been wrapped tightly, tied to a stone pillar carved with old runes that shimmered faintly. Each link pulsed with spell work, glowing with the soft red-gold of forged bindings.

Draco could feel it now, the cold iron against his skin. How had he not felt it before? Because he hadn’t been meant to. It had only revealed itself once the rescue was close and escape seemed possible.

The air bubble shuddered and then returned, barely holding. Thin cracks at the edges of the charm pulsed with dim, panicked magic. He felt it begin to give, thread by thread, like something unraveling too fast to stop.

Harry’s eyes darted up, catching Draco’s, and though he said nothing, his mouth formed a shape that looked like a question, or a plea. Hold on.

But Draco saw it in his face. Something’s wrong.

And then, Draco felt it. The bubble around his head shimmered just slightly like a flicker at the edge. It rippled, strained. Then, cracked.

Panic punched through him like cold lightning. Someone had tampered with the charm and the chain, designed it to fail before the surface could be reached. Before the rescue was complete.

Draco could feel his mind slipping, fraying at the seams like torn silk, the pressure mounting against his skin. He tried to pull in another breath and choked. Water surged into his mouth. He clamped his lips shut, holding what little breath he had left.

Draco recoiled instinctively and tried to focus. The world tilted slightly, darker at the edges. His lungs burned with warning.

With numb fingers and frantic tied to the pillar, he gestured to the inner pocket of his robes.

Harry’s eyes followed it, uncertain. Confused.

Draco tapped his finger again. Insistent, sharp. Look.

Harry hovered for half a second, hovering on the edge of understanding. And then, it clicked. His expression shifted instantly, confusion vanished, replaced by that fierce, clear-eyed urgency Draco had only ever seen when Harry Potter made a decision that meant everything.

Harry dove forward, hands sure now, pulling open the soaked fabric of Draco’s robes, reaching inside.

His fingers closed around something cold, small. The silver vial. The one marked with ancient frost-runes. The one sealed tight with Draco’s own magic, bound to his own touch. Diluvium Draught. Harry then pressed it against Draco’s fingertips, letting the enchantment register the contact, and when the seal melted with a shimmer of white-blue light, he brought the vial to Draco’s lips.

The liquid hit his tongue like starlight water, sharp and glacial, laced with something electric and otherworldly. It slid down his throat, sudden and violent and perfectly clean. Everything stopped. And restarted. His lungs seized for one final, aching second then opened to water. Cold and clear, it rushed into him as if it had been waiting all along, folding into every part of him, sliding through his veins.

And the panic ebbed. The pain dulled. The pressure softened. He could breathe, and the lake wrapped around him like home. The bubble popped with a delicate shimmer, vanishing into nothing.

Harry stared at him, stunned, suspended just inches away, the light from his wand caught in the strands of his hair and the wide disbelief in his eyes.

Draco gave him a look, a little breathless, a little dazed.

This time, Harry had the seconds he needed, no frantic spell-flinging, no panicked scrambling with magic half-formed. Draco was breathing now, alive and alert beneath the water, no longer on the edge of collapse, and that changed everything.

Harry pressed his palm against the chain just above the iron shackle that still clung to Draco’s wrist like a curse, the links glowing faintly with residual spell work. He shifted his grip, steady now, focus sharpened by the clarity that comes only after fear has passed and purpose has taken its place.

Harry whispered the incantation, the words stolen by the water.

A pulse of red light flickered from the tip of his wand, brief but potent, dancing across the runes etched into the chain.

The metal cracked once. A high, splintering sound that trembled through the water. Then again, deeper this time, as if the very magic within the iron was beginning to yield. And then it snapped.

Draco jerked slightly as the final shackle fell free. The severed links uncoiled from his wrist and slid away into the dark, vanishing into the murky blue below.

He looked up, eyes wide, and met Harry’s gaze through the swaying drift of their hair and robes. And for a breathless heartbeat, everything else fell away.

Harry reached for him without needing to think. Draco didn’t hesitate. Their hands met beneath the water, cold fingers latching tight around one another.

Kicking hard against the weight of the deep, they rose and sliced upward through the cold, silken folds of the lake, their cloaks streaming behind them. The water resisted, thick and slow and strange, as though the lake itself resented the idea of letting them go.

The deeper flora whispered past them in still motion. Long tendrils of lakegrass that pulsed faintly with bioluminescent veins, swaying in unseen currents. Twisting fans of dark kelp rippled open and closed, brushing their ankles. Broken stone columns leaned at odd angles, wrapped in pale algae. Carved faces peeked out from the ruins — worn and sightless, their mouths parted as if in warning or wonder.

Draco felt his heart hammering in his chest, louder than it should have been in this mute, suspended world. Every beat pushed him forward, upward.

The light above, at first just a distant shimmer, began to expand with each kick, each pull of his arms. It grew larger, brighter. The water shifted with them as they ascended, losing its density, its cold.

And then, slowly, the world began to change around them.

The flora changed into pale green instead of ink-black vines, fluttering like ribbons in soft sunlit areas. Small schools of silver-scaled fish darted past, glinting like stars, unbothered by the human shapes moving through their world.

Harry’s grip was still tight in Draco’s, both of them kicking in rhythm now.

When they broke the surface. All of it exploding around them in one glorious moment of return. Water fell from their shoulders, their lungs expanded with real air filling them.

They breathed.

Shouts and cheers, distant at first, like echoes carried on the wind, broke across the surface of the morning, then rose in a wave that shimmered through the cold, bright air. A whistle pierced the sound, sharp and clean, cutting through the fog that still lingered above the water.

From the stands gathered along the shore, the crowd erupted. Applause rang out, but it stuttered, uneven, distracted. Confused.

Because this was the end. Draco and Harry were the last to rise. The final figures to break the surface of the Black Lake.

The others had already returned. Gasping, shivering and triumphant. Cedric Diggory stood tall, wrapped in a silver-lined towel, exhaustion etched along his jaw but pride shining behind his eyes. Fleur Delacour knelt in the shallows, arms around her sister, her face wet with more than just lake water. Viktor Krum lingered near the fire pit, his posture unreadable, Hermione Granger seated at his side, wrapped in a thick blanket, her hands still trembling around a flask of warming tonic.

But Draco...

Draco stood in the shallows, the water lapping at his knees, hair plastered to his face in silver streaks, robes clinging to him like a second skin. His hand was still loosely clasped in Harry’s as they stared into the noise that awaited them.

And for a single, fragile heartbeat, Draco didn’t care.

Not about the waiting eyes or the points to be awarded or the whispers already beginning to form in the space between claps.

Because he was alive. He had made it out of the dark.

And beside him, blinking water from his lashes, looking like a storm-kissed idiot and grinning so hard it hurt to look at, was Harry. Alive too.

The realization came. Not all at once. But slowly like ink seeping through parchment.

Someone had tampered with his bubble charm and the chain. Sabotage.

Timed to fail just before the rescue. Just before the surface.

If not for the serpent. If not for the potion he’d brewed by hand, carried against his ribs like a secret, sealed with runes no one else could break. If not for Harry.

He would still be down there. He would not have surfaced at all.

The cheers around him blurred into noise, too loud, too distant, like they were happening behind glass. The wind on his face no longer felt sharp but thin, artificial.

Someone had wanted him dead. And they had almost succeeded.

Draco turned his head slowly, the water still running in cold rivulets down the side of his face, clinging to his lashes like dew to glass. The noise of the crowd fell away into a kind of hollow murmur, distant and half-formed, like applause heard through mist. The sky above was a washed-out grey, the kind that dulled edges, but beneath it everything suddenly felt too clear.

His eyes found the elevated judges’ platform first. Dumbledore stood tall in the center, robes hanging in elegant folds, hands clasped lightly before him. At a glance, he might’ve appeared pleased, relieved even with the faintest smile, the sort that could be read as warmth by anyone who didn’t know better. But Draco did know better.

To the left of Dumbledore, Bagman beamed obliviously, clapping with the bright-eyed enthusiasm of someone who had already forgotten the danger. To the right, Madame Maxime was murmuring something to one of her aides, her gaze flicking between students and a clipboard. Just beyond them, half-shadowed beneath the awning, Karkaroff stood stiff and cold-eyed. His fingers curled tightly at his sides, as if trying not to tremble. Or not to lash out. Further back was Moody. Perched high on the edge of the stand, half-seated, half-looming, he watched the lake like it might rise and speak. His enchanted eye fixed on Draco.

Draco scanned farther, in the sea of faces at the edge of the lake, where schools gathered in clusters beneath fluttering house banners. Hogwarts. Durmstrang. Beauxbatons. All cheering, more out of ritual than joy. Some clapped, some stared, some whispered behind gloved hands and pointed subtly.

And then, near the lower steps of the stands, just barely separated from the crowd, he saw Snape. Arms folded. Expression unreadable. Eyes locked directly on him.

Draco turned slightly, felt the shift of movement beside him, and remembered. Harry. Still holding his hand. Still shivering from the cold but not letting go. There was warmth in his grip, even now. The kind that said I was here. I came for you.

But Draco’s breath came shallow, a slow exhale through parted lips as the truth finished unfurling in his chest.

“I was supposed to die,” he said softly.

Harry turned toward him, blinking the water from his lashes, mouth already open. “What?”

But Draco didn’t answer. Because the words didn’t need repeating.

Instead, he looked back over his shoulder, over the glittering expanse of the Black Lake that was now so still, so pristine like nothing had ever touched it. Like no chains had ever coiled beneath its surface. Like no breath had almost been stolen.

But Draco remembered. And the serpent within him stirred with rage.

He had been targeted. And someone was going to pay for it.

***

The judges had begun to rise, their voices carrying over the churn of the lake and the scattered cheers from the stands. Magical megaphones, conjured to sound official and celebratory, rang out through the winter air:

“—the second task is complete—”

“—each champion showed courage and ingenuity—”

“—points will now be awarded—”

But Draco didn’t hear the numbers. Didn’t care.

Bagman’s voice warbled something about high marks for “tenacity and companionship,” and Karkaroff spat something under his breath when Delacour was awarded more than Krum, but all of it rolled off Draco like rain on polished stone.

And as Draco stepped onto the shoreline, boots sinking slightly into the damp grit and reeds, the heavy towel someone had draped over his shoulders felt less like warmth and more like mockery. Water still clung to his skin, cold and clinging, but it was nothing compared to the chill settling deep in his chest.

Beside him, Harry walked in silence, matching his pace without needing instruction, a quiet presence whose steadiness was the only thing anchoring Draco to the moment. Around them, the world moved on as if nothing had cracked beneath the surface. The crowd was still buzzing. Applause swelling in half-hearted waves, scattered cheers and laughter echoing over the slope leading to the judges’ platform.

His feet moved through the wet grass with mechanical precision. His breath curled visibly in the air, but he couldn’t feel it. Couldn’t feel much of anything, except the occasional flick of Harry’s gaze brushing against him, A silent, subtle check-in every few steps, like a tether.

Because Harry wasn’t stupid. He’d seen the chain. Felt the faltering spell. He’d witnessed the wrongness of it all — how the air bubble had collapsed too soon, how the chain had resisted too long, how none of it aligned with what was supposed to happen.

He’d seen the danger. And more importantly, he’d seen that no one else cared.

A judge stepped forward, hand half-extended, some polite congratulation already forming on his tongue but neither of them stopped. Neither reached back. The words floated after them and were lost in the wind.

Somewhere along the slope, a fourth-year called out with a half-laughing voice, “Potter! Malfoy! Are you two engaged now or what?”

It might have drawn a grin, another day. It might’ve earned a smirk, a clever retort.

But neither of them turned.

Then there was a rush of footsteps, and suddenly their friends were there. Weasley first, his face flushed from running, eyes flicking between the two of them, half-concerned and half-ready with some ridiculous comment. Granger was close behind, still holding on to her own blanket, her gaze already scanning Harry and Draco like she was cataloguing injuries. Pansy wasn’t far behind, followed by Theo and Blaise, who both wore looks of premature smugness that faltered the moment they got close enough to see.

Weasley opened his mouth, a grin already pulling at one side. “That was — are you — did you two—”

He trailed off because he saw their faces. Saw Draco’s haunted silence, the way his jaw was set too tightly. Saw the narrow focus in Harry’s eyes, the way his hand hovered near Draco’s arm like he was ready to catch him if he fell.

And whatever joke Weasley had prepared collapsed on his tongue.

Granger stepped forward instead, softer. “What happened?”

Harry hesitated. His hand finally dropped to his side. But Draco didn’t speak.

***

Afterward, Draco couldn’t say how much time had passed, whether it was minutes or hours. Only that, somehow, the world had kept moving. Students filtered out of the stands as though waking from a spell, teachers murmured to one another and drifted away, and the castle exhaled and resumed its ancient rhythm, as if nothing had cracked beneath the surface.

They walked through the crowd as though it wasn’t there, untouched and unbothered. The castle itself seemed to part for their passage: staircases shuddered aside with eerie ease, paintings turned their eyes away, and even the torchlight dimmed slightly, as if unwilling to illuminate what was about to unfold.

At the top of the spiraling stone staircase, the gargoyle sprang aside without challenge. The great stone beast twisted open with a low, grinding groan, revealing the entrance to the Headmaster’s office.

They stepped inside before anyone could summon a word of protest.

And then... the shouting began.

“Someone tried to kill me,” Draco said, his voice cutting clean through the room.

He stood at the center of the circular office, pale and furious. His eyes gleamed with something colder than fear, fury edged with betrayal. Behind him, Harry hesitated, his steps unsure, but his silence loud with choice.

Dumbledore was already there — as if he had stepped out of time itself, emerging from some unseen corner of the castle to arrive ahead of them, impossibly and inevitably. He moved slowly toward his claw-footed desk, each step heavy with the weight of centuries, his face etched with fatigue.

Behind him came Professors McGonagall and Snape. One with her spine straight as a blade, eyes sharp with disapproval; the other a silent shadow, unreadable as ever, his hands folded neatly into the folds of his black robes.

“Mr. Malfoy—” Dumbledore began, voice wrapped in that maddening gentleness.

“The bubble charm failed,” Draco interrupted. “Too early. The chain didn't break in time. I could have drowned.”

Beside him, Harry’s fists clenched at his sides. “And he’s right.”

McGonagall stepped forward, face drawn and tight. “Albus,” she said sharply, turning to him now, eyes flashing like storm, “you have assured me of my student safety! You told me the enchantments—”

“Were layered. They were,” Dumbledore said, without turning. “Every protective charm was tested.”

“Then reviewed by a blind man,” Draco snapped. “Or someone who wanted it to fail.”

A few of the portraits on the curved walls stirred. Phineas Nigellus scoffed audibly from his frame, but was shushed by a witch in severe plum-colored robes. Another, in deep blue with a star-flecked beard, muttered, “Steady now...”

Harry took a step forward, uncertain. His voice wavered, but then he remembered his newfound purpose. “Professor, I want to believe you... I still want to believe you. But Draco’s not wrong. Someone wanted him gone. And I’m supposed to just carry on? Smile and wave through the next task?”

His breath came fast now, chest tight with fury. “I’m not stupid, sir.”

He stopped and swallowed hard.

Dumbledore looked at him with a gaze that held centuries. “Harry, I would never let harm come to you. You know that.”

Harry’s voice dropped, quiet but seething. “I thought I did.”

The hearth flared one great pop of ember and heat, as if the castle itself were listening.

Draco took another step forward, lit from below, and for a moment he looked less like a boy and more like the storm itself. “Let’s not pretend this is a coincidence. First Harry’s name goes in. Then I get dragged into this. Every time we think we’ve understood the rules, they change. Every time someone speaks up, something worse happens. You’re not stopping it. Or doing anything at all.”

McGonagall turned back to Dumbledore, her voice low. “Albus, if you knew the task was tampered with—”

“I did not know,” Dumbledore said, the softness finally cracking. “And I do not believe it was one of us.”

“But someone did it,” Draco insisted. “And unless you think it was me or Harry, someone inside this castle wanted one or both of us dead.”

Snape stepped forward at last, the firelight catching in his eyes like the glint of black glass, cold and unreadable. “The spell was sabotaged,” he said. “Yes. But the sabotage is only a fragment of something larger. And that... is being dealt with.”

Draco blinked. Harry turned to stare at him, stunned. The edge of Snape’s words cut clean, but left more concealed than revealed.

Snape didn’t look at either of them. He addressed Dumbledore, his voice thinner now, quieter, laced with something unspoken. “They don’t need to know. Not yet.”

Dumbledore’s eyes closed for a long, flickering moment in calculation. Something passed between the two men. Old knowledge. Older trust.

Draco stared, disbelieving. “You’re… you’re with him?”

Snape’s lips curled, a tight expression that might’ve meant regret or irony or nothing at all.

“I’m on the side,” he said, “of those who understand what’s really happening.”

The silence that followed fell like a curtain.

Even the air in the room thickened, settling into the bones like fog. The portraits hushed themselves. The silver instruments on the shelves — whirring, ticking, puffing bits of smoke just moments before — now stilled.

McGonagall’s voice cracked the silence like a thunderclap.

“And what, exactly, is happening, Albus?” she demanded, stepping forward, her robes bristling with the force of her fury. “Students nearly dying in front of hundreds, spells sabotaged, and the best you can offer is half-truths and vague assurances?”

Dumbledore met her gaze, and for the first time, did not soften. “Minerva,” he said, “some things cannot be spoken aloud. Not yet.”

Her face flushed with cold anger. “Then someone else will speak. Because these children deserve answers, not riddles. They are not pieces on a chessboard.”

“They are not,” Snape said quietly. “Which is why they are not being told everything.”

Draco looked from one face to the next — the ancient, drawn weariness of Dumbledore, the calculating shadow that was Snape, and the outraged integrity burning in McGonagall’s eyes. He felt like the only one in the room who still believed what he saw was real.

“This isn’t a school tradition anymore,” Harry said then, his voice low, but sharp with something colder than anger. “This is war. And you’re pretending it’s a festival.”

Dumbledore’s expression didn’t change, but his breath left him in a long, worn sigh.

“I assure you,” he said, “your safety—”

“Then your assurances,” Draco cut in, trembling but unrelenting, “are worth nothing.”

And silence came again. This time it was heavier. The room seemed suspended in it, firelight flickering across ancient stone, shadows pooling in corners that had seen too much, said too little.

Draco stood tall, damp curls clinging to his forehead, his chest rising and falling with the slow, stunned rhythm of someone who has just torn a belief from his ribs. Across from him, Dumbledore no longer seemed like a giant. He seemed... small. Tired. Not a god behind the desk, but a man capable of making mistakes.

And Harry, who was still standing beside Draco looked at the Headmaster with something between grief and revelation. As if he, too, had finally seen the man behind the legend.

Chapter Text

Draco didn’t return to the Slytherin common room right away.

The dungeons, usually a refuge of dim-lit silence and familiar echoing stone, felt suddenly too exposed, their quiet too loud. Every corridor filled with half-familiar faces and half-hearted smiles, with people who would say the wrong thing at exactly the wrong moment: You looked good in the water, or You two are so cute together, or You took a while down there, all tossed off with thoughtless grins, never guessing what it meant to have your lungs fill with cold, endless water.

So he found himself near the West Tower, tucked behind a half-frayed tapestry about a goblin battle, and sat on a forgotten bench beneath the tall, stained-glass window of Saint Oswald.

The light through the glass was soft and fractured, spilling in faded blues and muted reds. A single candle burned low on the wall sconce nearby, trembling each time the wind whispered down the corridor.

Draco sat. His robes still damp around the edges, his hair pushed back with careless fingers, a faint sheen of salt drying on his skin. There was a line of exhaustion drawn beneath his eyes like a bruise that hadn’t quite faded. He didn’t know how long he had stayed like that. Long enough, perhaps, for the adrenaline to leave him hollow. Long enough to begin wondering what he’d said back in that office, and what it truly meant now that he’d said it.

Then, there were soft footsteps, and Draco knew, without needing to look, who it was. The world had a different weight when Harry was in it.

He imagined, vaguely, that Harry had gone first to reassure the others — Granger, Weasley, the whole loyal Gryffindor gang — murmured words about how they were fine, how they just needed time, how it wasn’t about you. And then, when the responsibility of that was done, he came here.

A quiet and uncertain voice broke the hush.

“Draco?”

He didn’t look up right away. His eyes stayed fixed on the flickering light filtering through the stained glass.

“Yeah,” he said at last.

Harry’s footsteps hesitated, then creaked gently forward. His voice still carried the weight of the climb, breath catching slightly from the stairs.

“I tried to answer everyone’s questions,” he said. “Most of them, anyway. It wasn’t easy.”

Draco gave a crooked, tired half-smile without turning. “I can imagine.”

Harry hovered, hands in the pockets of his cloak, not yet sitting.

“Then I had to get away too,” he added, more quietly. “Ron’s furious. Hermione’s... writing a list.”

Draco snorted. “Of course she is.”

“They both believe you,” Harry said. “They also think it was sabotage. An attack.”

Draco’s fingers curled slightly against his knee. His voice, when it came, was barely more than a whisper. “Belief’s not enough. I want answers. I want someone to do something.”

Harry stepped a little closer. The light caught on the edge of his face, still pale from the cold, his fringe plastered damp to his forehead. “We’re trying. I swear we are.”

Draco turned then and what he saw there stole the next breath from his chest. Harry looked exactly the way Draco felt: still damp, still cold somewhere deep inside. The usual fire in him, all that reckless and maddening Gryffindor brightness was there, but dimmed and tight.

Harry’s voice cracked when he finally spoke again.

“I’m sick of it too,” he said. “Of the adults pretending everything’s fine. Like it’s normal, we almost die every year, and that we should get on with it. I saw your face down there, Draco. Your eyes didn’t open. You weren’t moving. I thought you were gone. I—”

Draco swallowed. There was a strange tightness behind his ribs.

“You know I saw the Buckbeak thing last year,” he said, his voice quieter than before. “In one of the dreams. The first ones. Before I even knew they meant anything.”

Harry turned toward him again, slower this time. “Is that why you went after him?”

“Yeah,” Draco said. “I thought... it would prove it was all just nonsense. That none of it meant anything. Just stupid dreams, nothing real. Nothing written in stone.”

He looked down, brows drawn together, like the truth hurt more to say aloud than he’d expected.

“But it wasn’t just that,” he said softly. “The dreams weren’t warning. They were... possible. They showed me what could have happened. What could’ve been done. And today—” His voice faltered, then steadied. “I’ve never been that close before. To death. I felt it. Tasted it. It wasn’t a dream this time.”

Harry sat down beside him. His shoulder was just barely brushing Draco’s, the warmth of him subtle but steady.

“I hate it,” Draco said, his voice raw, barely more than breath. “That you’re in this. That you almost died too. That you could’ve drowned... just like me.”

“We warned them,” he added. “We told them something was wrong. And they listened just enough to nod, to look wise, to say they understand. Then....”

“I thought I trusted Dumbledore,” Harry said suddenly. The words escaped like something long-caged. “I still want to. I want to believe he’s ten steps ahead, that there’s some great plan and we just can’t see it yet. But today... Today I looked at him, and I didn’t feel... safe.”

Draco said nothing. He hated that he understood. Because he’d been raised in a world where everything was whispered behind closed doors, with veiled threats and carefully barbed compliments. Power kept secrets and waited for the right moment to strike.

Draco had learned early that exposure didn’t solve things and only made you vulnerable.

Dumbledore knows that too.

Harry dared not dare to look over. “It’s like... he still feels right. But less like someone you follow, and more like someone you’re afraid to question. And I hate that I’m even thinking that. I hate that I don’t know if he’s protecting us, or just...”

Draco closed his eyes for a moment, letting the silence settle between them.

Then, finally, Harry spoke, his voice hushed but steady, like he’d been turning the words over and over in his mouth until they came out smooth enough to say.

“We think it might be Karkaroff,” he said. “Hermione’s practically certain. Says he’s the obvious choice — former Death Eater, dodgy past, reputation like rotted parchment. And he’s been acting strange ever since we saw him at the Yule Ball.”

Draco didn’t answer immediately. His gaze stayed fixed on the far wall, unfocused, like he was reading something written there in a language only he could see. And then, at last: “It’s not Karkaroff.”

Harry turned toward him, brows lifting. “You sound sure.”

“I am.”

There was a pause, a soft shift of air as the castle breathed around them, old and listening.

“Then who?” Harry asked.

Draco’s jaw tightened slightly. “Moody.”

Harry blinked. “Moody? Mad-Eye Moody?”

Draco didn’t know how to explain it in a way that made sense. Karkaroff moved like a man desperate to keep his nose clean. Nervous, twitchy. The kind of man who spent his energy hiding from the past. Moody was different.

Draco nodded slowly. “He’s been watching me since the start of term. Everywhere. Every corridor, every mealtime, every moment I’m not behind a closed door. He looks at me like he’s waiting for something to happen.”

Harry frowned. “But... killing a student?”

Draco wasn’t ready to believe that either. But the pieces didn’t fall into place anywhere else.  

“I don’t know,” Draco said quickly then exhaled, the tension sagging in his shoulders. His next words came softer, more bitter. “But he’s too interested. In all of it. In me. I don’t understand it at all.”

Harry didn’t answer right away. But the question slipped into the air, lingering, delicate, impossible to ignore.

Why would Mad-Eye Moody target you?

“I don’t know,” he said again, the sentence like a mantra he kept repeating.

Harry didn’t press. He didn’t demand or dissect or try to peel the answer out of him like so many others might have.

He only leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes distant and burning.

“Well,” he said. “Then we find out.”

***

He didn’t have time to dwell on it. Not on Moody, not on the conversation between him and Harry, not even on the way the shadows in the corridors seemed to follow him closely now.

Because just before curfew, as the castle began to quiet, another letter came. This one was different, like it just appeared out of thin air with no owl carrying the message. The scrap of parchment still has a thin, black string tied in three tight knots like last time. The paper was heavier and warmer to the touch, almost vibrating faintly.

Draco waited until he was alone in his room, door locked, curtains drawn tight around the four-poster. Then he cleared his desk in silence, pulled the lone candle closer, and broke the string.

The envelope opened.

Inside was a folded letter, the ink slightly raised under his fingertips. And beneath it, a second slip: thinner, darker, and covered in curling, deliberate runes. Potion instructions, laid out with clinical precision and strange, fluid grace. Two inks had been used: one deep gold that caught the candlelight like honey, and the other a crimson so dark it bordered on black.

The letter read:

“Dear Draco,

You do not know me and for now, that is safer for both of us. I am a distant branch of the Carmesí line, still in hiding. My name cannot yet be given. Not while certain eyes remain open.

But know this: I was once where you are now.

I’m glad you answered. Most don’t.

I could sense it from the moment your words reached me. The Nethervel in you is not dormant, and that is a rare thing, rarer than luck or lineage. You are very fortunate.

But understand this clearly, the Nethervel is not a weapon. It cannot be summoned or bent like a spell. It will not come because you wish it. It lives in the in-between, beneath your thoughts, behind your breath, inside the stillness you do not dare dwell in. It is dangerous. And it is entirely yours.

Enclosed is a draught we call Velaet Draught. In the old tongue, the name means veil, or thread-of-soul. In Carmesí texts, it has also meant the echo of your first breath.

What follows cannot be controlled. There is no shield against a truth that rises from within your own bones.

You’re closer than you know.

K.”

Draco read the letter once then again, slower, letting the words settle across him like ash. On the third pass, his fingers drifted down to the runes at the bottom of the potion sheet, tracing them one by one. The name of the draught echoed through him, Velaet Draught, the echo of your first breath. He whispered it out loud, and the flame on the candle trembled. And Draco had a terrible plan.

The next morning, the castle moved in soft shadow with clouds pressing low outside the windows, casting the stone halls in a silvery haze.

Draco drifted through the day, through the noise. And Luna noticed. She always did.

She found him after Herbology, tucked into the far corner of the old sunroom — a long, glass-roofed chamber jutting off the greenhouses, half-forgotten by most students. Rain freckled the glass overhead in slow, rhythmic patterns, casting watery shadows across the flagstone floor. Beyond the tall, steamed-up panes, the Forbidden Forest loomed—dark and damp, trees swaying like they were breathing in time with the storm.

He sat cross-legged beneath one of the wide, arched windows, back pressed to the moss-dusted wall. His cloak was pulled tight around his shoulders, collar turned up. One hand gripped the crumpled letter. His hair, still wet from the walk back, curled at his temples.

“You’re thinking too loudly again,” Luna said, appearing beside him without a sound, her gaze drifting somewhere between his face and the rain-streaked window.

Draco didn’t argue. He simply handed her the letter after a moment’s silence, the parchment slightly creased where he’d held it too tightly.

“The relative,” he said, his voice low. “The one we contacted through the tapestry. They answered.”

Luna tilted her head slightly, pale lashes lowered as she read, lips moving just enough to suggest she was mouthing the words to herself.

“And they gave you this?” she asked softly, not quite surprised, more as if confirming something she’d already suspected.

“There’s more,” Draco said. He reached into his satchel, careful now, and unfolded the second parchment, the one inked in gold and crimson, dense with rune-work that almost shimmered in the morning light. “It’s a potion. The Velaet Draught. It’s supposed to... thin the veil between me and the Nethervel.”

Luna leaned closer, her breath barely fogging the surface of the parchment. Her fingers hovered a breath away from the paper.

✦ The Velaet Draught ✦

Classified under: Carmesí Veilcraft, Tier V (Soulbound Ritual)

Use restricted. Circulation forbidden by decree of the Wandering Accord.

Purpose:

The Velaet Draught is a rare soul-alchemical potion, brewed to thin the Veil between the waking mind and the Nethervel, the instinctive shadow-self said to lie beneath conscious magic and ancestral memory.

It is used in preparation for vision work, communion with latent spiritual forces, or the awakening of inherited arcana that resists conventional spell work.

Ingredients:

– 3 threads of Moonseed root, harvested beneath waning gibbous moon

– 1 drop of undiluted Essence of Daisyroot

– 9 grains of charred Ludwigia Inclinata

– 1 vial of springwater drawn from naturally occurring mirror-lake

– Ink of goldleaf and blood, stirred into base infusion at final stage

Instructions:

1. Begin on the first clear night of the waxing moon.
2. Grind the Moonseed root with the Ludwigia Inclinata in a mortar of black stone. Speak no words.
3. Heat springwater in a silver basin under open sky until steam dances but does not boil.
4. Add the goldleaf and blood and allow the basin to fall silent.
5. Breathe into the basin. Once. Deeply. Let the water drink the breath.
6. Stir clockwise for thirteen rotations.
7. Add the Essence of Daisyroot. The potion will shimmer. Let it darken to silver.
8. Trace the rune of Ivestra (veil/unseen/threshold) across the surface.

Dosage:

No more than three sips.

Known Effects (Desirable):

– Heightened intuition

– Unconscious magical resonance

– Clarity of ancestral memory

– Appearance of spectral guide or internal voice

– Ability to perceive hidden spells, wards, or intentions

Side Effects & Consequences (Recorded):

– Temporary dissociation or soul-slippage (most commonly after third sip)

– Weeping from eyes with no visible source of emotion

– Prolonged exposure may result in temporary soul displacement

“This looks,” she murmured, “like something you shouldn’t take lightly.”

Luna's fingers hovered just above the edge of the parchment, careful not to touch it. Her gaze drifted toward the final lines — three sips only... no defense against a truth born of your own marrow. Her lips parted, but for a moment, no sound came.

Her voice came quieter now. “You can’t use this the way you used the dreams.”

Draco turned his head toward the window. Outside, rain streaked down the glass in silver threads, blurring the world beyond into something formless and spectral — trees dissolved into shadow, the sky pulled thin and colorless. The whole castle felt adrift in gray.

“That’s the point,” he said, voice flat. “I need more than dreams. I need something real.”

“No,” Luna replied, her tone was heavy, anchored in something deeper than doubt. “This will have its consequences.”

A gust of wind hit the windowpane, and the flames in the lamps around them guttered briefly. The room felt colder, or maybe just farther from the rest of the castle.

“You could lose more than you find,” she added gently. “You don’t even know if your mind is ready.”

Draco let out a slow breath, steady but empty. “Then maybe it’s time to find out. We’re running out of time, Luna. Everyone’s pretending like we have a plan, but I don’t think anyone really does.”

He looked at her then. Her face, framed by pale hair damp with rain, was still and strange, unguarded in a way most people never let themselves be. Her eyes were too wide in a face still too young. “I need to do something.”

Luna met his gaze without blinking.

And Draco’s terrible plan was already in motion, with or without permission.

***

Draco woke up the next morning to coldness. It wasn’t the usual kind that lived in the walls of the dungeons, or in the morning mist that crawled in under the stone arches. This was colder. Closer. It settled beneath his skin before he was fully conscious, the kind of cold that meant absence. That meant something was wrong.

His hand reached instinctively for the chain at his collarbone. Empty. His eyes snapped open. The serpent ring, coiled silver with the red shimmer in its eyes, was gone.

He sat up too fast, the sheets twisting around his legs in resistance, like they too wanted to keep him still. The dormitory was cloaked in half-light, the enchanted sconces along the walls casting a low, amber glow that left long shadows between the beds. Outside the tall windows, the lake pressed slow and silent against the glass, thick and gray like a body half-asleep, dreaming something deep.

The night before had been a blur. Draco had crawled into bed late, groggy and wrung out from the day, mind thick with potion fumes and ink-stained plans. There had been a headache blooming behind his eyes and a weight in his limbs like he’d already started dreaming before his head even touched the pillow. No clear memory of unbuttoning his robe, no memory of slipping the chain off or tucking it beneath the covers.

Just fog.

Too much fog.

But the ring was gone.

He tore back the blankets, checked the sheets, the folds of the duvet, the creases in the mattress. Got down on the floor, hands skimming under the bed — nothing but dust, old parchment corners, the hollow creak of wood.

His stomach twisted.

The ring had never left him. Since the day Dumbledore gave it to him, it had been a constant. Even when it wasn’t on his hand, it hung from the chain around his neck, tucked beneath his shirt, close to skin, where it belonged.

Now it was nowhere. And that meant something had changed.

His slippers struck the flagstones harder than necessary as he crossed the dormitory to Blaise’s bed, rapping the post sharply.

“What,” Blaise groaned, dragging his pillow over his head, “could possibly justify this hour?

“My ring,” Draco said, voice low, already clipped. “On the necklace. Did you see it?”

Blaise cracked an eye open and peered at him like Draco had spoken in Mermish. “No. Are you asking because you think I stole it, or because you need someone to panic at?”

“Neither,” Draco said, though it sounded false even to him. “Everyone loses something sometimes.”

Blaise rolled onto his side. “That’s a very Gryffindor way to say you’re spiraling.”

He left without responding. He tried Theo next, then Pansy, each one met with shrugs, puzzled frowns. Pansy even offered him one of her lapel pins as if that would make up for what was missing.

But none of them had seen it. And no one, not even Crabbe, who once tried to nick Draco’s vintage cufflinks, had touched it.

But Draco didn’t have time. The potion would be brewed tonight. The hourglass had already begun its final turn, and whatever the serpent had warned him of, he would have to face it alone.

***

The Great Hall that morning when Draco finally got there was a wall of noise with spoons clinking, owls flapping, students clustered around newspapers, talking over each other with the giddy cruelty of the uninvolved.

Draco hadn’t touched his toast. Or his tea. His ring was still missing, a raw absence against his chest that left him feeling lopsided, as though part of his body had been carved out in the night. And now this.

“Page three,” Blaise muttered under his breath, sliding the Daily Prophet toward him without meeting his eyes. “She’s calling it a soul-deep connection, if you can believe it.”

Draco glanced down. There, beneath a too-large photo of Harry standing on the edge of the lake — hair wet, eyes blazing, body coiled from the cold and the chaos of rescue — was the headline:

“POTTER’S HEART BENEATH THE SURFACE: THE FOURTH CHAMPION’S MOST DARING SAVE”

By Rita Skeeter

His eyes scanned the excerpt, jaw tightening with every line:

Though Harry Potter had remained notably unattached throughout the first half of the Triwizard Tournament, eyebrows were raised when he arrived at the Yule Ball not with a traditional date, but arm-in-arm with none other than Draco Malfoy — former rival, Slytherin heir, and one of the most enigmatic figures in his year.

What began as a surprise appearance quickly unraveled into deeper speculation following the Second Task, where Potter was seen pulling Malfoy from the depths of the Black Lake with a level of urgency some described as “possessed.” Observers claimed his focus never wavered even when other hostages were closer, even when time was running out.

In the days leading up to the Task, Malfoy was reportedly seen exhibiting increasingly erratic behavior: long absences, whispered arguments with professors, and a hollow-eyed kind of restlessness that had some students quietly wondering whether something more was unraveling beneath the surface.

Is their closeness the mark of a private alliance? A romantic entanglement? Or the beginning of something far stranger and perhaps more dangerous?

Whatever the answer, one thing is certain: Hogwarts has a new mystery couple to whisper about. And like all good stories, this one walks the line between fascination and obsession.

Draco pushed the Prophet away like it might stain him if he let it linger. The paper slid over the tabletop, curling slightly at the corners.

Around him, the noise had changed. Draco could hear it clearly now. That particular kind of gossip that was always just out of reach but never out of earshot. Laughter, low and choked behind hands. Eyes that didn’t quite look at him, but never stopped watching.

They were talking. About him. About them. Again.

He sat stiff-backed, arms stiff at his sides, pretending not to hear Theo muttering some innuendo to Blaise, or Pansy’s breathless laughter crackling. His skin prickled, too hot beneath the collar, too cold down the spine. Every inhale was shallow and not quite controlled.

He didn’t notice Harry until the bench dipped beside him.

“Sorry,” Harry said. “She’s written worse about me. Loads worse, actually. But dragging you into it… You didn’t deserve that.”

Draco kept his eyes on the grain of the table. He couldn’t let his face slip.

“Deserve,” he said. “That’s never really mattered, has it? Skeeter’s never been in the business of facts. She just wants something juicy enough to sell.”

Harry leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “Yeah. I know how she works. I’ve had years of it.”

Draco didn’t answer right away. He could feel the pressure rising again. The sensation of a clock ticking behind his ribs, of choices narrowing. Of that stupid, missing ring and the potion he would brew tonight, alone. His hands already felt colder just thinking about it. He swallowed it down.

And Harry didn’t know. He couldn’t. Not about the brewing. Not about what Draco planned to drink tonight, what he was willing to risk for a truth that might ruin him. Because if Harry knew, he would try to stop him. Or worse he would try to help. And Draco couldn’t afford either.

He pressed his thumb into his palm and made his voice even. “They’ll never take us seriously,” he said. “They don’t want the truth. We’ll always be some version of the story they want. The convenient kind. The entertaining one.”

Harry kept staring ahead, eyes unreadable, as if he could will the room around them to fall silent. The laughter down the table rang sharper for a moment.

***

Draco missed the weight of his ring, the cool curve pressed against his chest, a whisper of grounding in the chaos. Without it, something in him felt tilted, like a door had been left open and something else might slip in.

Still, he was already here in the potions prep room way past curfew. The torches on the walls were dimmed to low blue flickers, barely more than candlelight, casting long, serpentine shadows across the stone floor. The usual clatter of cauldrons, the crisp scent of chalk and steel all had faded.

The Moonseed root trembled slightly in Draco’s palm, thin and fibrous, still damp from its burial ground. The grains of charred Ludwigia dust glimmered faintly red. Everything was ready. The air itself felt denser, charged.

Then a shadow passed across the threshold.

“Mr. Malfoy,” Someone spoke behind him. “What are you doing here past the curfew?”

Professor Snape’s voice sent a chill down Draco’s spine. He turned as the other man stepped into the low light. His expression was unreadable, as always, but there was something sharp in the angle of his shoulders.

“I wasn’t aware you brewed after hours,” Snape said. His gaze dropped to the array on the table. “And certainly not with ingredients like these.”

Draco straightened. “This is for a personal project.”

Snape’s gaze cut across the small worktable with clinical precision. It lingered on the Moonseed root, coiled like dried bone in Draco’s palm, then swept over the sealed vial of ink — thick, dark, tinged with the faint shimmer that meant it had been laced with blood. His eyes finally landed on the scattered grains of charred Ludwigia Inclinata, a rare aquatic plant that was almost impossible to burn unless prepared under specific lunar conditions. His nostrils flared slightly with the quiet alertness of someone who smelled something out of place.

“Where,” he said at last, “did you acquire these ingredients?”

Draco’s heart jolted a beat too quickly beneath his ribs. A warning bell. He suppressed it. Let the silence stretch instead. He knew better than to fill the pause too quickly. The air between them stayed cool and still, the torches flickering faintly behind frosted glass, casting dull reflections over the polished stone floor.

“Professor Dumbledore gave me clearance,” he said, matching Snape’s tone for tone. “It’s part of a private task. He told me not to involve anyone else.”

Another lie, just one more in the quiet collection he seemed to be building lately.

The truth was less elegant: a package that had arrived without explanation. No professor questioned it when it appeared on Draco’s table that afternoon, no one asked where it came from, or why the wax seal shimmered faintly with protective runes.

Snape’s eyes narrowed, unreadable. “Dumbledore gave you Ludwigia Inclinata?” His voice edged toward skepticism. “That plant is restricted. Most seventh-years wouldn’t even recognize it, let alone be trusted to brew with it.”

Draco offered a faint, brittle smile, as if weary of the whole affair. “I didn’t ask questions. I just followed the instructions.”

Snape’s lips thinned. “He always assumes I’ll tolerate the consequences of his secrets,” he said, more to himself than to Draco. His gaze returned to the small basin, to the shimmer of springwater, to the gold-leaf and the blood-ink waiting to be stirred.

“And you believed him?” he asked, more sharply now. “After what happened last time? After the tournament, the dreams, the lake?”

Draco’s expression shifted, something harder flickering through.

“I don’t believe him,” he said quietly. “But I’m not exactly in a position to say no, am I?” His voice was almost cold, almost bitter. “You would know.”

Snape’s gaze narrowed. He studied Draco the same way he studied unstable compounds, like something volatile, something with consequences. Draco didn’t blink.

“He does have a taste for half-truths,” Snape murmured. “And students he finds... useful.”

He stepped back, robes sweeping on stone.

“You may think you understand what you’re brewing, Mr. Malfoy,” he said. “But those components aren’t for parlor tricks or House potions.”

Draco nodded. “I’ve read the theory. I’ll be precise.”

“Precision,” Snape replied, “won’t save you from things too big for you to handle.”

He turned toward the door, footsteps soundless. But at the threshold, he stopped. One hand rested lightly on the carved stone frame, as though the wall itself might listen better than the student behind him.

“If this is one of Dumbledore’s games,” he said without looking back, “don’t play too well, Draco.”

A beat. “He tends to break the pieces he’s proudest of.”

And then he was gone.

Draco stayed still, listening to the echo of Snape’s footsteps disappear into the spiral stairs. Each sound grew fainter until the only thing left was the low whisper of water in the basin and the faint crackle of candle flame. Only then did he exhale.

The springwater in the basin steamed gently now, warmed by the flame beneath. The crushed root and charred Ludwigia were ready, ground to a fine, resin-dark powder that smelled faintly of iron and forgotten wood. The ink of goldleaf and blood waited in its wax-sealed vial, humming quietly against the stone.

There were no windows in the potion room, but outside, the waxing moon hung high and silver above the turrets, casting its pale light across the castle.

Draco moved back in front of the table and reached for the black mortar.

Carefully, he added the powdered Moonseed and Ludwigia to the basin. The water darkened on contact, deepening to a smoky grey, streaked with thin veins of red. He picked up the long stirring rod and began the rotations.

Thirteen turns. Clockwise. Each one was slower than the last. The surface thickened. The shadows inside the basin deepened.

And in that moment, Draco’s mind flickered with a memory of the serpent.

You are not ready.

But that had been before. Before the lake. Before the lie to Snape. Draco was ready now.

His hand didn’t shake as he reached for the final vial. He broke the seal with a nail. The goldleaf-and-blood ink gleamed. Slowly, he poured it into the basin. The ink sank with unnatural grace as if it had weight and will.

The water stilled. He picked up the stylus next, carved from ash and sleeved in silver. With the tip, he traced the rune from the letter, Ivestra, across the surface of the liquid. The mark of the threshold.

For a long moment, nothing happened.

Then, the basin pulsed. Once. A deep, red-silver and soft light as breath through mist.

Draco sat back, the taste of metal and wind suddenly in his mouth.

He picked up the goblet, etched in Carmesí runes he’d copied exactly from the letter, each one drawn with a trembling hand under candlelight, and poured the liquid carefully. It filled the cup without a sound, and when it settled, the surface reflected nothing.

The room was still. Utterly still. The goblet sat in his hands, waiting.

Draco raised it slowly, the rim catching the cauldron’s firelight. The scent was faint but strange, parchment left in the porch, old leaves, and something colder underneath. Like the smell before a storm.

Chapter Text

He took the first sip.

When it passed down, warmth bloomed behind his ribs and his breath. A door creaked open, somewhere not physical. The goblet trembled faintly in his hands.

He took the second sip.

This one landed differently. Sharper. His thoughts scattered like startled birds, old memories flickering too fast to catch: his mother’s voice, the feel of his father's hand on his shoulder, the serpent from the dream. The warmth deepened, pulled lower. His limbs tingled with something like pins and needles, like waking from a sleep too long. Draco closed his eyes.

And he took the third sip.

It poured into the hollows of him like light through glass, like wind through a keyhole. Then—

He stood in the Veil again.

This place was made of between. Between breath and silence, between thought and instinct, between waking and asleep. It was not lightless, but the light here was wrong, silver-black like moonlight dragged underwater. The ground beneath him was a mirrored void, pitch-dark but glinting, and in it his own reflection stared back. But the features were smudged, warped ever so slightly, like a memory remembered wrong. His eyes were too sharp, or not sharp enough. Here, nothing had edges.

And then it came. The serpent. Long and spiraling, it moved through the dark like a streak of molten garnet. Each turn of its form shimmered red, glinting like coals in a hearth he couldn’t see, casting no shadow.

Draco straightened his back and forced breath into his lungs. The action itself was strange here, unnecessary and yet vital to his grip on self. The silence buzzed faintly against his skin.

“I came for answers,” he said. “For something, anything.”

The serpent circled him slowly, brushing past him without touch and yet through him all the same. Its answer came in vibration like before through the marrow of his bones. A pulse through his blood.

You are either very brave...

A pause.

Or very stupid.

Draco almost laughed. His lips twitched into a crooked, dry smile, the kind that tasted like irony more than humor.

“Probably both,” he murmured.

The air bent, reality warping slightly, like heat shimmering off scorched stone. The longer it stayed near, the harder it was to hold a thought, as though the idea of being Draco Malfoy was beginning to slip.

Your mind is not built for this without your ring.

The words pressed into him like weight from within.

Prolonged contact frays thought from self. Breaks shape. Dissolves what you think you are.

The reflection beneath him pulsed again. His face warping in the mirrored floor, eyes going dark, then gold, then silver. None of it quite real, all of it possible.

“I know,” he said. “But I am already here.”

Yes. It whispered, without breath. So you are.

And the space around him bent. Like a mirror caught mid-turn, its reflection folding. The air trembled, the shimmer of the Veil thinning, thinning...

Then Draco was no longer standing in the in-between. He was inside a memory, but it wasn’t his.

A wooden house. Small. Close-walled and windowless. Dim light filtered through faded curtains. The air was thick with the cloying scent of old potions, medicine boiled too long, and something sick and sinking. A slow rot.

An old man sat slouched in a high-backed chair, hands twitching in his lap, eyes unfocused. Barty Crouch, Sr. — Draco recognized him from Ministry events and from newspaper columns that he read while pretending to eat his breakfast. But this was not that man. This was a ghost of him. Pale, feverish, muttering to himself as though his own name had become foreign. And on the table beside him, a silver and a familiar flask.

A whisper of a young man slid into the air, too soft, too eager. “Soon,” it said. “Just a little longer.”

Draco turned, or the memory turned for him, and the room fractured.

Another place. Another crack in time.

The vision bent, then reformed like ice shattering and refreezing.

A cupboard. Shattered shelves. Potion bottles broken at the base, their contents soaking into the wood like blood. The sharp and earthy scent of it was unmistakable. Polyjuice. He saw the label peeled from one of the vials, scrawled in messy, obsessive ink.

Then a wand lifted from a satchel with fingers that trembled not from fear, but from joy. And then the eye. A spinning, magical replica embedded in a twisted contraption of flesh and spellwork.

Draco's breath caught.

The shape stepped forward from the shadows, moving with uncanny, twitching precision. Every motion just slightly off, like a marionette guided by a memory of how to be human.

Moody. But not Moody at all.

Recognition clawed its way up from memory, from home, from whispers overheard in velvet-draped salons and fireside drawing rooms. His parents' colleagues and acquaintances, low and bitter: "The boy was a fanatic. Crouch’s disgrace. A Death Eater. They say the Dementors kissed him. Good riddance."

But Barty Crouch Jr. had survived. Not vanished. Not kissed into nothingness by the cold mouths of Dementors as the world had been told. He had lived and he had become someone else.

The false face of Alastor Moody stretched like the surface of a lie too thin. And beneath it, just for a heartbeat, just long enough to stain Draco’s memory, he saw the truth.

A face.

Young, but starved of youth. Gaunt, as if obsession had hollowed him out from the inside. Eyes too wide, too bright and shone with a fevered, fanatic gleam.

He had been here. Inside Hogwarts. Living in the castle, walking their halls, sitting in the staff room and watching them from behind a stranger’s face all year long. A Death Eater among them, disguised as the very man meant to teach them how to defend themselves.

Suddenly, so many things clicked. The flickers of magic that didn’t feel right. The tasks twisted into danger. The eyes that had followed Harry, and later him, with too much interest.

And now Draco saw the thread that ran through it all.

He’s planning something. No, Crouch Jr. was setting up something in the dark. He was close. Waiting for the right moment to strike, and it wouldn’t be random.

Revenge. On Harry.

Harry, who always survived. Harry, who had humiliated Voldemort time and time again just by existing. Harry, who had faced Death Eaters and escaped. The Boy Who Lived, and whom the loyal ones had never forgiven.

A chill swept through Draco like water from the lake, heavy and slow and final.

And then, a flash. The Veil returned like a door slamming shut and all the stolen memories were gone.

The serpent rose higher, coiling into itself like. Its final spiral carved a slow, soundless path through the fabric of the in-between.

You’ve opened your mind. Watch carefully for what you bring back.

And then it was gone.

Draco gasped and air slammed into his lungs. His eyes snapped open, but the world around him reeled sideways as the potions room swam with too-sharp color and wrong angles, as though the space hadn’t remembered how to hold itself together. The shelves curved with each breath, the stone under him felt too thin, and the candlelight fractured into shards across the floor. His limbs were leaden and trembling with ghost light, but his skin burned with a cold sweat that wouldn’t stop. Deep in his chest, the remnants of the Velaet Draught still pulsed like a second heart. Then, slowly, even that faded, receding like a wave drawn back into the ocean.

He tried to move but couldn’t. A raw sound tore from his throat. But before he could do anything, his body convulsed. His back arched sharply off the stone floor, his mouth frozen in a silent cry. His mind opened, too open so it buckled under the weight of what it had seen.

The bridge he’d built between the Veil and the waking world hadn’t closed behind him as it should have. It had splintered. Fractured like ancient bone.

Draco Malfoy’s mind was no longer sealed. And inside himself, the world unraveled.

The walls stuttered in and out of existence. Edges bled light. Furniture twisted, warped, splintered. Shelves cracked down the middle with a sound like bones breaking. Bottles melted, reformed, shattered again.

His mind was coming undone. Draco felt it, the spiral, the unraveling, like threads pulling loose from a spool he could no longer control. Panic clawed up his throat, hot and choking, ready to drag him into whatever waited beyond the veil of reason.

No.

No. He would not lose himself. Not here. Not to this.

He gritted his teeth and forced his focus down into his breath the same way Snape had taught him, night after night, with fire in his veins and sweat on his brow.

“No,” he hissed, voice shaking. “Not this time.”

Then through the ringing in his skull came sound. Distant but real. Footsteps on marble.

Snape’s voice, sharp and cold.

Luna’s strange and haunting sound echoed like bells through fog.

Harry’s hand, gripping his, pulling him upward.

And the ring, once missing. Now burnt again around his neck. Hot, bright, unwavering like a star in the wreckage of his mind. The serpent wound around it flaring to life, a beacon through the dark.

Draco seized it all — the support, the heat — and shaped it, wove it tight into a net, something strong enough to hold the fracturing pieces of his consciousness in place.

He staggered. Blood slipped from his nose, hot and metallic, down his lip. Inside, his mind cracked and crashed like  a storm of memory and meaning:

...Crouch’s grin, sharp beneath borrowed skin...

...the bubble charm collapsing, the high laughter that followed...

...the Tree of Names, its branches scorched, weeping ash like rain...

“STOP!” he roared, voice splitting through the chaos like thunder, shattering the false room, cutting across every bleeding memory and warping wall.

Then silence.

Sudden and total. As if the Veil itself had blinked. The threshold closed. And Draco fell back into his body. Back into the cold, back onto the stone floor of the potion room. And he didn’t move again.

***

Waking felt like drowning again, only this time, in warmth.

The first thing he felt was the softness: heavy sheets pressed against him like clouds, tucked too tightly. And then, the shape of the ring against his chest. Coiled silver. Cold and real.

Draco’s breath caught before he could stop it. Here it was, resting against his collarbone like it had never left. How? Who brought it back? Did it ever leave him at all?

The air around him smelled of medicinal herbs, sweet and earthy. The scent curled through the room in lazy spirals, mingling with the soft flicker of candlelight brushing against curved stone walls. The light flickered gently, like a living breath, and for a moment he wondered if he was still in the Veil.

But no. This was the infirmary. He knew it by the hush, that unmistakable kind of stillness that only clung to places too often visited by pain and silence. Somewhere across the room came the soft shift of bedsheets, the faint clink of glass against wood like a bottle being set down on a tray.

Draco had stayed here before. Last year, after the Buckbeak incident. That first, stupid attempt at control when his pride outpaced his sense. It felt so distant now. So small. A boy’s wound.

Draco opened his eyes. His mouth tasted of copper and dust. His head throbbed like a curse he couldn’t block. Every part of his body felt far away, as though it had been disconnected and sewn back together with trembling hands.

He tried to sit up. Failed. He blinked again.

There was someone beside him. A shadow, then a shape, then a man.

Albus Dumbledore.

The Headmaster sat in a plain wooden chair drawn close to Draco’s bedside, the kind of chair that creaked under its own stillness. Dumbledore’s presence, once so mythic and unshakable, something that used to fill every room, now felt muted and quieter somehow.

He looked tired. His hands were folded neatly in his lap, and they trembled just slightly, their edges softened by age and something more difficult to name.

Draco stared at him.

And for a long, suspended moment, he wondered if Dumbledore saw him not as a student, or a task to be handled, not as a burden to be weighed or a variable to be predicted, but simply as a boy in a bed. A boy too pale, too quiet. A boy too young to have walked through what he had just come back from.

But the Headmaster’s expression revealed nothing.

“You’ve been asleep for two days,” Dumbledore said. His voice seemed distant to Draco’s ears. “Though perhaps it would be more accurate to say... elsewhere.”

Draco blinked slowly, dragging his gaze toward the voice.

“I spoke with Severus,” the Headmaster continued. “He came to me after your... late-night endeavor. We found you in the potions room. Unconscious. The Draught nearly spent.”

Draco’s throat burned. His voice was a hoarse rasp when it came out. “Did he tell you what I was doing?”

 “Yes,” Dumbledore then said quietly. “And are you satisfied with what you saw?”

That pulled Draco back. He looked at the Headmaster with pain crackling behind his eyes.

“I saw Moody,” he said. “Or what was pretending to be him. It’s Crouch. Barty Crouch, Jr. He’s been here, in this castle, teaching us and watching us. A Death Eater.”

Dumbledore inclined his head, as if weighing invisible scales. “I have suspected as much.”

Draco stared. “You knew?”

“I suspected,” Dumbledore repeated. “But suspicion alone, Draco, is not always enough.”

Draco let out a bitter breath that might have been a laugh. “For someone who claims to see everything, you certainly let a lot slip by.”

“I do not claim to see everything, Draco, no one can,” Dumbledore said. “But I try my best to ensure your safety. I reinforced the ward around the school myself after the second task. And I stationed more eyes across the castle than you can imagine. You were not unprotected.”

Draco swallowed down the ache building in his throat.

Dumbledore didn’t fill the silence. He waited, then, more gently: “You carry knowledge now. Heavy knowledge. It marks you. It isolates you. You are part of this story in a way few your age have been asked to be. But you are not alone in that burden.”

Dumbledore went on despite Draco’s silence. “I have made choices, Draco. Terrible ones. I allowed the Tournament to continue. I allowed you, and Harry, and others to come just close enough to danger. Not because I wished it. But because, by doing so, I could begin to see the players in the dark. To act now, risks tipping off the very network we are trying to unravel. Remove Crouch prematurely, and Voldemort’s agents vanish into smoke.”

Draco clenched his jaw. His hands trembled beneath the sheets. “You say that like it’s noble.”

“I say that,” Dumbledore said, and now his voice was like worn glass, fragile but cutting, “because it is often the only path left to those who do not seek glory. You want justice. So do I. You want safety. So do I. But I do not play for comfort or applause. I play for time. And time does not always wear a hero’s face.”

He looked at Draco. “And then of course, because I knew... with your power, you could help us.”

The candlelight fluttered. And for a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Draco’s lips parted, breath catching. “We need to take Crouch out now. I don’t care about your plan. I don’t care how long you’ve been watching. He’s dangerous. He’s here for revenge. He worships the Dark Lord. He’s not just spying, he’ll kill Harry.”

Dumbledore did not flinch. “No,” he said simply. “Not yet.”

Something twisted inside Draco. The serpent in his blood recoiled as though struck.

“What?” he whispered, the word dry with disbelief.

There was no gentleness in Dumbledore’s eyes now, only clarity, honed sharp as obsidian. “I have watched Crouch. Every movement. Every choice. He didn’t tamper with your chain, nor your bubble charm. That much I am certain of. I’m sure someone else here at the school wanted you gone. Or worse, they’re testing you to see how you survive.”

The sentences landed like a blow. Draco’s pulse pounded behind his ears.

“They’re gathering,” Dumbledore said. “The old circle. And they’re watching you, Draco.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Draco asked, voice thin.

Dumbledore’s tone lowered and softened. For one moment, it was not the voice of a headmaster, not the voice of manipulation but that of a man, tired and ancient, speaking a truth no one else dared speak. “They will reach you through Lucius. I’m well aware that they had suspicions about your power. Too many eyes and too many mouths to keep the secret. They’ll wait for the right moment... and then they’ll ask you to kneel. To make you use that power for them.”

The air in the room thinned.

“And I know about your father,” Dumbledore continued. “The silences where there should be denials. His presence in certain rooms. The way he carries his wand again, the way a man does when he already knows which side he’ll raise it for.”

Draco turned his face away. Shame. Fury. Grief. It tangled in his throat.

And then Dumbledore said, almost too softly: “But I can help you. And your mother.”

He looked up, startled, wide-eyed. “What?”

Dumbledore’s expression remained unchanged. “Narcissa is not innocent. But she is not a Death Eater. Not by mark, not by oath. She has walked close to that fire, made compromises, bent the truth to survive. But she hasn’t crossed the point of no return. Not yet.”

Draco’s fists clenched beneath the blankets. “But my father—”

“Lucius,” Dumbledore interrupted, quiet as snowfall, “has already chosen his path. He will face the consequences of that choice. I will not shield him. Not anymore. But your mother—”

He leaned in just slightly. “I will protect you and her. If you let me.”

Draco’s voice cracked. “You’d just... do that? Just like that?”

Dumbledore’s gaze didn’t waver. “No,” he said. “Not just like that.”

His tone changed, no longer soft, no longer kind. “In return, you will say nothing of what you’ve seen. Nothing about Crouch. Not until I say the time is right. Do you understand me, Draco?”

Draco stared at him. Chest rising. Heart pounding. Every part of him screaming to shout it, to tell someone. “You’re serious.”

“I am,” Dumbledore said, and there was no warmth in it. “I will protect you, Draco. And I will protect your mother. That is not a bargain I make lightly, and not one I will break. But in return, I ask for your silence, not forever. Only until the right moment. Until the third task.”

Draco’s brows drew in, uncertain. “What happens then?”

“Crouch’s plan will reach its end,” Dumbledore said. “And with it, his mask will fall. What he has built cannot last beyond the third trial. That is when the truth will emerge. And when it does... it must be undeniable.”

Draco swallowed hard. “You’re gambling with timing.”

“I’m ensuring that when the trap closes, it closes tight. If I move too soon, he vanishes. And those behind him, the ones truly responsible, vanish with him.”

Draco stared down at the folds of the blanket, picking at the edge with unsteady fingers. His pulse thrummed against his ribs like something trapped.

“And what about Harry?” he asked quietly.

Dumbledore’s answer came immediately. “Harry Potter will not die under my watch. He is not to be sacrificed. I do not need to swear it.”

Draco looked up at him, unsure if he hated the man or envied him for that kind of certainty. The ache behind his temples pulsed again, dull but insistent.

He leaned back slowly into the infirmary pillows, head still too heavy, and stared at the ceiling. He wanted to say no. He wanted to shout it, that he was done with secrets, done being dragged by forces older and larger than himself. That he was sick of being a piece moved on someone else’s board.

But then he saw his mother’s face in his mind. From a dream or maybe a fear. Standing at a window she couldn’t open, shadows behind her, hands trembling at her sides. Her voice hadn’t called for help. But her eyes had.

She is not beyond redemption. Not yet.

He didn’t trust Dumbledore. But trust was a luxury. And right now, his mother was one of the few things he had left worth bargaining for. He closed his eyes. Took a breath. It tasted of candlewax and dust and the bitter tang of surrender.

“Fine,” Draco said, voice quiet, almost cold. “I’ll stay silent.”

Dumbledore inclined his head. “Thank you,” he said. And that was all.

Draco turned his face to the wall. And the deal — quiet, sharp, and heavy as a blade — settled between them.

***

Madam Pomfrey had left hours ago with strict instructions not to leave the bed until his strength returned. The candles burned low now, casting a soft golden blur across the curve of stone walls. Outside, through the tall arched window, the setting sun came down behind a bed of clouds, half-watching.

Draco lay still, caught in that uneasy space where the body refuses to rest and the mind won’t slow down.

Then, without warning, light bloomed at the edge of the room, sudden enough to draw his head off the pillow. And with it, a scroll appeared near the windowsill, wrapped not in wax or seal, but in a ribbon the color of old bruises — thin, black, wound precisely three times around the message it held.

Draco slid from the bed, knees stiff, bare feet biting against the chilled floor. The air wrapped around his ankles like smoke as he crossed the room. His palm steadied against the window latch, fingers cold and trembling.

When Draco was beneath the blanket’s weight again, he sat upright, legs pulled close for warmth as he unwound the ribbon. It loosened easily, slipping away like it had done this before.

The parchment inside held familiar ink: that dusky, half-faded kind of gray, each letter tilted in an elegant, and almost kind hand. Almost.

“Draco,

I felt the breach.

It rippled across the tether. I had hoped the potion would offer you insight, not collapse. For that, I must apologize. The Velaet Draught is not meant for unprepared minds. I underestimated the strength you would need, and I sent it too early.

What followed is not your failure. It is mine.

Still, what you touched is real. The Nethervel saw and answered your call. That is no small thing. Now, you must strengthen your mind.

I will write again when the next moon wanes. Be cautious until then.

—K.”

Draco read the note twice, then again, each time slower. As if meaning might change if given enough silence.

Another message. Another invitation dressed as guidance. Another voice just out of reach, speaking from the margins with apologies wrapped in riddles.

I underestimated the strength you would need.

His jaw tensed. He wanted to be furious, to tear the note in half, to curse the sender for sending him spiraling into a memory that hadn’t belonged to him and might still be echoing somewhere in the cracks of his mind. But he couldn’t summon the fury.

Because part of him had known. Knowing the potion wasn’t meant for someone alone, someone already frayed, someone still bleeding from dreams. The warning had been there. Clear. Unforgiving. No defense against a truth born of your own marrow.

And he’d taken it anyway. Desperation did strange things to people. And Draco had been desperate.

Now there was this: a stranger claiming kinship, promising doors no one else could open, truths no one else dared touch. Whispering of realms and old magic, of the Nethervel, as if such things were simply waiting beneath his skin.

How many people have already tried to shape him? How many voices has he let inside?

He folded the letter slowly, careful with the corners. Pressed it against his chest, where the serpent ring rested again, and felt the emptiness there echo louder than it should have.

He didn’t know if he trusted this person. He didn’t know if he trusted anyone.

***

The knock came just after sunset.

Draco was already sitting upright, legs folded loosely beneath the blanket, his back resting against the cold frame of the headboard. A journal lay open in his lap, the quill stilled beside it, dried ink pooled at the tip. He hadn’t written a word in nearly an hour. Just stared. Symbols blurring into each other, meanings lost in the haze of ache and aftermath.

The second knock came firmer this time

“Come in,” he said.

The door creaked open on its old hinges, and the corridor’s fading gold spilled into the room in soft bands.

Luna stepped in first, pale and windblown, sleeves damp where she’d clearly wiped her face raw. Her eyes, swollen and shining, didn’t blink as they found him. Behind her stood Harry, his tie askew, hair raked back like he’d been pacing or arguing or running — maybe all three. His satchel hung loose at his side, and his jaw was tight with something that hadn’t quite become words yet. His eyes, however, were already speaking. It was fury. And fear. And something too tangled for either of them to name.

Luna’s voice broke the silence first, so soft it barely made it to him. “Draco…”

He forced himself to sit straighter, though every bone felt stitched with lead. His fingertips tingled. His ribs ached. But he blinked once, twice, steadying.

“Luna,” he murmured. “What…?”

“I took the ring,” she said, before he could ask. Her voice trembled, but the words were clear. “Last night. When you were half-asleep. I used a little drift-dust to distract you. I thought if I could make you rest long enough… if I gave you a pause… you'd wait.”

Draco stared at her. The night unraveled in his mind, how the world had gone soft around the edges, how his limbs had felt impossibly heavy, how he’d fallen into sleep like sinking into velvet and hadn’t remembered a thing beyond the blur of candlelight and exhaustion.

“You drugged me?” he asked, the words sharper than he meant.

Luna flinched but nodded, hands twisting in her sleeves. “I was going to give it back. I thought I was keeping you safe.”

“I’m not even angry,” Draco said quietly, the words slipping out with an honesty that startled even him. “I should be. You took something that’s protected me since the start. And without it... Without it, I was exposed. I could’ve died.”

Luna's mouth trembled, her gaze darting to the floor.

“But I know why you did it,” Draco continued, softer now. “Because you’re kind. Because you think saving someone means keeping them from the cliff’s edge. But Luna…” His voice dropped lower. “Some of us already jumped. We’re just trying to land without breaking everything.”

He reached for the edge of the blanket, grounding himself in the weave of the fabric.

“I would have been safer with it,” he said. “But I know you meant well. I know you were scared. So was I.”

There was a long silence. Then, Draco lifted his eyes and met hers.

“But please don’t do that again,” he said, steady. “Don’t take the choice away from me. I’m already running out of ones that are mine to make.”

Luna swallowed hard, blinking back the tears that had pooled but never fallen. She gave the smallest nod, her breath catching as though the words had struck deeper than anything sharp ever could.

And then Harry stepped forward, his presence impossible to ignore, every line in his body pulled tight like a drawn bow.

“She ran into me,” Harry said, his voice flat with the effort of staying calm. “She was trying to get out of the tower... looked like she hadn’t even grabbed shoes. I had the map, saw your name heading toward the lower corridors, and—” he broke off, his fists curling at his sides. “You were out, alone, in that state. You didn’t tell anyone. You didn’t tell me.”

“I couldn’t,” Draco said. “You wouldn’t have let me.”

“You’re right,” Harry snapped, stepping closer. “I wouldn’t have. Because it nearly killed you.”

Draco turned his eyes back down to the edge of the blanket, where his hands had gone still again, pale against the dark green. He could feel their stares on him, filled with the kind of helpless care that made it harder to breathe.

“I didn’t think it would matter,” he said finally. “The ring, the secrecy, the risk. I was already in it. I thought I could carry it further.”

Luna crossed her arms tightly over her chest. “It’s changing you,” she whispered. “I’ve seen it. The ring, the dreams, the power, whatever it’s pulling from you, it isn’t nothing. I thought if I could just slow it down…”

“You thought wrong,” Draco murmured. But the anger was gone from his voice. There was only tiredness now, and a strange kind of gratitude that scraped the inside of his throat.

He looked up at Harry again. The storm still lived behind his eyes, but his stance had softened. Harry then sat beside him without asking. The air between them crackled faintly with something unfinished.

“I’m sorry,” Draco continued. “You were right to be furious. Both of you. I should’ve told you. But I didn’t think it would change what I had to do. What needed to be done has to be done. You don’t have to like it. You don’t even have to forgive me. But the path doesn’t change just because it’s painful.”

Luna sat then on the edge of the bed, her hands in her lap, still trembling. “You could have died.”

Draco’s voice was very soft. “I know.”

Harry leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, gaze fixed ahead like he couldn’t bear to look at Draco yet. His voice, when it came, was low but burning.

“You don’t have to keep doing this alone,” he said. “Whatever it is. Whoever they are. You don’t have to break yourself open every time just to prove you can survive it.”

Draco’s gaze drifted to the windows, where the sky had turned velvet-dark, stitched with stars. He stared at them like they might blink first. Like the night might answer for him.

“Some answers,” he said at last, “don’t come unless you’re willing to go to the edge for them.”

He didn’t turn back. His fingers curled into the blanket, knuckles bloodless. “Sometimes the cost is the only way through.”

Harry exhaled, a shaky, furious sound. His hands moved like he wanted to reach out — to shake Draco, to hold him, to do something — but stopped short, caught in his own helplessness.

“And did you find yours?” he asked. His voice cracked, soft and sharp and scared. “Was it worth it?”

Draco stared out into the dark a moment longer. The potion still pulsed faintly through his veins, humming like a second heartbeat.

Then: “Close,” he said.

Luna made a small sound beside him — something between a sigh and a sob. She reached out gently, her hand resting lightly over his clenched one. Her touch was cool, feather-light, but it anchored him. Her voice was quieter than a breath.

“I didn’t want to lose you,” she said. “Not to the ring. Not to the magic. Not to… whatever you’re chasing in the dark.”

Draco blinked slowly, eyes stinging. He turned just slightly, enough to see her face — soft and sorrowful and impossibly kind. And for a moment, he felt the ache in his chest loosen, just a little.

“I know,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

Harry’s breath hitched. “Don’t do that again.”

Draco looked up. Harry’s eyes locked with his, and the fire there wasn’t rage anymore — it was terror. It was care too big to be shaped properly.

“Don’t risk your life like that again. Please.” His voice dropped lower. “You don’t get to throw yourself away.”

Then Draco nodded. Once. Just enough. “I won’t,” he said quietly. “Not like that. I promise.”

Harry watched him for a long second then sighed.

Draco exhaled. It didn't matter. They would understand in the future.

Luna’s hand was still over his. And Draco felt safe again.

Chapter Text

Returning to class after nearly dying, for the second time, felt absurd.

The corridors still rang with laughter, too bright and sharp against the stone walls. The staircases still groaned and creaked and lurched beneath unsuspecting feet. Professors still barked instructions with varying degrees of boredom or conviction, and parchment still curled at the corners of desks under the weight of unfinished essays and long-forgotten ink stains.

But now… every footstep sounded louder. Every breath felt like it echoed.

After the incident with the potion and the missing ring, Draco still occasionally met up with Luna. She didn’t say much, didn’t apologize again, only sat beside him with her knees drawn up and a satchel full of sugared ginger and pressed flower pages she claimed helped soothe the mind.

He told her he understood that her action came from love and fear, but not betrayal. She blinked slowly, like an owl, and offered him a piece of sugared ginger, “to keep his thoughts from unraveling.” He took it, without irony, and when she rested her head lightly on his shoulder, he let her stay. Some people held you close with words. Luna held you with stillness.

Then the castle slipped into early spring without asking him. A hesitant thaw clung to the windows, the frost receding into rivulets that ran in thin veins down the glass panes. The grounds were still dull with winter’s memory, but the wind had changed, carrying the scent of earth waking up. And yet, the chill lingered, curling beneath cloaks and sleeves and brushing the back of his neck like the ghost of something cold and deep and remembered.

His friends were still there. But even they seemed blurred at the edges, their questions folded beneath too-careful silences.

Pansy had tried to scold him the first morning back.

"You’re limping," she’d snapped, catching his arm before he could wave it off. "You don’t limp unless you’ve nearly drowned, cracked your skull, or tried to become a ghost again, and all three are seemingly on the table."

He had smirked at her, but the look hadn’t reached his eyes, and hers had narrowed in reply.

Blaise’s gaze followed Draco through every class, sharp and constant, like he was waiting for something to crack open again. In Potions, he’d silently passed Draco the better-sliced root before Snape could even turn his back.

And Crabbe and Goyle, in their own awkward, wordless way, had shown up outside Draco’s bed with a box of Honeydukes toffees and three stolen pastries wrapped in a napkin. Crabbe shoved them into his hands with a grunt and muttered, “Didn’t know what you liked, so we just got everything.” Goyle, still chewing on one of the extras, offered a shrug and a sleepy sort of smile.

Even Theo had tried, sitting beside him at breakfast, tapping his fingers against the edge of his pumpkin juice like a metronome. "If you do whatever it was again,” he muttered without looking up, “warn me first. I’d rather not spend another night staring at the infirmary wing ceiling."

Harry hovered more around him. At breakfast, he arrived early and sat close, sometimes bumping his knee under the table, sometimes setting a roll on Draco’s plate without comment. When they studied, it was Harry who brought the stack of books, Harry who pulled out the chair, Harry who watched Draco too long when he thought he wasn’t looking.

“Have you eaten?”

“You look pale again.”

“I brought that tea Luna made. You liked it, remember?”

Harry never asked Draco to explain the ritual, the potion, or what he’d seen afterward. And yet, Draco could feel the pressure behind Harry’s quiet. Sometimes, Draco wanted to lean into it, to take the care being offered and let himself rest in it. But other times, it made his skin crawl because it was too good. Too kind.

He didn’t deserve it. Not when he was still keeping secrets.

“I’m fine,” he muttered one evening, when Harry dropped a scarf around his shoulders mid-study session. “You don’t have to fuss.”

Harry gave him a look that said he wasn’t buying it, but didn’t push. “Someone has to,” he said instead, voice low, thumb brushing lightly along the edge of Draco’s wrist before retreating.

Later, when the library had thinned to only the most stubborn of students and the candlelight burned low and steady, softening every sharp line into something almost safe, Draco let himself drift.

They were seated across from one another, books open but long forgotten, at least on Harry’s side. Draco’s, by contrast, was still littered with volumes of obscure protective enchantments, wards, and artifact crafting. Notes scribbled in fast, sharp strokes filled the margins. Tiny diagrams circled, crossed out, redrawn. Somewhere, someone turned a page three tables over, the sound crisp and delicate, and the faint scratch of a quill echoed in the hush.

Harry sat with his head bent slightly, brow furrowed in focus or frustration, one hand buried in his hair, the other curled loosely around a quill he hadn’t moved in minutes. The firelight played across his cheekbone, catching in the tips of his lashes, and Draco watched the way the shadows shifted against his skin.

Harry tilted his head, already sensing his stare. “Is the Third Task really that dangerous?” he asked quietly. “That it’s got you buried in this stuff?”

Draco hesitated. His gaze dropped to the scrawled notes in front of him and for a moment, he considered lying. But what was the point?

“I just… I didn’t want you going in blind,” Draco muttered, almost to himself. “I thought maybe I could make something. A trinket. Something small. Protection, even if just a little.”

For a moment, maybe it was the look on Harry’s face. Or maybe it was that bitter place inside him, the part that still loathed being used, still bristled against authority, especially when it demanded silence in exchange for mercy. Maybe it was the fact that keeping quiet meant risking someone else. Someone he cared about.

“I can’t say anything. Not now.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “But you really need to watch out for Moody.”

Harry said carefully. “Was that what you saw? Does Dumbledore know?”

Draco gave a soft, joyless laugh and looked away. “Of course he knew.”

The words hung there between them, flickering like the candlelight. For a moment, Harry looked as though he might press, might demand more. But he didn’t.

Draco wanted to say it. All of it. That the Third Task was more than a tournament. That the darkness he’d seen wasn’t just fear or metaphor, but a shape, a presence, something crawling closer each night with sharper teeth. That Dumbledore knew more than he let on. That Draco did, too. But the words stayed in his throat, heavy and unfinished.

So instead, he said nothing. He watched Harry’s hand twitch slightly, as if reaching toward something in a dream. He watched the rise and fall of his chest, steady and alive. Just a little longer. Let him have this moment. Before the storm broke.

***

The first thing Draco saw when he sat down at breakfast that morning was the front page of the Daily Prophet, spread wide across the table by a jittery third-year with jam on their sleeve:

“AURORS BEGIN TO PROBE INTO DEATH EATER RESURGENCE

Unconfirmed Reports of Dark Mark Appearances Outside Europe. Ministry Remains Divided”

The headline screamed in bold, brassy ink. Most of the students glanced at it, muttered a half-interested comment, and returned to their porridge and pumpkin juice. The article was too long and too carefully written to hold the average student’s attention.

But Draco read every word. He just stared down at the curling text, the edges of the page already beginning to soften from steam and morning light.

Sources within the Department of Magical Law Enforcement suggest an increase in “unusual magical gatherings” in regions once considered dormant. While no official links to known Dark Mark activity have been confirmed, officials urge the public to remain cautious. One senior Auror, speaking on condition of anonymity, stated: “We are re-evaluating long-held assumptions. Patterns are re-emerging slowly, and in shadow.”

Draco’s eyes hovered on a particular sentence near the bottom of the column, something almost too careful: “We must acknowledge the possibility that not all resurgences are foreign. Some legacies remain buried in plain sight.”

He felt the blood leave his fingers. He read the article again. Then again, slower. As if staring long enough might make the ink confess what it wouldn’t say aloud. No one else at the table noticed. Or pretended not to.

Then one day, Draco had been walking alone, halfway to one of the study rooms, when he caught the sound of voices. That particular, Ministry-flavored edge to conversation, clipped and uncomfortably smooth, like it had been sanded down too many times for public presentation.

He paused beneath a high arch near the west wing and leaned into the cool stone of an alcove. The light was dimmer here, the air thinner. Perfect for listening.

A woman’s voice: prim, precise.

“I do understand the need for discretion, Headmaster. But the Ministry has received multiple reports of behavioral anomalies among certain students, particularly those in close proximity to the Triwizard Cup.”

Dumbledore’s voice followed, calm and composed as ever. “I imagine adolescence tends to breed inconsistency, madam. We are, after all, a school.”

“I’m not speaking of adolescent mood swings,” the woman replied sharply. “I’m speaking of manipulation. Of subversion.” Her voice dropped, each word clipped, polished to cold precision. “There are whispers within the Department. That this tournament is more than it appears. That certain elements within your school may be using it to undermine Ministry authority.”

Silence.

Then she went on, unblinking. “Sudden alliances. Shifts in conduct. Champions gaining access to spells, objects and protections well beyond what’s been sanctioned. It’s not a coincidence. Some believe Hogwarts is being used. Others think it’s cooperating. Either way, the outcome is the same.”

A pause.

McGonagall now, voice sharp as flint. “Are you suggesting we’re planning a coup with the students?”

“Oh, no, no,” the woman answered, with a sweetness that rang false. “That’s just speculation. A rumor I’m here to put an end to, of course.”

Draco shifted, eyes narrowing. He leaned just enough to catch a sliver of the hallway through the tapestry slit.

The woman stood with her back partially turned — short, robed in mauve velvet that shimmered oddly in the flickering torchlight. Her hat was absurdly round, her hands gloved, her posture unnervingly still.

He didn’t recognize her. But something about her felt practiced. Polished. Familiar in the way Ministry operatives always were.

“Security preparedness,” she repeated, like reading from a memo. “That is the official language of my visit. Nothing more.”

Draco caught a glimpse of her face as she inclined her head: pale, pinched, lips pursed into a line too thin to be mistaken for a smile. Then she turned and walked down the corridor, soundless as a shadow.

Dumbledore and McGonagall remained where they were, neither speaking, their expressions unreadable in the torchlight.

Draco exhaled slowly and slipped back into the dark, disappearing down the corridor before anyone could notice he’d been there.

Later that night, the castle would hum with whispers of a Ministry liaison visiting. Routine, they’d say. Just oversight.

But Draco had seen the way her gaze lingered too long on the portrait frames. The way her boots made no sound when she moved. The way her words flowed was too smooth to trust. This was what his mother had warned. The Ministry has been closing in on the competition, on the school. And not with a good intention.

***

Since the Second Task, Moody, or the thing wearing his name. Same hunched silhouette. Same gnarled cane and heavily scarred profile. The enchanted eye ticked and twitched as always, scanning the room with its exaggerated vigilance. Nothing out of place to anyone else.

But Draco saw it now. He saw beneath the illusion. The boy beneath the man. The fanatic beneath the legend. The trembling obsession held itself still inside that scarred shell like a blade tucked behind a smile.

Barty Crouch, Jr.

The name rang in his chest like a cursed bell.

The fake professor hadn’t been seen much around the corridors. His absence was never officially addressed, but it clung to the castle like smoke after a fire. He stopped patrolling the halls with that heavy, dragging step and stopped shadowing Draco’s every movement like a curse waiting to trigger.

Sometimes he didn’t show up to class at all, and when he did, it was only to assign vague instructions before disappearing again. Pages to read. Spells to practice. Dueling stances left to memory. He rarely spoke beyond a grunt or a barked reminder about the upcoming Third Task, which everyone assumed was where all his focus had shifted.

That was what the other students said anyway that Moody had been pulled deeper into planning for the final trial, that he was working with the Headmasters in private chambers, that he was consulting maps and curses and creatures best left unnamed. It was easier to believe that than the alternative.

Draco knew better. Dumbledore wanted to keep Crouch Jr. close.

When Draco stepped into the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom that day, the air felt wrong.

A subtle, creeping chill that settled beneath the skin and made the torchlight feel dimmer, thinner, like it couldn’t quite reach the corners of the room. The windows were half-fogged, though no one had opened them. The scent of old spells and damp stone hung low, clinging to the breath.

At the front of the room stood Crouch Jr.

Their eyes met as Draco crossed the threshold. It lasted no more than a heartbeat but the moment cracked the silence around it like glass beneath weight. A glance that held no warmth.

I know who you are. I know what you’ve done.

And worse: You know that I know.

Crouch didn’t flinch. His jaw shifted slightly, as if chewing down some word he didn’t dare speak aloud. But his expression didn’t change. Not even a twitch.

Draco moved to his desk without a word, his spine straight and breath shallow, like any shift in rhythm might trigger something waiting beneath the floor. He sat. Folded his hands over the empty parchment. Eyes forward.

And he didn’t look away. Not once.

A second later, Harry slid into the seat beside him. Draco didn’t look at him either. But he felt it, the brush of Harry’s cloak, the solid weight of his presence, grounding. Steady. Harry’s knee knocked lightly against his under the desk and stayed there.

Crouch's cane scraped once against the flagstone as he took a slow step forward. "Today, we learn Lacarnum Rememdra."

He said it like a curse, though the incantation itself was not well-known. A flick of his wand and a tattered old cloak on the desk behind him lifted into the air, slowly unfurling like a banner in windless silence. “Lacarnum Rememdra”. And the cloak caught on fire, slowly crumbled into ashes.

"It’s a fire charm," he said gruffly. "Obscure variant. Not as neat as Incendio, not as direct as Calefactum. But still useful.”

His glass-blue eye jerked to Draco.

"Used properly, it’ll keep you alive in the cold. Used improperly... well. Too much heat can cook a man from the inside out. Metaphorically, of course."

He grinned. The grin didn’t reach the eye. The real eye.

A few students tittered nervously. Draco didn’t move.

"Repeat after me," Crouch barked. "Lacarnum Rememdra!"

Draco didn’t lift his wand.

He sat perfectly still as Crouch paced the rows like a wolf through sleeping sheep. Teaching. Pretending.

And then another touch.

Harry’s hand slipped below the desk to hold Draco’s. His fingers found Draco’s and curled around them, firm and steady. Their hands locked together beneath the wood, tight enough to hold him still, to remind him he wasn’t facing this alone.

***

Draco didn’t follow Harry out of the classroom.

When the lesson ended and chairs scraped back, Harry lingered beside him for a moment, eyes searching, hand brushing Draco’s one last time under the desk. A question, unspoken.

Draco gave a small nod. Go.

He didn’t trust his voice. Didn’t trust what might crack if he tried to explain the way the shadows clung to him now. The way Crouch’s stare still crawled along his spine like something venomous.

Harry hesitated just a second longer then gave the smallest squeeze of his hand before slipping out with the others.

And Draco turned in the opposite direction. Then —

“We saw you,” Pansy said, her voice pitched low, trying not to accuse and failing. “You were staring at Moody like he’d murdered your grandmother.”

“We’re not stupid,” Blaise added, his voice quieter, cooler. “You’ve been off since the lake. No. Before that, really. And now you’re not eating. You vanish after meals. And here you are, haunting corridors like a ghost.”

Theo, who had been unusually quiet until now, leaned forward from his seat near the fire. “You haven’t been sleeping,” he said bluntly. “You jump at shadows. And now you won’t even talk to us.”

Draco let out a breath, sharp through his nose, and sank too hard into one of the common room’s armchairs. His body folded forward, elbows on his knees, hands knotted together. He looked like someone barely keeping still.

“I’m fine,” he muttered.

“Liar,” Blaise said.

Pansy frowned, stepping a little closer. “Draco. Seriously.”

Theo’s eyes narrowed. “Is it the Third Task? Or is it Potter again?”

Draco’s jaw clenched. The silence between them shifted.

“It’s the war, isn’t it?” Blaise said flatly, eyes now open, watching him.

Draco didn’t confirm or deny it, just looked away, toward the fireplace, where the flames crackled too softly to fill the silence.

Pansy crossed her arms, lowering her voice. “The Prophet is printing everything these days, which means it’s worse than they’re admitting. My mother just sent a three-page letter about how France has safer winters and more civilized blood laws. Blaise’s uncle won’t stop sending owls about estate protections and countryside safehouses.”

Draco stared up at them, all three of them, with something unreadable in his eyes. “So you’re planning your escape?”

Pansy’s mouth twitched. “I’m planning my survival.”

“We’re not all looking to pick a side,” Blaise said, his voice a little too calm, a little too practiced. “Some of us just want to be alive when it’s over.”

Draco looked at them. And for the first time, he saw what fear really looked like on them. Not the loud, panicked kind, but the cold, quiet sort passed down in drawing rooms and dinner parties. The kind of fear that lived under ancestral tapestries. Dressed in silk and sealed with a crest.

“I don’t get that kind of choice,” Draco said at last, his voice low and dry, like paper left too close to flame.

Pansy tilted her head, her brow furrowed. “Why not?”

He just stared at the far wall, as if reading something none of them could see.

“Because they won’t ask me to choose,” he said. “They’ll assume I already have.”

Draco stood slowly, dusting off his sleeve like it mattered. His stance was elegant, practiced but there was a tension just beneath it, a tremor in the quiet.

“If your families are offering you a way out,” he said, voice quieter now, “take it. You’d be mad not to.”

Pansy’s voice was rougher now, like it had scraped against something inside her. “All this gloomy talk... we don’t even know if it’s true, do we?”

Blaise gave a slow nod. “Doesn’t matter. No one’s going anywhere.”

Draco let out a sound, half sigh half laugh, more ghost than breath.

“Unless,” Theo said quietly, eyes narrowing. “There’s still something you’re not telling us.”

Draco’s gaze snapped to his. For just a moment, his eyes were too bright. Too sharp. Like something inside him was pressed tight against the glass. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

Theo didn’t flinch. “Then tell us.”

And for a breath, it looked like Draco might. Like the words had risen in him, ready to tear free.

“Theo…” he said. But the rest didn’t come.  Draco swallowed, looked away and shook his head. “I can’t.”

Theo leaned back again, still watching him but no longer pressing. Pansy watched with that rare, careful softness, like she saw more than she’d ever admit. Blaise just sat in silence, his expression unreadable.

No one said anything more.

“I just need to survive tomorrow,” Draco said finally and then he left. His footsteps echoed behind him. None of them chased after him.

***

School days came and went like pages in a book someone else was turning. Meals blurred together. Classes felt quieter. Even the weather seemed hesitant with skies full of unfinished storms, mornings that never quite warmed. The Triwizard banners still hung, but the colors had faded slightly with time and dust and dread.

And always, in front of them, the final task waited.

Draco sat alone at his desk, the Slytherin dormitory stayed quiet behind thick, emerald curtains that swayed slightly with the breath of the lake. The water outside cast faint, shifting patterns on the stone walls, silent ripples of green and silver, dancing like ghosts.

The other boys were gone, scattered into their own quiet corners of fear and distraction. The castle’s mood had shifted, and even they could feel it, though they didn’t have the words for it.

No one had asked where Draco was tonight.

The candle beside him burned low. The wax pooled beneath the candlestick, thick and cooling. Everything felt suspended, held just at the edge of something.

The ink dried slowly, as if reluctant to seal the words. It spread in delicate veins across the parchment, refusing to absorb cleanly. As though the page understood something Draco hadn’t said aloud: that once this letter left his hands, there would be no taking it back.

The parchment itself was crisp, formal. Thick-cut, edged in silver, the kind kept in lacquered drawers and used only for official correspondence — betrothal notices, death announcements, estate negotiations. It smelled faintly of ink and age and dried mint. An old scent. A Malfoy scent.

But there was no elegance in his chest tonight. Only a slow, steady ache.

He dipped the quill again and resumed writing.

“Father,

The Third Task is approaching, and with it, the end of the school year. I expect you already know that. I expect you’ve already made certain bets and chosen who you believe will rise and who will fall.

I know you think you understand how this ends. You always have.

But I’m writing to suggest, just this once, that you consider the possibility that you are wrong.

Things are moving faster now. Not just inside the castle, but beyond it. People are choosing where they stand. Some loudly. Some not. I don’t expect you to approve of where I stand. I doubt you’ll understand it.

But I am asking you, not as your son, not even as a Malfoy, to consider that there are still choices worth making.

There is still a line. And it hasn’t closed behind you. Not yet.

If you cross it now, you won’t come back.

I know who you were. I know what you did last time. But I also know you still believe in power. So hear this: you still have some. And how you use it now will echo louder than any mask or name you’ve ever worn.

Don’t do something you’ll regret.

This is your last chance to choose.

Draco”

He set the quill down.

The scratch of metal against glass was the only sound for several long seconds.

Then he folded the parchment once, neatly, as he had been taught, and reached for the green wax. He pressed the Malfoy seal into its surface with a slow, steady hand, watching the crest take shape.

No name but the owl would find its path through wind and fog to Wiltshire, to the manor with its polished halls and locked doors, where Lucius Malfoy sat behind a desk already writing the next chapter of the war he thought he’d already won.

Draco stood.

The silence in the dormitory folded around him as he crossed to the door, cloak slung around his shoulders like armor. He moved through the Slytherin common room like a ghost, the green-glass lamps flickering as he passed.

The owlery was high and dark and wind-washed, the air sharp against his throat. The birds shifted restlessly in their perches, feathers rustling like dry parchment, claws tapping against stone.

He held out the letter. A pale owl swooped down without a sound. Took the scroll in its talons. A blur of wing and silence against the sky, disappearing into the dark like a word spoken and carried away by wind.

Draco stood there long after it had vanished. The stars above him glittered cold and sharp through the owlery’s open arches.

***

It was the week before the Third Task. The Great Hall had been draped in celebratory banners, enchanted to shimmer with house colors that pulsed like slow, breathing light. The courtyard fountains had been cleaned until they gleamed like glass, and bright flags fluttered from the high windows as though nothing was waiting beneath the surface.

Classes had been shortened. Homework suspended. The atmosphere felt like the morning of a holiday.

Students whispered with a kind of breathless awe, giggling over predictions and scribbling names on enchanted betting slips. There was no real fear, only the tingling anticipation of spectacle. Like they were waiting for fireworks, not the edge of something irreversible.

And Draco, beneath all of it moved like someone already half-gone. The stone beneath his boots felt colder than it should. The wind that slipped through the halls carried whispers only he seemed to hear. And the storm just behind the curtain.

The letter arrived the night before the third task, without a crest this time. No embossed sigil, no wax seal bearing the serpent of his house. Just plain parchment, folded with meticulous precision and tied with a length of pale blue ribbon — the color his mother favored when writing things meant to be personal, not political. The color she used in quieter years, when the world hadn’t yet hardened around them.

It was waiting for him when he returned to the dormitory after dinner, set neatly on his pillow like it had been there for hours, simply waiting for the right moment to be seen.

He recognized her handwriting instantly, the elegant loops, the careful restraint in every stroke. Graceful even on the page. The ache came before he even unfolded it.

Draco sat down slowly on the edge of his bed, his back angled away from the low hum of voices in the common room beyond the curtains.  He opened the letter with hands too still to be casual and read.

“My dear Draco,

I hope this finds you rested and well.

I know how quiet you’ve become lately.

Your father has not spoken to me since the last full moon.

I do not say this to worry you. I say it because I believe you already understand what it means. You see it clearer than most ever will.

He no longer comes home. He no longer sends word. But he still signs the ledgers. Still replies to Ministry owls. Still pretends we are what we once were.

A man’s silence speaks more than his vows, Draco. Especially when he believes he is preparing for something greater than love.

I have received correspondence from other corners... Old names, forgotten ties. Someone at Hogwarts has reached out to me on Dumbledore’s behalf. I will not pretend I trust it. But I believe the offer is real.

I will be safe.

That is all I want you to remember.

And I hope, with all that I still have left to give, that you will be too.

Your mother,

Narcissa”

He folded the letter slowly, carefully, like it was something that might shatter if handled too harshly. The ribbon slid from his fingers and coiled on the floor like a small, sleeping serpent.

Draco stared at the blank side of the parchment for a long time, his hands still tight around the edges. The light from the candle beside his bed flickered, casting long shadows across the coverlet, across his pale knuckles, across the silence blooming behind his ribs.

His throat ached with pressure.

The pressure of everything unsaid. Of not crying. Of not speaking. Of not screaming into the stone about a father who no longer answered, and a mother who had finally written as herself and not as an extension of a name. The pressure of a life coming apart at its seams with such quiet precision that it almost looked like a ceremony.

No letter from his father. Not a word. As if the message Draco had sent, the one that cracked open the Malfoy legacy and held it to the light, had never arrived.

Or worse: as if it had. It had been read. Understood. Considered. And dismissed.

He sat still for a long time. There was no more denying. The choice had already been made. And tomorrow, he would carry it forward, with or without the name that once gave him everything.

Chapter Text

The sky that evening was unnaturally clear. A flat expanse of deepening blue, so wide and smooth it looked like the ocean. The wind was quiet too, barely rustling the heavy fabric of the banners strung between towers. And where the Quidditch pitch once stood, a new shape had grown.

A maze. It rose higher than the stands now, dark green hedges thick as walls, rustling softly in a breeze that no one else could feel. The air smelled like grass and iron. And the entrances of it were four arched doorways spaced evenly apart, gaped like jaws waiting to be fed.

Torches had been lit around the perimeter. The crowd pressed in around the boundary ropes, students, staff and visiting politicians alike murmuring with that strange blend of excitement and unease. This was still the Triwizard Tournament, after all. Entertainment, they said. Tradition. Spectacle. Never mind that the last two tasks had nearly killed their champions. This was the final act.

A loud, clear charm echoed across the field.

Ludo Bagman’s voice, charmed as ever to sound jovial even as the sun began to die.

“Welcome to the third and final task of the Triwizard Tournament! Tonight, our champions will enter the Enchanted Maze, filled with magical obstacles designed to test not only their skill, but also their heart, their courage, their ability to discern illusion from truth!”

A ripple of applause passed through the stands.

Draco stood just beyond the line of the velvet rope. The staff tents loomed behind him, their canvas edges snapping gently in the wind.

Ahead, the other champions gathered, each lost in private ritual. Fleur Delacour adjusted the silver buckles of her cloak. Viktor Krum rolled his shoulders with the slow, deliberate grace of someone who knew his body was a weapon. Cedric Diggory stood apart, eyes closed, breathing in long and calm cycles.

And then there was Harry.

Hair in wild disarray, collar turned like he hadn’t noticed and his jaw clenched tight. He looked older than he had the week before. Maybe even the day before. And his eyes, always too green, burned with that quiet, reckless bravery Draco had spent far too long pretending he didn’t see.

It only took a second for their eyes to meet. And then Draco stepped forward. Just one careful stride that brought him close enough for the rest of the world to blur around the edges.

Harry shifted slightly, half-turning toward him. There was something softer in his eyes now.

Draco could see the shape of a question beginning to form on Harry’s lips, that same instinct to check in on Draco, to ask are you okay in a voice he never used for anyone else.

But Draco already reached into his pocket and pressed something small and cool into Harry’s hand: a thin silver chain, a trinket charm.

“It’s warded,” he said flatly. “Protection against direct spells. A buffer, even if you’re caught off guard.”

Harry looked down at it, brow furrowed. “Draco—”

“Fuck not cheating,” Draco snapped. “You know this is dangerous. You know it’s serious. So wear the damn thing.”

Harry looked at him for a long moment, then nodded once, quiet and sure. “Okay... Alright.”

“Just be careful. Don’t do anything reckless. Don’t go charging in like you always do.” Draco murmured.

Harry’s mouth twitched at that. “You’re asking me not to be myself.”

“I’m asking you,” Draco said, with sudden force behind it, “not to be a bloody idiot.”

That pulled a small breath of laughter from Harry. But Draco didn’t smile. His gaze was steady now, serious in a way that made Harry stop.

“Whatever happens in there,” Draco said, “you come back. Do you hear me?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I heard you.”

Draco reached out, fingers curling around Harry’s wrist, not to hold him back, but to anchor himself. There was a quiet pulse there, steady and real, and it grounded him more than any charm ever could.

And then he leaned in, no hesitation this time. Their mouths met, soft and searching. Harry let out a small breath. His hand found the back of Draco’s neck, fingers slipping into the hair there as if to say yes. Here. Now.

The world blurred. Nothing sharp. Nothing burning. Just breath and closeness and a silence that felt like safety.

When they finally parted, Draco didn’t pull away all the way. He stayed close, his forehead brushing lightly against Harry’s, breath catching in the hush between them.

“I meant it,” he whispered. “Please… don’t make me watch you disappear.”

Harry’s voice was low, steady.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

***

The champions were called to the front.

One by one, they stepped forward beneath the twilight sky, each passing beneath their designated arch. Wands gripped tight in their hands. The gates groaned as they began to close behind them, the iron arches locking into place.

And the crowd erupted loud and bright, cheering as though this were a sport.

Draco did not stand with the other students who were crammed into the rows of enchanted benches. Instead, he stood just behind them, in the cordoned-off space reserved for faculty, where the faces were calmer, more composed, but no less tight with unspoken tension. The kind of worry that understood what a show of power truly cost.

From here, he could see everything.

The massive hedge walls shimmered faintly and every so often, a flicker of light pulsed deep inside, faint flashes of gold or green or violet, a charm disarmed, a trap triggered, a line crossed.

The wind had picked up. A soft push against cloaks and collars, the scent of dusk and damp earth rising from the pitch. It carried something familiar with it. Something he couldn't quite name.

Draco folded his arms. His fingers curled into his sleeves.

His eyes stayed fixed on the maze, but his thoughts looped in anxious spirals, never quite landing. Wouldn’t stop replaying what had just happened, the heat of Harry’s wrist under his fingers, the brief, stolen kiss, the words he'd barely spoken.

Come back.

But even that wasn’t what haunted him most.

Because Draco knew something the others didn’t.

Dumbledore had told him way before this. No warmth in his voice. No comfort in the words. Just the cold arrangement of facts between two people who understood that strategy was often built with pieces that bled. They weren’t just hoping the final task would draw someone out. They were counting on it.

“There will be Aurors stationed around the perimeter,” Dumbledore had said. “Under glamours. Some in the air. Some were embedded outside the hedges.”

“Disguised?”

“Naturally. Ministry eyes, yes. But mine as well. People I trust.”

“And the teachers?”

“Flitwick. Hooch. Sinistra. Severus will be below, in the dungeons, coordinating with them directly. If someone tries to attack the school, we will know. We also have eyes on Crouch already.”

Draco had stared into the fire.

“You think the Death Eaters will attack here?”

Dumbledore had looked at him with a kind of ancient certainty.

“I think they want to be seen doing so,” he’d said. “A public gesture. A performance. A statement. And we’re giving them the perfect stage.”

Draco hadn’t asked what would happen if they were wrong. He already knew.

Now, standing on the edge of the pitch, with the night deepening around him and the maze thrumming with the low, unnatural hum of distant magic, Draco watched the perimeter more than the center. He saw movement where others didn’t.

Aurors.

They ghosted along the far boundaries like shadows trained not to be seen. Figures half-wrapped in glamour, faces blurred by enchantment, but still there, still visible if you knew how to look. The wards around the pitch vibrated faintly, layered one over the other in fine, invisible threads — proximity spells, protective charms, tripwire incantations woven like silk over steel.

He wondered if the audience knew. But if they did, they didn’t show it. Their faces still turned toward the maze’s center, where nothing had moved for far too long.

And Draco felt no relief in all that magic. No safety in the presence of wands and wards and hidden blades.

Because the serpent inside him had begun to stir.

Something is wrong.

The maze had gone quiet. There were no more flickers of spellfire behind the hedges. No bursts of colored light. No thundercrack of triggered traps. No gasps from the audience. No nervous laughter. Even the professors, once murmuring near the front rows, had stilled. Only the wind moved now, brushing over the pitch in slow, chilled gusts.

The task was nearing its end. That was what everyone believed.

The crowd leaned forward in expectation, breathless with the fantasy of resolution. They were waiting for a hero now. Robes torn for drama, wand lifted in victory, face streaked with grit and glory. They were waiting for a final burst of light. For the maze to part and release its champion, a school’s pride reborn in spectacle.

They were waiting for the story to end the way it should.

And Draco felt it first with blood.

The thing came like a pressure drop, a sudden wrongness in the bones. The serpent that lived beneath his ribs stirred with a hiss, winding tighter in his chest. His fingers closed instinctively around the ring. The metal was hot now, almost pulsing. A warning again.

Then, his whole body tensed. A flicker of motion, a sound too soft to name, and suddenly Draco was standing, his breath snagged sharp in his throat.

He knew. Not how. Not why. But he knew. So Draco didn’t wait for permission, he just ran.

Over the velvet rope. Down the steps. Past the startled Aurors whose glamours shimmered as they moved to stop him, but Draco twisted sharply, ducking beneath an outstretched arm and slipping through a narrow gap of the maze like he already knew where not to be.

Someone shouted his name — McGonagall, maybe, or another professor — but the wind tore the sound away. The hedges opened before him like smoke parting, many of the traps already disabled, many of the dangers already passed, the path half-cleared by the champions who had come before.

He was halfway down the third turn when a hand shot out from the glamoured darkness and seized his wrist.

Draco jerked back instinctively, wand already half-raised, but Volkov was fast. His grip was tight, fingers curled like cuffs around Draco’s arm.

“Pity,” Volkov said, his voice was too ragged for a boy. “If you'd stayed put, you wouldn’t have seen this.”

Draco froze for the briefest second. The moonlight caught the edge of Volkov’s face and something in Draco’s blood went cold.

Volkov’s other hand brushed against Draco’s shoulder, as if to steady him, as if they were co-conspirators instead of something worse. “It’s too late now,” he said, a touch of satisfaction curling through his voice. “The plan worked. He’s already gone. And our Lord... he will return.”

The words slammed into him with terrible clarity. And suddenly, everything he had dismissed throughout the year — the strange familiarity, the faint shadows beneath Volkov’s eyes, the book passed off as one of Durmstrang’s teaching — slid into place with a sickening finality.

Sergei Volkov knew all along. He was a Death Eater. He was the other one watching Draco throughout the year.

“No,” Draco said, breath catching. “No—”

Volkov’s eyes glittered. “We’ve been watching you. We know what you are, what you can do. So be smart about this, Draco. It’s better to stand with the winning side.”

Then footsteps came somewhere behind them. Aurors, professors, stirred by his intrusion and nearly caught up. Something loud and shattering burst from behind him. A distraction. Conjured or summoned, he couldn’t tell. In that thin moment of distraction, when Volkov turned his head slightly toward the sound, Draco shoved him. His wand flicked fast. “Obscuro!”

A veil of darkness slammed over Volkov’s face. He cursed and reeled, stumbling again.

Draco ran. His lungs burned. His legs threatened to give out. But he didn’t stop.

The Cup flared ahead of him, brighter now, impossibly bright. All he could think, all he could hear beneath the wind and the terrible beat of his heart was Harry. Harry. Please still be there.

Draco skidded to the center clearing just in time to see Harry and Cedric Diggory standing too close to the gleam of it. Diggory’s hand was already half-raised, reaching toward the glittering handles with the proud, exhausted look of someone who believes they’ve made it.

“Don’t touch the cup!” Draco screamed, voice tearing from his throat like a curse.

Cedric flinched, arm yanking back instinctively. But Harry’s arm was already too far gone in motion and couldn’t reach back. His fingers brushed the metal. And he vanished. Swallowed by blue fire.

Gone.

Draco stumbled to a halt, breath sawing out of his lungs, the clearing suddenly too wide, too empty, the hedges seeming to breathe around him. He turned, eyes wild, searching the space where magic had just vanished.

Because the Cup hadn’t just been a trophy. It was a Portkey. A trap dressed in triumph. And Harry had touched it alone.

Draco’s knees buckled slightly, but he didn’t fall. The serpent inside him writhed, a silent scream twisting through his bones.

And then Draco spoke aloud, not to Diggory, not to the trees or sky, but to the air itself, as if the world might somehow listen. “It’s not here. It’s not happening here.”

Because Dumbledore’s plan, all the Aurors, all the layers of protection, all the watchful eyes in disguise had focused on the castle. On keeping Hogwarts safe.

But the threat hadn’t come to the school. It had taken them away.

Draco’s breath caught in his throat as he turned in place, watching the maze respond, its enchantments buckling slightly, the illusion-wards flickering as faculty broke ranks and moved toward the clearing.

And still, the truth stood at the center of it all like a broken altar: Harry was gone. Taken.

“They took him,” Draco whispered. “They came for him.”

Diggory turned toward him, confusion twisting his expression. He had no idea how close he’d come to vanishing, too. Without a word, Diggory raised his wand and shot an emergency flare into the sky — bright, gold-white fire screaming upward in a spiral, exploding above in a shower of sparks.

Voices began to rise. Murmurs, questions, calls for champions. Then shouting. Then the unmistakable panic of a crowd losing its story, losing control. And with a low hum of magic unspooling and the maze began to fall, enchantment by enchantment, the illusions unraveling like mist.

A team of professors and Aurors ran forward, their spells crackling as they dismantled the final wards. Someone shouted, “Make room!” just as a glowing arch flared open at the edge, the emergency exit gate, activated by the flare.

Within a blink, Draco and Cedric were back at the entry again, face to face with a stunned, shifting crowd. And just as the hush settled over the stands, a flash of searing blue light appeared, sudden and sharp as a blade slicing through fabric.

And then Harry landed hard on the grass, his face streaked with mud and blood. Collapsed in a tangle with another body. Too still.

His chest heaved. Once. Again. Two. There was a glint at his throat: the silver charm Draco had given him, blackened and split down the center, as if it had absorbed something meant to destroy him. One end of the chain was still clutched in his hand, fingers bloodied and white-knuckled.

And then Harry screamed. “He’s back!”

The words were ripped from him, like they were torn from his soul and hurled into the open sky. “Voldemort’s back!”

A ministry woman gasped, the sound of disbelief scraping against truth. Somewhere behind her, a wand slipped from trembling fingers and hit the ground with a soft clatter that echoed louder than it should have. A student cried out, thin and piercing.

Then movement. An Auror pushed through the crowd, face pale and drawn, wand at the ready but hands unsteady, as if they already knew what they were going to find, but still hoped to be wrong.

He knelt beside the crumpled body, the one Harry had brought back. Gently, reverently, the Auror turned him over.

The robes were torn, stiff with blood. One sleeve hung by a thread. He brushed it back with a trembling hand.

There it was, burned into the skin of the body’s forearm, vivid and obscene against the pallor of death: The Dark Mark.

Coiled like smoke, inked in cruel certainty, black and raised, almost shimmering beneath the torchlight. But it was more than a mark. It was alive. Pulsing slowly, like it breathed with a heartbeat.

A collective gasp spread through the crowd like fire leaping from roof to roof. Someone stumbled backwards, almost falling. Another dropped to their knees and began to pray, voice thin and shaking.

Draco saw it.

Saw the way the Auror went still. Saw the way Dumbledore's gaze snapped to the body. Saw the way the Ministry witch beside him paled, parchment forgotten in her hand.

But even through the churn of horror and recognition, one small, bitter relief surfaced in Draco’s mind: this Death Eater wasn’t someone he knew. Not a face from a family dinner. Not a relative of any of the students now frozen on the sidelines, staring in confusion or dawning dread.

A hundred voices rose at once like a tidal wave of noise after that, disjointed and raw. Above them, shadows blurred in the sky: Aurors on brooms, circling tighter, formation breaking down as panic overtook protocol. Spells lit the air like lightning, brief and flickering, but no one knew what they were aiming at. Orders were being shouted, but they collided midair, tangled in fear.

McGonagall’s voice cut through the confusion, sharp and commanding. Flitwick followed seconds later, trying to pull order from the chaos. But it was like trying to hold back a storm with a thread.

Screams. Cries. Movement with no direction. Panic spilled out like water from a dam that had been waiting too long to break. Students running, pushing, not even sure why they were running, only that something was wrong, deeply wrong. It was like every unspoken fear from the World Cup had risen from the ground at once, dusted in ash and memory. No one had forgotten the Dark Mark in the sky. No one had ever truly healed.

Someone from Beauxbatons collapsed to the ground, sobbing into gloved hands, trembling so hard they couldn’t get back up. Others stumbled over them, half-blind with terror.

Karkaroff was already moving, the swish of his cloak catching air as he made a sharp turn toward the outer gates. His face was pale, pinched, not even pretending to care about his students now. He had nearly reached the edge of the courtyard when an Auror caught him hard by the arm.

“Let go of me!” Karkaroff snarled, twisting violently. “I demand —”

“You’re not going anywhere,” the Auror growled, wand already lit.

Draco’s dazed eyes swept the grounds and caught the movement of several Durmstrang students shoving toward the edge of the crowd, desperate to bolt. One of them tried to leap the low barrier fencing in the arena, but another Auror stepped in, blocking the path.

“Stand down!” the Auror barked. “Back! Back!”

And then Draco saw him.

Sergei Volkov, pinned on the ground, arms bound tight behind his back with glowing restraints that shimmered faintly against his dark robes. Three Aurors ringed him, wands drawn, tense and watching but he made no move to escape.

“It doesn’t matter. I’ve done my part,” Volkov only laughed. The sound cut through the rising chaos, shrill and raw, like a note of victory buried inside the unraveling of everything.

Draco’s gaze caught him by accident and still, somehow, Volkov felt it. His head snapped up as if tugged by a string, and across the space between them, his eyes found Draco’s.

He smiled. A wide, gleaming, jagged grin, teeth bared, lips stretched too far, like something unhinged had come loose beneath his skin. A grin full of ruin, and secrets, and promises already kept.

The message was clear in the madness of that smile: It’s begun

Dumbledore moved through the chaos behind Draco, once again calm, ancient, immovable. His voice rang out, already calling for control, for silence.

But Draco cared for none of it because all he could see was Harry. Everything else blurred, faces smudged like wet paint across the ground, sounds that rose and fell in static waves.

Draco dropped to his knees, the ground biting into him, but he barely felt it. His arms went around Harry in a rush. He gathered him in like a shield, like a lifeline, like a boy trying to hold the world together with nothing but his body.

His hands were too tight, clutching Harry’s back with desperate fingers that trembled from adrenaline and fear, and still he pulled him closer. Draco needed to feel that Harry was real, that this was real, not another vision, not another warning curled in smoke and blood.

Harry gasped at the pressure, but didn’t pull away. His body shook with the kind of trembling that had nothing to do with cold. A tremor born from what he had seen, from what he had survived.

So was Draco. They were shaking in sync. One breath, one heartbeat, one unspoken terror shared between them.

“You’re here,” Draco whispered, voice fraying at the edges, barely audible over the chaos crashing around them. “You’re here...”

He kept repeating it, like a chant, like a spell, as if the words could stitch reality together if he said them enough.

Behind them, the world was unraveling. The very air was turning to panic. But none of it mattered. Not in this moment. Draco held Harry tighter until they were chest to chest. His cheek brushed against Harry’s skin, slick with sweat and tears and something else he couldn’t name.

It felt like prophecy. This was the pivot, the fracture point. The moment when history exhaled and changed its shape forever. He felt it in his marrow, in the ancient coil of the serpent stirring behind his ribs.

The words didn’t need to be said again. They lived in every pulse of Harry’s body, in the raw, cracked sob caught in his throat, in the way he clung back now, fingers curling into Draco’s robes like he couldn’t bear to stand alone anymore.

And Draco knew that everything they had feared was no longer future.

The Dark Lord had returned.

Voldemort.

And the silence before had only ever been mercy, because this was the sound of the world catching fire.

***

The infirmary wing was filled with a kind of muted chaos, the air thick with the tail end of adrenaline and the slow creep of realization. Beds stood in uneven rows, half-stripped or hastily remade, the scent of burn salve and blood-cleansing charms lingering in the air. Students came and went in steady trickles — limping, dazed, muttering about flares and stampedes and wards that had crackled and dropped mid-run. A third-year sobbed softly as a mediwitch cleaned a gash on her shoulder. Somewhere near the door, an Auror questioned a Beauxbatons girl in hushed, urgent French.

“—don’t write that down yet. Get a full account first.”

“—Professor Flitwick, was that Dark Mark... alive? I thought—”

“—they say he’s lost his mind. Or cursed.”

“Is it really real? Is he…?”

“Shh—don’t say that. You don’t know what he saw.”

“—We don’t know anything for sure yet.”

The words drifted like smoke between the beds, never loud enough to be owned, always just shy of clear. Half-truths and panic threaded through them, whispered beneath the hush of spellwork and the rustle of healer robes.

At the far end of the wing, away from the noise and the shuffling feet, behind a half-drawn curtain and a hastily placed privacy ward, Harry Potter sat upright in bed, pale as parchment and rigid as stone. The adrenaline hadn’t quite left him, it clung to his skin in a sheen of sweat, humming in his bones.

Draco sat beside him, silent, unmoving. He had just helped Harry through the door, one arm looped around him tight enough to hide the tremble in his own hands, then refused to leave when the mediwitch tried to usher him out. Now he sat in a straight-backed chair, hands folded in his lap, eyes fixed somewhere in the middle distance. Not at Harry, not at the bandages peeking out from under his collar or the scorched chain still hanging around his neck.

They’d already come three times.

The first had been the Aurors, tall and sharp around the edges, cloaks still smelling faintly of damp wool and smoke. Their boots scuffed the polished infirmary floor, their expressions unreadable save for the flicker of urgency behind their eyes.

“Name them, if you can,” one said with the weight of official purpose. “Anyone in masks. Anything you saw before the portkey activated.”

Harry spoke hoarsely, each word drawn up from somewhere scraped raw inside him.

“There were five. Maybe six. They didn’t all speak. They—” he paused, breath shuddering, eyes flicking to the ceiling as if trying to see it again. “They were already there. Waiting. Voldemort—”

The second Auror flinched slightly, but kept his voice even. “You’re sure it was him?”

“Yes,” Harry said, without hesitation. “I saw him. I heard him... He touched me.”

They continued asking. “Potter, do you know how long you were gone?”

Harry only shook his head. “It felt like... forever. And no time at all.”

The Aurors exchanged a look and quietly, without fanfare, began scribbling notes before stepping away.

Then McGonagall had arrived, her robes swirling around her. She looked older than usual, pinched with worry, her usual precision replaced by something frayed at the edges.

She carefully placed a cup of steaming potion on the nightstand. Calming draught, Draco recognized by the scent.

“You did what you had to do,” she said quietly. “You were brave, Mr. Potter.” Her voice shook only slightly. “And I want you to know... that I’m proud of you. More people believe you than you think.”

Harry only looked down at the cup and then to Draco, as if silently asking if it was safe to drink. Draco gave a barely perceptible nod.

McGonagall rested her hand over Harry’s for just a moment before she rose and swept away again, her spine too straight, her mouth too tight.

The third was Dumbledore.

He came alone. The room seemed still as he entered. He said little, only asked Harry how he was feeling, if he remembered everything clearly, if the name he’d spoken was true. He didn’t write anything down. He didn’t ask about the graveyard, or the Death Eaters, or the portkey that should’ve been impossible to tamper with. He didn’t look at the chain around Harry’s neck, blackened and cracked. He didn’t ask why Draco was here, still seated at Harry’s side like some weary, bloodstained sentry.

Harry only nodded, slow and hollow.

Dumbledore placed a single hand on his shoulder, fingers light enough that Draco thought it might pass right through him.

Then Dumbledore turned to leave. And that’s when he looked at Draco with that calm, ageless gaze full of knowledge, full of sorrow. And Draco, so wrung out he couldn’t tell if his hands were shaking or simply numb, stared back. His throat tightened with everything he didn’t say. The plans. The secrets. The layers of protection hadn’t been enough.

His eyes burned, dry and furious, and all he could think as Dumbledore left without a word was: This wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

And maybe the old man knew that too.

And then —

The infirmary doors slammed open, breaking through the muffled quiet.

Draco’s head lifted, instinct twitching through tired muscles, and there they were: Granger in front, red-faced and breathless as though she’d outrun the entire castle to get there. Weasley stumbled in after her, not quite catching up, his shock still written raw across his face.

They were all sharp edges and crashing emotion, loud in the way only the desperate and devoted ever are.

“Harry!” Granger’s voice cracked open the air.

She crossed the room in four quick strides and flung her arms around him before anyone could stop her, before Harry could brace or warn or flinch, though he did, just slightly, a flicker of stiffness through his shoulders, a ghost of recoil and then he folded.

His hand — still scraped and trembling, fingers twitching like they hadn’t yet remembered how to hold anything steady — came up to rest against her back, just for a heartbeat. And his head tipped forward, only an inch, but it said more than anything else had since he’d been dragged back from wherever they’d taken him.

“They said you were gone,” Granger whispered. Her voice was tight, fraying. “They said something went wrong, and no one knew...”

“I’m here,” Harry rasped, the sound pulled up from somewhere deep and ragged. “I came back.”

Weasley hovered behind her, his face still too pale, eyes darting to the bandages. “You look like hell,” he said, and his voice tried to be light but cracked instead.

“Feels about right,” Harry muttered, though the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Granger pulled back just enough to wipe her eyes, her sleeve dragging across her cheek, and then she gripped the edge of the mattress as if anchoring herself there. “We’re staying,” she said, like a vow. “We’re not leaving.”

She sat without waiting for permission. Weasley dragged a chair from across the room, the legs screeching against the stone floor before he dropped into it with the gracelessness of someone who didn’t trust their knees.

And Harry, caught between them, turned his head and looked at Draco.

Draco hadn’t moved. Hadn’t spoken. Had barely breathed, if he was being honest. But his eyes had never left him.

Their gazes caught and held and said everything and nothing in a single moment.

Outside the curtain, the world continued unraveling. Voices rose and fell, too many at once, overlapping and cracking under the weight of uncertainty.

***

That night, Hogwarts felt hollow.

There was no feast or music. No banners hung from the enchanted ceiling, which itself no longer bothered to mimic the sky. It hung instead in a stagnant, unlit dusk, low and gray. Long shadows stretched across the flagstones like spilled ink, reaching through corridors and stairwells and archways, staining the quiet.

In the infirmary, Harry had finally fallen asleep.

It hadn’t happened suddenly, and not easily. He'd drifted down slowly, blinking longer and slower with each passing minute, too stubborn to give in, too drained to fight it for long.

He hadn’t said much after Granger and Weasley arrived and just nodded sometimes, answered in fractured syllables when pressed. But now he lay curled toward the wall, jaw slack, the bruised smudges under his eyes deepening in the faint glow of the sconces.

Draco sat beside him, slouched in the same chair he'd occupied for hours, legs stiff and spine aching, exhaustion sinking into his bones. He didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to leave him there.

But the hour slipped on, and the whisper of curfew stirred in the air like a spell being cast over the whole school.

“Mr. Malfoy,” came Madam Pomfrey's voice, gentler than usual, but still edged with quiet authority. She stood nearby, arms crossed, worry etched into every line of her face. “You’re welcome to stay, if you feel you must. But I think... You might need the rest more than you realize.”

Draco opened his mouth to protest, the denial already forming, brittle and automatic. But the words caught somewhere behind his teeth. Because she was right. He could feel it in the ache behind his eyes, in the way his thoughts had begun to blur at the edges. Staying wouldn't fix anything and it might break him more.

He looked back at Harry still asleep, still curled in on himself like a wound not yet closed and nodded. And Granger and Weasley, already curled in makeshift beds that they'd refused to leave. At least Harry wouldn’t be alone tonight.

“I’ll go.”

Madam Pomfrey gave him a look of quiet understanding.

Two Aurors waited near the door, saying nothing, but clearly tasked with escorting anyone who lingered too long.

Draco rose slowly, knees clicking, every limb made of lead. He gave Harry one last glance, at the curve of his back, at the faint line between his brows that hadn’t faded even in sleep.

The halls beyond the infirmary were colder now. More Aurors moved through them like shadows in borrowed uniforms, and the portraits on the walls stared down in grim, unblinking silence.

The Slytherin common room was dim and close when Draco stepped inside. Someone had tried to straighten the pillows, but the effort looked hollow.

Pansy sat nearest the hearth, her knees drawn up tight, chin resting on them as she stared into the dwindling fire. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her breath hitched too often. Blaise paced slowly and steadily along the edge of the rug, his hand gripped tightly to an unfinished letter. Theo hadn’t come down at all. His door remained closed and no one had the energy or courage to knock.

No one needed to say his name or the thing they were all thinking, but it didn’t matter. The truth had already soaked into the walls, into the stones beneath their feet, into the stillness between their breaths. It settled in like fog, low and clinging, impossible to avoid.

They all felt it. In their bones, in their blood, under their skin.

Draco dropped into the first chair near the window, elbows on his knees, hands dangling loose. He didn’t even remove his cloak.

He sat there, listening to the stone around him breathe.

Then, just after curfew, the message came. Across every common room, every professor’s quarters, even the darkened alcoves where students huddled together and whispered half-believed versions of the truth, it descended, soft and slow and golden.

A parchment. Trimmed in gleaming foil. Stamped with the Hogwarts crest.

“To all students and staff,

This evening’s unfortunate incident during the Triwizard Tournament is currently under investigation by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

Aurors have been dispatched to gather information. There is no cause for alarm. The safety of Hogwarts remains our top priority.

Please remain in your common rooms tonight.

We thank you for your cooperation.

The Headmaster’s Office”

An incident. That’s what they were calling it. Just… an unfortunate incident.

Draco stared at the parchment in his hands, the gold trim faintly aglow beneath the sconces. He read it once. Then again. The words didn’t change. They just sat there, cold and neat and wrong. His fingers curled around the edge of the parchment, pale and bloodless, the paper trembling slightly though his hands felt strangely distant, like they didn’t belong to him anymore.

Draco didn’t sleep. Not when the last of the firelight sank into ash, not when the others, one by one, abandoned their postures of distraction and disappeared into rooms filled with restless turning and muffled dreams.

He remained at the window, forehead pressed to the glass, its chill leeching into his skin until the pressure ached in his temples. His breath fogged the pane in slow, uneven bursts.

The Black Lake stretched far and silent beyond, the water flat and black, catching the moonlight in fractured slivers. Above the distant hills, just beyond the edge of Hogwarts’ enchantments, he could imagine it: Aurors arriving in waves, by broom and portkey, flooding into a graveyard that had no answers left to offer.

They would find what was left behind. Scorched earth. Trampled grass. Maybe blood, if the rain hadn’t washed it away. But not the fear. Not the way the dark had moved that night. Not the taste of something ancient stirring back to life.

That part, they couldn’t see.

There had been wands raised and screaming mouths and the reek of burning spells in the air. And there had been Harry cracked open, still shouting the truth that no one wanted to believe. Voldemort’s back.

There had been the dead body, Sergei Volkov and of course Crouch Jr. who was still in disguise. But Draco guessed that Dumbledore would have him captured by now. But what was the point after all? They still failed. And Draco could already see the denial etched into the Ministry’s officials’ faces.

***

The next morning, Hogwarts felt even stranger. There was light, but it had no warmth. Sound, but nothing real beneath it. The Great Hall had reopened its doors as though nothing had cracked beneath the surface. Platters of untouched toast curled at the corners, porridge congealed in gilded bowls, and teapots sat full, their steam long since vanished into the high rafters.

Overhead, the enchanted ceiling made a valiant attempt at dawn: golden streaks of light breaking across pale blue, but it flickered in and out of clarity like a faulty memory. And beneath it all, the whispering had begun.

Like rot blooming overnight in the quiet places, it spread from table to table, carried on breathless voices and bitten-off laughter, pretending boldness but reeking of fear.

“It was staged, you know.”

“He just wanted attention. Again.”

“Always the hero in his own story, isn’t he?”

“There’s no way the Dark Lord is back. That’s just what Potter does, always blows things out of proportion.”

It was easier to mock than to face it. Easier to believe in chaos than to believe in Him.

Draco sat at the Slytherin table, surrounded by his housemates, yet apart from them, his fingers clamped tight around the edge of the bench until his knuckles turned white.

His gaze drifted to the High Table. Dumbledore sat at the center, unmoving, his eyes cast somewhere far beyond the room. To his left, the Ministry’s liaison, cloaked in mauve and false comfort, smiled too politely at nothing, blinking too slowly, scribbling rapid, meticulous notes onto her clipboard.

Draco felt something coil in his chest. The serpent stirred in mourning.

***

The route to the Headmaster’s tower wound through half-lit corridors and stairwells that felt more like hollows than hallways. Draco’s footsteps echoed more than usual, though he walked without haste.

The summon had appeared and hovered midair like it had been waiting, and drifted gently to land in his hand. Thick, crisp, and sealed in red wax bearing the crest of the Headmaster’s Office, just when Draco was on his way to the infirmary to check up on Harry.

But before he could reach the tower, someone stepped into his path. A shadow moved where there should have been none. Snape.

He stepped out from the gloom as if peeled from it, the corridor’s limited light catching the edges of his robes, and his face was all angles and shadow. The only brightness was the gleam of his eyes, narrow and sharp.

“Come with me,” Snape said, his voice soft but heavy.

Draco followed without protest, the silence between them thick as oil, coating every unspoken thought. They didn’t go far, just a turn, then a narrow passage behind a weathered statue of an unremembered headmaster, whose name had been worn down to nothing. The alcove beyond was barely wide enough to hold them both, and the shadows here pressed closer, like the air itself was listening.

Snape looked at Draco for a moment. Then Snape spoke. The words came sharp, cutting straight through the quiet like a scalpel.

“Crouch has been unmasked. He’s in Ministry custody. The questioning has begun.”

Draco leaned back against the wall to keep from swaying, keeping his spine straight, his chin level, his face still, though the chill in the stones at his back seemed to bleed through his robes and into his skin.

He forced his voice to remain steady. “Do you believe they’ll get the truth?”

Snape’s mouth twitched. “I believe,” he said, “they’ll get what they want to believe. And nothing more.”

Draco’s jaw tightened. The muscles in his hands clenched without command.

Of course.

The Ministry didn’t need truth, not the kind that cracked foundations or called their competence into question. They would take the chaos and reduce it to something explainable, something palatable. Impersonation. Delirium. Traumatic magical shock.

The lies were moving faster than the truth ever could.

“But you have a more pressing problem... The Durmstrang boy,” Snape added quietly. “Sergei Volkov.”

Draco’s stomach twisted, a slow, nauseous pull inward.

Yes. He remembered. He saw it too clearly last night, the wild light in Volkov’s eyes, the way he had laughed, even as the Aurors dragged him down, the way he had looked at Draco, like everything had been a game and Draco had finally found out about it.

He had watched Draco all year.

“The Aurors uncovered enough,” Snape continued. “Volkov was not placed here by Karkaroff. His papers were falsified. His identity, manufactured. He was sent under specific orders.”

A pause.

“By the Dark Lord himself.”

Draco had known this already but hearing it confirmed felt like swallowing glass.

Snape’s face didn’t shift. If he pitied him, it was buried deep, masked by the same unreadable gravity he wore like a second skin. “They wanted to observe you,” he said. “To measure you. To test whether the son of Lucius Malfoy still held value. Whether he could be shaped. Used. Whether you would bend and if you did, how far. Whether your blood would answer when called.”

Draco’s breath caught on the way out. He stared at the floor as though it might offer some sort of tether, but it didn’t. It only reminded him how far beneath the surface he truly was.

“And?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Snape’s face revealed nothing. But his tone told Draco everything.

“You were being watched by both sides, Draco,” Snape said. “And that should tell you exactly how valuable you are… and how dangerous that makes your position.”

Then Snape turned, cloak catching the faintest breeze, and walked from the alcove without another word. But just before he vanished entirely, he paused, his back still to Draco, and let his words drift through the gloom.

“There is no safety in neutrality anymore, Draco.”

And then he was gone, as if the shadows had taken him whole.

Draco stood in the quiet that followed, breath shallow, chest tight, and a pressure growing behind his ribs that felt like a hand closing slowly, deliberately, around his lungs.

***

Draco entered Dumbledore’s office with a cold, sick weight in his gut.

The place so often humming with arcane whirrs and the occasional curious pop from some enchanted contraption, now held its breath. The portraits on the high walls feigned sleep, though a few betrayed interest with a twitching brow. Fawkes sat solemn and still on his perch. His brilliant feathers dulled by the firelight, his head bowed in sorrow.

The only movement came from the fire in the hearth. Its golden light played across Dumbledore’s face, etching the lines deeper, catching the tired edge of his mouth, the heavy stillness of his eyes. He looked neither kind nor cold. Just impossibly weary like a man who had bargained too long with fate, and never once won.

Draco stood before the great carved desk, arms stiff at his sides, shoulders drawn tight like a bowstring. He didn’t sit, though the exhaustion in his legs ached for it. The fire behind him threw his shadow long across the floor, blurred at the edges like it too had lost its shape.

“You said it would work.” His voice barely carried. It sounded wrong in the high-ceilinged quiet, small and dry and frayed. “You told me it would protect people. That if I watched, if I helped you… If I let myself be part of it, it would mean something.”

“I believed it would,” Dumbledore replied gently, though the way the words landed held no gentleness at all.

Draco's laugh was hollow, sharp-edged. “Harry nearly died.”

Something flickered behind Dumbledore’s eyes then, a momentary splintering of the composed mask he always wore. A falter. It passed quickly, but not quickly enough to go unnoticed.

“I did not plan for Harry to face Voldemort alone like that,” Dumbledore said at last. His voice dropped low, into something that almost sounded like shame.

“You let it happen,” he said, not lifting his gaze. “All of it. The maze. The Cup. You knew the graveyard was part of it. You said it would be contained. You said there were safeguards.”

“It was never going to end neatly, Draco,” Dumbledore said. The calm was gone now. The patience was gone. For once, he was not a symbol of wisdom, but simply a man weighed down by choices. “Because Voldemort’s return wasn’t a disaster to be averted, it was always inevitable. The graveyard was not a surprise. It was a destination. The Cup was only the road. The war...” he broke off, drew a breath, steadied. “The war was always coming. Death was always coming.”

Draco stepped back, like the heat of the fire had finally reached his skin.

“And that’s enough for you?” he asked softly. “That’s enough to justify doing nothing?”

The silence that followed swelled. It filled the office like water rushing into a sealed room. Even the fire behind Draco had quieted, as though listening. Even the portraits on the wall had gone still.

Draco looked down at the hearth, eyes catching on the slow flicker of gold light on polished stone. His voice, when it came again, was quieter. Almost reverent.

“You want to keep me close,” he murmured, “because of my power. Of what I could do.”

Dumbledore nodded, slowly, solemnly. “Your visions and powers are echoes of something old. Older than the school. Older than me. They move through bloodlines and instinct, through memory and myth. You are tied to something that doesn’t recognize sides or politics. And that’s why I had to see where your heart would lean.”

Draco didn’t answer. He didn’t have an answer.

Dumbledore rose from behind the desk with the weary gravity of a man who had carried too many names and buried too many students. Each step he took around the desk was slow, deliberate.

He stopped beside Draco, and for a moment, they stood in silence, shoulder to shoulder but miles apart.

“I am sorry,” Dumbledore said, and the words landed like a benediction. “For everything I’ve forced you to carry. And for everything I may still ask of you.”

Draco stared ahead, unmoving. Then, after a long pause, he turned his head slightly, his voice quiet and calm.

“You said death is inevitable... Even yours.”

Dumbledore met his eyes. There was no denial on his face. He inclined his head. “Yes.”

Draco’s gaze was sharp now. “Then when it comes,” he said, “I hope you’re ready for it.”

And with that, Draco turned, the hem of his robes brushing the floor behind him like a final word. He walked out of the office without looking back, the door closing behind him with the sound of something quiet ending.