Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future.” 
– Oscar Wilde

Lucas

62442 Whitehall

Westminster, London

SW1A 2BX

Ministry of Magic

1st February 1999

Mr. Lucas Waldo Linn, Mind Healer

73 HOLBURN STREET

ABERDEEN

AB10 6DN

Dear Mr. Linn,

It is with great pleasure that we inform you that you have been selected to participate in the Department for Evaluation, Adjustment, and Therapeutic Healing (D.E.A.T.H.) for Death Eaters Programme. You have been assigned to work with Mr. Draco Lucius Malfoy as part of the conditions for his release from Azkaban, as decreed after his trial, which took place last month.

We expect you to comply and help us create a new era for our community, in which we can hope there will be no more need for Mind Healers like yourself to reintegrate witches and wizards onto a better path. We also hope your special ability will make a big difference in treating Mr. Malfoy. We expect monthly reports from your part about Mr. Malfoy’s progress in the programme.

Sincerely yours,

Griselda Marchbanks

Wizengamot Administration Services

He’d been expecting the assignment. Rumours of Malfoy’s early release had been floating through the Prophet for days, and whenever someone said “difficult case” at the Ministry, they usually meant one thing: former Death Eater.

Still, reading it in ink — Malfoy’s name next to his — made it real in a way gossip didn’t.

He dropped the parchment on his desk and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his face. A headache had already started behind his eyes.

Malfoy.

The name had weight. It was practically its own brand — aristocracy, war crimes, enough inherited narcissism to make Lucius’s cane look humble. Lucas had never met Draco, but that didn’t matter. Every Muggleborn in the U.K. had known what the Malfoys stood for long before the Dark Mark went mainstream again.

He sighed and stood up, walking toward the small cabinet in the corner of his office. The kettle clicked on with a flick of his wand, but after a beat, he shut it off and reached for the Firewhisky instead.

Bugger this.

The first sip burned. The second went down easier.

This job was never easy. But this? This was a test for everything he believed as a therapist.

Lucas decided to call it a night and head home, hoping that his wife might help him untangle the thoughts spiralling in his mind. She usually did.

Lucas lived just outside Aberdeen, on the edge of Cove Bay in a little magical pocket where the lines between wizarding and Muggle life blurred just enough. Their cottage was a patchwork of both worlds — a kettle that whistled and a clock that blinked, a wireless tuned to BBC4 and wards woven through the brickwork.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was theirs.

Lucas and Matilda—Tilly to her friends— had been married for 15 years. She was a Muggle through and through and had been utterly stunned when Lucas confessed he was a wizard—just a few months before the wedding, laughing at first like it was the start of one of his weird jokes. But the laughter faded quickly. Discovering magic was real didn’t come with a tidy little bow. It was messy, overwhelming, and deeply disorienting.

It took years for her to stop questioning her own grip on reality. She’d grown up grounded, practical, the kind of girl who made lists and only believed in what she can touch, bordering into cold and clinical. Falling in love with a wizard had hurt, but was worst for her was the secrecy. They nearly called the whole thing off. But after a lot of tears, long conversations, and one particularly disastrous row in the middle of a Boots car park, they made a promise: they would honour each other’s worlds—his magical, hers Muggle—and raise their children with equal respect for both, should they have any.

Lucas was sixteen when the First Wizarding War broke out, a moment that solidified what he’d always suspected: that unchecked emotions (and avoiding them at all costs) were at the root of nearly every atrocity. If wizards and witches had better ways to face what lived inside them—grief, rage, fear, shame—so much of the violence might have been avoided. When he left Hogwarts, Lucas chose to study psychology in the Muggle world. Not only did it give him tools he knew the wizarding world desperately lacked, but it also gave him distance—physical and emotional—from a war that could easily have swallowed him whole.

The Second Wizarding War, however, was impossible to keep at arm’s length. By then, he and Tilly had carved out a quiet, blended life. 

They’d been living that way for eleven years when Voldemort returned.

At first, Lucas found it nearly impossible to explain. How do you tell your wife that she couldn’t go to Tesco alone, that there might be people looking for them, simply because of who he was? Tilly had always been brave, but Lucas could see the fear creeping in. And truthfully, it terrified him too. Mind Healers were rare in the magical world. Muggle-born ones were practically unicorns. In the eyes of Voldemort’s followers, he was a walking target.

In the end, they were lucky and when Harry Potter and the Golden Trio finally ended the war, Lucas wept—grief, relief, and gratitude tangled into one. He was finally free to go back to work. Back to helping others do what the wizarding world had never been taught to do: feel.

But that freedom didn’t erase the memory of those years. Or the quiet terror of knowing who had stood on the other side. Of seeing the Malfoy name in the Prophet, again and again.

Lucas arrived home, the walk from his office giving him just enough time to tuck his dread beneath something practical. The moment he stepped through the door, the scent of butter and sugar wrapped around him. Tilly was in the kitchen again—baking, as always.

What had started as a way to cope with grief had quickly become a habit. Lately, Lucas suspected she was baking her way through all the things they didn’t say aloud. Which, if he were honest, was fine by him. 

He crept up behind her, wrapped his arms around her waist, and buried his face in the familiar crook of her neck. She smelled like flour and honey and comfort. She smelled like home.

He kissed her shoulder and murmured, “Guess what?”

“Mmm… you forgot to buy milk again, didn’t you?” Matilda turned towards him, one hand on her hip like an exasperated schoolmarm.

“Well,” Lucas said, drawing out the word, “besides that minor oversight… tomorrow I have my first former Death Eater as a consultant.”

That earned him a raised eyebrow.

"Go on, don’t be coy. Give me a clue.”

During the war, Matilda had developed a morbid fascination with the Death Eaters. Not admiration—more like the baffled outrage of someone trying to understand why a group of wand-wielding adults would be so obsessed with bloodlines. She’d followed every trial religiously, marked the Prophet with coloured tabs, and read every Witch Weekly feature cover to cover.

Lucas hesitated. “I don’t recall if I ever mentioned him. He wasn’t one of You-Know-Who’s lieutenants, but his family were… quite involved. Until his mother, surprisingly, turned on Voldemort at the end—”

Matilda shrieked and leapt to her feet, slapping the table like she’d won the pub quiz. “Don’t tell me it’s Draco Malfoy!”

Lucas winced, lifting his hands in surrender. “You know I’m not supposed to reveal patient names…”

“Oh, come off it. You shrugged just enough. It’s him, isn’t it? Isn’t it!” She sat back down, grinning with gleeful scandal. “I read about his trial in Witch Weekly—the whole family smells like week-old hairy coo dung. Did you know Voldemort lived in their Manor? Honestly, the Malfoys make the Addams Family look well-adjusted.”

Lucas smirked. “You do realise the Addams Family weren’t real people, love?”

“Don’t distract me. Are you in danger?”

“I don’t think so,” he said, reaching for the half-eaten biscuit on her plate. “From what I gathered, he was a teenager under enormous pressure, not exactly a power-hungry sociopath. But I don’t know what to expect. This is court-mandated therapy. He didn’t ask for help. And if he hasn’t changed his views… well, it’ll be a bloody hard wall to climb.”

Matilda tilted her head and gave him that look she always did when he was being too hard on himself. “If he wants to change, even just a bit, he’s got the best person in the country to help him.”

Lucas huffed a soft laugh. “You always think too highly of me.”

“I married you, didn’t I?”

He rolled his eyes affectionately, then rubbed his temple. The Firewhisky was catching up with him. “I’m off to bed. I’ve got a headache and a meeting with Pureblood Guilt Inc. first thing.”

He bent to kiss her cheek, and she gave him a light swat on the arse with a tea towel as he walked past. “Don’t forget the milk again, therapist of the damned.”

He chuckled all the way to the bedroom.

~

ucas arrived early the next morning, as he always did.

His clinic was nothing like the sterile Ministry chambers used for “emotional evaluations.” His space looked lived-in. Shelves lined with overgrown plants. Floor-to-ceiling windows letting in the misty light. The fireplace hummed gently beneath a carved mantle, cluttered with Muggle and magical photos alike.

Tilly had called it his “wounded raven aesthetic.” She wasn’t wrong.

At precisely 10:00 a.m., the Floo roared.

And out stepped Draco Malfoy.

Lucas barely hid his surprise.

Draco looked like he'd fallen out of a photo shoot for Wizards With Regret. Long platinum hair, grown past his jaw. Slim black trousers, black dragonhide boots, black Muggle jacket with shearling lining — all sharp edges and intentional distance. He looked pale, tired, hollow-eyed — but held himself with that spine-straight posture only posh Purebloods and ex-soldiers managed.

He didn’t speak. Just stared. Assessing. Calculating. Cataloguing exits.

Lucas noted the signs instantly. Hypervigilance. Occlusion. Controlled breathing, but not relaxed. Defensive posture. And beneath it all — panic, hidden deep in the structure.

He had a plan for this session. A loose one, anyway. He wanted to gauge Draco’s willingness to engage—without putting on airs or pretending to be something he wasn’t. Lucas had tried the formal route once, early in his career, but it had never suited him. His strength lay in quiet authenticity, in being the same man in a clinic chair as he was on his sofa at home.

Still, even with his experience, it wasn’t easy to shake the feeling of tension in the room. But Lucas had worked with war veterans, bereaved mothers, half-feral teenagers, and at least three curse-breakers who were legally dead for several minutes. A moody former Death Eater in a Muggle jacket? He could handle that.

Lucas set his mug aside, offered a small, genuine smile, and gestured towards the armchair opposite him.

"Draco Malfoy, I presume," he said. "I'm Lucas. Sit wherever won't offend your sense of interior design. How are you today?"

Draco stepped forward stiffly, almost reluctantly. Without a word, he perched on the edge of the chair. Not relaxing, not committing. His hands hovered near the arms of the chair, but he didn't touch them. Like he didn't trust the furniture either.

His grey eyes, cold and sharp as broken glass, met Lucas’s.

"Peachy," Draco said, voice clipped and low. The sarcasm was there, but it was thin, defensive—a shield, not a flourish.

Lucas let the weight of the silence stretch for a moment before speaking and offered him tea.

“Three spoons of honey,” Draco said after a pause. “No milk.”

Interesting.

Comfort. Not taste.

"It seems you didn’t want to come," Lucas said plainly.

Draco let out a breath through his nose, almost a snort, but it carried no humour. "You're observant".

Lucas resisted the urge to shift in his chair.

"True," he acknowledged, lightly. "But since you’re stuck here regardless, maybe you can still choose how you want to use this hour."

Draco’s fingers tapped once, sharply, against the chair’s arm—and then stopped. His eyes drifted away from Lucas’s face, landing somewhere over his shoulder, unfocused.

"What do I have to do for you to tick a box and tell the Ministry I’m reformed," Draco said, the words tight, "so we can both pretend this is useful?"

Lucas felt the corner of his mouth twitch despite himself. Right on schedule.
He gave a small, genuine laugh—not mocking, but amused.

Draco’s brow furrowed, slight but visible, like he hadn’t expected anything except irritation or superiority.

"For once," Lucas said, voice steady, "you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to."

"Sure," Draco muttered eventually, feigning indifference so thick it practically curdled the air. "So... how does this work?"

Lucas shrugged lightly. "Usually, we just talk. I’ll ask questions that, if I weren’t a Mind Healer, people would tell me to sod off for. And you can ask me whatever you want too."

Draco raised one eyebrow, slow and sharp. "Sounds bloody thrilling," he said dryly.

Lucas fought a grin. He could play along.

After a deep breath, he decided to push just a little—be himself.

"Honestly," Lucas said casually, "it can get a bit boring. Especially if the person I’m trying to talk to is being an annoying bitch."

He lifted his mug and took a sip, casual as anything, a cheeky smile tugging at his mouth.

The reaction was immediate. Draco barked out a short, sharp laugh—a sound like something escaping against his will.
His hand clamped harder around the teacup a second later, as if trying to shove the sound back inside him.

Lucas smiled a little and leaned forward. “What are you hoping to get out of this?”

Draco snorted, but his fingers gripped the mug tighter. “A recommendation for minimal contact with Ministry officials for the rest of my miserable life.”

Lucas didn’t flinch. “That’s a goal. Not necessarily a plan.”

“I didn’t come here to have feelings.”

“No one ever does.”

Lucas let a beat pass. Then: “But we’re here. So why not try.”

He didn’t push. Just watched the silence stretch.

“You're not here to fix me,” Draco said at last. Flat. Defensive.

Lucas gave a small shrug. “Not unless you want to be fixed. My job isn’t to save anyone. It’s to sit with them while they figure out who they are without the fire.”

Draco snorted. “That’s rich. You do this often? Tell war criminals they’ve got identity issues?”

Lucas’s voice stayed level. “No. I tell survivors they’re more than what they did to survive.”

A flicker of something passed through Draco’s face — not pain, exactly, but discomfort. Like someone had spoken his real name out loud and then he was occluding again.

He set the tea down on the table. Carefully.

Lucas waited.

Finally, Draco exhaled and muttered, “What do you want from me?"

"I’ll need you to stop Occluding if this is going to work. Think you can manage that?"

For a second, Draco froze mid-sip.

The silence crackled.
Draco’s gaze darted to the window, then the fire, then back to Lucas. His jaw worked, clenching and unclenching.

"If you can’t—" Lucas began.

"Of course I can," Draco snapped, the words spilling too fast, too loud.
But his shoulders never eased, and he held the mug like it was a shield.

Lucas simply nodded, not calling him out.

"Very well," Lucas said. "Then tell me—why do you have trouble sleeping?"

Draco blinked. His mouth opened like he might deny it—but then he shrugged, sharp and small.

"That obvious?" he muttered.

Lucas smiled a little. "The bags under your eyes are doing most of the talking. That, and... well, I’m good at my job."

Draco stiffened at being seen so easily. His gaze dropped to the carpet between them, lingering there.

"You don’t have to pretend here," Lucas added softly.

"What’s that supposed to mean?" Draco’s voice was a low rumble—defensive, but brittle.

"It means I’m not here to judge you. Just to see you."

Draco shifted again, almost imperceptibly, like his skin didn’t fit quite right. His fingers tapped once against the mug, then went still.

He didn’t Occlude this time.

After a long, heavy pause, Draco muttered, "What do you want to know?"

"What keeps you up at night?"

A beat.

"Nightmares," Draco said, so quietly it barely counted as speech. "Sometimes."

Lucas nodded slowly. "What about?"

Another long silence. Draco’s fingers tightened on the mug so hard his knuckles whitened.

"Memories," he said at last, voice scraping like gravel. "The war. The Manor."

Lucas’s throat tightened, but he kept his face still.

"I can imagine," he said softly.

"No, you can’t," Draco snapped, sharper than before. His grey eyes flashed, fierce and wounded.

Lucas didn’t flinch. He just let it be there.

Draco swallowed thickly, gaze dropping again. His shoulders curled inward slightly, a silent retreat.

"You wouldn’t want to," he added, almost too low to hear.

Lucas gave it space, gave him space.

After a long minute, Lucas asked, "What do you think I want to know about?"

Draco blinked, visibly thrown.

"I don’t know," he muttered eventually. "It’s been awful. I wouldn’t want to burden someone else with it."

Lucas tilted his head.

"Why do you think it would burden me?"

Draco looked away sharply, toward the fire. His whole body seemed to shrink inwards.

Lucas leaned forward slightly, voice low, kind.

"Are you trying to take care of me, Draco?"

There was a visible flinch before Draco scoffed, forcing a smirk.

"Don’t flatter yourself," he said, brittle and biting. "Isn’t that your job? Mind Healer. Here to fix me. Save me from myself."

Lucas smiled wryly. "I hate that title, actually. ‘Mind Healer.’ I prefer Soul Healer, but even I admit that sounds a bit poncy."

"You think?" Draco snorted without real humour.

Lucas chuckled. "Still. I work with feelings, not just thoughts. Always felt closer to the soul."

Draco stared at him, wary, then jerked his chin towards the Muggle photos on the mantle.

"Do you think... lesser beings have souls?"

Lucas caught the bait with a calm shrug. "Muggles? Yes. I’m married to one. Happily, even. Shocking, I know."

Draco followed his gaze to the photos. He said nothing for a long moment.

"You’re not what I expected," Draco said finally.

"Oh? And what was that?"

"You’re annoying as hell," Draco muttered. "And... you seem to have a functioning brain."

Lucas laughed aloud, unbothered. "My wife says the same thing."

The smallest ghost of a smile flitted across Draco’s face, there and gone.

Lucas sipped his tea, watching him over the rim.

"I know you didn’t want this," Lucas said gently. "And it probably feels like a punishment. But I’m here because I want to be. Not because the Ministry told me to."

Draco stared into his cup like it held all the answers he didn’t dare say out loud.

"You shouldn’t care about a Death Eater," he muttered.

"I’m a Hufflepuff," Lucas said easily. "I can’t help it. Want a hug?"

This time, Draco did smirk, quick and sharp, but didn’t answer.

Lucas leaned back slightly. "How does it make you feel, knowing I care?"

"Nothing," Draco said coolly. "You’ve mistaken me for someone who gives a shit."

Lucas didn't move. He just let the silence hang between them.

After a while, Lucas said, "I’m nervous, you know. I reckon I might like you. But what scares me is whether you’ll ever let yourself like yourself."

Draco's face twisted briefly, something raw and ugly flashing through him.

"I’m sure you’ll enlighten me," he muttered bitterly.

Lucas raised an eyebrow. "Why do you Occlude so much?"

Silence.

Lucas let it breathe, then added, "It’s a brilliant skill. Keeps you safe. But it also keeps you lonely."

Draco looked away.

Lucas’s voice dropped lower. "What do you expect from life now your trial’s over?"

Draco snorted without humour. "Nothing. Should just pack it in and go straight to hell. If they’ll have me."

Lucas sighed. "Really, Draco?"

For a second—just a second—the mask slipped.

"I just..." Draco’s voice broke slightly, but he swallowed it down. "There’s nothing left."

Lucas leaned forward.

"So you’re the Nothingman now? Future’s above, past is a weight, and you’re sinking slow."

Draco bowed his head, hiding his face.

Lucas’s voice was quiet. "If you really want to be nothing... keep Occluding. Stop feeling. Eventually you’ll be like an Inferius. No soul left to save."

Silence. Thick as fog.

The clock ticked softly.

Finally, Draco looked up.

"When’s the next appointment?"

Lucas smiled slowly, quietly.

"Next Thursday. Ten o’clock."

Draco rose stiffly. Paused by the fireplace. Without looking at him, he said, almost too soft to catch:

"Thanks... I guess."

And then he was gone, leaving only a faint scent of smoke, two half-drunk cups of tea, and a slow, fierce flame of hope burning in Lucas’s chest.

~

Lucas stood in the kitchen again, shoulder against the frame, watching Tilly hum to herself as she packed up leftovers.

“Well?” she asked without turning around.

Lucas gave a weary shrug. “He’s brilliant. Sharp. Guarded. Completely emotionally constipated.”

“So… your dream project.”

Lucas cracked a smile. “He could be, yeah.”

Tilly set down the container and turned to him. “Did he let you in?”

Lucas hesitated. “A little. Enough.”

“And?”

“And I think,” Lucas said, voice low, “he wants to believe he can be more than what he was. But he’s not sure he deserves it.”

Tilly stepped closer. “And do you think he does?”

Lucas looked at her.

“Yes,” he said simply.

She kissed his cheek. “Then help him believe it.”

Chapter Text

“You don’t have to save me, you just have to hold my hand while I save myself.”
— Unknown

Draco

The scream came first.

It was jagged and animal, not human — until it was. Then it was unmistakably hers.

Blood poured from her eyes, her mouth, her ears. The marble floor beneath her turned slick and red. She writhed. Convulsed. Then fell still.

Draco stood frozen, bound in magical ropes that slithered around his chest like serpents. He pulled, strained, tried to move — but the ropes tightened. Higher. Tighter. Around his throat.

Then she looked at him.

“Why aren’t you helping me?” she sobbed, eyes wide, pleading, her voice cracking like broken glass.

He couldn’t answer.

He couldn’t breathe.

The world faded — dark spots blooming in his vision. And for one terrible second, he felt relief. Maybe this was it. Maybe he wouldn’t have to watch her die.

He woke with a gasp. Clawing at his throat. Drenched in sweat.

The Manor was quiet. Too quiet. Only the faint tick of the grandfather clock echoed down the hall like an accusation.

Just a dream.

Just another one.

He sat up slowly. His body shook as he stumbled to the bathroom and braced himself on the sink.

His reflection stared back — pale, blotchy, with hollows under his eyes deep enough to fall into.

Coward, he thought. And the word echoed.
The coward who stood by. The coward who watched.

He yanked a towel from the rack and threw it over the mirror, unable to look.

He opened the potions cabinet with hands that barely obeyed him. His secret stash sat neatly behind the shaving kit and dental potions—three vials gleaming dully in the moonlight seeping through the bathroom window.

Draught of Peace.
Dreamless Sleep.
And the special one—the one he didn’t name. The one he brewed himself, tweaking and testing until it gave him what he needed: numbness. Escape.

His mother didn’t know. She suspected, of course, but he’d gotten good at hiding it.

He downed the small vial in one burning gulp.

For a moment, it worked.

But tonight, the numbness didn’t last.

His hand trembled toward a second dose— then stopped.

No. He clenched his fist until his nails bit into his palm.

Not because he cared about himself. He didn’t. Not really.
But because Narcissa Malfoy had already lost too much.
He wouldn’t be the thing that finally broke her.

He tucked the remaining vials into the pocket of his dressing gown and stumbled back towards his bed.

He lay back on the mattress, staring up at the intricately carved mahogany canopy—the same one he’d slept under since childhood.
It had once been a comfort.
Now it felt like a coffin lid.

He took the other two potions and fell into dreamless sleep. When he woke again, it was nearly noon.

He cleaned up, glamoured the dark circles under his eyes, and took a Pepper-Up Potion for good measure. Today was the first time he’d see the others since the war ended.

He wasn’t sure he could do this. But he didn’t want to worry them.

~

Draco stepped into the tea room just in time to hear Theo shout, “Finally! The prodigal ferret returns!”

Theo jumped up from the couch like he’d been spring-loaded, arms wide like he was about to hug him, then thought better of it and gave him a playful jab in the shoulder instead.

Blaise, already reclined on a chaise with a half-eaten croissant, lifted his cup. “He lives. Did you get a commemorative Dementor plushie?”

Draco forced a smirk. “They were out. Budget cuts.”

Theo laughed. “You look good. Gaunt, haunted — very on brand.”

“Thank you,” Draco deadpanned. “I’m aiming for post-traumatic chic.”

Gooky appeared with a plate of food and offered Draco tea. He took it mostly to have something to do with his hands.

Astoria looked up from pouring her own cup, her eyes immediately softening when she saw him. He leaned down, kissed her cheek, caught the lavender-and-ink scent that always made his stomach tighten.

“Hi,” she said, a little shy.

He nodded. “Hi.”

Daphne gave him a quiet smile. Pansy raised her teacup like a toast. For a brief, flickering moment, it felt… almost normal.

Then Theo, mouth full of scone, said, “So, spill. What’s the verdict? Are you officially rehabilitated or just morally inconvenienced?”

Draco sat stiffly and took a sip of his tea. “House arrest. Weekly therapy. Monthly reports. Ministry gets my ‘expertise’ whenever there’s Death Eater activity.”

Pansy crossed her arms, arching a perfect brow. “Mandatory?”

“Obviously,” Draco said.

“Merlin,” Theo whispered, flopping dramatically back on the settee. “Therapy. For you. This I need to see.”

“You’re a consultant,” Blaise said with mock solemnity. “Very posh.”

“Next you’ll have a badge,” Pansy smirked. “You and Potter, solving crimes, yelling about protocol.”

Draco didn’t respond. He stirred his tea too long, watching the liquid swirl like it might offer an exit.

Astoria reached across and touched his hand, gently. “At least you’re not in Azkaban anymore.”

Theo leaned forward, grinning. “Yeah, speaking of — what was it like?”

Draco blinked. His spoon stilled.

Theo plowed ahead, oblivious. “Come on, we’ve all heard the horror stories. Is it really all silence and screaming and no pillows? Or just damp corridors and moody lighting?”

Blaise looked up from his tea, frowning. “Theo.”

“What?” Theo said, shrugging. “It’s not like I’m asking for a room tour. I just want to know what they feed you. Gruel? Rats? Minister-approved sadness in a tin?”

Draco’s knuckles whitened around his cup.

“Don’t be an arse,” Pansy said, swatting Theo’s leg. 

Theo grinned. “What? I’m being sensitive. This is me being sensitive.”

“Salazar help us,” muttered Daphne.

“Remind me to kill you later, Theo.” Astoria exhaled, rubbing Draco’s arm.

“Well, Voldemort and my dad both had me on their ‘to-do’ list. Didn’t stick.”,” said Theo joking, but everyone just tensed.

“Wait!” yelled Blaise. “That makes you the New-Boy-Who-Lived!” Everyone laughed, except for Draco, who forced a smile. He still felt haunted by the Dark Lord and often had nightmares about him returning to kill him and torture his family.

“Voldy was not very effective on his purpose” reflected Pansy. Theo and Blaise laughed at Pansy’s observation.

Even Astoria laughed, though it faded fast. “How’s your mum?” she asked, her tone gentler.

Draco’s smile dropped a fraction. “Trying. She’s... going to therapy. Voluntarily.”

“That woman’s a legend,” Theo said.

“She’s trying,” Draco said again.

No one mentioned his father. Which was kind.

A pause stretched too long. Draco felt the tightness behind his eyes again. Occlude, he told himself. Just breathe. Be normal.

Blaise was describing, with surgical sarcasm, the alleged incompetence of Minister Shacklebolt’s latest speech when Theo leaned in suddenly, grinning.

“All right,” he said, mouth half-full of toast. “But seriously, mate. You’ve got to tell us. Azkaban. What’s it actually like?”

Draco froze mid-sip.

Across the table, Daphne glanced up, brows drawn. Pansy stiffened. Even Blaise raised an eyebrow.

Astoria reached out and rested her hand lightly on Draco’s wrist, but he didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

Theo didn’t notice. Of course he didn’t.

“I mean, they make it sound like Tartarus in the Prophet,” Theo continued, cheerfully ignorant. “Is it true they don’t give you pillows? Or is that just Ministry bollocks to scare kids into behaving?”

Draco set his teacup down slowly. The clink against the saucer sounded louder than it should have.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Right, right,” Theo said, holding up both hands. “No need for the dramatic voice, Draco. You don’t have to spill all the gritty trauma. Just give us the tour. You know — cells, whatever substituted dementors, murder ghosts, haunted loo—”

“Theo,” Pansy snapped.

But Theo was already laughing. “Come on! It's not like I’m asking about your therapy sessions. Although — that’s next.”

“Theo.” Blaise’s voice was low, warning.

Still, Theo ploughed on, determined to wrest a laugh from the moment.

“You always made prison seem like a summer internship with Dark Wizards. Admit it — you must’ve gotten so ripped. Like, show us the Azkaban workout—”

“That’s enough,” Draco said, his voice tight.

Theo blinked, still grinning. “What? It’s just—”

“You want to know what it was like?”

“Come on, mate. If we can't joke about it, what else can we do?”

Draco interrupted, slowly rising from his chair. “Let me give you the highlights, shall I?”

Astoria's hand slipped from his wrist. The whole room had gone still.

“Imagine,” Draco said, eyes locked on Theo, “being surrounded by nothing but silence. No clocks. No voices. Just your thoughts. Your worst memories. Played on loop. Every day. Every fucking hour.”

“Draco—” Astoria started.

“No. Let him hear it. He wants details.”

Draco’s voice had dropped to a low, shaking register.

“I didn’t sleep. I didn’t eat for the first four days. Couldn’t tell if I was awake or dreaming because the nightmares were the same. The Dementors aren't even needed — I broke on my own.”

Theo’s grin had vanished. His hands were clasped tightly in his lap.

“I thought I was going to die,” Draco said. “And I wanted to. That’s what Azkaban’s like. Happy now?”

The silence buzzed.

Theo opened his mouth.

“I—”

“Sod off,” Draco spat.

Theo flinched. “I didn’t mean—”

“I said, fuck off!” Draco’s voice cracked. He shoved his chair back, the screech of wood on tile cutting through the room like a curse.

He didn’t wait for a response. His breath was shallow. His hands trembled. His heart was hammering.

And all he could think was: They don’t know. They’ll never know.

He grabbed his wand and fled toward the Floo.

Astoria called after him. So did Blaise. Maybe Pansy too.

But the green flame swallowed him before he could hear any of it.

~

Draco returned to the Manor without letting his mother know he was back. He walked down the hallway, reached his room, and shut and locked the door. He pulled the curtains closed. He needed his potions, needed the high. He needed to swallow—to swallow his words to keep from lying, swallow his face to keep from bitting, swallow his breath and go deep, into hiding. So he hid—from his mother, from his friends, and from himself—through the high of the potion. He hoped it would last at least an hour. He drank the potion and forgot about himself for a moment or two.

Topsy appeared at the door.

“Master Draco, miss Astoria Greengrass is here to see you—”

“Tell her I’m not—”

“—she’s already in the drawing room.”

Of course she was.

Draco scrubbed his face with a towel, healed his hand just enough to stop the bleeding, and dragged himself down the hall.

He hated the drawing room. No matter how many curtains his mother changed, the room still smelled like old blood and fear.

Astoria was waiting in the middle of it. Arms crossed. Not crying — yet.

“You okay?” she asked.

Draco stared. “Do I look okay?”

“No.”

“Then why are you here?”

“To try,” she said quietly. “To help. If you’d let me.”

Draco looked away.

“Come on,” he muttered. “Let’s go upstairs.”

In his room, she stood awkwardly while he slumped into the window seat. Neither of them spoke.

Then:

“You scared me,” she said softly.

Draco stared at the ruined mirror. “I scare myself.”

“Don’t joke,” she said.

“I’m not.”

“I don’t know what’s happening to you,” she whispered, eyes wet. “You’re unreachable. You didn't reply my letters or allowed  my visitations, and now you won’t talk to me. I don’t know what to do—”

“There’s nothing to do!” he exploded. “You think a cup of tea and a hug will make this better?”

“That’s not fair.”

““You didn’t see. You weren’t there! You don’t know what I—”, Draco punched the wall in anger and Astoria gasped with fear.

Draco could deal with shame. He could deal with guilt. But the moment he saw fear in her eyes — fear of him — something broke and the rage surged up — hot, blinding, relief in its destruction. He grabbed the nearest thing — a vase — and hurled it across the room. It shattered like a scream.

He didn’t stop.

Books, candlesticks, a photo of him and Astoria — all gone. His chest heaved. His hands shook. And then he reached the mirror.

He punched. Again. And again. Glass splintered. His knuckles split open.

He pressed his palm into the broken shards and dragged down — not to die, just to feel. Blood soaked his sleeve. The mirror fractured and sagged in its frame, a jagged mess of splinters and absence.

And still, it didn’t hurt enough.

When he finally stopped, the only sound in the room was his breath, ragged and hoarse. He stood still, facing the ruin, shoulders trembling.

Behind him, she whispered his name. And then — a hand. Her hand. Light. Warm.

He flinched like he’d been branded.

“Draco,” she said softly. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t,” he rasped. “Don’t apologise to me.”

“I’m not,” she said. “I mean — not for what you think. I’m sorry for you. I’m sorry that you are in such pain. I just wanted to fix it," she said. "I thought... if I loved you enough, maybe you'd remember who you were."

He couldn’t deal with her compassion anymore, it was too much, undeserving.

Then — very softly — she asked, “What do you see when you look in the mirror?”

Draco stared at the floor.

“I see... someone I hate,” he said.

“I don’t,” she said, voice trembling. “I see someone in pain. Who’s trying. Who’s lost. But not broken.”

“You’re wrong.”

She shook her head. “I love you, Draco. I do.”

That made him look at her.

“But I love myself more,” she said, voice cracking. “And I can’t stay. Not like this. Not while you’re drowning and pulling me under too.”

Draco’s mouth opened. Closed.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Me too.”

She walked to the door. Turned once.

“I’ll always care for you,” she whispered. “But I have to care for me now, too.”

And then she was gone.

~

James Manley

James Manley took another swig from the paper-wrapped bottle in his coat pocket as he wandered down the worn path of Victoria Park. The night was cold, not biting, just enough to keep most people home. Still, a few dog-walkers passed him, leashes in hand, laughing gently in the distance.

James preferred the dark.

He’d lost his job the week before, the latest in a string of letdowns. And Ellie — well. Ellie had been gone for nearly six months now. Cancer, fast and mean. The silence in their flat had swallowed him whole ever since. The park was easier. Less pity. Less memory.

He stumbled a bit as he reached the old stone bench by the fountain and sank into it with a grunt. The water gurgled gently beside him.

He pulled out the bottle again — whisky, cheap and mean — and took another long pull.

Above him, the trees rustled. A dog barked once in the distance, then stopped abruptly.

It took James a moment to realise the silence had grown… wrong.

No footsteps. No wind. No insects. Just stillness.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He blinked and sat straighter.

He wasn’t alone.

He turned his head, slowly, expecting to see a kid playing a prank. A fox. A shadow.

Instead, a figure stood ten feet away — still as stone.

He was tall. Wrapped in black. A dark coat buttoned to the throat. He wore white gloves, pristine. His face was mostly hidden beneath the hood of his cloak, but James caught a glimpse — eyes like splinters of cold iron.

James opened his mouth, unsure what he meant to say.

“Evening,” he managed, voice hoarse.

The figure didn’t respond.

Instead, James felt a pressure hit him like a sudden storm — a crackling shift in the air, thick and buzzing, like static and thunder.

His limbs stopped obeying him.

He couldn’t move.

He couldn’t breathe.

His heart began to hammer wildly in his chest, but his arms stayed frozen by his sides.

The figure stepped forward once. Twice.

James stared, frozen — eyes stretched wide, chest pounding, but body deadweight.

He tried to scream, but his throat locked tight.

There was a whisper.

Just a single whispered word James couldn’t understand.

And then pain — like a lightning bolt driven through his skull, straight into his brain. The world turned white, then red, then black.

Chapter Text

“To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all.”
— Oscar Wilde

Draco

Shite. I’m still alive.

Draco woke up hungover and miserable, lying on the floor among sharp mirror shards, some of which had cut into his skin. His mouth tasted like ash and regret.

He tried to stand, failed, and crawled to the loo. The vomiting came fast — mostly bile and whisky. By the time he reached his potion cabinet, his hands were shaking.

Pepper-Up. Hangover remedy. Two deep gulps. He sat against the wall, waited, and slowly began to feel less like death.

Not fine. Just functional.

A shower helped. Getting dressed didn’t. The mess of his room remained untouched — like a crime scene no one cared to clean.

He found Narcissa in the breakfast nook, exactly where she always sat, pouring tea like they were just another pure-blood family with a fresh start.

“Good morning, Mother.”

She looked up and blinked. “I would say the same, darling, but you look like hell.”

He almost smiled. Almost.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re lying.”

He met her eyes for a beat, then dropped his gaze and began to occlude.

“Draco, please. Don’t. There’s no need anymore. Your aunt is dead. He’s gone. We’re safe.”

“I need to. Or I’ll go mad.”

Her hand trembled on the teapot. “But you’re already—”

“Please stop.”

Silence fell.

She set her cup down and reached for his hand. He didn’t pull away, but he didn’t feel it either. The numbness was a familiar shield — a thick fog of occlusion that kept the ache at bay.

“How are the sessions with your Mind Healer?” she asked gently.

“Fine.”

“Draco…”

“I don’t see how talking changes anything,” he said flatly. “It won’t undo the past.”

“No,” she said. “But it might give you a future.”

He looked at her — really looked — and saw it: sorrow. Guilt. Not pity. Her eyes were wet, her voice barely a whisper.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “For everything. Especially what I did to you.”

His throat tightened, but the numbness held.

“It’s okay, Mother.”

It wasn’t. But she nodded anyway.

“Just… promise me you’ll give him a chance.”

“Okay.”

They ate in silence after that. Topsy served their breakfast. Neither of them finished it.

~

Lucas

Lucas stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the collar of his Muggle shirt. He looked… hopeful. It was a rare thing lately — hope. But today felt different. Draco was on the schedule.

And Draco meant challenge. Complexity. A puzzle.

Lucas loved a good puzzle.

From the kitchen came the familiar clang of mugs and the whistle of the kettle. Tilly, sleeves rolled up, was elbow-deep in dishes and domestic chaos.

“Well, well,” she said, without turning. “We’re in a chipper mood. Was I really that good in bed last night?”

Lucas choked on his tea. “I—what? No! I mean yes. Always. But that’s not—never mind.”

She grinned over her shoulder. “Adorable. What’s got you smiling like a lunatic?”

He grabbed a piece of toast. “Draco. Last session... something shifted. I think I might actually be getting through.”

“You always get through,” she said, kissing his cheek. “Eventually.”

He hummed noncommittally and watched her line up a row of cooling scones like soldiers.

“Oh — by the way,” she added, more subdued. “Don’t expect me home early tonight. Charlotte called. She’s worried about James.”

Lucas turned. “Worried how?”

“Apparently, he’s been a regular at her café ever since Ellie died — came in daily. But he hasn’t shown up in two days.”

Lucas frowned. “Maybe he’s just avoiding people?”

“That’s what I said. But then she mentioned something she heard at the pub. Someone went by his house — said everything’s still there. Keys, wallet. Cat.”

“The cat?”

Tilly nodded. “The one he doted on — Ellie’s cat. Wouldn’t leave it behind for a minute. They had to break a window to feed it.”

Lucas stared at her. The toast in his hand had gone cold.

“Charlotte’s going to check in on him later. I’ll go with her.”

Lucas nodded, distracted, the toast forgotten in his hand.

After kissing goodbye, he decided to walk to the clinic. The sky was impossibly blue, the air cold and sharp with salt and sun. It should’ve been invigorating. It was, for a time.

Until he hit the park.

It was like stepping into cold water — sudden, disorienting. His chest tightened. Breath stuttered. The light dimmed, though the sun hadn’t moved.

Something was wrong.

No obvious threat. No attack. No visible danger.

Just… dread. Coiled like smoke in the air.

He scanned the scene. Joggers. Children. A man feeding ducks. Everything looked normal. But it wasn’t. He could feel it.

There was residue here. Fresh. Recent.

Grief.

Fear.

Something had happened.

Lucas sat on the nearest bench, trying to breathe through it. Beside him, a woman rustled The Telegraph, blissfully unaware.

“Mind if I borrow the local section?” he asked.

She smiled and handed it over.

Nothing. No crime. No missing person. No unexplained death.

Just silence where something awful should’ve been reported.

Lucas caught the whiff of fading magic. Something had been done here, but he couldn't quite grasp it.

The feeling suddenly became overwhelming and he resumed his walk to the clinic, trying to leave it behind, but it trailed him like a shadow.

~

When Lucas arrived at the clinic, he went straight to the loo and threw up.

After rinsing out his mouth, he brewed himself a rose tea — his own blend, laced with calming herbs and a touch of restorative magic. The scent helped.

Just as he started to feel like himself again, the Floo flared green.

“Morning,” said Draco, voice flat.

Lucas didn’t turn immediately. “One moment. Tea?”

“No thanks.”

Lucas took a deep breath and finally faced him. Draco looked pale, tired — not angry, not snide. Just… hollow.

He was studying the bookshelf, paying special attention to the pictures and books placed there. They were very personal to Lucas and usually, he had no problem having them on display, he was proud of showing them. But right now he was feeling vulnerable and the scrutiny with which Draco seemed to be contemplating the book titles and Matilda’s picture made him uncomfortable. 

“Do you like to read?” He asked trying to redirect Draco’s attention. 

“I’ve never read these books before… The Lord of the Rings… they seem like something the Dark Lord would have taken inspiration from.”

Lucas laughed so hard it brought tears to his eyes.

“Thank you, Draco!” he said, wiping his tears away. “I needed that… Maybe he did take inspiration from the book—it has a character, the villain, who’s called the Dark Lord Sauron. Kind of rings a bell, doesn’t it?”

“I always thought he lacked imagination,” Draco said, smirking. After a moment, his smile dropped and he asked, “Why did you thank me?”. His tone seemed curious. 

“Oh!” Lucas sighed. “Well, I was having a great morning, but then… Pay no mind, everything is fine”. He shrugged trying to dissipate the lingering dread out of his system. “Let’s sit down, and begin this session, mind you?” 

Draco chose to sit in the same chair as the last time. It faced some pictures hanging on the wall where Lucas and Tilly were smiling at each other.

“Why are all your pictures and books muggle?"

Lucas wiped a bead of sweat from his temple, still trying to steady himself. He was knackered after the incident in the park, and Draco’s bluntness left him no easy way to dodge the question without risking the fragile trust between them.

“I’m a Muggleborn, and my wife’s a Muggle,” he said carefully, watching Draco for a reaction — there wasn’t much, just a twitch of his hand. “We live mostly like Muggles. It’s where we come from, and I’m proud of that.” His tone had a slight edge; he was tense, a bit defensive.

Silence.

“Do you have a problem with that?” Lucas asked, sharper than intended.

Draco’s eyes flashed. “Aren’t Mind Healers supposed to be neutral?”

Lucas exhaled.
“You’re right, Draco. I shouldn’t’ve said that. Truth is, I was expecting some comment about my wife and me, and I got defensive. That’s on me. I’m sorry.”

Draco blinked, surprised — not used to people owning up so easily.

Lucas offered a gentler tone.
“So… how’ve you been holding up?”

Draco huffed a quiet breath, half amused.
“Better than you, from the looks of it.”

Lucas gave a wry smile. “Wish that were true. But how are you, really? No bollocks.”
He’d already clocked the healing cuts on Draco’s hand — new ones. So no, he wasn’t doing better. Not by a long shot.

Draco scoffed, eyes flat. “Let’s not pretend you actually give a toss.”

“I do,” Lucas said quietly, leaning forward. “And I need to tell you something. It matters.”

Draco stilled, his fingers picked on his nails.

“I’m an empath,” Lucas said. “I feel what other people feel — sometimes too strongly. And I can sense where powerful emotions were felt. Today, walking here, I... picked up something. Dark. Grief. Pain. It’s thrown me a bit.”

Draco pushed to his feet, tension radiating off him. “So you’ve been reading me this whole time.”

“No,” Lucas said firmly. “Not like that. I don’t dig through people’s feelings for sport. I just... feel things. Whether I want to or not.”

Draco paced once, then turned, sharp. “Is that why you keep telling me not to Occlude? So you can get a clearer read?”

“I don’t want to manipulate you,” Lucas said, voice steady. “I told you because I think you deserve honesty. Especially after everything.”

Draco let out a breath — not quite a sigh. Something heavier.

“Not like I’ve got any secrets left anyway. The Ministry’s already wrung me dry.”

Lucas gave a small smile. “Still. You didn’t hex me. I’ll take it as a win.”

Draco didn’t smile back, but he sat again, rubbing his hand like it itched.

“I can’t promise I won’t feel what you’re feeling,” Lucas said, voice even. “Sometimes it’s not exactly... voluntary. But I’ll do my best to respect your privacy — y’know, within the limits of my raging curiosity.” He shot Draco a quick grin.

Draco didn’t return it. Just glanced at his hand, then shoved it back into his pocket like it had betrayed him.

Lucas clocked it. “What happened there?”

“Nothing.”

Lucas raised a brow. “Did you hit something? Or someone?”

Draco shrugged. “Something.”

“Why?”

“I was pissed and fell,” Draco lied without blinking.

Lucas paused. “Why were you drinking?”

“I was upset.”

“About what?”

Draco gave a small, sardonic smile. “Sod off.”

He’s deflecting. Playing a game.
Fine, thought Lucas. I can play too.

“Let’s play a game,” he said casually.

Draco eyed him warily. “What kind of game?”

“It’s a Muggle one. Usually played with alcohol, but we’ll have to settle for tea. It’s called Never Have I Ever.” Lucas leaned forward, his tone light. “I say something I’ve never done. If you have, you take a sip. That earns me the right to ask you a question — and you’ve got to answer truthfully. If I’m wrong, I drink, and you get to ask me anything you like. Fair?”

He waggled his eyebrows in an exaggerated, childish way.

Draco smirked. “Tea? You’re a menace.”

“I do my best.”

Lucas stood and crossed to the tea station, watching Draco from the corner of his eye. He could see him settle into the chair, a little looser now, hands unclenched, foot tapping against the floor.

Progress.

“Here you go,” Lucas said, handing him a cup.

“Ta.”

That’s two thank-yous today, Lucas thought. That’s got to be a bloody record.

He raised his own mug. “Ready?”

Draco lifted his cup. “Cheers.”

“Well then,” Lucas said, settling in with a grin. “I’ll start. Never have I ever… done something I regret.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Merlin, Lucas, bold move. I might keel over from the shock.”
He took a sip of his tea anyway, smirking.

Lucas chuckled. “Aye, but now I get to ask you something — and you’ve got to answer proper.”

Draco rolled his eyes but didn’t object.

“So,” Lucas asked, casually, “why were you upset?”

Draco’s smirk faded just a touch. “I saw my friends. First time in a while. It… didn’t go well.”

A pause hung between them.

Lucas nodded, letting it sit.

Then: “Your turn.”

Draco took a moment, then his eyes sparkled with mischief.
“Never have I ever hated a Death Eater.”

Lucas didn’t drink.

“Bollocks,” Draco snorted. “I don’t believe you.”

“It’s true,” Lucas said calmly. “Hated? No. Terrified of? Absolutely.”

Draco laughed — a real laugh. His eyes crinkled at the corners, and for the first time, his shoulders dropped into something like ease.
Lucas took it in quietly. It was the most alive he’d seen Draco yet.

“My turn again… Never have I ever felt like I had no choice but to put myself in danger and follow You-Know-Who.”

Draco drank.

Lucas watched him for a beat. “What happened with your friends?”

Draco exhaled, tracing the rim of his cup with one finger. “They wanted to know... about Azkaban.” His voice tightened. “I don’t talk about Azkaban.”

He cleared his throat, gaze fixed somewhere far off.

Then, after a moment:
“My turn. Never have I ever... been in love.”

Lucas drank. Draco didn’t.

Lucas felt the pinch of it — quiet and sharp.

Draco smirked. “My turn to ask, then. Why’d you take me on as a patient? Really?”

Lucas sighed. “When I heard about D.E.A.T.H., I figured there wouldn’t be enough Mind Healers to go round. Which meant you'd be stuck in Azkaban longer, waiting your turn. But I also knew only those cleared through a fair trial would be sent for sessions — so I signed up. You’d already been through enough.”

Draco narrowed his eyes, head tilted. Then he gave a crooked smile.

“You really are a bloody Hufflepuff. What a waste.”

Lucas raised an eyebrow. “How’s that, then?”

“You’re sharp. Witty. Quick on your feet. But you chose to be mediocre,” Draco said, with a pointed glance around the modest office.

Lucas snorted. “Actually, I asked the Hat to put me in Hufflepuff.”

Draco blinked. “What? Why?”

“Folk always act like Hufflepuff’s the daft house — the one for folk with no talent. But to me, it was the opposite. It’s where you get the best chance to grow, to learn who you really are without the pressure of expectations. It’s about loyalty, honesty, looking out for each other. That’s the kind of magic that actually matters and makes the world a better place. Why wouldn’t I want that?”

Draco stared at him. “Sweet Salazar. You are painfully corny.”

Lucas chuckled. “Cheers, Draco. Always nice to be appreciated, even if it's in your own... charming way.” He lifted his cup, breathed in the floral steam, and let himself enjoy the quiet.

Then he asked, “Never Have I Ever... hated my parents.”

Draco didn’t drink but leaned back, glanced toward the photos on the shelf. “No children, then? I noticed the picture of your wife but… no little ones. Or are you just worried I’ll nick them or something?”

Lucas smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “We tried. Six years. Muggle and magical interventions". He gazed at one of Tilly's photos and looked away from it. “Nothing worked.”

There was a pause. The kind that sat heavy in the space between two people.

Draco looked at him — not with pity, but something closer to understanding. Quiet. Measured.

“I see,” he said. “I’m sorry to hear that. Honestly. From what I can tell… you’d likely have been a good father.”

A tear slipped from Lucas’s eye before he could stop it.

“And now I’ve got proof you’ve actually got a heart, Draco,” Lucas said with a watery smile.

Draco stiffened, then looked away, jaw tight.

“What’s making you uncomfortable?” Lucas asked gently.

“I… I’m not sure,” Draco muttered. “It’s just… people aren’t usually this open with me. Not my parents. Not my friends. It’s… unfamiliar. Bit much, honestly. Although… my mother’s been trying lately. Still awkward.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Lucas replied, giving him space. “But—if it helps—you can balance the scales. I know you Slytherin lot like to be debt-free.”

Draco gave him a wary look.

“Tell me something that matters to you,” Lucas said, his tone quiet. “Something that costs you a bit to say. That way we’re even.”

Lucas watched carefully. Draco was still. But beneath the stillness, his emotions shifted like a tide—resentment, sadness, shame… and a flicker of something softer.

Hope.

“It’s all right, Draco,” Lucas said gently. “That’s why you’re here.”

Draco exhaled and took a slow sip of tea. “Fine. I don’t think it comes close to what you told me, but…” He paused, rolling the cup between his hands. “It’s been hell.”

He didn’t look up.

“After the war… after the trial… I’ve felt broken. Like I don’t deserve anything anymore. Honestly, sometimes I think it would’ve been better if I’d died. Might’ve saved everyone the trouble.” His voice was low, almost a whisper. “I don’t deserve my friends. Or her. My ex. She’s—she’s good. And I’m…”

He rubbed his forearm, fingers pressing hard over the place the Mark had once burned brightest. “Tainted.”

Lucas’s chest ached. “That breaks my heart, Draco.”

Draco looked up sharply, eyes wide, as if caught doing something shameful. His breath came faster. He looked spooked.

“But you are still alive.”

“Yeah, I’m still alive”, said Draco bitterly.

“You say it as if it was a damnation”.

“Is it not?”

"If you choose it to be, it will. But it doesn’t have to be… I get your… shame, and your guilt Draco, if I were in your situation I would feel the same, but I think you can use your feelings in your favour. Use your pain to learn and do things differently this time, with the life you have”.

“I don’t know if I can,” Draco murmured. “Everything I touch turns to rot. Like this bloody Mark.”

Lucas had heard countless confessions over the years, but something in Draco’s voice — hushed, raw, cracking at the seams — struck deeper. This wasn’t a patient talking. This was a man bleeding in real time.

“What makes you believe that?” he asked gently.

Draco’s eyes didn’t move from the floor. “Since I took the Mark, I’ve done nothing but fail. I froze when it mattered most. I didn’t speak up. Didn’t intervene. I just… watched. I let it happen. All of it. At the Manor, I—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening. “I was a coward.”

Lucas kept his tone steady. “And if you had acted?”

Draco scoffed softly. “What do you think? I’d have been killed. Or tortured. My parents too. Probably worse.”

“So… no choice, then?”

A long pause.

“No,” Draco said quietly. “Not really.”

Lucas leaned forward. “But now? Now you’ve got breath in your lungs. Your family’s alive. The war’s over. Do you have a choice now, Draco? Can you choose something else?”

Draco didn’t answer, but the weight of the question hung heavy in the air — like a wand raised, waiting for a spell that hadn’t yet formed.

“I won’t lie to you — choosing differently won’t be easy,” Lucas said, voice steady. “It’ll hurt. A lot. But you’ll learn, eventually, that life isn’t black or white. Not even grey, really. It’s messier than that. And your choices? They don’t exist in a vacuum. They deserve context. Compassion.”

He leaned back slightly, letting the weight of his words settle.

“I can help you find a new way forward. A new Lumos, if you like. But you’ve got to want it. You’ve got to choose it — every single day.”

A quiet beat passed.

“Thank you, Draco.”

Draco blinked. “For what?”

“For not occluding. For being present. For actually showing up, even if it hurt.” Lucas offered a small smile. “You made today easier. And I enjoyed it.”

Draco looked away, the corners of his mouth twitching. “I told Mother I’d give this a proper go.”

“Then do pass along my thanks. She was right to push.”

Draco lingered by the Floo, fingers twitching— like he might say something else. Then he vanished in green flame, and the silence he left behind rang louder than ever.”

Chapter Text

“Choice is a divine teacher, for when we choose, we learn that nothing is ever put in our path without a reason.”
— Iyanla Vanzant

Draco

Morning came without screaming.

That alone was unusual.

Draco blinked up at the ceiling, disoriented by the absence of dread clawing at his chest. No dream. No gasping for air. Just silence, the kind that felt wrong by how unfamiliar it was.

He lay there for a while, not quite trusting it.

Eventually, he pushed himself up. His muscles ached — a dull, lived-in ache that no longer shocked him. He rubbed his forearms out of habit, checking for cuts that weren’t there this time. The mirror was still cracked from last week’s fit, but at least he hadn’t punched anything recently. Small victories.

The room was its usual mess: unwashed robes draped over chairs, books stacked like barricades, potion vials abandoned on the desk. But the chaos felt a little less suffocating today. Still a crime scene, just not fresh.

He dressed slowly. Black, always. He pulled on his boots, scraped a hand through his hair, and caught a glimpse of himself in the broken mirror.

Still him.

He wasn’t fine. He wouldn’t call it better. But something was shifting. Some days, it didn’t feel like the world was ending all over again. Some mornings, like this one, he could pretend there might be something after survival. Not a future. But maybe a next.

He stepped out of his bedroom, only to be greeted by the shimmer of silver-blue light. A Patronus — a hawk — glided through the corridor and landed before him.

“Mr. Malfoy, you are required at the Auror Office to answer a few questions regarding a developing investigation. Please arrive within twenty minutes and clear your schedule for the day.”

Gawain Robards’ voice vanished as quickly as the light.

Draco exhaled through his nose. “Brilliant.”

So much for a decent morning.

~

When Draco stepped out of the Floo, the air hit him like a slap.

Crisp, sterile. Unforgiving. The polished stone gleamed under enchanted lights, and everything smelled faintly of ink and dragonhide — order, justice, control. All the things he’d been judged by and found lacking.

Eyes turned. Not all of them, but enough.

A whisper here. A mutter there. “That’s him.” “Bloody cheek, showing his face here.” “Disgusting, really.”

He didn’t meet their eyes. Couldn’t. But he smirked — that signature, lazy curl of the lip he’d perfected by fifth year. It was armor now, more than ever.

Let them think he was arrogant. Better that than pathetic.

The echo of his boots on the floor sounded too loud. He adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves, keeping his steps slow, controlled, like he belonged there.

He didn’t.

Every inch of this place reeked of judgment. Every gold-plated detail reminded him: he was tolerated, not trusted. Cleared, not absolved. Freed, not forgiven.

He joined the queue for the lifts, already tense. His fingers twitched at his sides, and he forced them into his coat pockets.

He scanned the crowd like a soldier anticipating landmines: red hair, brown curls, green eyes — any sign of the Golden Trio. Merlin forbid he run into them here, now. He wasn’t ready. Not for Potter’s quiet, sanctimonious pity. Not for Weasley’s inevitable fury.

And definitely not for her.

The lift arrived. He stepped inside. No one followed. Not one of the witches or wizards behind him made a move.

Lovely.

He leaned against the wall and shut his eyes for a moment, just to breathe. Just to not be seen.

The doors were almost closed when someone shoved their way in.

Cormac McLaggen.

Of course.

McLaggen glanced up, saw who he’d just joined, and froze.

“McLaggen,” Draco said, drawing the word out like wine across velvet.

Cormac turned a sickly shade of white and fixed his eyes on the floor. “Malfoy,” he muttered.

Draco grinned — too wide, too false. “Always a pleasure.”

When the lift stopped on Level One, McLaggen bolted out without a word.

The doors slid shut.

“Wanker,” he muttered, but the laugh that followed was hollow. It bounced back at him from the brass walls, too loud in the silence.

He was still smiling when the lift dinged at Level Two: Auror Office.

But now his hands were clammy.

He stepped out, heart hammering in his throat.

The air here was different. Heavier. Like it knew who he was.

He approached the receptionist’s desk, ignoring how her posture stiffened as he neared.

“Draco Malfoy. I was summoned,” he said, deliberately curt. Cool. Dismissive. Like he wasn’t sweating through his shirt.

“Mr. Robards is expecting you. This way, please.”

He followed her through rows of cubicles, each one humming with the faint thrum of magic. Wards. Protective enchantments. Security protocols. He could feel them brushing against his skin, testing him. 

Most desks were empty. A few weren’t. A few pairs of eyes followed him. One witch reached for her wand and didn’t try to hide it.

Good.

Let them be scared. He’d rather be a monster than a joke.

They passed a cluttered cubicle, and something snagged in his chest.

A photograph. Animated. Magical, but simple.

Hermione Granger, spinning in a yellow sundress, barefoot, laughing at no one, dancing with herself. Carefree. Soft. Unbroken.

He stared too long. That smile. That mouth. The way her hair bounced with her spin.

His stomach flipped.

No. No, no, no.

He tore his eyes away. Shoved the image down into the pit where his shame and guilt and other useless feelings lived.

Too late.

The receptionist opened the door to the office. Draco stepped inside—and stopped cold.

Potter. Weasley. Robards.

Well, fuck.

He took them in all at once: Potter’s furrowed brow, Weasley’s clenched jaw, Robards’ unreadable stare. And suddenly Draco felt like he was seventeen again, standing in the drawing room of Malfoy Manor, frozen, watching someone scream.

Something inside him twisted.

He hadn’t expected it to hurt this much.

Weasley didn’t even look at him. Potter’s lips pressed into a tight line, like he was biting down the instinct to hex him. Draco’s skin prickled—ashamed, exposed, rank. Like he was dragging the stench of the war in with him.

Still, he forced his mouth into a smirk.

“Lovely. Just missing a Daily Prophet photographer, and this reunion would be complete.”

Robards didn’t bite. “Mr. Malfoy, please sit. Gertrude—tea and coffee, thank you.”

Draco moved stiffly to the chair, sitting like the furniture might burn him. He kept his chin up, but his palms were sweating. His gut was coiled like a nest of vipers.

“This will take some time,” Robards added, loosening his collar with bureaucratic efficiency. “You understand the conditions of your release.”

“Yes, yes, ‘cooperate or back to Azkaban,’ I remember the song,” Draco said, draping one leg over the other with exaggerated casualness. “What’s the performance about this time?”

“A series of disappearances,” Potter said, tone clipped but composed. “Northern Scotland. Muggles at first. Now Muggleborns too.”

Draco’s smirk faltered. “And you brought me in… because?”

“We’ve found traces of magic at the scenes,” Robards said. “Not just Dark—it’s… refined. Purposeful. You might recognize the style.”

Weasley scoffed. “If he didn’t invent it himself.”

Draco didn’t rise to the bait. He only turned to Potter, brows raised. “This is what passes for Auror professionalism these days?”

Potter glanced sideways at Ron, annoyed, but didn’t respond. Weasley muttered something under his breath.

Robards handed Draco a scroll. “Magical residue from the Aberdeen site.”

Draco unrolled it, eyes scanning the patterns. Complex. Elegant. He felt his chest tighten. Whoever cast this wasn’t just skilled—they knew their craft like it was blood.

He swallowed hard. “I’ve never seen this particular casting signature. But the modulation here—” he tapped the scroll, “—suggests amplification. Probably through a Dark Artefact. And look here—this shimmer? Could be cloaking magic. Are they attacking in public places?”

The room quieted.

Potter leaned forward. “Any idea what sort of artefact could do that?”

Draco shrugged, tension bleeding through. “There are dozens, most illegal, all obscure. It could be something that affects perception—an artefact that obliviates witnesses or distorts time and space. That would explain how someone could cast this much magic without being noticed.”

“I agree,” Potter said, his voice steadier now. “We can loop Hermione in on the artefact angle,” Potter said quickly.

Hermione.

Draco blinked. The name hit like a Stunner. He hadn’t heard it out loud in years, and yet it still carved through him.

“She’s helping on the case,” Robards added.

Draco gave a dry laugh. “Of course she is. Always the brightest wand in the drawer.”

“Now that you mention Hermione," Robards massaged his forehead in exhaustion, "I think that I have the solution to our previous impasse”. Potter looked at Robards putting two and two together… and then realisation struck. 

“She’d never agree to that, and we can’t trust him!” Potter’s voice rose in alarm.

“We don’t have the manpower, and she’s at risk.”

“What?” Ron barked, looking from Robards to Harry. “What are you talking about?”

Robards raised a hand. “We need to ensure her safety if she’s to continue helping. I’m proposing we assign Malfoy.”

“As what?” Draco snapped.

“Personal Auror.”

“I’m not an Auror.”

“For the purposes of this assignment, you are.”

Draco stared at him. Then at Potter. Then at Weasley, who looked like he was seconds from drawing his wand and shoving it down someone’s throat.

A pause. Then a flash of silver — Potter’s Patronus stag. “Find Hermione. Tell her to come to the Auror Office. Now.”

Silence settled again, thick as fog.

Draco’s throat felt tight. His palms itched.

He was about to tell them to piss off—he wasn’t about to trail Granger around like some glorified house-elf. Until the door opened.

And then she was there.

Hermione Granger.

Not the girl from his nightmares. Not the blood-streaked ghost on the Manor floor.

She was… luminous.

Hair in a messy bun, curls escaping like they always had. Sharp blouse. Dark trousers. Confident stance. Cinnamon eyes that locked on his like a hex.

Something shifted inside his ribcage.

Did she always look like that?

Draco blinked hard.

“Hello, Hermione,” Robards greeted warmly. “I believe we’ve found a solution to our problem.”

Hermione’s eyes flicked between the men, her mind already working. When the realization hit, her eyes widened in horror. “Absolutely not,” Hermione snapped before anyone could speak. “Have you all gone mad?”

“It’s the safest option,” Robards said calmly. “You’re being targeted.”

“And he’s the answer?” she jabbed a finger toward Draco. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, please, Granger,” Draco drawled. “It’s not like I’m thrilled either. Babysitting a war heroine wasn’t on my to-do list.”

She shot him a death glare.

Ron stood abruptly, chair scraping. “I won’t let this happen. Hermione, you don’t have to agree—”

“She doesn’t have a choice,” Robards cut in, his voice final. “None of you do.”

Hermione’s fists clenched at her sides. “So that’s it? I’m being saddled with him?”

She didn’t say Death Eater. She didn’t have to.

Draco felt the word lodged in his throat like a blade. His jaw tensed. His fingers curled into fists against his legs.

Robards was still talking, voice level. “It’s for your protection, Miss Granger. The only way I’ll allow your continued involvement is if Mr. Malfoy is appointed as your personal Auror.”

“I can protect myself, thank you very much,” she snapped. Her voice was sharp enough to cut steel.

“I’m leaving,” Draco said, already standing. “Clearly, the Golden Girl doesn’t need me. I’ve done my part.”

He turned.

“No,” Potter said.

Draco stopped. Blinked.

Potter’s tone was unshakable, his eyes steady for the first time since Draco walked into the room.

“Hermione, I know you can protect yourself. You don’t need anyone. But you’re in danger, and I’d sleep better knowing someone’s watching your back.”

He hesitated—then looked straight at Draco.

“And Malfoy can handle it. Whether we like it or not.”

“I’m not the right person,” Draco said. Too fast. Too unsure. Even he didn’t believe it.

He felt every gaze in the room pressing down on him—Robards, professional and distant; Potter, cautious but clear-eyed; Weasley, bristling like a cornered animal; and Hermione, her mouth pressed tight, her expression unreadable.

He could walk out.

He should walk out.

But then he remembered what Lucas had told him:

“If you want something different, you have to choose it. Every day.”

And for once, something inside him wanted different.

“I’ll do it,” he said, quietly. No sarcasm. No defense.

Just… choice.

Hermione turned, expression unreadable.

She didn’t thank him. Of course she didn’t.

But she didn’t argue, either.

That was something.

~

The next morning, Draco received Granger’s schedule.

By the third scroll, he was convinced she was clinically unwell.

She works like she’s trying to outrun death. Maybe she is.

He tossed the parchment on the table, scowling at his tea. Bloody perfect. He’d signed up for an academic death march, led by the most insufferable swot in magical history.

After breakfast with his mother—awkward, silent, with way too much porcelain—he dressed in his usual black: trousers, dragonhide boots, shirt, corduroy jacket. His hair was unbrushed. Defiant. He stared at himself in the mirror for a long time before Flooing to the Ministry, expecting a change, but he was just the same.

When he spotted Granger at the lift, he hesitated. Her back was to him, reading something enchanted, her braid exposing the curve of her neck. Tight jeans. Blue jumper. Comfortable, like she belonged here.

He stepped in just before the doors closed. Fifteen people between them. Perfect. She hadn’t seen him.

Until she did.

She froze mid-sentence, then turned slowly. “Oh. Malfoy. You’re here.”

He smirked. It didn’t reach his eyes. “Hello, Granger. You seem scared".

“Just surprised… and a little annoyed, if I’m being honest. I still think I don’t need a bloody bodyguard... Merlin! I won the war, you know?” she glared at him.

“I agree, Granger. I didn’t want to be here either, but what can we do about it?”

“Just… stay out of my way, don’t talk, don’t think… don’t even breathe around me. I don’t want to be distracted…”

“Charming as ever.”

The lift emptied floor by floor. Eventually, it was just the two of them.

Silence stretched.

“So… what are we going to do today?” 

“We are doing nothing. I am going to investigate in the library about Dark Artefacts that could stop time or tamper with it somehow,” said Granger smugly.

“Right,” he muttered. “War heroine knowitall. Forgot.”

She shot him a look but said nothing. When the lift dinged, they stepped out together.

The Library loomed — tall shadows, flickering gaslamps, and the quiet hum of magic in the walls. It smelled like parchment, ink, and too many secrets.

They reached a secluded table by the window. London glimmered in the distance. She unpacked her ridiculous beaded bag like a one-woman research department, spreading out books, parchment, Muggle tech, and several quills. No space left for him.

“Aren’t Expansion Charms supposed to be illegal?” 

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, opening her big doe eyes and feigning innocence.

“Don’t bother making room,” he said. “I’ll just stand. Loom menacingly. It's my only skill.”

She ignored him.

He stayed quiet, watching her dive into her work. Her face was set, jaw tight, focus razor-sharp. And then, a small thing — she pushed a curl behind her ear with ink-stained fingers.

And just like that, something in his chest lurched.

He turned away fast, jaw clenched.

She got up, headed for the Restricted Section. He hesitated, then followed. The wards let him through. That was... surprising.

Granger struggled with a stack of books.

“Feather-light charm. Revolutionary stuff,” he muttered.

“Shut it, Malfoy.”

He didn’t help. She wouldn’t want him to.

Back at the table, she began flipping through texts, cross-referencing notes. He watched her for too long, caught himself, and pretended to be reading over her shoulder.

Too close.

She stiffened. He stepped back, clearing his throat. That’s when it hit him — her scent.

Vanilla. Caramel. And something warm and ambered, like bourbon.

“You okay?”

“Fine.”

“Then stop breathing like you’re about to throw up.”

“Just... low blood sugar,” he said flatly, sitting down. Farther away.

She didn’t look convinced.

He watched her flip pages. His Amortentia. She smelled like his bloody Amortentia.

“Okay, what’s your problem, Malfoy?” Granger glared at him.

“This is a big waste of my time… babysitting…” he muttered to himself.

“Could you please move to another chair? You’re distracting me.”

"Don’t worry. I’m used to being unwelcome".

She pushed a book toward him. “Here. Read this.”

He barely glanced at the title. Magical Amulets: Their Uses and Misuses.

“It’s useless,” he said.

“You haven’t even—”

“I know the book, Granger. You won’t find anything on time distortion in there. It’s surface-level theory dressed up in footnotes.”

“And how would you know what I’m looking for?”

“You’re looking for an amulet that can tamper with time, but unlike a Time-Turner, you’re after something that stops time for everyone except the user.”

Granger looked at him as if seeing a ghost. She cleared her throat and flushed slightly.

She read silently for a couple of hours. He just sat there, watching her in stolen glances and fighting his own mind. He looked at her hands flipping pages like she was interrogating the book. He hated how steady she was. How her curls bounced when she shook her head. He hated noticing at all.

“Malfoy, you’re staring,” she said awkwardly.

“I’m not. I’m just thinking, and you happen to be in front of me while I do that.”

She huffed, rubbing the back of her neck. “You were right. There’s nothing in this book about a time-stopping amulet.”

“Told you.”

“Do you know where I can find something better?”

“Maybe. Depends.”

“On what?”

He didn’t answer.

She glared. “People are dying, Malfoy.”

“I know,” he snapped, sharper than he meant. “Don’t lecture me like I’m not trying.”

She reeled slightly. “Then act like it.”

“I am,” he said, voice cracking. “This is me trying, Granger. This is all I’ve got.”

She said nothing.

“I need to calm down. I’m going to the loo. You don’t have to chaperone me there; wait here. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Granger stood abruptly and walked quickly out of the library, disappearing down the aisle.

Draco took a moment to reassess the situation and whatever the hell was going on with him. He could only be aware of a hollow pit forming in his chest.

Minutes passed.

Then more.

Too many.

He checked his watch. Thirty minutes.

Panic rose fast, acidic, merciless. He stood. Ran. Found the bathroom. Empty.

Fuck! Fucking fuck!

He turned around and glanced back at their table—still empty. He was struggling to breathe, black spots began to form in his vision, and he had to grip the wall to keep from collapsing. 
For a second, he smelled blood.

The Manor.

Her screams.

He took a moment and began to occlude, just to be able to function. This wasn’t the first time panic had done this to him, but right now he couldn’t afford to pass out. He had to think.

And then, there she was, walking towards him, smiling smugly, almost hopping with satisfaction.

“What the fuck, Granger!” he shouted, not caring about the glares or the gossip that would follow his outburst.

She raised a brow.

“Where the hell were you? How am I supposed to protect you if you just disappear? What if something had happened to you? What if you disappeared like the others? You could be the biggest target for this person, and there you go, exposing yourself!”

“I can take care of myself just fine. War heroine, remember?” she shot back, her glare matching his.

His fists trembled at his sides.

“Where the fuck were you?”

“I went to Borgin. He owed me a favour and I needed information.”

“Borgin?! Are you out of your goddamn mind? Knockturn Alley? Alone?”

“I can handle myself.”

“I don’t care!”

“What do you care, Malfoy? Besides, I don’t trust you. Why would I ever ask you to come with me?”

It stung. Because of course she was right.

He took a deep breath, trying to compose himself. “You’re right not to trust me, Granger. But even if you don’t believe me, I don’t want anything bad happening to you. Let’s work together, as a team. I know you can take care of yourself, but there are things I know about the Dark Wizarding world that can protect you. If you’re protected, you can investigate. If you investigate successfully, we can identify the person behind this, and we can go back to our lives. I won’t have to babysit you anymore. So please, let’s work together, and don’t disappear on me again.”

Granger contemplated Draco’s logic, which was obviously sound, then nodded. “I still don’t trust you.”

Draco looked away. “Good. That makes you smarter than most.”

She paused. “But you might still be useful. Don’t hold me back, Malfoy. I expect you to engage in the investigation and provide any information you have or acquire that pertains to our leads.”

“Okay.”

“Perfect. Do you know where I can find a book called The Shadow Tome: Secrets of Time Sorcery, Potions, and Forbidden Artefacts ?”

“Yes,” he said, eyes narrowing. “But I hope you’re not squeamish.”

Chapter Text

"Pain is a great teacher, but no one wants to go to its class." — Unknown

Lucas

March had arrived, slipping in unnoticed like time always does—quiet, uninvited, irreversible.

Some mornings, Lucas woke up gripped by the fear that he was wasting it. Today was one of those mornings.

He stretched. Yawned. Turned—and there was Matilda, still asleep. She always looked her most peaceful in dreams. Safe. Soft. Untouched.

But the moment broke the second her eyes opened. Lucas felt it immediately. The sadness. The weight.

She turned to face him and held him tightly. Tears silently streamed down her face. He rubbed his fingers along her cheek, then kissed her tenderly, bracing himself for what he knew was coming.

“I dreamt about them,” she whispered. “They had your old hair colour and my curls. Twins, I think. We were at the beach, collecting shells.” Her voice cracked. “I’m sorry we never got to know them.”

Her words broke something inside him, and the familiar sting of grief welled up in his chest. She began to sob, the kind of sobs that shook her whole body, the kind of pain that came from deep within.

Lucas stroked her hair and kissed her temple feeling the weight of their shared grief pressing down on them. The life they had imagined—the laughter of children, the joy of watching them grow, the family they would have built together—was something they both mourned deeply. Grief never really left. It just learned to hide better.

Later, they sat on the porch in silence, watching the ocean. The waves rolled in like time: relentless, dispassionate.

“You meeting Draco today?” she asked, barely above a whisper.

Lucas nodded. His heart was still somewhere back in that dream.

“Are you okay?” she pressed.

“I’m trying to be,” he said honestly. “Sometimes time feels hopeful. Other times, it just... slips.”

She didn’t answer. She just sipped her tea and watched him like she always did—with quiet understanding and bottomless love.

~

Lucas Flooed in late. Apparition felt like too much today — too sharp, too fast. His mind was already splintered enough.

He worried. About Tilly. About himself. About whether he could hold space for Draco when his own chest felt like an open cavity.

Draco, of course, arrived on time.

Lucas noticed the change straightaway — Muggle jeans, tan corduroy jacket, plain black shirt. Still dark, but not the usual all-black uniform. A quiet rebellion.

“You look sharp,” Lucas said, offering a smile.

Draco shrugged. “Trying something new.”

“Fancy a walk?”

“Sure.”

They moved through the quiet city streets. Lucas hummed to himself, lost in thought.

“Are you singing?” Draco smirked.

“Didn’t realise. My head’s a bit elsewhere today. How’ve you been?”

Draco’s answer was half a shrug. “Not terrible. Not great.”

They reached the park. Quiet. Tucked away. Safe...

Draco followed Lucas to a bench facing a beautiful fountain. Lucas glanced around, and after making sure nobody was nearby, he cast a Muffliato Spell to ensure their privacy.

“This is a lovely place,” whispered Draco.

“Tilly loves this place,” he said. “We come here when we’ve got hard things to talk about.”

He noticed Draco giving him a look—questions in those silver eyes, but still holding back.

"Do you want to ask me something, Draco? Remember, I said before, you can ask anything."

"Well, I don’t want to pry or intrude."

"Please do, I know I will," Lucas chuckled, and Draco smiled, though his eyes remained serious.

“That day you cried. You told me about the... infertility. Why?”

“Because I trusted you,” Lucas said simply. 

Draco flinched. “I don’t think I’m worth that kind of trust.”

Lucas sighed. “"Let me be the judge of that this time, will you?... It proper winds me up, the way you are with yourself sometimes."

Draco blinked, caught off guard.

“You think you’re being honest,” Lucas continued, “but you’re not. You’re being cruel.”

Draco didn’t argue. He didn’t need to. The silence said enough.

“I trust you,” Lucas said. “Trusted you enough to talk about Tilly. And you know I can feel what you feel. That’s what makes me believe in you.”

Lucas watched his expression soften.

“And for the record — thanks. For showing up today. And for last time. These chats aren’t easy.”

Draco nodded slowly. “I’ve noticed.” He paused, then asked, “Why couldn’t you have kids?”

Lucas took a breath. “Tough question, that. But… I reckon it just wasn’t meant to be. We always wanted them. Imagined names. Faces. Then waited for the right moment — which never bloody came. And when we finally tried… nothing.”

He looked down. Voice lower. “I reckon it’s my fault.”

“Why?” Draco asked, quiet now.

"We waited because I was scared, and then, when we finally decided to try... well, we ain't exactly spring chickens anymore. Sometimes I look around, and there's life everywhere, except where I wanted it the most". He paused. Then, with a soft chuckle: “And now that I hear myself saying this out loud, I think that’s why it bothers me how you treat yourself.”

Draco frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I’m as harsh on myself as you are on you.”

Draco’s eyes flickered. He was thinking — properly thinking.

“I disagree,” he said eventually. “I’m not hard enough on myself. I was a coward. I let awful things happen.”

“I was a coward too. And I’ll never know for certain — can’t time-turn it — but I believe that cost us something. And it’s not just me who pays that price.”

Lucas turned to him.

“But the difference, I reckon, is that I see my cowardice in context. I did the best I could with what I had. My life wasn’t in danger. Yours was. And you haven’t let yourself see that yet.”

"Her name's Tilly, right?"

"Aye."

“What does she say about... all of that?”

Lucas’s face clouded. “Some days she’s still gutted. But most days, she’s brave. Joyful. She’s taught me the magic of feelings — pun intended.”

Lucas shifted on the bench, arms stretching out along the back.

“We're mending. Letting ourselves feel sad when it comes, finding joy when we can. Losing the chance to have kids… it made us realise how much of a miracle life is. When I think about what had to happen for any of us to exist, it feels like there must be a purpose in it. Maybe it’s to live fully. Freely. To stay connected. Committed."

He looked straight at Draco.

“I reckon I only own one thing in this world: me. I know I was born. I know I’ll die. But everything in between — that’s mine. I am mine.”

He paused, letting his words sink in. Draco looked torn — caught between shame and yearning.

“That’s one of the things that Tilly has taught me. She’s the spark of my wish to live my life fully, she knows how to anchor me and bring me back when I dwell on my darkest places. I couldn’t imagine my life without her. Do you have anyone like that in yours?”

Draco was blinking a lot. Holding something back.

“No. I’ve got people who care. But no anchor. I mostly sit in the dark, alone. Part of me thinks I deserve to.”

Lucas’s voice softened. “You don’t.”

Draco took a breath. “I wanted to ask your opinion on something.”

“Go on.”

“As part of my release conditions… I have to help the Aurors with any Death Eater-related cases. And they called me in. Can’t talk about the case, but... that’s not what’s getting to me.”

Lucas sat up straighter. “What is?”

Draco’s shoulders stiffened. “They’ve assigned me to Granger. Hermione. I’m her personal Auror now — more like a glorified babysitter.”

He let out a dry laugh. “Robards’ idea. Potter signed off. But it’s bollocks. The last time… at the Manor…I...”

Lucas’s eyes narrowed. Something was shifting in Draco — posture, breath, colour. His hands clenched.

"Draco?" Lucas's voice was calm, but laced with concern.

Draco didn’t respond immediately. He was gasping for air as his hands came towards his chest. Lucas could sense Draco’s terror at what was happening to him and could see in his eyes that thoughts raced, a chaotic swirl of emotions and fears.

“Draco, look at me,” Lucas said firmly, moving closer but not touching him. “Breathe with me and open your eyes, look into my eyes. I’m here with you. Breathe in through your nose with me”. Lucas took deep breaths to accompany Draco with the breaths he needed to take. “Keep looking at me, I’m here”.

Draco tried to follow Lucas's instructions, but Lucas noticed the panic had already taken hold. 

“I can’t… I can’t… breathe…” he gasped, gripping the bench like it might vanish.

“You can, Draco. You’re safe. I’m here with you. Just focus on my eyes,” Lucas reassured him, his tone steady and grounding. “You’re having a panic attack, but it will pass. I know it feels like you are dying, but you will be fine, just look at me. I’m going to touch you, keep looking at me”. He grabbed Draco’s arm.

“I’ve got good news,” Lucas said, voice low. “Want to know how to never have a panic attack again?”

Draco nodded, barely holding it together. “Please…”

“You just have to feel.”

“What?”

“Panic and axiety is your body screaming to be heard. You’ve buried something. It’s clawing its way up. So let it out. Feel it. What’s under this?”

Silence.

Flickering eyes.

More silence.

And then — it broke.

Draco sobbed. Loud, gut-deep, shaking sobs that rocked the bench. He crumpled, hands to his face. Lucas sat still, holding space.

“I’m sorry,” Draco choked. “I don’t… I don’t usually…”

“No need to apologise,” Lucas said. “What are you feeling?”

Draco finally looked up. Eyes raw. “It’s all too much. I thought I was past it, but... I’m not. Every time I close my eyes, I’m back there. I’m back at the Manor.”

Lucas nodded.

Draco swallowed hard. “It was worse than I’ve ever told anyone. Granger, she…” he choked, then took a couple of deep breaths and continued. "My aunt… she Crucioed her, carved into her. And I just stood there. Did nothing.”

More tears. No more pretending.

“And now I’m supposed to protect her? What if I freeze again? It’s moronic to think I’ll be able to shield her from…” he huffed. “Whatever, I… just can’t.””

Lucas waited. Then said simply: “You won’t.”

Draco blinked. “Why the hell not?”

“Because this hurts too much. You’ll never let it happen again. That’s what pain’s for. To teach us what not to repeat.”

“I wanted to help. I wanted to stop it, but I was frozen. I was terrified. How can I be trusted with her life when I couldn’t even…?” Draco’s voice broke, and he buried his face in his hands, the tears coming again, but this time he didn’t try to hide them.

Lucas reached out, placing a comforting hand on Draco’s back. “You were a child, Draco. You were scared, and you were facing something no one should have to face. You did what you could in that moment, and it’s okay to feel like it wasn’t enough.”

Draco began to breathe slowly, taking in what Lucas just said. Feeling all his regret, and yeah, the pain. Lucas could feel it too, and that made him proud.

“When I see you, Draco, I catch glimpses of how I imagined my son would be like if I had one. I always pictured him as someone who would’ve come into this world to spark a revolution. I see the way you protect yourself and your family, but also how you rebel against their outdated views in small things like the way you're dressed today. I can read between the lines in your actions, Draco. And I see a man, no longer a lad, who wants to prove himself, who's stronger than he gives himself credit for, and brave enough to think differently.”

Please don’t say that,” Draco muttered. “I’ll only disappoint you.”

“Maybe,” Lucas said with a smile. “But if Potter and Robards trust you with Granger’s life, I reckon they see something you don’t. I don’t think they’d risk her just to do you a favour.”

Draco looked away. “I’m terrified. She already slipped away from me once. Ran off to Knockturn like it was a bloody market run. I thought I’d lost her. Nearly turned myself back in.”

Lucas exhaled. “She sounds like a handful.”

Draco huffed a laugh. “Yeah. A massive one.”

Lucas grinned. “Good. I like this challenge for you. Might teach you something.”

“I don’t like therapy,” Draco muttered.

Lucas shrugged. “Most people don’t like vegetables either. Doesn’t mean they’re not good for you.”

Draco smirked. “You’re so annoying.”

“And you’re not nearly as hopeless as you think.”

They sat in silence. The fountain trickled behind them. Birds chirped. The world didn’t end.

Draco leaned back, shoulders still hunched but a little lighter.

Lucas didn’t press. Didn’t need to.

He knew what healing looked like.

And this was it.

~

The dungeon was cold, the stone walls slick with moisture, and candlelight flickered, casting long, eerie shadows that danced in rhythm with the music. A faint, coppery smell of blood filled the air, a scent he had long since grown accustomed to, and he smiled as it reached his nostrils.

"Take on Me" by a-ha blasted from a battered old radio, the volume turned up to its highest setting. He had picked it up from a muggle flea market a year ago. Muggles might be mere beasts, but he had to admit, they created some cracking music.

As the alchemist danced around the room, the upbeat tune clashing grotesquely with the horror unfolding around him, he sang along, “We’re talking away, I don’t know what I’m to say, I’ll say it anyway…” His voice echoed off the walls, melding with the sharp, rhythmic chop of his knife.

Blood splattered across the table as he worked, the dark red droplets slowly dripping onto the cold stone floor, forming small, glistening pools. But he didn’t clean it up. He was too immersed in his task—chopping and mixing asphodel roots with bat spleen powder and James Manley's intestines, his hands moving with the precision of a surgeon.

He relished the way the blood seeped through his robes, warm and sticky, clinging to his skin like a lover’s caress. The music pulsed through him, each beat syncing with the rapid thud of his heart, driving him onward.

“Takeee ooooon meeeeee, TAKE ON ME, Taaaake meeee ooooon, TAKE ON ME, III’ll beeeee goneeeeee, IN A DAY OR TWO,” he belted out, gesturing dramatically with his knife, sending another spray of blood across his face. He laughed, a wild, unhinged sound that reverberated in the confined space.

On the table beside him lay a pair of white gloves, now stained with crimson. In the far corner of the room, twenty bodies, each in a perfect state of preservation, were piled neatly, kept fresh by a stasis charm. He needed them to stay that way for at least another month. His work was far from finished, and he needed more.

James Manley's lifeless eyes stared vacantly ahead, cloudy and dull. His face was frozen in an eternal mask of terror. It had been nearly a month since his death, but his body was still fresh, his abdomen split open, intestines removed. They were now being diced into small, precise pieces on the table.

He was experimenting, studying, trying to perfect an ancient spell that combined runes with a specially concocted potion of his own creation. The goal? To create a body that could withstand fire, to render flesh impervious to the cleansing flames. He imagined a world reborn in fire, where only the strongest, those he had chosen, would survive.

“All the things that you say, is it life or just to play my worries away…” chop, chop, chop.

“Takeeeee on meeeee.”

“Come on, Nixie! Sing with me!” he called out to his Hydra, still a baby but already growing stronger every day. He danced over to the creature, offering it a piece of James’s intestines as a treat. The Hydra snapped it up greedily, its many heads writhing with satisfaction, each head displaying a different level of growth.

"You see, Nixie," he muttered, feeding the Hydra another sliver of intestine, "they always called me cold. But who’s cold, really? The man whit a goal, or the man who wastes himself?"

When he finished chopping, he set the mixture aside, carefully labelling the jar as "Drunk Muggle, Aberdeen." He wasn’t a nutter; he was meticulous, well-organised, with a system in place to test every variable. He had to crack on with his research; time was ticking away, and the answers he sought were tantalisingly close.

He glanced at the pile of bodies, calculating how many more he would need, how much time he had left before that precious day when all magic was stronger, especially the ancient kind. 

Failure was not an option. He had failed before and had seen the consequences of weakness and hesitation of others. But this time, he would do it himself, he would succeed. He could feel it in his bones, in the very air around him, charged with anticipation.

Soon, he would unlock the secrets he sought. And when he did, the world would finally become what it always should have been.

Chapter Text

"Friendship is the only cement that will ever hold the world together."

— Woodrow Wilson

Draco

The day had arrived—and with it, dread. Granger wanted to access The Shadow Tome. And Draco knew exactly where it was: Nott Manor. He also knew exactly who he didn’t want to ask.

After days of avoiding it—claiming Theo was “indisposed”—Granger, stubborn nightmare that she was, managed to get Draco to ask Blaise to tell Daphne to put in a word with Theo to allow her… and himself, to visit his library. 

Draco received his reply the next morning by owl, scrawled on a scrap of parchment:

“yeah”

No flourish. No sarcasm. Just one word. Which, for Theo, was basically a red flag dipped in passive-aggressive ink.

Draco dressed like it was a diplomatic mission. Night-blue wizard robes—safe. Black Muggle Converse—intentional. He wasn’t ready to go full-Muggle-core with the Slytherins, but he wasn’t about to wear starched shite for Theo either.

He arrived early at Granger’s flat, intending to inspect her wards. They were airtight—of course they were, she’d cast them herself—but he added one of his own. Subtle, effective. A Dark magic repellant he'd invented during the Voldy days. It was the least he could do after… well. Everything.

Lost in the task of casting his spell, Draco ambled over to a window... and he stopped dead.

Granger, unaware of him, was adjusting her curls in a black lace bra and jeans. Her back to him. Scars visible. Muscles tense. A flash of guilt rose up like bile. But beneath that—something else. She was stunning. Strong, and oblivious to him in a way that made him feel undeserving for noticing.

He turned and knocked on her door.

It was Ron who opened it.

“Oh, great. It’s you,” Weasley muttered, retreating back to the sofa.

“Morning to you too, Weaselbee,” Draco said, stepping inside. The flat smelled like books and toast. The cushions were garish. The décor screamed chaotic Gryffindor.

“Nice place,” Draco commented dryly, his eyes lingering on a particularly garish golden cushion.

Ron ignored him, plopping down on the sofa and staring at a box that was displaying some kind of animated pictures moving and singing. The colours flickered across his face, but his eyes were narrowed in clear displeasure.

“I’m here for Granger.”

Ron glared at him. “I know why you’re here, Malfoy. Just remember, if you try anything—anything—funny, you’ll be dealing with me.”

Draco smirked. “Relax. The only thing funny here is your taste in upholstery.”

“Mione! The Ferret’s here!” Ron called, his tone deliberately mocking.

“I’ll be just a second!” she shouted.

Draco wandered into the living room. Granger’s flat was a stark contrast to anything Draco had ever known, and he wondered, not for the first time, how the hell he’d ended up here.

The only redeeming feature, something he begrudgingly thought was actually brilliant, was the sheer number of books. They floated along the walls, seemingly moving of their own accord, enchanted to highlight whatever would be most appealing or useful to the reader. Draco watched as the books shifted, the titles changing to match the mood or interest of the person standing before them. It was a clever solution to the problem of book storage, eliminating the need for constant searching spells. Draco stood before the books, his curiosity piqued as to what Granger's spell would show him. A vibrant pink tome appeared on his face: “ How to Enchant a Witch: Ten Ideas to Make Her Fall in Love with You ”. 

He stepped back like it had burned him.

Then came a hiss.

“Crooky!” Hermione chided. “Be nice to our visitor, even if he's a snake.”

Draco turned. “Good morning to you too, Granger.”

She grabbed her bag, kissed Weasley’s cheek. “Back later.”

Ron grunted.

“Let’s go,” Hermione said, turning to Draco.

They strolled towards the fireplace, and she handed him the Floo Powder bag. Draco scooped up a fistful and then instinctively took her arm without a second thought. Suddenly, he felt a shiver. He couldn’t recall ever touching her before. Well, her punches didn’t count.

“Nott Manor,” he said in a strangled voice.

As they stepped into the fireplace, Draco couldn’t resist a final jab at Ron. “Try not to miss her too much, Weaselbee.”

Ron glared at him, but before he could respond, the flames roared around them, and they disappeared.

~

They Flooed into the Manor’s foyer. Gooky was already waiting, ushering them into the Drawing Room.

That’s when he knew something was off.

Pansy by the window. Astoria and Blaise on the sofa. Daphne with Theo in the corner.

All of them.

Bloody hell.

“Hello, mate!” Theo called, grinning.

Granger froze beside him.

Blaise approached first, polite and oddly warm. “Draco. Granger. We’ve been wanting to talk. Figured this was our chance.”

Draco subtly reached for his wand.

“Okay?” said Granger, bewildered.

Astoria and Daphne drew nearer, their smiles and steps gentle as if they were approaching a wounded animal, careful not to startle it. Draco even observed Daphne raising her arms slightly, a gesture indicating she meant no harm. Pansy snorted loudly, earning exasperated looks from everyone.

“Pansy,” Astoria began, “we have a plan, could you just…”

“The plan is rubbish, she’s obviously anxious,” Pansy interjected, pointing at Granger. “Let’s skip over our polite rehearsed greeting and get to the point.”

“Yes, please!” Granger pleaded. 

“We wanted to apologise,” Pansy said, blunt as ever.

Theo clarified. “We were prats at Hogwarts. You didn’t deserve it.”

Daphne added, “We’re thankful—for you, Potter, Weasley. For ending it.”

Granger’s jaw hung slightly open. Draco had never seen her like this—speechless.

The Slytherins were looking at her expectantly. 

"Blimey! If someone had told me when I woke up today that the snarkiest bunch of Slytherins were going to apologise to me, I wouldn’t have believed them,” she began, her voice steady despite the surprise. “We were all children thrown into someone else’s war, manipulated by forces we couldn’t fully understand. And in that, I want to forgive you, not just because it’s the right thing to do, but because I believe we all deserve the chance to learn, grow, and change. We’ve all been given a second chance, and I intend to take it. And, I dare say... you can spend your time alone redigesting past regrets, or you can come to terms and realise you're the only ones who can forgive yourselves. It makes much more sense to live in the present tense…”

Her words hung in the air, resonating with a depth that silenced the room. Draco couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt. Here she was, offering forgiveness so freely, while he still struggled with his own past, meticulously redigesting past regrets.

“Honestly,” Theo grinned, “if it weren’t for you, my father would still be alive. I’d be stuck as heir, not Lord Nott. So… cheers.”

They laughed. Even Granger chuckled.

Blaise gestured to the table. “Join us for tea. We have pastries and your favourite brew. Lavender, right?”

It was already set beautifully, with flowers in the centre, an array of tea sandwiches, lavender tea brewing, and what seemed to be wrapped presents.”

Draco stared. “How the hell—”

“Blaise pays attention,” Theo said with a wink.

Granger beamed.

They sat. Draco tried to stay cold. Tried.

They shared war stories. Not the tragic kind—more like “Pansy walked in on her dad and Yaxley” kind. Disgusting. Funny.

Then Theo said, “Did I ever tell you my dad was an unregistered Animagus?”

“What?” Granger gasped.

“Opossum. Got caught in a rat trap I laid for him. He’d just Crucioed me. Best trap I ever set.”

They all watched Theo with mouths agape.

"Merlin, Theo", said Pansy: “And people wonder why you’re so well-adjusted.”

“I once trapped Rita Skeeter in a jar for a month, when I found out she was one too," there was smugness in Granger's smirk.

Silence. Then Theo grinned. “Slytherin move. I like it.” They all laughed.

When they finally rose to leave, Daphne stepped forward. “Hermione… this is for you. A gift.”

It was Hogwarts: A History. First edition. Bagshot’s annotated copy.

Granger’s hands trembled. “I can’t accept—this must be worth—”

“It’s yours,” Daphne said. “We want to be your friends.”

Granger’s eyes were shining.

"How did you know this boojk is special to me?"

"Oh!", Theo smirked, "Draco never shut up about how you were always quoting Bagshot".

“Right...” she said after a moment of silence. "Thank you! This is really thoughtful,” smiled Granger. “I’m sorry to leave you now, but I did come here with a mission of sorts, so I’ll take Malfoy with me if you don’t mind. We have some reading to do.”

“We don’t mind,” they all chimed in simultaneously.

Draco shot them a glare.

“Actually, I was hoping to tag along with you. I’ve been meaning to do my own research on something...” Theo said mischievously.

“Sure, Nott.”

“Please, call me Theo.”

“Okay, Theo. Lead the way.” Granger agreed, with a warm smile.

~

The Nott library was a maze of spiralling bookcases under a mirrored ceiling. Theo pricked his finger for the blood ward. The place welcomed them.

Hermione was instantly enchanted, unpacking a ridiculous number of items from her bag.

The library boasted a handy spell that would summon the desired book to you without the need to navigate the maze yourself.

Draco used it and called out the title.

A thick, black-leather tome appeared.
The Shadow Tome: Secrets of Time Sorcery, Potions, and Forbidden Artefacts.

Targeted at Muggleborns. Subtle trap. He disarmed it silently, his jaw clenched.

He turned—Theo was twirling one of Hermione’s curls.

Prat .

Draco slapped the book on the table. “Let’s get to work.”

"Don't be rude, Malfoy!"

“It’s fine,” Theo said smoothly. “I’ll just grab what I came for.” He gave her a wink, then smirked at Draco like he’d just won something.

“Sod off,” Draco muttered.

Hermione frowned at him, then opened the tome. Her eyes lit up.

"Malfoy! This is it! This is what we needed!”

Draco found himself smiling—just a little.

Then—stupidly—he blurted, “So… do you fancy Theo?”

She blinked. “What?”

Draco’s stomach twisted. Idiot. Why did he say that?

“Nothing. Forget it.”

Theo approached them with his own book in hand, wearing a smile. He settled beside Granger, leaving Draco with no choice but to take the seat in front of her or him. But he chose her… the seat, not HER.

Hermione was lost to the world, runes and notes flying across her parchment. Draco caught himself watching her mouth as she mouthed translations. He shook himself out of it—only to notice Theo watching him.

Theo’s face morphed into a slow, knowing grin.

Shite.

“So… Hermione. Seeing anyone?”, Theo struck.

“No. Why?”

"I might know a few blokes who'd be interested. If you're keen, I could steer you their way," Theo said with a smirk, glancing at Draco. 

“Oh?” gaped Granger.

“She’s blushing!” Theo announced, delighted.

“No, I’m not!”

“I am Nott, you are not.”

“Oh, shut it—”

“We can fix that. Want to be Nott?”

"You are ridiculous", Granger chastised while she smiled. Draco nearly snapped his quill.

“You alright, mate?” Theo asked innocently.

“I’m fine,” Draco growled.

“You’re sweating.” Granger leaned forward, hand to his forehead. Draco flinched at the contact. "You are shivering".

Theo grinned.

"Don't be absurd" Draco snapped.

"He is, burning up. Trust me, I can tell," Theo winked.

"Should we take you to a healer?" Granger asked, her expression seemingly concerned.

“I’m fine,” Draco said through gritted teeth. “Let’s focus.”

Finally, silence returned—sweet, awkward silence—and they worked for a couple of hours without incident.

“So now we know all time-manipulating Dark Artefacts from the past were destroyed in the Grindelwald era,” Granger said, her voice subdued. “But this book suggests it’s still possible to create one.”

Draco nodded. “I reckon someone already did, the signature at the sites suggest so. This means someone already bypassed protections and ethics that were meant to be permanent."

Granfer's fingers tightened around her quill. “To create one… they would’ve needed to perform repeated Dark Magic. For months. That kind of magic... it breaks you.”

Theo, who had been skimming through his own book nearby, glanced up. “Hold on—what exactly are you two investigating?”

Hermione’s head snapped toward him, startled. “Theo…”

She paused, visibly conflicted.

“This isn’t casual research,” she said finally. “We think someone’s using Dark Magic to stop time. We don’t know how yet. Or why. But people are disappearing. And it's escalating.”

The silence in the library thickened.

Theo set down his book slowly. “Right. You two weren’t just here for tea and old runes, then.”

“No,” Draco said grimly. “We weren’t.”

Theo looked at Hermione, then back at Draco. “It's like Voldy all over again.”

Hermione gave a quiet nod, her voice lower now. “We are hoping not, but maybe.”

There was a long beat of silence before Theo murmured, “If you need help, you’ll let me know?”

Draco didn’t answer. But Hermione did. “We will.”

She closed the tome gently, but her hand lingered on the cover.

“Let’s go,” she said, voice tight. “We need to talk to the others. This is bigger than we thought.”

~

The flat was warm, but Draco felt like he’d stepped into a vault.

Hermione said nothing as she moved through the space, casting spell after spell. He recognized a few—a standard ward-check, a concealment layer, a silent intruder trap. Then another. And another.

“Granger?”

No answer. Her eyes were sharp, but her breathing wasn’t right—tight, shallow. Her fingers twitched after each spell.

He stepped closer. “Hermione.”

She jumped. Just slightly. But he saw it.

“You alright?”

Granger wrapped her arms around herself, gaze now distant. “It’s stupid. I’m probably just tired.”

“Bullshite.”

She let out a bitter laugh, shaky and short. “You ever feel like the air’s too thin? Like you’re choking and you don’t even know why?”

Draco didn’t answer. He knew exactly what she meant.

“I thought I’d buried it,” she said quietly. “The war. The hiding. The… pressure. The decisions.”

Draco watched her carefully.

Granger continued, her voice a little too casual. “During the war I used to check over my shoulder all the time. It stopped, mostly. But after what we read…” Her fingers flexed against her arms. “If someone is really manipulating time—controlling how people disappear—that’s worse than I imagined. I can handle being possibly targetes, even hunted, but not erased.”

Her voice cracked on that last word.

She wiped her face roughly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to fall apart.”

“You’re not,” Draco said. “You’re still standing.”

Hermione gave a brittle, empty laugh. “Barely.”

Silence wrapped around them like fog. The room felt too warm now. Claustrophobic.

“I want to feel safe,” she said. “Not watched. Not guarded. Just… safe. I don’t think I can keep doing this otherwise.”

There it was. He hated that she was feeling unsafe.

He looked down at his hand.

At the Malfoy signet ring.

He rolled it off his finger and cast the charm to bind it.

“This,” he said, voice low. “Is more than a ring.”

Hermione frowned. “What do you mean?”

Draco turned it in his fingers. “I've tied it to my wand. If you wear it, I can Apparate directly to you. No matter where you are. No wards, no delays. It reads your location. And I can enchant it to signal me if your heart rate spikes.”

“That’s brilliant,” Hermione said. “You can do that?”

"I just did".

When he offered his signet ring, he did so without thinking, almost instinctively. He was unsettled by this but he didn't let it show. Granger's acceptance, her trust in him, made his heart stutter. For a moment, their eyes met, and Draco felt something shift, something he wasn’t ready to confront.

She stared at the ring. But didn’t take it.

“Wearing this… it protects you more than you realise.”

"What do you mean?"

“If someone tried to curse you while wearing it, the ring’s protections would treat any threat to you as an attack on a Malfoy. And that triggers some... old magic. Family-bound, layered, very real.”

"And you’re giving it to me?"

Draco’s expression didn’t shift, but there was tension in his jaw. “I’m not just offering it to anyone.”

Silence again. This one sharper, tauter.

“Why?” she asked.

He looked at her. Really looked. “Because I want you to feel safe.”

Her gaze dropped to the ring, then returned to his face.

“Draco… this is…”

She trailed off, searching for language. For something clinical or detached. But none of it fit.

“It is,” he agreed.

She hesitated—then reached out.

Draco pressed the ring into her palm. His fingers hovered there for a second too long. Then he drew his wand and murmured the enchantment hat would recognise Granger as a Malfoy.

Gold light laced through her fingers as the seal took hold. The Malfoy crest shimmered, then dimmed, now bonded to her magic.

It shrank to fit her hand perfectly.

She looked down at it, then up at him.

Draco’s voice was almost too soft to hear.

“It suits you.”

~

The Ministry had given them a windowless room with peeling charmwork and a table that looked like it had survived every bad idea from the last three decades.

It felt fitting.

Draco sat at one end, arms crossed, doing his best not to bounce his leg. Granger was beside him, the Malfoy ring a dull glint on her finger.

Potter leaned over the enchanted report table. Weasley paced. Again.

No jokes. No bickering.

They were too far past that.

“Thirty-seven,” Potter said finally. “Confirmed disappearances since March".

Granger stiffened.

"Twenty-six Muggles. Eight Muggle-borns. Three half-blooded witches and wizards.”

Weasley exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. 

Granger inhaled sharply. “It’s accelerating.”

“Fast,” said Weasley. “Started as one every other week. Now it’s one a day.”

“Any pattern?” Draco asked.

A glowing map unfurled across the table—dots blinking red, but scattered. No pattern.

“Geographically, it’s chaos,” Potter said. “But timeline-wise? It’s clustered.”

“A ritual,” Granger said. Not a question.

Weasley stopped pacing. “Which could explain the escalation. Whoever’s doing this is racing towards something,” he added, voice low.

The air in the room dipped a degree colder.

Granger looked down at her notes. “From what we read in the Tome, the original artefacts—like the Pendulum of Kaer Morhen—required precise alignment with natural magical surges. Solstices. Eclipses. Certain leyline thresholds.”

“And those alignments are rare,” Draco said. “But not impossible. There's one coming up.”

Potter raised a brow. “When?”

“Beltane. May first.”

Weasley groaned. “That’s in ten days.”

Silence stretched.

Hermione spoke next. “If that’s the goal, then we’re already behind. And we don’t even know what the artefact is.”

“Assume it works,” Draco said. “Why would someone want to stop time?”

Weasley blinked. “Anything they want. Start a war. End one. Kill thousands before anyone moves.”

Potter leaned back. “So he freezes time, does the ritual, walks through the world untouched—and we don’t even get to scream.”

“Pretty much,” Draco said.

Granger's voice cut in, quieter than the rest. “No bodies. No signs of struggle. No time to react.”

The room went still.

“She’s right,” Potter said after a beat. “We’re not finding bodies because they’re not being dumped.”

“They’re being kept,” Granger said.

Her voice didn’t waver—but her hands clenched.

“Collected,” she repeated, lower this time. “Like ingredients.”

Draco glanced at her. Her eyes were locked on the map, but he could see the shift—rage simmering under the logic.

The silence this time was suffocating.

“Right,” Potter said, voice clipped. “We find the site. Where would you perform a Beltane ritual, Hermione?”

“I’ve got theories. I want to cross-reference locations tied to fire festivals and leyline junctions. And old ritual sites,” she replied.

Potter nodded. “Ron and I’ll chase down the last three disappearances. See if any patterns emerge. You two—keep digging into the Tome. Find the spell. Find the site."

Potter packed the map. “Draco—stay close to her.”

“I wasn’t planning on doing anything else.”

Granger gathered her notes. Her movements were calm, but Draco could feel it—how tightly wound she was now. The focus. The fear under it.

They turned towards the door when a sharp tap echoed. A tiny owl tapped sharply against the room’s only ventilation grate.

The bird was familiar—too familiar. Sleek feathers, small enough to navigate Manor halls. Blaise's.

Draco read the note. Just two words:

“Tonight. Talk.”

Draco folded the note and tucked it away, heart picking up pace.

Apologies were becoming a trend.

Maybe it wasn’t too late to be something else.

Chapter Text

"It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are."
– E.E. Cummings

The alchemist

Aberdeen called to him again. The granite-laced city had something in its bones—old magic, dense and willing. Maybe that’s why the first one had screamed louder here. Maybe that’s why he kept coming back.

He needed bleach.

And Tesco was convenient.

The ritual left stains—blood, bile, bone dust. Scourgify didn’t always cut it. Muggle products were crude, but surprisingly effective. Plus, walking among them reminded him just how superior he was. Them? So soft. So slow.

He moved through the aisles with a basket and a pleasant smile. Paused by the meats. Helped an old woman grab a pack of chicken. She rewarded him with a story about Cock-A-Leekie soup and a grateful touch on his arm.

He smiled, thinking: If I needed crone’s blood, you’d already be in the trunk.

He apparated back to his cottage—a derelict shell buried deep in the Highlands. Crumbling above, but alive beneath. The cellar had become his sanctum, his forge.

Fifty bodies hung in stasis below. No longer people. Just pieces.

Soon, it would be Beltane. The day Muggles used to ward off witches—now perverted into glittery bonfires and pagan cosplay. He sneered. They had no idea what real magic demanded.

But he knew.

And he’d already done what Voldemort never could: evolve.

That melodramatic fool had wasted time on theatrics and terror. Relied on loyalist flunkies too stupid to see past blood purity and snake tattoos. He didn’t want loyalty. He wanted results.

The sconces lit as he stepped into the dungeon. The rune-etched table bore the stains of earlier failures. The blood wouldn’t scrub out.

He didn’t mind.

It gave the place weight. History.

He flicked the needle on his record player. Smalltown Boy spun into the air—jaunty synth crashing against the scent of ash and old death.

He selected a flask, the potion inside shimmering green-black. A new brew. A better one.

He levitated a Muggle’s body from stasis. Traced new runes into its palm. Whispered an incantation pieced together from Celtic fragments, bastardised Latin, and the kind of guesswork only brilliance could get away with.

Incendio .

Flames roared across the skin.

The hand remained whole.

He grinned.

“Run away, turn away, run awayyyyy…”

It worked.

Not long now.

Not long at all.

~

Lucas

Waiting, watching the clock—it was four oh five.

Draco was never late.

He tried not to worry. But by four-ten, he’d already imagined two scenarios involving Death Eaters, a time-turner accident, and one dramatic betrayal involving polyjuice and a cursed umbrella.

Then the fireplace flared green.

Draco stepped through, brushing soot from his sleeve like it had personally offended him.

“Sorry. Got caught up. At Granger’s.”

Lucas said nothing, but the words hung in the air like smoke. At Granger’s.

“Working on the case,” Draco added, a little too quickly.

“Mhm.” Lucas gestured to the armchair, pouring tea with the calm of a man who absolutely knew there was more and absolutely wasn’t going to press. Yet.

Draco sat, posture stiff. There was a tightness in his expression Lucas hadn’t seen since their first few sessions. A tension that said I’m fine, but I might hex something if you ask again.

Lucas didn’t ask. Just handed him the cup and sat in silence.

“How are things with your friends?”

Draco shifted, bristling like he’d been asked something invasive. “Fine.”

“That’s vague.”

“They’re... still talking to me. Blaise dragged me to dinner last weekend. Pansy insulted me seven times in ten minutes. Theo brought scones. It was very—normal.”

Lucas raised a brow. “And how did that feel?”

“Wrong.” He paused. “Like I didn’t deserve it.” Draco’s voice had dropped, just slightly. “I wasn’t sure if they’d even want me around. After everything.”

Lucas nodded slowly. “But they did.”

“They did.”

A pause.

“I didn’t apologise,” Draco added. “Not properly.”

“You think that matters to them?”

“It matters to me.”

There it was. The crack in the armour.

Lucas leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Why haven’t you?”

Draco looked away. “Because if I start saying the words out loud, I’ll have to mean them. And if I mean them, I’ll have to look at what I did. Really look.”

“So what did your ‘not-an-apology’ sound like?” Lucas asked.

"I offered a mild sorry. They accepted it like I’d brought them chocolate frogs and a hand-written poem.”

Lucas raised a brow. “And why do you think that was enough?”

Draco hesitated. “Because... they’re kind people?”

“Sure. But what does that say about you?”

Draco blinked like Lucas had hit him with a Confundus.

It was clear. He hadn’t really considered it. Not the possibility that he was worthy of kindness. Of forgiveness.

Lucas let it settle, heavy and necessary.

“Maybe they see something in you that you haven’t let yourself see yet.”

Draco gave a small, humourless laugh. “A reformed bigot with too much guilt and not enough spine?”

“A man who made bad choices and wants to make better ones.”

Another pause. Longer this time. Draco’s gaze drifted to the fireplace.

"Why would your friends be so forgiving towards you, even when you don't even try to ask fot their forgiveness properly? What does that say about you?"

Draco laughed nervously, deflecting slightly. "If I had to hazard a guess, I'd say they care about me because... I've protected them. During the war, when we were at Hogwarts, they never had to deal with the Carrows or any other Death Eaters because I was there, and when they were called, I volunteered instead," Draco seemed thoughtful, revisiting parts of the war that he had long buried.

"Can you elaborate on what you mean by volunteering?"

“They’d call kids in. Make us practice. If you failed, they’d Crucio you instead.” Draco’s voice flattened. “So I volunteered. Every time. Made it look like I liked it. Said I was the best at it, so they let me. It kept my friends out of it.”

Lucas stilled said nothing for a moment.

“That’s not just brave,” he said finally. “That’s survival. And sacrifice.”

"I still Crucioed little kids. I wouldn't say I'm a good person," Draco said darkly, his tone laced with regret.

"I understand, and I don't condone what you had to do either. I even think that if I were in your shoes, I would have tried to find a way around it and not Crucio anyone. But at the same time, such thinking might be naive. Realistically, you were faced with few choices."

"If I dwell on it,I get angry, sometimes. Want to go to Azkaban and Avada what’s left of the Dark Lord’s fan club.”

“What’s under that anger?” Lucas asked gently.

Draco frowned. “What?”

"Anger is a bloody useful emotion. It helps us summon the strength we need to set boundaries or to achieve the results we want or need. But sometimes we use anger to mask other emotions. It's easier to be angry because it makes us feel strong, especially for us blokes. We're often taught that the only proper emotion is anger. So, if it wasn't anger you were feeling, what was it then?"

Draco's demeanour shifted as he examined his emotions. “I feel scared,” Draco said, voice cracking. “And guilty. I hate the things I did. I understand why I did them, but I hate them.”

Lucas nodded. “You said you want to be a better man. What does that look like to you?”

“Someone who doesn’t hide. Who protects people, not because he has to, but because it’s right. Someone reliable. Responsible.” He exhaled, shaking his head. “But I freeze. I always freeze.”

“Do you?” Lucas asked. “Or do you just think you do?”

Draco hesitated. “I feel like I should be accountable. Especially with Granger. And the others.”

Lucas observed Draco, sensing his guilt and sadness. Yet, he found himself in agreement with Draco; perhaps the next stage of his therapy involved taking responsibility, and acknowledging the consequences of his actions or inactions, in order to make a change. There’s a distinction between letting guilt and sadness control you like a leash and harnessing them to transform into the person you aspire to be. To Lucas, it appeared that Draco stood on the brink of deciding who he wanted to become moving forward.

“What would that accountability look like?”

"I reckon I should at least apologise to them, especially to Granger," Draco admitted, shivering slightly. “And maybe find a way to make amends with them.”

"And what do you need to make that happen?" Lucas asked, leaning forward.

Draco's eyes darted toward Lucas with a hint of fear. Lucas couldn't help but chuckle.

"Yes, Draco. I'm nudging you to become a better bloke. Isn't that what you want? I believe you're a decent person already, but I also think doing things differently this time will be good for you. It'll help you see yourself in a new light, which is why I'm pushing you a wee bit… so, what do you need to make that happen?"

Draco smirked. “Eggs.”

Lucas blinked. “Sorry—what?”

Draco laughed so openly and freely that Lucas's heart warmed with joy.

"Some of the few things I'm grateful to my father for are his political connections and the time he took me to the Quidditch World Cup in my fourth year. Well, I was grateful for it until he decided to cosplay as a Death Eater and terrorize everyone for kicks... Anyway, at the World Cup, we met the Mexican Secretary of Magical Cooperation and his son, Carlos. He taught me some Mexican slang, and he said that when someone needs more than bravery, Mexicans say they need 'huevos,' which translates to eggs... or testicles if we're being more accurate about the true meaning of 'huevos.' So, I need eggs."

Lucas chuckled warmly, always pleasantly surprised by this lighter side of Draco. He could almost envision the kid Draco might have been—a typical teenager teasing his friends and learning to swear in different languages.

“Huevos, then. How can I help you notice your bravery?” Lucas asked, still amused.

“I dunno, being brave is not my forte.”

"Hmm, I'm not so sure about that. Just a few minutes ago, you talked about your bravery in protecting your friends. What else have you done that you could consider even a wee bit brave?"

Draco remained silent, his expression neutral as he pondered. "Nothing comes to mind," he finally admitted.

"Notice even the small details, like how these days you lean towards a Muggle style in your clothes. I bet your parents aren't too pleased about that," Lucas pointed out.

"How is that brave?" Draco asked, genuinely curious.

"Don't you think it takes eggs to make that kind of statement to them? By choosing Muggle fashion, you're essentially saying that Muggles can produce clothing worth your money, that they have style, and that you no longer subscribe to the belief that they are beneath you… to some point," Lucas explained.

"I never saw it that way, but it makes sense. Mother certainly doesn't approve of my new style, and Father, since he returned to the Manor... well, he's holed up in his wing drowning in his guilt and alcohol... so I doubt he's paying attention," Draco confessed.

“Sounds like you’re not following his footsteps.”

Draco exhaled. “I also did something else. Gave Granger the Malfoy signet ring.”

Lucas straightened.

“She doesn’t know what it really does,” Draco said. “She knows I can Apparate to her with it, and that it’ll protect her. But she doesn’t know it gives her access to... everything. The Manor. The vaults. It’s practically a marriage contract.”

“And you just gave that to her.”

“She needed to feel safe.”

Lucas stared at him. “You realise what that means, right? Draco, listen. You see yourself as someone who freezes, unable to protect others, yet you've just told me that you essentially gave up everything to ensure her safety. What the hell? How is that freezing?"

Draco looked stunned.

Lucas leaned forward. “That’s not freezing, Draco. That’s eggs.”

Draco barked out a laugh. “Alright, alright. You’ve made your point.”

"I see plenty of evidence of your testicles. I think it's time to acknowledge it and go make the amends you want... with them. Show them your balls," Lucas chuckled.

Draco stood, straightening his collar. “I’ll try.”

“No,” Lucas said, raising his cup. “You will.”

“Huevos,” Draco said, clinking his cup.

~

Draco

Before he could prepare himself for flashing his balls to the Golden Trio—metaphorically, of course—Draco was summoned by the Auror Department.

He wasn’t ready. Not even close. But he’d promised Lucas. Promised himself.

So when he walked into the briefing room and saw Granger already there, scrolls unfurled, brows furrowed, he took it as a sign. A terrifying, awful sign.

He noticed the ring on her finger. His ring. He tried not to stare.

“Morning, Granger,” he said, trying to sound casual. He might as well have said ‘Please don’t kill me.’

She looked up and smiled. “Hi. How was your session? Sorry again—I know I kept you far more time than I should've with those runes. Hope I didn’t make you late.”

“I was late,” Draco said. “It’s fine.”

He hesitated.

There was still time. Just her. No one else. He could do it. He should do it.

“Actually,” he started, “there’s something I wanted to say—”

A knock on the door. Robards.

Of course.

“Potter and Weasley are on their way,” Robards announced. “You two ready?”

“We’re ready,” they said in unison.

The door closed again.

Hermione turned to him. “What were you going to say?”

His throat closed. Merlin.

“I just…” Draco ran a hand through his hair. “Look. This isn’t easy for me, alright? But I wanted to say…Hermione, I’m sorry.”

She blinked. “You… called me Hermione.”

Draco groaned softly. “That’s what you took from that?”

“No, I just—” She laughed nervously. “It caught me off guard. Keep going.”

He didn’t. Couldn’t. She was looking at him with actual eyes, not hate. It was worse somehow.

“I’m sorry for—everything,” he said. “School. The war. The manor. For being a complete and utter... me.”

Hermione’s eyes glassed over, and Draco panicked.

“Are you going to cry? Please don’t cry.”

“I’m not,” she said, clearly lying. “It’s just—no one really says it. Not like that.”

His wand buzzed faintly. The ring had detected her elevated heart rate.

“Are you feeling alright?” Draco approached her swiftly, concerned she might faint.

“Yeah, just surprised and, well… I’m moved, Draco.”

Now that she said his name, he understood her reaction. It was powerful, being addressed like that by her, as if some invisible barrier had been shattered. He looked at her. Really looked. Her smile was small. Warm. Devastating. All his defenses against feeling something for her were crumbling. He needed to occlude, fast, or she would notice her effect on him.

He was lost in thought, failing to occlude, when he realized how close they were. She held his arm gently, smiling, and then their eyes met. The intensity was undeniable. He had never noticed before the golden specks in her eyes, or how her pupils dilated as she looked at him. They both gulped simultaneously, and he found himself briefly dropping his gaze to her lips.

Then Potter walked in.

“Morning,” Harry said, eyeing the space between them.

Draco stepped back two feet so fast he nearly tripped.

“Potter,” he muttered.

Then Weasley barged in behind him, already grumbling. “I swear to Merlin if we have to go through those surveillance logs again—oh. Morning, ferret.”

Draco gritted his teeth but said nothing.

Robards entered the room next, and the briefing began swiftly. Potter and Weasley shared their findings. They had compiled an impressive psychological profile. The suspect was likely a wizard of their parents' generation, possibly even closer to Voldemort's age. They hypothesized that he might have been a Death Eater or sympathizer during the recent wars, operating independently.

He was noted for his proficiency in some kind of magic that they couldn’t pin point still, but they knew it was a rare skill to have. That could help narrow down their suspects, as it wa an uncommon magic. Moreover, he appeared to possess exceptional intelligence and had the ability to blend seamlessly with Muggles, which heightened his threat level.

Then it was time for Granger and him to share their findings. Granger took the lead.

“What we’re seeing isn’t traditional Dark Magic. It’s not about destruction—it’s about construction. Like they’re building something. And the victims aren’t casualties. They’re ingredients.”

All in all, they were making progress with the investigation, and despite the ominous nature of the case, Robards was pleased with the speed at which they were unraveling it. Soon, they hoped to compile a list of potential suspects or pinpoint the wizard's whereabouts.

Robards dismissed them and left hurriedly, Potter and Weasley started to gather their things. Draco’s palms were sweaty.

“Wait,” he said suddenly. Too loudly. “Can I—say something?”

They all paused.

“I mean. Not case-related.”

Potter tilted his head. “Alright.”

Draco cleared his throat. Looked anywhere but directly at them.

“I just—wanted to apologise,” he blurted.

Silence.

“I know it’s not… enough. Obviously. But I—Merlin, I’ve been a git. For years. A horrible, stuck-up little—”

“Malfoy,” Potter said gently.

“Right. Sorry. I’m trying. That’s… that’s what I wanted to say.”

Weasley stared at him like he’d grown a second head.

“You’re serious?” Weasley said.

“Yes.”

“Like—really serious? You’re not cursed? Dying?”

“No.”

“Not polyjuiced?”

“Definitely not.”

Weasley looked to Potter, then back to Draco. “Well… bloody hell.”

“I don’t expect anything,” Draco added quickly. “Just—had to say it.”

Weasley squinted. “You rehearsed this, didn’t you?”

“A little.”

Ron’s expression was torn between incredulity and confusion.“I don’t trust you, Malfoy. And I’m not sure I ever will. I appreciate the apology, but I'll still punch you...".

"Ron," Potter interrupted, his voice calm but firm. "Let him finish."

"That's all I have".

Potter,  uncharacteristically calm, finally nodded. “That took guts.”

“Or stupidity,” Weasley muttered.

Hermione swatted his arm.

“Do you really want to make amends?” asked Potter calmly. 

“Yeah.”

“Meet me later. Grimmauld Place. Five.”

Draco blinked. “Is that—?”

“Not a duel,” Harry smirked. “Just a conversation.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “We’re collecting strays now, are we?”

“Shut it, Ron,” Hermione said, but she was smiling.

Draco felt his heart hammer.

She leaned in as the others filed out. “That was brave, Malfoy.”

He looked down at her hand—still wearing the ring.

She leaned in. “You know Harry’s the Secret Keeper, right?”

She didn’t wait for a response—just smiled and left.

Draco stood there like the floor had dropped out. Trust. That was trust.

~

At five o’clock sharp, Draco Apparated outside Number 12 Grimmauld Place.

Once, he wouldn’t have seen a thing. Now, the Black family home stood tall before him—three stories of brick and secrets. His mother couldn’t find it anymore. He found that hilarious.

He knocked. Kreacher opened the door with a noise like a suppressed sigh.

“Wait in the drawing room,” the elf said, then added stiffly, “Tea?”

“Yes. Please.”

Draco was halfway through his first sip when Ginny Weasley walked in.

She stopped, blinked. “Well. The ferret lives.”

“Weaselette,” he said evenly.

She grinned. “Harry said you might show. I bet him five Sickles you’d bolt.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“Don’t be. He gets kinky when he win on our bets.” She winked at him and dropped into an armchair like it was her own kitchen. Legs curled up, wand stuck behind one ear. At ease in a way that made Draco sit straighter.

“You like mince pie?”

“No.”

“Too bad. That’s what we’re having.”

Before he could reply, the fireplace whooshed green and Potter stepped through. Ginny launched herself into his arms, and they kissed like it was the last one before a war.

Draco looked away. Not jealous. Obviously.

“Great,” Harry said, grinning as he pulled back. “You came.”

“Obviously,” Draco muttered.

“Let’s eat.”

Potter led the way to the kitchen where an informal dining table was already set. The kitchen was warm, smelled like butter and cinnamon. Kreacher laid out strawberry salad, roasted vegetables, and the infamous mince pie.

“So, Ginny, something extraordinary happened today,” Potter said, throwing a glance towards Draco.

Ginny raised a brow. “You don’t usually invite people over after they call you a half-blooded mistake for six years.”

Draco bristled. “Still here.”

"Please, Malfoy, take a seat," Potter gestured for Draco to sit next to him.

Once seated, Kreacher began serving them. Without asking, he poured some Firewhiskey into Draco’s tumbler, as well as Potter’s. Ginevra was having wine instead. Draco didn’t complain; in fact, he welcomed the liquid courage. He found it surprising that they knew about his preference for the golden drink over wine.

Harry grinned. “I wanted to say thanks—for what you said. To us. And to Hermione.”

Draco tugged at his collar. “I wasn’t fishing for a dinner invite, you know.”

“I know.”

“I meant it. The apology. And I meant what I said about what I did. And didn’t do.”

Ginny’s eyes widened. “The ferret apologised? Now that’s rare.”

Draco gave her a look, then stared into his glass. “And Potter—thanks. For saving my life. For testifying. I don’t know how I’ll ever make amends. Or if I even can.”

He looked down, blinking fast.

“Maybe you weren’t a terrible person, Malfoy. Maybe you were just sixteen and taught all your life to be racist and biased. Is that the person you are now?” Potter looked at him with an expression Draco couldn't read.

“I don’t think so. No,” Draco said quietly. “Not since the Manor. Since I saw Granger… survive my aunt. It shattered something. The blood crap. The excuses. She was stronger than all of us. And I stood there. I froze.”

Potter nodded slowly. “I think you froze. But you didn’t run. That counts.”

“I let you take my wand.”

“And bought us time. That mattered.”

Draco scoffed. “Not enough.”

Ginny leaned in. “What would be enough?”

Draco was silent for a moment, unsure of how to respond. “Maybe Azkaban was a good place to keep me.”

Potter snorted. “Don’t be dramatic, Malfoy.” 

Draco blinked.

“Sorry,” Harry said, grinning. “But seriously—when I found out I was a Horcrux, that I had to die, I didn’t even hesitate. Thought that was the point of me. And then I lived. So now I make it matter.”

He looked at Draco.

“So do you.”

Draco stared at the table, chest tight.

Ginny picked up her glass. “You do deserve a life, Malfoy. Just not one where you feel like shit every morning. Don’t let your adolescence mark the rest of your life.”

Draco gave a dry laugh. “Easy for you to say.”

Ginny raised a brow. “You think I don’t have nightmares? That I don’t wake up wishing I’d hexed Tom Riddle’s diary into a thousand pieces before it ever touched me?”

She leaned forward, tone gentler now. “We all carry things, Draco. Doesn’t mean we stop trying.”

A long pause settled between them.

Then Ginny reached across the table and patted his arm.

“You’re not as much of a prick as I remember. That’s got to count for something.”

Draco snorted. “High praise.”

“You’ll take it.”

And he did.

They finished dinner with awkward small talk and another round of Firewhiskey. When Draco finally stood to leave, Potter followed him to the door.

“I meant what I said,” Harry told him. “Let’s do it differently this time.”

Draco nodded.

As he stepped out into the cool night, the words echoed in his mind like a spell: Let’s do it differently.

Chapter Text

"I destroy myself so you can't, and it's the worst kind of control, but it's the only form I know." — Unknown

1993

Alone and restless, Marjorie Duffield sat at the breakfast table in an otherwise empty room. The chair beneath her was too tall; her feet didn’t touch the floor. She watched a droplet of jam run off her toast and splatter on the tablecloth. It looked like blood.

She was two when the first incident happened. A tantrum. A shattered table. Plates exploded, slivers of glass slicing her mother’s arm open as she reached forward with a spoonful of porridge. Her mother screamed. Her father stared. No one touched her for days.

They called her "ill," and unable to comprehend her abilities, took her to doctors and even psychiatrists in a desperate attempt ti suppress whatever was wrong with her. They found nothing. Her mother started avoiding her eyes. Her father stopped saying her name.

At four, in the park, a boy shoved her off a swing. Her back hit the mulch hard. Rage erupted. The boy flew backwards, shrieking, blood spraying from his face where the air itself had turned to knives. Her mother dragged her home by the arm, ignoring her sobs. That night, the door locked behind her and stayed that way for twenty-four hours. No food. No water. No toilet. The belt came later, when they found the mess.

“You’re a danger,” her mother hissed. “A freak. A curse.”

She believed them.

By six, she had learned to suppress whatever this thing inside of her was. She imagined it like light behind her fingertips, curling, twitching. She shoved it into a box in her chest and sat on the lid. Sometimes it worked. Most times, it didn’t.  She came to hate it, associating it with the worst moments of her life.  Whenever even a small hint of her power surfaced, she faced brutal punishment for it. She learnt to despise herself. She loathed the fear in her mother's eyes and the way her father avoided touching her. 

One day, she was told that someone was coming to her home to try and rid her of the demon inside her. A tall man arrived and instructed her parents to tie her to her bed, immobilising her hands and feet. He called himself a demonologist, and Marjorie had never been more scared in her life.

He threw water at her, rubbed oil into her skin, and began chanting words she couldn't understand but that terrified her. First, he spoke those words softly, but he ended up screaming them at her while commanding some demon to leave her body, invoking the power of Christ. That situation went on for days on end, from dusk till dawn, at random hours. She was sleep-deprived, given no food, and only a few sips of water.

Her lips were chapped, her eyes sunken. She felt ill and weak, fearing she might die. It became unbearable. The last time he tried to chant and rid her of the demons, she felt her power surge out of its box and forcefully threw him into the wall. He left her tied up, utterly terrified of her, and since that day, she had never been allowed to leave her room, except for using the bathroom at specific times of the day, always at the same hour.

Marjorie used her loneliness to refine her ability to contain her power even more effectively. Instead of imagining a box, she visualized her room without windows or doors. She believed that if there was no way for her power to escape, it would eventually die. She focused intensely on maintaining control, willing herself to become nothing more than an ordinary girl, devoid of the power that had brought her so much pain.

But deep down, she noticed the power inside her was becoming something else, almost like another entity. Perhaps it was really a demon that possessed her, and despite her best efforts, there were moments when she felt it stirring, eager to break free. Marjorie feared the day when she could no longer contain it, the day when she might lose control of that entity entirely. And what then? Would she be condemned forever?

The question haunted her, but for now, all she could do was wait and hope that the walls she had built around her power would hold, that the demon within her would remain caged, and that one day, she might find peace in a world that had never offered her anything but fear and pain.

~

1995

Marjorie was a lonely 8-year-old girl, painfully thin, malnourished, and devoid of love. But the person she hated the most was herself. She had learned to contain her power, but she knew it hadn't disappeared. It remained inside her, lurking and waiting like a parasite for a moment to emerge and wreak havoc. She wasn’t going to let it do that, even if it was the last thing she did in her sorry life.

Her parents barely spoke to her. She knew they were terrified, still believing a demon lurked inside her. She only saw them twice a day when they opened her door to place her food as far from her as possible.

They had a routine. Waking up at 5 a.m., they prepared her breakfast—almost always porridge and an apple—knocked on her door, and she positioned herself as far from it as she could. Opening the door, they glanced briefly at her, eyes wide with fear, dropping their gaze as soon as theirs met hers. They practically threw her food inside and hurriedly left, always together, protecting each other from her.

In the evening, after her father returned from work, they repeated the practised routine. Instead of porridge, they served her soup and bland meat. That was the extent of her daily interaction.

She spent her days daydreaming about another world where she wasn't possessed by a demon. She forgot what it was like to play or laugh. She didn't even cry anymore. She just harboured a deep, consuming hatred.

One night, Marjorie was sleeping peacefully, dreaming of escaping her room and walking toward her parents' room. In her dream, she saw them sleeping soundly, and suddenly, all her pent-up hatred burst forth. She felt a force inside her roar to life, grabbing her mother by the hair and slamming her to the floor. Her father woke up with a start, his eyes wide in the darkness of their room, but he didn't seem to notice anything amiss. Then, Marjorie saw the same force push him against the wall.

She woke up with a gasp, hearing rumbling outside her room.

Both of her parents opened the door and peered inside, visibly terrified. Marjorie lay there, sweating, feeling as if a force was slowly crawling into her chest. It frightened her. Her mother began to cry, and her father declared that he would find a solution, no matter what. Marjorie sobbed quietly.

Weeks later, she heard her father speaking to her through the door. He told her they had found another demonologist who would solve everything for them. His voice carried hope but also weariness. Marjorie no longer felt anything.

She knew the day had arrived because she suddenly noticed a change in the air. It felt charged, like the air before a thunderstorm. She was mesmerised, watching the hairs on her arms stand on end as someone entered her room. He was alone.

He was a funny-looking man. With long white hair, blue eyes, and a beard, he wore white gloves and peculiar clothes. His coat resembled more of a cape, and despite its sombre colours, she noticed a fun and colourful pattern on the inside of the cloak. He was smiling broadly at her.

“Marjorie,” he said gently. “My dear girl.”

She blinked. “Hello, sir.”

“Call me Athair.”

She looked at him, feeling nothing but exhaustion. She made an effort to be polite because this man treated her like a human being, but she couldn't summon any hope.

"I'm so glad I finally found you, my girl. When your parents contacted me, I knew I was going to be able to help you. You are finally safe with me," he said warmly. His eyes gleamed with something she couldn't quite understand.

Her mother entered the room cautiously and asked the man why he was in her room, mentioning that he was supposed to wait in the living room. As she spoke, he discreetly turned toward Marjorie and winked. Slowly, he revealed a wooden stick hidden under his sleeve, made a subtle swishing motion, and quietly uttered, “Confundus.”

Suddenly, her mother stopped talking mid-sentence. She appeared confused and abruptly excused herself, muttering about needing to attend to something else, before swiftly leaving the room. Marjorie and the man were now alone.

Marjorie clutched her bunny tighter.

“You’re not a demon, Marjorie. You’re a witch.”

She stared at him.

“You have magic. That’s all. They’re Muggles—they don’t understand. But I do. I’m a wizard. And I’m here to take you somewhere safe.”

A tear slid down her cheek. She didn’t speak, just nodded remembering the stories she sometimes read at night.

“I can see you’ve learned to hide your magic, Marjorie. Muggles are people with no magic; they don’t understand it and are scared of it, like your parents. They even kill witches and wizards when they find them. It was wise of you to hide your magic, and that’s why I have to take you with me. Your mother will come back soon; she’ll still be confused. I want to take you with me so you’ll be safe. Would you like that?”

“Yes,” her voice was a whisper.

Marjorie was taken aback when her mother re-entered the room.

“Imperius,” Athair muttered while flicking his wooden stick towards her mother while smiling to her.

“I will leave with her today.”

“Of course,” her mother replied, her voice now hollow.

Marjorie didn’t quite grasp everything that was happening, but seeing her mother as if controlled like a marionette brought her a strange sense of relief.

They walked out together, and he gently took her small and thin hand. She clutched her plush bunny tightly to her chest as they walked a couple of streets and reached an isolated alley. Suddenly, she felt her body jerk awkwardly, her insides churning. She closed her eyes, expecting the worst, but as quickly as the feeling began, it stopped.

When she opened her eyes again, she realised they were no longer standing in the alley. Instead, they were facing a cottage hidden in a forest. It was cold and damp. She didn’t like it, but at least she was safe.

~

1997

She called him Father now. She found in him the tenderness and kindness she had always sought from her parents but never received.

Marjorie continued to conceal her magic. She had become very adept at it, so much so that sometimes she couldn't even sense it under her fingertips, unlike when she was younger.

Their cottage was small, tucked between hills and thick woods that Athair claimed were warded against anyone uninvited. No neighbours. No owls. No post. Just trees that whispered secrets when the wind blew.

Inside, it smelled like nutmeg and old parchment. The walls were cluttered with books, moving portraits, and magical odds and ends—a feather from a Thunderbird, a broken Gobstone that never stopped leaking smoke. The kitchen was always warm. She had a room of her own now, painted pink with unicorn decals that kicked and pranced when she walked past.

“Is it too much?” Athair had asked once, watching the walls sparkle with glittery stars.

“No,” Marjorie had said, smiling. “I love it.”

Marjorie didn’t dream much anymore. But sometimes, when she did, she dreamed of that locked room in Dundee. The one with the painted-shut windows. The one where the walls hummed with hate.

She’d jolt awake, sweaty, breathless.

And Athair would be there, sitting quietly beside her bed with a book in hand and his tea gone cold.

“You’re safe, sweet girl,” he’d murmur, brushing her hair off her forehead. “You’re mine now.”

She wasn’t sure why the words made her chest tighten. But she never said so.

In the mornings, they made breakfast together. She chopped fruit. He stirred porridge with his wand, humming a slow, strange tune that didn’t sound entirely English.

“Father?” she asked once, watching the porridge stir itself.

“Hm?”

“Why don’t you ever let me try?”

He looked at her, startled. Then, softened. “Because you don’t have to. Not yet. Magic’s a dangerous thing when it’s broken. You’re healing, Marjorie. That’s more important.”

She nodded. But the question stayed with her. Once she tried to reach for his wand when he left it on the table. He smiled—but didn’t blink—and took it back without a word.

They walked the garden every afternoon. Her boots sank into moss that shimmered blue. Flowers bloomed in spirals, curling toward her fingertips as if they remembered her.

“Father,” she said one day, bending over a blood-red blossom. “Do other witches have to stay hidden like me?”

Athair’s gait slowed.

“Some,” he said. “The world isn’t kind to girls with magic. Especially ones as special as you.”

She chewed her lip.

“There’s a school—Hogwarts?”

Athair’s smile thinned. “Dumbledore’s folly. That man always had a weakness for boys with hero complexes.” He tapped her gently on the forehead. “You’re better off here. Where it’s safe. Where you matter.”

She let the subject drop. He’d never shouted at her. Never hit her. But there was something in his eyes—something that paused just before warmth. Like he was calculating.

They spent hours by the fire, especially when it rained.

“I used to hate rain,” Marjorie told him once, wrapped in a blanket, knees tucked to her chest. “It meant the walls leaked. Meant the lights might go out.”

“You’re allowed to love it now,” Athair said gently, passing her a cup of cocoa. “You’re allowed to change your mind.”

She watched his hands as he sipped his tea. Pale. Unlined. No scars. No ink.

“I thought magic left marks,” she said.

“It does,” he answered. “But only when it’s wielded carelessly.”

He smiled at her then. But didn’t blink.

To stay connected when apart, Athair enchanted a journal that allowed them to send messages to each other. Each had a twin journal that received and sent messages, keeping them close no matter the distance.

“You can write to me anytime,” Athair had said when he gave her the journal. “Even if I’m just in the garden. I’ll always answer.”

And he did. Little notes of encouragement, sometimes just sketches of flowers or smiling faces. She never showed him, but she reread them often. They felt like magic—not the dangerous kind, but the kind that whispered you matter.

Slowly, Marjorie began to heal from the wounds of her past. Athair's unconditional love and unwavering support gave her the strength to let go of her sadness and pain and embrace the love she felt from him. Together, they forged a bond that transcended mere teacher and student, becoming a father and daughter united by magic, love, and newfound hope.

In Athair, Marjorie thought she had found the family she had always longed for.

She told herself, every night, that she was finally home.

~

Marjorie's 11th birthday approached, and as it drew nearer, she noticed Athair becoming increasingly excited. The past years had been a dream compared to the nightmare she lived with her parents. She hadn’t celebrated her birthday in years until he came into her life. He was a wonderful father to her, and she cherished him deeply.

She rarely felt her magic anymore. Athair had never said so aloud, but she knew that made him proud. Finally, she felt worthy of being called someone's daughter.

For the past two weeks, Athair had been talking excitedly about taking a trip with her soon to celebrate her birthday. She felt a surge of excitement herself; after all, she hadn't been anywhere other than the cottage in years. 

“Do I get a cake?” she'd asked, trying to sound like it was a joke.

“Better,” Athair had promised. “I have something far more special planned.”

She’d believed him. Of course she had.

Finally, the day of the trip arrived. Athair instructed Marjorie to dress warmly for the cold and damp weather, as they were headed to a cave hidden in a mountain in Germany. She had never left the cottage. Germany might as well have been the moon.

They arrived at Brocken almost at sunset. The wind cut through her coat as they reached the summit. Sunset spilled red across the snow. The cave yawned like a mouth in the rock face—cold, waiting.

Athair had created something he called a Portkey to facilitate their travel without being detected—a broomstick they both had to hold onto simultaneously. Marjorie couldn't help but find it ironic that he chose a broomstick as the Portkey, considering its strong association with witches. However, she dismissed it as perhaps just a coincidence.

They hiked for a while, taking in the landscape until they arrived at a secluded cave. Athair had charmed it in the past, long before they met, ensuring it remained hidden from any Muggle discovery.

He had told her that he had prepared the cave for her, for today. It seemed to be a very special day for him too, something he had been eagerly anticipating. As they entered the cave it was quiet. Too quiet. The gas lamps barely flickered, their light a sickly yellow that didn’t reach the ceiling. Something scuttled across the stone wall, vanishing behind a cauldron that smelled like burnt ash and copper.

Marjorie approached the wall, wanting to see the painting up close. As she reached the wall, she noticed that they were more like symbols instead of a painting. They were arranged in intricate patterns, some resembling letters from an unfamiliar alphabet, while others seemed more abstract. She turned to Athair, puzzled.

"What are these?" she asked, gesturing towards them.

"These are ancient runes, Marjorie," he explained. "They hold powerful magic and knowledge. Each symbol has its own meaning and purpose. I wanted to show you this place because I believe it's time for them to be used. They are meant to help me create a container for a powerful kind of magic".

Marjorie nodded, taking in the information. The runes seemed to pulse with a subtle glow, their intricate patterns hinting at ancient wisdom and arcane secrets. She felt a mixture of excitement and apprehension at the prospect of delving deeper into this mysterious aspect of magic.

Athair placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Don’t be afraid, Marjorie. These runes hold knowledge and power that will allow for a greater good in the wizarding world. I brought you here because I need your help creating the container.”

“But you know I can’t do magic; my power has been lost for some time now,” she said, surprised and anxious. She couldn’t understand how she would be able to help him if she had never deliberately used magic in her life, and it had been years since the last accidental use of her powers.

Athair smiled—calm, steady. But his eyes flicked briefly to the wall before returning to hers. “Your magic hasn’t been lost, Marjorie. It has been dormant, changed, and suppressed for your safety. But here, in this place, with these runes, we can awaken it together, retrieve it.”

Marjorie blinked, her anxiety mixing with a flicker of hope. “But how?”

Athair squeezed her shoulder gently. “These runes aren’t just for containing magic; they are also for unlocking it. They resonate with the essence of magic itself. They call forth its power.”

He guided her closer to the runes, encouraging her to place her hand on one of the symbols etched into the stone. As she did, Marjorie felt a tingling sensation.

Marjorie looked down at the rune beneath her fingertips, feeling something she hadn’t felt in years but couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was. She took a deep breath, letting go of her doubts, and allowed herself to believe that maybe, just maybe, she could find her place in this world of magic after all.

Athair stepped back and began to chant in a soft, melodic tone, "Dwāgos, uksro." 

The runes seemed to respond, glowing more brightly as his words filled the air. Marjorie felt the tingling in her fingers intensify, spreading through her hand and up her arm. It was as if the runes were calling to the magic within her, coaxing it to the surface.

As Athair continued his chant, Marjorie felt a warmth spread through her chest. It was a comforting sensation, like a long-lost friend returning home. Her magic bloomed like fire under her skin, warm and pulsing—like a heartbeat she hadn’t heard in years. She felt alive. She felt whole.

“Is imbocʰtā in mī-s tātīm sūthecāntī, tṓ-ue toksobro toso- tāsos potās tātī. Tēi detemnī”, Athair's voice grew stronger, more commanding, as he traced the runes on the wall in the air with his wand.

The cave seemed to hum with energy, and Marjorie could feel her magic surging, responding to the ancient symbols. She closed her eyes, letting herself be carried away by the moment, trusting Athair completely.

Suddenly, she felt something shift. Her eyes snapped open as she realized she couldn't move.The melody cracked. Became something sharp, almost angry, and the warmth in her chest turned to a painful burn. Panic surged through her, and she tried to call out, but her voice was caught in her throat.

She looked at Athair, confused and frightened, but his expression remained calm, almost serene. He continued to chant, his eyes focused on the runes as if he were oblivious to her distress. Marjorie's heart pounded in her chest, the pain growing unbearable.

“Father?” she croaked.

No answer. Just the scrape of his boots as he circled behind her.

Her legs were stone. Her chest burned.

“Please…”

“Almost done,” he murmured—not to her, but to the stone in his hand.

"Obscuros, anhercta mise thu fargaid aneth niguenae, techtu antalos clouganon.", Athair directed his wand at Marjorie. 

The runes around her flared to life, and a dark, smoky substance began to seep from her body, drawn toward the stone in his hand. Marjorie’s terror peaked as she felt her life force being drained away, her vision darkening. Blood began to spill out of her nostrils, eyes, and ears. She felt her heartbeat increase and then drop rapidly.She couldn’t breathe. His eyes were empty. Not Father. Not anyone. Just a man who had been waiting, and all her loneliness returned like an avalanche, drowning her. Blood started to gush from her mouth in huge amounts. 

"W-why are you doing this to me?" she whispered, her voice weak.

He didn’t flinch at her scream. Didn’t look at her. He was already gone—chained to the runes, lost in the rhythm of his incantation, like a man praying to a god who wasn’t listening.

Marjorie’s heart shattered. The man she had trusted, who had shown her kindness and love, was nothing but a cold, calculating stranger. Her body weakened further, blood trickling from her nose and eyes as the last remnants of her magic were pulled from her. Blood began to spill from her nostrils. Her lungs burned. The light dimmed. She tried to call out. Couldn’t. He didn’t look at her. He was already gone. Just a man with a purpose, and she… was the cost.

In those final moments, memories flashed before her eyes—of loneliness, fear, her parents and the fleeting moments of tenderness she had known. She wished for a different outcome, for a life where she could have been truly loved and accepted for who she was. As darkness enveloped her, Marjorie found no peace, just fear in its purest form.

With one last fleeting thought, she whispered into the void,“I tried to be good,” she whispered, voice trembling. “I really did.” And then she was gone, leaving behind a world where her magic and her pain were as meaningless as she felt, betrayed by the only person she thought loved her.

Chapter Text

"Prejudice is a burden that confuses the past, threatens the future, and renders the present inaccessible."

- Maya Angelou

Finally, the day had come. After years of meticulous planning, countless sacrifices, and unrelenting purpose, today he would make it happen.

He couldn't help but marvel at the irony—the night of Walpurgis coinciding with Beltane. Years ago, when Voldemort, then Tom Riddle, formed his first fan club, he had named them the Knights of Walpurgis. Back then, the significance of this night had been lost on him, just a symbol, a title. But now, after all he had learned and become, he realised how fitting it was that his greatest achievement would unfold on this very night.

What had started as a political stance had become his life's work, his reason for existence.

He had spent years researching, and planning. When he saw Voldemort for what he truly was—a pitiful man with daddy issues—he knew he had to forge his own path. Following Voldemort would have led him to death or Azkaban, like the rest of the foolhardy Death Eaters. 

Bloody morons.

But this time, this time it would be different because he is ahead, he is advanced. 

As he reached the Orkney Islands, where the ancient Ring of Eynhallow stood, he felt a surge of anticipation. The megaliths, towering at three meters high, were remnants of an age long past, likely dating back to around 3200 BCE, a time when magic was raw and unfiltered.

He saw a conglomerate of Muggles surrounding the megaliths. He was infuriated by their presence but had expected it, so it didn’t surprise him. What did infuriate him was that “magic” was becoming popular among Muggles again—at least their misguided, archaic rituals—which made it more difficult for the wizarding community to access the Ring of Eynhallow unnoticed to perform the actual rituals for Bel.

Very few wizards were knowledgeable about ancient magic, and the Orkney Islands was one of the few spots where traces of it could still be found. The fires on this Holm were sacred—the very ones Cerridwen used for her cauldron. Fortunately, the wizards in this community had kept her legendary flame alive for generations. That’s what he was going to retrieve tonight. He needed the power that fire wielded.

He finally reached the stones, surrounded by Muggles oblivious to the real power hidden behind the magical dimensional veil cast by the wizards to protect their secrets. He walked around the stones, searching for the hidden runes that would allow him to enter the veil. He knew they wouldn’t be easy to find—each year, they appeared in different locations, often camouflaged—but he was patient and observant. He had arrived with plenty of time to search.

As he circled the stones, a drunken Muggle stumbled into him, spilling whiskey onto his robes. With a muttered curse, he cleaned his clothes with a quick spell, and in the corner of his eye, he saw it—the faint glimmer of the runes. He had found the key.

Touching the runes, he murmured the word of power, “Woreto,” and felt the magic envelop him, pulling him into the hidden dimension. The Muggles vanished from sight, and he found himself in the true heart of the circle, where the sacred fire burned brightly, tended by hooded wizards and witches. He threw his hood on and put his mask on. It was a plain red mask with two openings for his eyes. He was wearing his usual white silk gloves, sometimes tainted with blood, but not tonight. His black cloak covered his whole body and reached the floor.

As he approached the fire, he felt its power wash over him, quickening his pulse and filling him with a rare sense of exhilaration. It had been so long since he had felt anything, and this—this was intoxicating. He wanted more.

The other figures around him were casting their own spells, retrieving their own bits of fire. It wasn’t uncommon for wizards and witches from around the world to come on this night to take some of the fire with them—it was used in many powerful spells and potions. But getting here was costly and dangerous. Not everyone in the community knew how to find the runes or the word needed to enter the veil. It had taken him years to acquire that knowledge. So it made sense that once inside, the focus was on the fire, not on the other people around. This anonymity suited him perfectly..

Drawing closer, he retrieved the black, glass-like stone from his robes—the one containing the essence of Marjorie’s Obscurus. It had taken him years to find such a power, a rare and precious thing.

He had searched for years for one or the potential of one. But with the Statute of Secrecy and other government protections, Obscurials had become rare. He feared he might never find one until he heard about her.

The girl had been a stroke of luck. He happened to be in the right place at the right time to overhear a witch from Hogwarts complaining about Dumbledore’s focus on bloody Potter while ignoring a girl in a dire situation.

He followed the witch into her home and studied her, who she lived with, who visited her, and who she was close to. Once he had all the information he needed he planned to get into her house, retrieve the girl’s name and information, and then obliviated her. He took every precaution so that no one noticed that she had been obliviated. So he chose a night in which she was going to stay home and read. No one would find it weird if she woke up the next day not recalling what she did last night, and no one would ask her, it would be as if she just fell asleep reading. And his plan worked perfectly.

And now, he had the parasitic power—a potent one, which he would use to corrupt the fire. The Obscurus, born from the violent suppression and betrayal of Marjorie's trust, was filled with the dark essence of her pain, fear, and the ultimate betrayal she suffered at his hands. This betrayal was the key—it was what would twist the sacred fire of Beltane, a symbol of life and renewal, into a force of destruction. The fire, when combined with the tainted essence, would become corrupted, infused with the malevolent intent of harm and the darkness of a life taken through treachery. This was the power he needed to place within the bodies, turning them into something far more dangerous than mere reanimated corpses.

Holding the stone in one hand, he extended his wand with the other, drawing a thread of the sacred fire into the stone. The power surged within it, a blend of ancient magic and dark essence. A smile crept onto his face as he felt the fire’s energy merge with the Obscurus. He was ready.

Returning to his cottage, he wasted no time. The night of Walpurgis and Beltane was reaching its peak, the moment when the veil between worlds was thinnest, when magic was at its most potent. In his dungeon, everything was prepared—the cauldron with the potion, the bloodied runes on each of the fifty bodies, and now, the stone.

Tick-Tock- the time is here. He felt the power surge and began his ritual.

“Māros luxtos mīnos, uφerketos ānberti, doχteti mē, bētis mīnāts segomāri,” he chanted, his voice echoing in the chamber.

As the stone entered the cauldron, the potion within began to glow a deep, ominous red, the light spilling over the edges and spreading across the bodies laid out before him. The runes on their chests ignited with fire, but instead of burning, the flames seemed to breathe life into the corpses.

“Rise,” he commanded, his voice a whisper filled with power.

One by one, the bodies stirred, their eyes opening to reveal empty, clouded orbs. They stood, their movements stiff at first, then more fluid as the magic took hold.

A smile—a true, unrestrained smile—spread across his face as he gazed upon his creation. His army, his legacy, had risen. 

~

Draco

“Absolutely not,” Draco said, staring at the jeans in his hands like they were cursed.

“Oh, shut up and change,” Pansy said, tossing him a black turtleneck next. “We’re infiltrating a Muggle fire cult. We need to blend in.”

“Pans, I don’t know, won’t it be weird that we’re all dressed the same?” Daphne said, inspecting herself in the mirror. “I mean, I look fit but…”

“Nonsense,” Pansy retorted, shoving a set of clothes into Blaise's hands. “I’m a visionary. This outfit is classic, and you’ll see—someday it’ll become iconic.”

Blaise eyed the outfit with mild disdain. 

Theo appeared in the doorway, holding a stack of magazines and what looked suspiciously like flashcards. “Pansy’s right. We’ve got to look normal. I studied their behavior. They wear denim. They say things like ‘vibing’ and ‘slay.’”

Astoria groaned. “You made us dress like Muggle backup dancers and you’re teaching us Muggle dialects?”

“It’s called immersion,” Theo said proudly. “You’re welcome.”

Draco sighed and pulled on the blue jeans. They were too tight. Probably on purpose.

“Why are we even doing this?” Blaise asked from the sofa, flipping through one of Theo’s fashion mags. “We’re not Gryffindors. We don’t run into fires unless we started them.”

Draco glanced at him. “Because Granger asked. Because something’s happening tonight. And because—maybe—we’re not who we used to be.”

There was a pause. Not long. But enough.

Theo cleared his throat. “Besides, we’re the only ones who know enough Dark Runes to identify their spell structures in real time.”

Pansy blinked. “That sounded suspiciously like a useful reason.”

“It happens,” Theo shrugged. “Once a year.”

Astoria snorted. “You just want to flirt with Muggles.”

“They do love a bad boy in leather.”

“We’re not in leather.”

“Yet.”

“Stop,” Draco snapped. “Can we please hurry? They are expecting us in 10 minutes.”

Pansy threw a black leather belt at him. “Not with that attitude.”

Two minutes later they stood in front of the manor mirror, six Slytherins dressed identically in black turtlenecks, dark jeans, and white trainers. Draco looked like he’d joined a Muggle boy band against his will.

“This is humiliating,” he muttered.

“It’s a uniform,” Blaise added.

“It’s a metaphor,” Theo announced. “Out with the old—robes, house rivalry, fear of change—and in with the new. Evolution, baby.”

“You’ve lost your mind,” Draco said.

Theo grinned. “Maybe. But I’m doing it in style.”

~

The Floo flared green, and Draco stepped out into Granger’s living room like a man walking into enemy territory in skinny jeans.

Books. Everywhere. Piles stacked with terrifying precision. A cat—the monstrous ginger one—was already at his feet, staring at him like it knew every sin he’d ever committed.

“Crookshanks,” Draco muttered, staring back. “I’m not here to harm your mother.”

The cat rubbed against his shin with unsettling affection.

He crouched awkwardly, trying to pet it the way he'd seen Hagrid manhandle beasts: firm but not fatal. Crookshanks climbed into his lap.

“Oh no,” he hissed. “We’re not doing this.”

Footsteps thundered on the stairs. “Crooky? What’s going on?”

Granger appeared, mid-laugh, hair damp from the shower, sweater a familiar green that twisted in his chest, and—

Merlin help him, she was stunning.

“You’ve domesticated him,” she said, eyes on the cat curled around Draco’s leg like it was his familiar.

“I think he’s hexed,” Draco muttered, still petting.

“You’re holding him like a bag of flour,” she said, biting back a smile. “And I’m fairly certain he loves it.”

Before he could respond, the fireplace flared again—and this time, all hell arrived.

Theo stumbled through first, dramatic as ever. “Granger! You look radiant. Draco! You look... resigned.”

Then Pansy. Blaise. Astoria. Daphne.

Granger blinked.

“You all coordinated?” she asked, her voice somewhere between horror and amusement.

“It’s a uniform,” Pansy said proudly. “Reinvention chic.”

Draco groaned and handed Crookshanks to Hermione, muttering, “Please hide me.”

Weaselette arrived next—leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, one eyebrow arched. “You lot look like you're about to drop the worst wizarding mixtape of the decade.”

Daphne smirked. “You jealous of the look, Weasley?”

“Deeply,” Ginny said flatly. “But mostly curious what underground cult you joined that hands out matching jeans.”

Theo stepped forward, hand outstretched like he was about to offer her a pamphlet. “We’d love to tell you more about the Order of the Turtleneck. We meet Thursdays.”

At that moment, the fireplace flared again—Potter and Weasley.

Weasley took one look at the room and blurted, “What the actual hell.”

Potter blinked. “Why do you all look like beat poets who lost a bet?”

Draco deadpanned, “Because this is what growth looks like, Potter.”

“Did growth punch you in the face on the way out?” Weasley muttered.

Granger clapped her hands once, loud and sharp. “Enough. We’re all here for a reason—this isn’t just a field trip.”

Theo raised a hand. “Before we get into seriousness, one request: Draco, do the line.”

Draco shot him a murderous look.

“What line?” Grnager asked.

Theo leaned toward her, grinning. “Go on, Draco. Impress her.”

Draco closed his eyes. “What’s cracking, home skillet? You look... fly.”

Granger stared at him in stunned silence for exactly three seconds before she slapped her face.

Weaselette doubled over. Weasely looked like he was witnessing a slow-moving catastrophe.

Potter clapped Draco on the back. “Brave man.”

“You’re all insufferable,” Draco muttered, turning away.

But he was smiling.

Half an hour later Granger’s had just finished a comprehensive lecture about Beltane. Draco wondered if he could sneak out through the window without drawing attention.

“We’re not here for fun,” she said, pacing in front of the fireplace like a war general. “The Ministry flagged a spike in magical energy in Edinburgh—specifically around Calton Hill. Too close to Beltane to be a coincidence.”

“We’re going to a giant bonfire party because someone might do something Dark?” Pansy asked, blinking. “That’s your idea of a stakeout? You don't even know what we are lookoing for.”

Granger didn’t flinch. “It’s a convergence site. Ley lines. Old rituals. It’s not just a party—it’s a door. Something will happen.”

Potter nodded. “Robards wants eyes on the ground. If anything dark happens, we’re backup. Low profile. Observe, report.”

Draco glanced at the others—Pansy, Blaise, Daphne, Astoria. They weren’t here to make peace. Not really. Underneath their outfits and witty comments, Draco knew they were anxious, scared even. When he told them about their theories they understood the danger and gravity of the situation, and even then, they didn't hesitate to offer their help. And he felt responsible for all of them.

Granger checked her watch. “Train leaves in thirty. Grab what you need.”

“I need alcohol,” Draco muttered under his breath.

Potter clapped a hand on his shoulder as he passed. “You’ll be fine, Malfoy. Just think of it like Hogwarts. Same chaos. More fire.”

Draco didn’t answer. But as he grabbed his jacket and followed the others out the door, a quiet, unwelcome thought settled in the back of his mind:

He wasn’t sure if they were walking into a celebration… or a funeral.

~

The six-hour Muggle train ride to Edinburgh was a strange kind of magic.

To the Slytherins, it was a rollercoaster of cultural horror: no privacy charms, loud children, overpriced snacks, and an aggressively sticky floor in the loo. Theo asked questions about everything. Pansy disinfected her seat with a spell disguised as breath spray. Blaise stared at the snack trolley like it might demand a blood sacrifice.

At the far end of the compartment, Potter, Weasley, and Granger were deep in conversation, low voices just out of earshot. Draco watched them carefully, noting how often Hermione’s eyes flicked to the window—to the passing hills, to the gathering dusk.

She was on edge. Hiding it well, but not perfectly.

The train hissed into Waverley Station, steam clouding the platform like dragon breath. The city beyond glowed amber in the dying light, its Gothic spires cutting into a sky painted with fire.

As they stepped out, the chill hit them instantly—wind whipping between ancient stone buildings, carrying the scent of smoke and something older.

Magic, Draco thought. Real, wild magic. It hummed in his bones.

“Alright,” Potter said, adjusting his coat. “We stick together. Stay alert. It’s not just a festival tonight. If anything feels off—anything—we get to high ground and call for backup.”

Weasley cracked his knuckles. “Why do I feel like we’re walking into something?”

“Because we are,” Granger said.

Blaise turned to her. “So this it? You really believe something is going to happen today?”

“Yes.”

The Slytherins exchanged glances. The air around them shifted—jokes faded, smiles sharpened.

“We’re ready,” Pansy said, pulling out her wand beneath her coat. “Tell us what to look for.”

“This is a muggle festival, so if you get a sense of magic, that's when you give us the sign,” Potter said. “Something will happen tonight. Maybe right in front of us.”

And with that, they joined the stream of costumed Muggles heading up toward Calton Hill, toward the fires and the drums and the ancient stories being reborn.

The slope was lit by torchlight, dancing shadows leaping across stone as hundreds of Muggles climbed, laughing, chanting, dressed in feathers and furs and crowns of ivy. The scent of woodsmoke and burnt herbs choked the air. Drums echoed from the summit—low and ancient, like a heartbeat from a time before memory.

Theo paused halfway up, panting slightly. “This is what they call a party?” He squinted ahead. “Is that a bloke in a stag mask wearing only paint?”

“Yes,” Granger said, passing him without looking. “And no, it’s not a sex cult. It's... an ancient Celtic celebration that marks the beginning of summer. Beltane—'bright fire'—was one of the most important festivals for the pastoral Celtic peoples. They believed it was a time of purification and renewal, a way to welcome the summer months and ensure the fertility of their crops and livestock."

Theo, who had been trying to keep up with the conversation, looked around with wide eyes. "So, all these fires... they're for purification?"

"Yes," Granger confirmed. "In the past, they would light two bonfires and pass their cattle between them, believing it would purify the herd and ensure their fertility. It was a way to cleanse and renew the community after the long, dark winter months."

When they crested the hill, the full festival unfurled before them like a fever dream.

Bonfires raged at every edge. Dancers in red paint leapt between the flames, their bodies shimmering in the heat, glowing like embers. A circle of women dressed as woodland spirits spun and howled, weaving through the crowd. At the center stood a towering effigy of the Green Man, branches for limbs and eyes that glinted like coals.

The Slytherins stopped, stunned.

Blaise let out a long, low whistle. “And here I thought Muggles were boring.”

“No one who smears blood on their chest for fun is boring,” Pansy said, wide-eyed.

“It’s not blood,” Hermione said. “It’s symbolic. The Reds represent raw, primal energy—the fire that drives rebirth. It’s all part of the story.”

“The story?” Draco asked, sticking close to her side.

“The May Queen leads the transformation of the Green Man. She awakens summer. She changes him.”

Draco tilted his head, watching the procession begin: a woman robed in white stepping from the shadows, barefoot, her body glowing in the firelight.

"The procession follows the May Queen, who represents the goddess of the festival. The performance shows her transforming the Green Man—who starts as the cold, arrogant Winter King—into a mature, respectful, and well-balanced Green Man. Together, they go on to rule the summer months. It’s a symbolic transition from the harshness of winter to the warmth and growth of summer." Granger murmured.

“Sounds exhausting,” Draco muttered, but he didn’t take his eyes off her.

The group pressed forward, weaving between fire circles, musicians, and wide-eyed festivalgoers. Granger moved with intent—always scanning, always alert. Potter mirrored her, wand arm tight to his side beneath his coat.

Weasley trailed behind, eyes on the rooftops.

“See anything yet?” Weaselette asked under her breath.

“Not yet,” Granger replied. “But the veil’s thin".

A little ways off, Theo, Blaise, and Astoria had wandered into a fire circle.

Theo was spinning slowly, arms outstretched. “This is madness,” he said, delighted. “It’s like walking into a living Pensieve.”

“You feel that?” Astoria asked, breathless. “The drums? In your chest?”

Blaise nodded. “Something’s off. Beautiful—but wrong.”

“What do you mean?” Pansy joined them, frowning.

“It’s like… the magic here wants something,” Blaise murmured. “Like it’s hungry.”

Theo shivered. “Merlin. You’re not wrong.”

The May Queen kissed the Green Man.

The crowd erupted.

And then the surge came.

Like a pulse.

Everyone felt it.

Magic rippled through the earth like a tremor. A few Muggles staggered. A child cried. One dancer collapsed mid-spin.

Draco’s heart jumped. He spun, scanning. Nothing. But his skin was prickling.

“Diagnostics,” Granger snapped. The group split, pairs spreading into the crowd.

Theo whispered spells. Blaise probed the air. Pansy looked sick.

“Something wants in,” Blaise said under his breath.

“But nothing’s showing,” Weasley growled. “So where the hell is it?”

No answer came.

The bonfires were still burning.

The last of the costumed performers had vanished into the crowd. The air had cooled, the hum of celebration thinning into scattered laughter and muffled footsteps on the hill. But they remained.

Potter stood at the edge of the slope, staring out over the city with narrowed eyes, wand drawn and loose at his side. Weasley paced in a slow, tight arc. The Slytherins huddled near the stone obelisk—less performative now, their faux confidence buried under real tension.

Something was wrong. But it wasn’t here.

“Still nothing,” Theo muttered, glancing up from the brass dial he’d enchanted earlier. “Energy levels are low. Local leyline integrity’s stable.”

Granger nodded. “Maybe we missed it and the echo’s what we’re picking up.”

Potter turned back to them, eyes grim. “Whatever it is, it’s not here.”

The others murmured in agreement, reluctantly standing down. The tension didn’t leave. It only shifted—like holding a breath you weren’t sure you’d exhaled.

“We’ll check with Robards in the morning,” Potter said. “Let’s call it for tonight. Everyone back to London.”

~

Draco escorted Granger out of the Floo and into the living room of her flat resuming his duties as her personal fake Auror.

“Thanks, Malfoy, you really didn't have to come back here, you must be exhausted, you are a good friend."

Draco stiffened slightly at the word ‘friend’ but shook it off.

They hadn’t said much since returning.

The quiet between them wasn’t awkward. Just… full.

“You know, you’re surprisingly good at this. Taking care of people, I mean.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Draco muttered, trying to hide the slight flush that crept up his neck.

Crookshanks’ eyes drifted lazily to Draco, and before he knew it, the ginger creature jumped into Draco’s lap, kneading his legs with its paws before curling up and purring loudly.

“Looks like he really likes you,” Hermione said, her voice laced with surprise.

“Yeah, well... he’s not so bad,” Draco replied, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he absently stroked Crookshanks’ fur. 

Hermione watched him for a moment, then sat up slightly. “Draco, can I ask you something?”

“What is it?”

“What are you feeling right now?”

Draco froze, the question piercing through the calm he had just started to settle into. He hesitated, searching for the right words. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, sorry, it’s just that… well, I really don’t know you, the real you, but you seem happy right now, and it crossed my mind that I think I’ve never seen you happy before.”

Draco’s heart tightened at her observation. “Well, I’m not usually a happy person. When I heard that Potter could cast a Patronus, I tried to learn to cast mine, but I was never able to, and now, after the war, I’m pretty sure that’s a lost cause.”

Hermione’s brows furrowed, and she leaned forward, her interest piqued. “Maybe you didn’t have the right teacher. Would you like to try? I could help you.”

He glanced at her, his usual defensiveness flickering for a moment before curiosity got the better of him. “Alright... but don’t laugh if I can’t do it.”

She smiled warmly, getting up from the sofa and pulling out her wand. “I promise I won’t laugh.”

Draco shifted Crookshanks off his lap, the cat giving a displeased meow before settling on the armchair. He stood up, suddenly feeling a bit self-conscious as Hermione moved closer to him, her eyes focused and determined.

“Remember, you need to think of a happy memory,” she explained, her voice soft and encouraging. “Something really powerful. Something that makes you feel... light.”

Draco nodded, gripping his wand a bit tighter. He tried to summon a happy memory, but all he could think of were half-formed images of a childhood that wasn’t as bright as it should have been. He frowned, frustrated.

“Here,” Hermione said gently, stepping closer. “Try to focus on the feeling, not just the memory. What makes you feel safe or content?”

Draco looked at her, and for a fleeting moment, he wondered if the sense of peace he felt in her flat, with Crookshanks and the fire, could be enough. He raised his wand, his thoughts scattered, and tried to cast the spell.

“Expecto Patronum,” he said, but all that emerged was a faint wisp of silver, barely a shadow of a Patronus.

Hermione’s hand found its way to his arm, her touch light but grounding. “You’re close,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Try again.”

He closed his eyes, trying to focus. This time, instead of searching for a specific memory, he let himself feel the warmth of the room, the trust he was beginning to build with the people around him, the support and guidance he was finding in Lucas, and the strange but undeniable connection he felt with the witch standing beside him.

“Expecto Patronum,” he said again, more firmly this time.

A stronger wisp of silver emerged, but still no form. Draco sighed in frustration, lowering his wand.

“It’s alright,” Hermione said, positioning herself behind him and then holding him, taking his arm from behind and guiding the movement of the spell. “One more time, I’ll help you by moving your arm while you concentrate on the feeling.”

Draco could feel the heat of her body pressed against his back, her breath warm against his ear as she whispered, “Focus, Draco.”

“Expecto Patronum,” he murmured, trying to steady the sudden rush of emotions. He focused on the feeling of Hermione’s presence behind him, the warmth of her hand on his arm, and the quiet strength in her eyes. A wisp of silver, a shape beginning to form, fluttered into existence.

And then, a stag appeared.

“What the—” Draco began, but before he could fully process what was happening, the stag turned its head towards him, and Potter’s voice echoed from within the silvery form.

“Malfoy! Something’s happened in Scotland, in Inverness. We suspect it’s our guy. I don’t know much yet, but Robards is asking for your help. It’s apparently a war zone. We’re not telling Hermione—we don’t want to put her in danger. Meet me at my place in five minutes so we can prepare and leave.”

As quickly as the stag had materialised and delivered its message, it vanished, leaving Draco and Hermione frozen in surprise.

“Fuck,” Draco muttered, his mind racing.

Before Granger could respond, Draco turned to her, his expression suddenly serious. “Hermione, listen—”

A loud crack echoed through the room as another figure Apparated into the flat, cutting Draco off mid-sentence. He spun around, wand raised, his heart pounding in his chest.

Standing there, eyes blazing with urgency, was the weaselette

“Malfoy? What are you doing here?... Nevermind, you have to go with Harry, now, I’ll stay with Hermione,” she demanded, her voice leaving no room for argument.

Draco glanced back at Hermione, her eyes wide with confusion, concern and anger. His mind was torn between staying and going, but the goal was to keep her safe. The room felt suffocating, the walls closing in.

“You are not going without me!” Hermione’s voice was strong and demanding.

Draco’s grip tightened on his wand as he met Ginny’s gaze, then turned back to Hermione, his heart clenching with the weight of unspoken words.

“I’m sorry, but you have to stay” he whispered, and with a final, regretful glance, he Disapparated, leaving Hermione alone in the dim light of her flat, emotions hanging heavy in the air.

Chapter Text

"The truth is rarely pure and never simple."
— Oscar Wilde

Draco

Draco apparated directly into Potter’s living room, the sharp crack of his arrival somehow echoing in the cramped space. He quickly took in the scene: Potter was hastily pulling on his Auror robes, his face set in a grim expression, while Weasley was already fastening his Auror badge to his chest, his usual carefree demeanour replaced with a look of steely determination.

"What’s the situation?" Draco asked, his voice steady despite the knot of tension forming in his stomach.

Potter turned to him, eyes dark with concern. "It’s bad, Malfoy. Robards just informed me—an army of Inferi appeared out of nowhere, through some kind of portal, right in the middle of Inverness. They’ve wreaked havoc across the city, killing Muggles, destroying everything in their path."

Draco’s heart skipped a beat. "An army? That means—"

"It’s connected," Weasley interjected, his voice tight with anger. "We believe the person behind the Inferi is the same one who’s been disappearing Muggles and Muggleborns. The Inferi... they’re the proof of what happened to those people."

Draco felt a cold chill run down his spine. "You’re saying those Inferi were—"

Potter nodded grimly. "Yes. They were once the missing Muggles and Muggleborns. We’ve finally got evidence of what’s been happening to them. The magic involved here... it’s ancient, dark, and whoever’s behind it knows exactly what they’re doing."

Weasley clenched his fists, his knuckles white. "This is beyond anything we’ve seen in years, Malfoy. We’re dealing with someone who’s not just powerful but also twisted enough to use innocent lives to create an army of Inferi. He might be even worse than Voldemort."

Draco’s mind raced as he processed the information. "Do we have any leads on where the portal originated? Anything that could point us in the right direction?"

Potter shook his head, frustration evident in his voice. "Not yet. We’ll have to get there to collect as much evidence as we can. First, we need to manage the fallout and contain the damage."

Weasley glanced at Draco, his eyes narrowed slightly. "What about you, Malfoy? Do you have any theories? Anything that might give us a lead?"

Draco shook his head. "No, nothing. Not more than what Granger and I have already told you."

Potter nodded, a flicker of something unreadable passing across his face. "Whoever did this isn’t going to stop with Inverness. We have to be ready for anything."

Draco looked between Potter and Weasley, the gravity of the situation pressing down on him. This wasn’t just another isolated case—this was a direct attack, something darker and more calculated than anything they’d encountered before. The thought of an Inferi army being unleashed on a Muggle city, knowing that those Inferi were once living, breathing people, filled him with a dread that gnawed at the edges of his resolve.

"We need to move now," Potter continued, his voice firm. "Robards has mobilised every available Auror. We’re heading to Inverness now. The immediate threat is gone, but we have to assess the situation, gather evidence, and figure out what we’re up against. Malfoy, you’re expected to retrieve any information you can on dark artefacts while we handle damage control."

Draco nodded, his mind already shifting into gear. He knew why he was chosen for this—his background, his knowledge of the dark arts, and his connections in the underworld. "Understood."

As they prepared to apparate, the tension in the room was palpable. Draco could feel the weight of what was to come pressing down on him, but he pushed it aside, focusing on the task at hand.

Potter caught his eye just before they left. "And Malfoy—thanks for coming."

Draco gave a curt nod, the words unspoken but understood. They might not have been friends, but that was changing. Maybe, this time, they could be allies.

With a final glance at each other, the three of them disapparated, vanishing from the living room in a blur of motion, leaving only a faint crack in their wake as they sped towards the chaos in Inverness.

~

Draco, Potter, and Weasley apparated into the heart of Inverness, the moment they landed, the stench of blood and smoke assaulted their senses. The city, usually a peaceful haven, now lay in ruins. The once-bustling streets were eerily silent, the usual sounds of everyday life replaced by the crackling of fires and the soft moans of the dying.

The first thing Draco noticed was the blood—everywhere. The cobblestones were slick with it, dark pools reflecting the flickering flames of nearby fires. Bodies were strewn across the ground, some torn apart, others with expressions of terror frozen on their faces. The Inferi had not just killed—they had mutilated and ravaged the people they had once been. Draco's stomach churned at the sight of a young woman, her limbs twisted at unnatural angles, her lifeless eyes staring up at the sky. It was a vision of horror that made even the darkest moments of the war seem distant.

A low moan drew his attention to a nearby alley, where an Auror was attempting to drag a wounded Muggle out of harm's way. The Muggle’s chest was a gaping wound, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. The Auror, pale and sweating, looked up as the trio arrived, his eyes wide with fear. "Help! We need to get him out of here!"

Potter rushed forward without hesitation, his wand already out. He cast a series of spells, stabilising the man as best he could, but the grim look on his face said everything—there wasn’t much hope.

Draco’s attention was pulled to the main street, where the full scale of the carnage was laid bare. Buildings had been reduced to rubble, the once-familiar storefronts now nothing but shattered glass and twisted metal. Fires raged unchecked, sending plumes of thick, acrid smoke into the air, casting everything in a hellish glow.

The bodies—there were so many bodies. Some lay in the streets, their blood pooling and mixing with the soot and ash that had settled over the city like a macabre shroud. Others were piled in gruesome heaps as if the Inferi had corralled them together before descending upon them. Draco had seen death before, but this... this was different. This was an abattoir.

Aurors dotted the landscape, their faces pale, their hands shaking as they tried to maintain some semblance of order. They were attempting to guide the few surviving Muggles to safety, their voices hoarse from shouting instructions. But it was clear they were overwhelmed—this wasn’t just a breach of the Statute of Secrecy; this was a massacre.

One Auror was on his knees, retching into the gutter, his wand clutched in a white-knuckled grip. Another was trying to conjure healing spells towards a group of terrified and slightly hurt Muggles, but the spell kept faltering, the spell shimmering weakly before fading out of existence.

Weasley swore under his breath, his face a mask of anger and disbelief. "Merlin... this is worse than we thought."

Potter’s eyes were hard as he took in the devastation. "We need to find out how this happened, how he opened that portal." He turned to Draco, his expression grim. "We need to find anything that might give us a clue, anything dark that could have been used to control the Inferi."

Draco nodded, swallowing down the bile that threatened to rise. He forced himself to move, to step over the bodies and the blood, to search the area with a clinical detachment he didn’t truly feel. His boots squelched in the blood-soaked ground as he made his way through the rubble.

As he passed by what used to be a café, he noticed a child’s doll lying discarded in the street, its once-bright dress now stained dark with blood. The sight made something inside him twist painfully. He looked away, focusing instead on the task at hand.

He and Weasley began searching through the wreckage, their wands casting a faint light as they probed for anything out of the ordinary. The air was thick with the scent of burning flesh and the coppery tang of blood, making it hard to breathe. Every now and then, Draco would catch sight of movement—an Auror trying to console a screaming Muggle, a body twitching as the last remnants of life drained away.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, Draco spotted something—an unnatural shimmer in the air, almost like a tear in the fabric of reality. He moved closer, his wand held at the ready, and as he did, the shimmer grew stronger, pulsing with dark energy that made his skin crawl.

"Potter! Weasley! Over here!" Draco called out, his voice hoarse.

They rushed to his side, and together they examined the disturbance. The air around the shimmer was cold, unnaturally so, and as they got closer, Draco felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

"This must be where the portal was," Potter said, his voice low. "But it’s unstable now, fading."

Draco nodded, already probing the area with a series of detection spells. "Whatever opened this portal left a residue that we could try to track, at least we can study it.”

Potter’s face was set in grim determination. "We need to trace this back to its source. If we don’t stop whoever’s behind this, more cities could fall—more people could die."

Draco glanced at the devastation around them, at the broken bodies and the haunted faces of the survivors. The enormity of the situation settled over him like a suffocating weight, but he pushed it aside. They didn’t have time to dwell on the horror—there was work to be done.

As the three of them continued to investigate the remnants of the portal, the distant screams of the survivors echoed through the city, a chilling reminder of the lives that had been lost and the darkness that had been unleashed.

Robards appeared moments later, his face as pale as a ghost, and he looked as though he might be sick. "Potter," he began, his voice strained, "I’ve just come back from speaking with the Minister. We have a plan. First, we need to heal as many Muggles as we can. A team of medics from St. Mungo's is on their way; they’ll be here any minute. They’ll determine which Muggles need to be transported to the hospital and treat those who can be healed on-site."

He paused, taking a deep breath as he continued, "We’ll also be casting Obliviating spells with the Obliviator Headquarters to erase the memories of the Muggles involved and any others who may have witnessed the event. We must maintain the Statute of Secrecy at all costs. In the meantime, the Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee is working on a cover story. I overheard something about a massive car crash, involving multiple vehicles and explosions. We’ll do our best to leave the city looking as undamaged as possible."

As Robards finished outlining the plan, an uneasy silence settled over the group. Potter, Weasley, and Draco exchanged glances, each of them clearly uncomfortable with what they were hearing. The weight of the situation hung heavily in the air, and it was obvious that none of them were particularly keen on the Ministry's approach.

Robards, noticing their hesitation, pressed on. "The priority is clear: maintain the Statute of Secrecy at all costs. We can’t afford to let the Muggles know what’s really happening. The Obliviators will erase their memories, and the Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee will handle the rest. The focus needs to be on damage control, not on stirring up panic."

Potter’s jaw tightened, his fists clenching at his sides. "So we're just supposed to wipe their memories and pretend this never happened? What about the families of the people who are now Inferi? What about those who lost their lives? People deserve to know the truth."

Weasley nodded in agreement, his voice filled with frustration. "How can we expect to protect people if we’re hiding the truth from them? If they don’t know what they’re up against, how can they defend themselves? We’re putting more lives in danger by keeping them in the dark."

Draco found himself torn. The memories of the war and the lies that had been told to protect the pure-blood ideology flashed through his mind. He couldn’t deny that the Statute of Secrecy was vital, but at what cost? "There has to be a better way," he said, his voice measured but firm. "Obliviating them and covering it up won’t stop this from happening again. We need to confront the problem, not sweep it under the rug."

Robards’ expression hardened, and he squared his shoulders. "The Ministry’s decision is final. The Statute of Secrecy is the cornerstone of our world. If it crumbles, we all fall with it. Muggle lives are important, but if the Statute is breached, it could lead to a catastrophe far greater than what happened tonight."

Potter’s eyes flashed with anger, but he held his tongue. Draco could see the conflict in his gaze—the same conflict he felt within himself. Weasley, however, couldn’t contain his frustration. "So that’s it, then? We just follow orders and let this happen again? Because it will happen again if we don’t do anything about it."

Robards’ gaze softened slightly, but his tone remained resolute. "You three are already doing something about it, and that’s why I need you to trust me on this. We’ll keep investigating, we’ll find whoever is behind this, but for now, we must protect our world the way we’ve always done. The Muggles can’t know the truth."

Draco looked at Potter, who was staring hard at the floor, clearly struggling with the decision. For all their differences, Draco felt an unexpected kinship with him at that moment. They both knew what it meant to be trapped between duty and morality, to be forced to make impossible choices.

Potter finally looked up, his eyes meeting Draco’s. "We’ll follow orders, Robards, but know this—if I find out that we’re putting more people in danger by keeping them in the dark, I won’t stand by and let it happen."

Weasley nodded in agreement, his defiance clear. "Yeah, and neither will I."

Draco, feeling the weight of their stares, nodded as well. "We’ll do what’s necessary, but don’t mistake our cooperation for complacency. We’ll protect the Statute, but we won’t turn a blind eye to what’s happening."

“What will be published in the Prophet?” asked Potter, his tone laced with suspicion.

“For the moment, nothing. We don’t want to create any more panic than necessary. We’re just trying to heal from a war; the community doesn’t need to be terrified again so soon.”

“Are you serious?” Weasley asked, gobsmacked.

Robards’ jaw clenched, but he gave a curt nod. "How much difference does it make? I understand your concerns, but this is the way it has to be for now.  We’ll keep investigating, and we’ll stop whoever’s behind this. Just remember, the Statute of Secrecy is what keeps our world safe, and chaos is not something we need right now. Trust the Minister."

With that, Robards turned and moved towards the other Aurors, leaving the trio standing together in tense silence.

Potter was the first to break the silence, his voice low but resolute. "We have to work together on this, all of us. We can’t let the Ministry’s decisions blind us to what’s really important—protecting lives, Muggle and wizard alike."

Weasley nodded, his expression grim. "Agreed. We might not have all the answers now, but we’ll find them. And when we do, we’ll make sure this doesn’t happen again."

Draco looked between the two of them, feeling a strange sense of solidarity. For the first time, he realised they were no longer just former enemies forced into an uneasy alliance—they were partners in this fight. "Whatever it takes," Draco said, his voice firm. "We’ll find who did this and make sure they pay."

As they steeled themselves for the daunting task ahead, Draco suddenly felt a cold wave of realisation wash over him. His mind flashed to Lucas, his Muggle-born Mind Healer, and Tilly, Lucas's Muggle wife. The Ministry’s plan to hide the information of what was happening suddenly took on a deeply personal and horrifying significance.

“Wait,” Draco said, his voice sharper than intended, causing Potter and Weasley to turn towards him. “Lucas, my Mind Healer. He won’t know anything about what happened, and if the Ministry’s plan goes through, he’ll be at risk. He’s a Muggle-born, and his wife is a Muggle. They could be targets, and they wouldn’t even know it. I owe him, at least informing him about what’s happening.”

Potter’s eyes narrowed in concern. “You’re right. If the Ministry goes through with this, people won’t have any warning. Lucas won’t be able to protect himself or his wife.”

Weasley’s face darkened as he considered the implications. “And this dark wizard is targeting Muggles and Muggle-borns… they could be in serious danger.”

Draco nodded, feeling the weight of the situation pressing down on him even more heavily. “I need to protect them. Lucas has been helping me, and I can’t just let the Ministry’s decisions put him and his wife in harm’s way. We have to warn him.”

Potter’s jaw clenched as he made a quick decision. “We’ll figure something out. We can’t let the Ministry’s obsession with secrecy endanger the people who need protection the most. If it means going against orders, then so be it.”

Weasley, ever the strategist, nodded in agreement. “Maybe you can go and talk to him, tell him what is happening and what he has to pay attention to, signs that they could be in danger from what we know so far about this person. But we’ll have to be careful—the Ministry won’t take kindly to us interfering.”

Draco felt a surge of gratitude and determination as he looked at the two of them. “Thank you,” he said, his voice firm. “I have to do what’s right, not just what’s convenient. I will make my way through one more day in hell for him”.

Potter met his gaze, his expression resolute. “We’re in this together, Malfoy. We’ll make sure Lucas and his wife are safe, and we’ll keep fighting until we stop whoever’s behind this. I’ll go with you after this to warn him.”

“Thank you, Potter.”

With their course set, the trio turned their focus back to the wreckage of Inverness. The devastation around them was a stark reminder of what was at stake, but their resolve was stronger than ever. They would protect their world, but they wouldn’t allow the Ministry’s fear to dictate their actions. They would fight for the truth, for justice, and for the lives that hung in the balance.

As they moved forward, the screams of the survivors and the flickering flames of the ruined city became the backdrop to their mission. They were united by a common cause, and they knew that whatever darkness awaited them, they would face it together. But in the back of Draco’s mind, the image of Lucas and his wife lingered, a constant reminder of the personal stakes in this war—a war that was far from over.

~

Lucas

Lucas settled into his chair, the familiar scent of polished wood and the faint trace of incense and tea lingering in the air. It was a quiet day, and for that, he was thankful. He had a few moments to himself before his next patient arrived. He had just opened The Two Towers to indulge a wee bit in his favourite characters when the Floo to his office flared green, causing him to jump slightly in his seat.

The sudden wave of anxiety and urgency that washed over him hit before he even saw who it was. Stepping out of the Floo, looking dishevelled and tense, was Draco. Following closely behind was someone Lucas never expected to see in his office—Harry Potter.

“Draco?” Lucas stood up, his voice tinged with concern, as he was hit with a wave of Draco’s fear and protectiveness, mingling with Potter’s own steely determination. The emotions swirling around them were almost overwhelming. “What’s going on? You don’t have an appointment today.”

Draco stepped into the room, noticeably shaken. The turbulent mix of fear and urgency radiating from him was almost tangible. He ran a hand through his hair, which was messier than Lucas had ever seen it, then turned to Potter, who gave him a nod of encouragement. The surge of support and resolve from Potter was clear, but beneath it, Lucas could sense a current of anger and frustration, as if Potter was barely holding it back.

“I’m sorry for dropping by like this, Lucas,” Draco began, his voice lower and weaker than Lucas was used to hearing. His voice was laced with an almost desperate need to protect, something Lucas had only felt from Draco before when he spoke about Hermione Granger or his mother. “But… something’s happened, and I needed to see you. I needed to warn you.”

Lucas’s heart skipped a beat as the cold dread that had been bubbling in Draco’s emotions began to seep into him. “Warn me? About what?”

Draco took a deep breath, his emotions a swirling maelstrom of fear, concern, and an undercurrent of guilt. He met Lucas’s eyes with an intensity that conveyed just how serious this was. “There’s been an attack… something dark. Muggles and Muggle-borns are being targeted. The details are still unfolding, but it’s bad, Lucas. Really bad.”

Lucas blinked, trying to process the information while also being bombarded by the waves of anxiety rolling off Draco. “Muggles and Muggle-borns? But why? Who would do this? The war is over and most Death Eaters are already…”

“We don’t know yet,” Potter interjected, his tone calm but grim, his determination like a solid wall Lucas could sense. “But it’s someone who knows dark and ancient magic. The attack was in Inverness, and it was… devastating.”

As Potter spoke, Lucas noticed the way Draco kept glancing at him, searching for reassurance. There was a subtle tension in the air between them—a shared understanding that went beyond words. Potter’s jaw tightened as if holding back deeper emotions, while Draco’s hand twitched at his side, a clear sign of his nervous energy. Lucas could sense the undercurrents of anger in Potter—directed not at Draco but at the situation, the injustice of it all. This wasn’t just a professional visit; it was personal for both of them.

Draco continued, his voice trembling slightly, the fear in him rising to the surface, something Lucas had only once felt so acutely from him before—during a panic attack. “I know this might sound… paranoid, but I couldn’t just sit by and do nothing. You’re my soul healer, Lucas. You’ve helped me more than I can put into words. And Tilly… she’s a Muggle. I’m worried that you two could be targets, or at the very least, at risk.”

The protectiveness and fear Lucas felt from Draco struck him deeply. He had always been aware of the dangers that came with being a Muggle-born in the wizarding world, especially during the last war. They had survived, managing to live a somewhat normal life without drawing attention to themselves. But hearing Draco express such genuine concern—feeling the fear and urgency in his emotions—was worrisome and… somehow, also touching. Lucas felt truly appreciated by Draco, and his heart warmed at this.

“Draco, I appreciate you coming to me,” Lucas said softly, stepping closer to his patient-turned-friend, his ability allowing him to feel the sincerity in Draco’s worry. “But… are you sure? The Ministry… they haven’t said anything, there’s nothing in the papers…”

Potter sighed, his frustration clear as a sharp spike of emotion. “The Ministry is keeping it quiet for now, trying to avoid panic. But Draco’s right. It’s better to be cautious. You should be on guard, maybe even lay low for a while.”

Lucas felt a pang of uncertainty, a reflection of the concern and doubt he sensed from both men. But also, he recalled all the times the Prophet and the Ministry had downplayed or manipulated information during the war. Sometimes the sense of dread had been false alarms, but other times, real danger had been treated as if it were nothing. He remembered that what helped him keep sane was trying to take the information as calmly as he could and bringing that same calmness to Tilly. She was always scared, but if she could sense his fear, it was ten thousand times worse.

Tilly… Lucas’s thoughts drifted to his wife, the woman who had brought light into his life even during the darkest days. She had a way of coping with stress that wasn’t always healthy—retreating into herself, shutting down emotionally. He had seen it during the war when the fear of what might happen to them had been overwhelming. She had tried to stay strong, but Lucas had felt the cracks in her façade, the way she would wake up in the middle of the night, trembling and unable to speak.

He remembered the nights they had spent curled up on the sofa, her head on his chest as he stroked her hair, whispering reassurances he wasn’t sure he believed himself. The fear had nearly consumed her then, and Lucas had learned to hide his own anxieties to protect her. If he came home today, filled with dread and worry, what would that do to her? Would she retreat again, fall into that same pattern of fear that had taken months to overcome?

He glanced at Draco, feeling the raw edge of his worry and fear. This wasn’t just about a patient showing concern—this was personal. Draco genuinely cared about his safety.

“I’ll be careful,” Lucas promised, though his mind was racing, trying to process not just the words, but the flood of emotions surrounding him. He knew he couldn’t ignore what Draco and Potter were saying, but how could he bring this home to Tilly without causing her to spiral?

Draco nodded, though Lucas could feel the worry still etched into his emotions, even if he tried to hide it. “Just… keep your eyes open, alright? And if anything feels off, anything at all, you contact me or Potter. We’ll help.”

Potter, standing by Draco’s side, offered a reassuring smile, though Lucas could feel the undercurrent of concern still present in him. “We’ll make sure you’re safe, Lucas. You’re important to Draco, and that makes you important to us.”

Lucas swallowed, feeling a surge of surprise at Harry’s statement, but also gratitude and determination that mingled with the emotions pouring off Draco and Potter. He’d never expected to find himself in this position—being protected by the likes of Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter, as a team. It was surreal, and he felt proud of Draco for taking this step.

“Thank you,” Lucas said, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ll be careful. And I appreciate you both coming here… it means a lot.”

Draco gave a tight smile, the fear still there, but masked slightly by the walls he usually kept up. Yet, Lucas could sense the relief and gratitude beneath the surface. “You’ve done a lot for me, Lucas. This is the least I can do.”

After a few more words of caution and reassurance, Draco and Potter left the office, leaving Lucas standing alone in the quiet room, the weight of their visit settling heavily in his mind. He walked over to his desk, sitting down and staring blankly at the papers scattered across it. The room felt different now, the peace he usually found here tinged with an undercurrent of fear that he couldn’t quite shake off.

Lucas glanced at the clock on the wall, realising that his next patient wouldn’t arrive for another half hour. He needed to clear his head, to understand what had just happened. Reaching for the Daily Prophet , he scanned the front page, then flipped through the other sections, looking for any mention of the attack Draco and Potter had described. There was nothing. No mention of Inverness, no warnings about dark magic or attacks on Muggles. The newspaper was filled with the usual stories—Quidditch results, debates in the Wizengamot, a profile on a new shop in Diagon Alley.

He went to his computer and searched on the internet for some indication of the gravity of the situation, something Muggles couldn’t explain or that could show signs of something else happening, but again he found nothing, which he did find strange.

Maybe Draco and Harry are exaggerating a wee bit? I t could be understandable; they are just out of a war that had put both of them right in the middle. It wouldn’t be extraordinary if they were somehow taking out of proportion whatever happened in Inverness, because there’s nothing.

But then again, Lucas couldn’t ignore the emotions he had felt—those were real, unfiltered, and deeply concerning. If the Ministry was indeed keeping this under wraps, how was he supposed to protect himself and Tilly? How could he prepare for a threat that was being hidden from the public, even by Muggle means? It didn’t make much sense. Why would the Ministry go to such lengths to hide something so serious? Would this situation be that indifferent to the Ministry?

He thought about Tilly, her bright smile, her infectious laugh. She had no idea that anything was wrong, and Lucas wasn’t sure if he should burden her with this, not when the only evidence he had was Draco’s concern and Potter’s testimony, bolstered by the palpable emotions of fear and protectiveness he had sensed from them. He couldn’t shake the memory of those dark days when Tilly had nearly been consumed by fear, her spirit dampened by the constant threat of danger. They had worked so hard to build a life of normalcy, to move past the terror of the war.

Could he risk shattering that peace with a warning that might not even be necessary?

He was deep in his thoughts when the Floo flared green again, his patient had arrived. He decided to put all his thoughts, fears, and questions on hold until he got home, for right now, he had to work and be present for his patients.

But in the back of his mind, the concern lingered, an ever-present shadow that refused to be dismissed.

~

Lucas arrived home earlier than anticipated. His last patient had called to cancel, and he found himself with an unexpected free hour. Normally, he would have welcomed the extra time to relax or prepare for the next day, but today, the uneasy feeling that had settled in his chest after Draco and Harry’s visit left him wanting nothing more than to be near Tilly.

The wind was picking up as he reached the front door of their small, cosy cottage. The sky was turning a stormy grey, the clouds heavy with impending rain. His hand lingered on the doorknob for a moment, the weight of Draco’s words pressing in on him again. Muggles and Muggle-borns being targeted. A dark, ancient magic.

He pushed the door open and stepped inside, immediately greeted by the warmth of their home. The faint smell of the tea Tilly had probably brewed earlier mingled with the fragrance of the candles she usually lit in the evenings. Despite the comfort of being back, Lucas couldn’t shake the gnawing sense of dread that clung to him, the feeling that something terrible was looming on the horizon.

"Tilly?" he called out, closing the door behind him.

"In the kitchen!" her cheerful voice came back, instantly soothing the edges of his frayed nerves.

Lucas walked down the hallway and into the kitchen to find Tilly bustling around, putting away groceries. She looked up when he entered, her bright smile lighting up the room like the sun itself.

“You’re home early!” she said, moving over to give him a quick kiss. “How was your day?”

“It was… unusual,” Lucas said, trying to sound casual as he returned her smile, though the tension in his body was hard to hide. He could feel Tilly’s calm presence washing over him, grounding him. “Had a cancellation, so I thought I’d come home and surprise you.”

Her eyes sparkled with amusement. “I like surprises. Want some tea? I’ve just brewed a fresh pot.”

"Sure," Lucas replied, watching her for a moment. He wanted to tell her everything. He wanted to warn her, to let her know what was happening outside their little sanctuary. But as he studied her—her easy smile, the way she moved with such lightness—he hesitated.

His mind flashed back to a memory from the war. He remembered the night they spent in hiding, thinking the Death Eaters had found them. Tilly had been so terrified she couldn’t sleep, and he’d held her in his arms all night, feeling her tremble against him. In the end, it turned out to be a false alarm, but Tilly couldn’t eat for a week. She had tried to stay strong, but the stress had worn her down, leading to dehydration. After he had to take her to the hospital, they promised each other they’d make it through, that they’d build a life where they wouldn’t have to live in fear. And for a while, they had. But now…

There was nothing in the news. Nothing anywhere. Could Draco and Harry have been wrong? Or was it simply that the Ministry was keeping everything under wraps so well that not even the public had a clue?

He couldn't be sure. But the last thing he wanted was to burden Tilly with fear if there was no immediate threat. He knew how deeply she was affected by stress, how easily it could spiral into something more. He could feel the weight of his indecision settling heavily on his shoulders.

"Is everything alright?" she asked, her eyes narrowing slightly as she handed him a cup of tea. Lucas knew she was picking up on his unease. She always could tell when something was bothering him.

He forced a smile, taking the cup from her and nodding. "Yeah, just a long day. Some unexpected things came up, but I’m fine now that I’m home."

Tilly didn’t seem entirely convinced, her eyes lingering on him for a moment longer, as if searching for something he wasn’t saying. But she let it go, her attention shifting to setting the table for dinner. Lucas took a slow sip of the tea, feeling the warmth spread through his body but doing little to ease the anxiety that had taken root.

As they sat down to eat, Lucas couldn’t stop his mind from wandering back to Draco’s words. They’re being targeted. The weight of those words pressed down on him, the scared energy from Draco still lingering in his thoughts, his urgency. And Potter’s unwavering determination, like a shield, trying to protect everyone he could.

He wanted to tell Tilly. He should tell her. But every time he opened his mouth to speak, something stopped him. Maybe it was a strategy, the Ministry keeping things quiet. Maybe it was his own fear of dragging her into something dark. Or maybe, just maybe, he wanted to protect her from the same fear that had been gnawing at him all day.

The storm outside began to rumble, the wind howling slightly against the windows, as if the weather itself reflected his internal turmoil.

“You’re really not okay, are you?” Tilly said suddenly, breaking the silence between them. Her tone was soft, but her gaze was piercing. She could see right through him, as she always did.

Lucas sighed, setting down his fork and rubbing a hand over his face. He felt her emotions now—concern, love, but also patience. She wasn’t pushing him, just waiting for him to be ready.

“I had a difficult session with a patient, and I’m a bit off,” he lied.

Tilly watched him with narrowed eyes until she found something in his expression. She softened her gaze and smiled.

“You always worry too much, love,” she said, reaching out to take his hand. Her touch was warm and comforting, but it only made Lucas’s chest tighten with the weight of his secret.

As the storm outside continued to rage, they finished dinner and sat down to watch a film. Lucas held onto her hand a little tighter, the unease still swirling inside him, but the warmth of her presence gave him the strength to face whatever was coming.

In the end, Lucas decided not to tell her—at least not yet. He would be vigilant, keep an eye out for anything unusual, and would put new wards on their home as soon as she went to sleep, but he wouldn’t scare her unnecessarily. She deserved to enjoy her days, to live without the shadow of fear hanging over her again.

Later that evening, when Tilly had finally gone to bed, Lucas watched as she lay silent, for soon night would be gone. Quietly, he slipped out of their bedroom and walked through the house, reinforcing the wards around their home. His movements were slow and deliberate, each flick of his wand charged with the anxiety he was trying to manage. He imagined the wards as a barrier between their peaceful life and the encroaching darkness that seemed to be gathering just out of sight.

When he finished, Lucas stood in the middle of their living room, the silence pressing in around him. He glanced at the photo on the mantel—a picture of him and Tilly on their wedding day, laughing and carefree, the world at their feet. He remembered the vows they had exchanged, the promises to protect each other, to stand together no matter what. It was a reminder of what was truly at stake if they allowed fear to take hold of their lives again.

He would keep an eye on things. But as he looked into her eyes the next morning, he silently vowed that if anything felt even slightly off, he would tell her everything. Because no matter what happened, they would face it together.

And deep down, Lucas knew that this was only the beginning.

Chapter Text

"Individually, we are one drop. Together, we are an ocean."

– Ryunosuke Satoro

Draco

Draco and the Golden Trio had arranged to meet at Potter’s place on the second of May, just hours after he and Potter had gone to warn Lucas. Draco still felt a gnawing sense of dread, but there was some relief in knowing they’d at least managed to warn him about the attack and the targets. For once, it felt like he was doing something to protect the people he cared about.

The front door of Potter’s house swung open before Draco could even knock, and Hermione stood there, her expression serious and slightly miffed, though it softened when she saw him. “Draco,” she greeted, stepping aside to let him in. “You’re early.”

Draco nodded, stepping into the warm hallway, the scent of tea and parchment filling his senses. “Didn’t fancy waiting around.”

As he followed Hermione into the living room, he could hear the low murmur of conversation coming from within. Potter and Weasley were seated on the sofa, a map of Britain spread out on the coffee table in front of them, dotted with small, glowing markers. Draco couldn’t help but feel like an intruder in the already established “goody-two-shoes team” that was the Golden Trio.

“Malfoy,” Potter acknowledged, looking up as they entered. There was a flicker of something in his eyes—understanding, maybe? Draco wasn’t sure, but he nodded back.

Weasley, who was sipping from a mug, gave Draco a brief nod before turning his attention back to the map. “We’ve been trying to figure out the best way to track whoever’s behind these attacks,” he explained, tapping one of the glowing spots with his finger. “So far, they’ve been unpredictable. There’s no clear pattern to the abductions, and now Inverness… well, at least now we know what happened to all those people.”

Draco moved closer to the table, his eyes scanning the map. The glowing markers pulsed ominously, each one a reminder of the lives already taken. “Anything useful?”

Potter sighed, running a hand through his messy hair, which looked more disheveled than usual. “Not much. The only consistent thing is the target—Muggles and Muggle-borns. We’re dealing with someone who knows how to cover their tracks. The attack in Inverness caught us all off guard. I never imagined something as brutal as an Inferi army… and the devastation they left behind…”

Hermione, who had been watching them quietly, took a seat beside Weasley and gestured for Draco to join them. She seemed more withdrawn than usual, her fingers drumming lightly on the armrest, a clear sign of her internal conflict. “We’ve been cross-referencing the types of dark artefacts we’ve theorised about before, along with spells and magic that could be used to control Inferi. It’s a long shot, but we might find a lead.”

As they continued to pore over the map, Hermione cleared her throat, drawing their attention. She had been unusually quiet since Draco arrived. Now, she sat up straighter, her expression determined, though there was a flicker of hurt in her eyes. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap, knuckles white.

“Before we go any further,” Hermione began, her voice steady but tinged with frustration, “I want to know why I wasn’t involved yesterday.”

Draco exchanged a glance with Potter and Weasley, both of whom looked slightly uncomfortable. Potter shifted in his seat, knowing this conversation was inevitable. He hesitated, his gaze dropping to the floor before he finally spoke. “Hermione, we didn’t involve you because we wanted to keep you safe,” Potter began, his tone gentle, but there was a note of guilt in his voice.

Hermione’s eyes flashed with indignation, and she leaned forward, her voice rising. “Keep me safe? Harry, we’ve been through hell and back together! Since when do you decide to keep me out of things for my safety? I thought we were a team. I thought I made myself clear before.”

Weasley, sensing the rising tension, leaned forward, placing his mug down with a soft clink. “Hermione, it’s not that we don’t trust you, or that we don’t need you,” he said, his tone soothing but firm. “We just… didn’t want to drag you into something dangerous without more information. You’ve been through so much already.” His eyes held a hint of something else—perhaps a lingering worry that they might lose her if they weren’t careful.

Draco nodded in agreement, though he felt a pang of guilt. “It wasn’t about leaving you out, Granger. It was about making sure we weren’t putting you in harm’s way before we knew what we were dealing with, but I do apologise. I can see how our intention to look after you could be seen as sidelining you.”

Hermione’s shoulders slumped slightly, the fire in her eyes dimming as she absorbed their words. She took a deep breath, the hurt in her expression softening into something more resolute. “I understand why you did it, I really do, and I appreciate you wanting to protect me,” she said quietly, her voice thick with emotion. “But you have to understand that keeping me in the dark isn’t the way to do it. I can help, and I want to help. We’ve always faced these things together, and I don’t want that to change now.”

Potter reached out and took her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “You’re right, Hermione. We should have included you. We need you with us in this, just like always.”

Hermione gave them a small, grateful smile, though her eyes still shimmered with the remnants of her earlier frustration. “Good. Because I think we need every bit of strength we can muster to deal with this.”

The tension in the room eased, and they turned their attention back to the map, their unity restored. Potter traced a line across the map, marking the known locations of all the reported disappearances, noticing more dots in Aberdeen than in any other city. Draco swallowed, thinking about Lucas and Tilly.

“There’s one thing we haven’t considered yet—how are we going to stop this Inferi army?” Potter said abruptly, frowning. His fingers traced the outline of Inverness on the map. “Robards mentioned that when the first Aurors arrived, they cast a Firestorm, but contrary to what should have happened, it did nothing to them. The attack ended when the army crossed the portal again, as if they had been summoned…”

“A Firestorm did nothing to them? Did I hear that right?” Draco asked, bewildered, his voice tightening with the implications.

“That’s what Robards said.”

“Fuck.”

“What’s the problem?” Hermione asked, her eyes narrowing as she processed the information, her sharp mind already turning over possible explanations.

“I think we’ll probably need to use Dark magic,” Draco said dryly, his voice flat as he anticipated their reaction, knowing full well it wouldn’t go over smoothly.

“Are you mad? That’s never going to happen!” Weasley snapped, his voice rising in anger. His ears were reddening, a sure sign of his frustration and mistrust. He leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms defensively, as if he could shield himself from the very idea.

“I agree, there’s no way…” Potter began, but something in Draco snapped at their narrow-minded understanding of magic, at the self-righteousness that had always grated on him.

“Did you really learn nothing from the war?” he almost shouted, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, the tension radiating through his body.

“In fact, we did. There are limits we’ll never cross,” Potter replied calmly, though his eyes flashed with warning. His voice left no room for argument, his posture rigid, shoulders squared.

“Oh, so you really think you can help people by being naive and only using ‘pure’ forms of magic? You’re so thick. If you think you can win this with a few Expelliarmus spells thrown at that army, you’re the ones who are mad, and I’m sorry, but I’m done with standing on the sidelines, waiting for someone else to do something. I’m done with cowardice. I’ll do whatever it takes to save people, to save Muggle-borns and Muggles equally.”

Hermione was looking at him wide-eyed, her lips slightly parted in shock, but there was something in her expression—an understanding, a glimmer of comprehension. She folded her arms, her gaze intense as she studied Draco.

“What are you saying, Draco? What do you mean by ‘we’ll have to use Dark magic’?” her voice was soft but sure, a mixture of curiosity and concern threading through her words.

“I reckon there’s something you ought to know first,” Draco began, his tone more controlled now, though there was an edge of urgency. “The way they teach us about the Dark Arts at Hogwarts is wrong.”

Weasley scoffed, rolling his eyes. “You never disappoint, Malfoy. Just as I was starting to believe you’d actually changed, you show your true colours.”

“True colours? So you still think the world is black and white? It’s not even a scale of greys, you idiot.” Draco took a deep breath to compose himself before continuing. “I read a book that belonged to my father, it’s called Ethics of the Dark Arts .”

“A book?” Hermione’s curiosity got the better of her, as always.

“Yes, and from it, I learned that the Dark Arts are an exchange. The exchange. Wizarding power, on its own, is limited by the individual. Without a degree of exchange, a wielder will reach a point where they can’t do more. That power can be lesser or greater depending on the individual. Even with training, there are limitations. The Dark Arts are when wizards tap into magic beyond themselves by utilising external sources. It can be symbiotic, it can be power taken, it can be channelled, but however it’s done, it’s power beyond the witch or wizard themselves, and there’s always an exchange. A price—which isn’t always paid by the wielder.”

Potter cringed, his face twisting in distaste. “That’s awful.”

“I know for a fact that all of you have done Dark magic,” Draco said in a resigned tone, growing tired of the argument. He glanced around the room, noting the tension in Weasley’s jaw, the way his hand twitched towards his wand, as if seeking comfort in its familiar grip.

“You’re completely mad,” Weasley sneered again, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. There was a flash of something darker there, something that spoke of lingering mistrust, of wounds that hadn’t fully healed.

Draco ignored the barb, pressing on.“The Dark Arts are a huge part of magic. The prices are almost limitless depending on individual desires. The oldest and most basic form of the Dark Arts usually involves killing something, harvesting its parts, using its magical essence and unique properties, either extracting it for immediate use or utilising them to create a more complex power.” He then looked at Hermione, pleading with his eyes, hoping she was starting to understand.

And after a beat…

“Potions are the Dark Arts?” Hermione couldn’t hide her astonishment.Her voice was laced with a mix of disbelief and reluctant acceptance.

“Precisely, potions do involve using the harvested parts of magical creatures to utilise their unique magical properties.”

“What the fuck?” Potter exclaimed, rather eloquently, his brows shooting up in shock.

“Dark magic is just a name we give to something that isn’t inherently right or wrong. What’s right or wrong is what you do with it, or the lengths one might go to achieve a certain goal, but Dark magic itself, it just is .”

“What exactly are you proposing, Malfoy?” Potter asked, a bit more calmly.

“Harry, you can’t be serious! Dumbledore would’ve never…” Weasley was fuming.

“Dumbledore wasn’t always right, I reckon,” said Potter calmly, with an air of finality. “You were saying, Malfoy?”

“Probably, we’ll have to use Fiendfyre.”

Potter looked up, his brow furrowed. “Fiendfyre? You’re suggesting we use one of the most dangerous and uncontrollable forms of magic to destroy the Inferi?”

Draco nodded, though his expression was grim. The weight of his proposal hung heavy in the air. “It’s risky, but Fiendfyre is one of the few things that can truly destroy Inferi and anything else dark—especially if normal fire did nothing to them. If we can contain that kind of fire, it might be our best shot at wiping them out and whoever’s controlling them.”

Weasley winced, his fingers tightening around the edge of the sofa, knuckles white. The memory of their near-death experience with Fiendfyre in the Room of Requirement was clearly still fresh in his mind. “It’s bloody dangerous, though. We barely survived it last time. If you are ready to trust this tosser we need to be careful.”

All of them glanced briefly at Draco, who was remembering his part in that last encounter with shame and guilt.

Hermione nodded thoughtfully. “It could work, but we’d need to be extremely cautious. Fiendfyre has a mind of its own—it’s almost impossible to control once it’s unleashed. We’d need someone with incredible magical skill to direct it safely.”

Draco, weighing the risks and rewards, felt the familiar stirrings of anxiety in his chest, but this time, he recognised it for what it was—a reminder of what was at stake. “It might be our only option if things get worse. But I agree, we can’t use it recklessly. We’ll need a solid plan. I don’t know many people who can actually cast Fiendfyre, let alone control it.”

“But you do know people who can?” Weasley asked dryly, there was an undercurrent of mistrust in his tone. 

“Well… the last year at Hogwarts… we… had to… learn. Not all of us could create it, but some of us could… not with much control, though,” Draco admitted.

“Mhm, so, in order to maybe find someone who can control it, we would have to tell more people about what’s happening,” Weasley pondered aloud, though his tone was edged with reluctance, his mistrust of Draco still evident.

The frustration in the room was palpable, the tension thickening as they discussed the need for more allies. The Ministry’s decision to keep the attacks under wraps would prevent them from reaching out openly; they had already risked getting pulled out of the investigation by warning Lucas.

“The Ministry’s more concerned with keeping the peace than actually protecting people,” Potter said bitterly, his fists clenching. “They think they can control this by keeping everyone in the dark, but it’s only a matter of time before things spiral out of control.”

Hermione nodded in agreement, her voice laced with irritation. “It feels like we’re on a leash. They’re making decisions that could cost lives, and I’ve already told you how keeping people in the dark is far from protection.”

Draco listened to their concerns, feeling the same resentment bubbling up within him. The Ministry’s approach was wrong, and he knew it. But they needed a way to act without completely going rogue and risking much more in the process. He had come a long way from the boy who had once cowered away from fear, hiding behind his family’s name and dark connections. Now, that fear was still there, but it had taken on a new form—one that urged him to act, to protect, to make amends for the past.

“We need to take matters into our own hands—drop the leash,” Draco said, his voice firm, his eyes locking onto Potter’s with a determined intensity. “If there’s something I’ve learnt from the war, it’s that we can’t just rely on the Ministry to do what’s right. We need to create our own plan to protect people in case the Ministry doesn’t change tactics before more lives are lost. That’s what’s at stake here, and I’m not letting more people die if I can prevent it.”

Potter looked at him, intrigued. “What are you suggesting?”

Draco met his gaze, feeling the resolve within him solidify. This was no longer just about survival or redemption—it was about ensuring that the world they had fought so hard to rebuild wouldn’t be torn apart again. He thought of his mates, who had stood by him through the war, and knew that they, too, would want to protect the future they had all struggled for. He would reach out to them, explain the situation, and rally them to the cause. The Slytherins had always been survivors, but this time, they would be protectors as well. “We bring together your Dumbledore’s fan club and the Slytherins. We create a plan to protect Muggles and Muggle-borns, to act when the Ministry won’t.”

Hermione’s eyes widened with surprise, but there was also a spark of hope. “You really think the Slytherins would join forces with us?”

Draco nodded. “My mates will be just as concerned as we are. They’ll know what’s at stake, and they’ll fight to protect lives and their world, too.”

Weasley’s expression softened slightly, though there was still a hint of mistrust lingering in his eyes. “It could work. We’ve always been stronger together. If we unite, we could make a real difference.”

Potter looked around the room, seeing the resolve in their faces. “Alright. Let’s do it. We’ll bring together Dumbledore’s Army and the Slytherins. We’ll make our own plan, and we’ll protect people, no matter what the Ministry does.”

As the conversation continued, Draco felt the weight of his past actions pressing on him. The memory of that night in the Room of Requirement surfaced again, and he could almost feel the heat of the Fiendfyre licking at his heels, the terror of nearly being consumed by the very fire he had helped unleash. He glanced at Hermione, who was studying the map with a focused expression, and then at Potter and Weasley, who were deep in discussion about potential locations for their allies and future meetings to strategise.

These were the people he had once viewed as enemies, as threats to his family’s ideals. Now, they were the only ones he could trust to help protect the world he had come to care about—one that included people like Lucas and Tilly.

“I know what it’s like to be on the wrong side of this,” Draco said quietly, cutting into the conversation. The room fell silent, all eyes turning to him. He swallowed hard, his throat dry. “I’ve made more mistakes than I can count, and I’ve seen what happens when you let cowardice and hatred drive your actions. But I don’t want to be that person anymore. I won’t let anyone else suffer because of it.”

Hermione’s gaze softened, and she gave him a small nod as if to say she understood. Weasley looked at him with a new level of respect, though there was still a cautiousness in his eyes, a wariness that hadn’t quite faded. Potter’s expression was unreadable, but his eyes seemed to convey a silent acknowledgement, a begrudging acceptance.

“We’ll do this together,” Potter finally said, his voice steady. “We’ll reach out to those who are willing to fight, and we’ll protect as many people as we can. But we need to be smart about this. We can’t let the Ministry shut us down.”

Draco nodded, feeling a renewed sense of purpose. “We’ll have to be discreet, but we can start by contacting my mates. I’ll handle that. And we’ll need a way to communicate with Dumbledore’s Army without raising suspicion.”

Hermione leaned forward, a thoughtful look on her face. “We could use the old coins we used during the war. They worked well enough before, and they’re easy to conceal.”

Weasley’s face brightened at the suggestion. “That’s a good idea. We’ll need to modify them a bit to include the Slytherins, but it could work.”

As they began to hash out the details, the atmosphere in the room shifted. The tension was still there, but now it was underpinned by a sense of unity, a shared determination to do what was right, even if it meant going against the Ministry’s orders.

Draco felt a strange warmth in his chest—something he hadn’t felt in a long time. It was the warmth of belonging, of being part of something that mattered and that was bigger than himself. And for the first time since the war ended, he didn’t feel like an outsider looking in, the villain that had been exonerated.

But as they wrapped up their meeting and prepared to put their plan into action, Draco couldn’t shake the lingering dread that hung over him. They were walking a dangerous line, defying the Ministry, and the stakes couldn’t be higher. But he knew, deep down, that this was the only way to truly protect the people he cared about.

As he left Potter’s house that evening, the cool night air hitting his face, Draco made a silent vow to himself: He would use his fear to protect his people, to make a difference in his world. Lucas had helped him understand that fear isn’t an enemy you have to eradicate—fear is the power behind bravery, and it’s the force that shows you what’s truly important. If you listen to your fear, you can act on your bravery. And right now, his fear was leading him towards something greater—towards a fight that would define who he truly was. He just needed to be smart about it. Fortunately, this time, he would stand with his new allies, and he would fight for a world where no one had to die because of their background ever again.

And as he Disapparated into the night, he knew that this was just the beginning of their fight—a fight that would test everything they were. They would face the darkness together, as a united front.

~

Hermione and Weaselette’s flat buzzed with nervous energy as the members of Dumbledore's Army gathered for the first time in what felt like ages. The girls had rearranged the space to accommodate the larger group, transfiguring books into chairs and pushing furniture against the walls. The atmosphere was charged, a mix of nostalgia and anticipation hanging in the air. But tonight, there was something different—a group of Slytherins stood at the opposite end of the room, their expressions guarded, their eyes scanning the crowd with a mixture of wariness and defiance.

Potter, Hermione, and Weasley stood at the centre, with Draco slightly to the side but unmistakably part of the group. The Golden Trio had long been the leaders of the DA, but tonight, there was a shift in the dynamic. Draco’s presence, while once unthinkable, was now crucial. He had convinced his mates to join the cause.

The DA members exchanged uneasy glances, their suspicions palpable. Many still bore the scars—emotional and physical—of the war, and the sight of the Slytherins brought those memories rushing back. Draco noticed Finnigan’s hand twitch towards his wand and Weasley shot him a look that stopped him.

“Right,” Potter began, breaking the tense silence. His voice was steady, commanding attention. “We’re all here because we’ve got a common goal: to protect those who can’t protect themselves and to make sure that no one—Muggle, Muggle-born, or otherwise—falls victim to a new threat.”

"Inferi," Weasley said, the word sending a shiver down Draco’s spine. “This isn’t just a few bodies brought back to life—this is an army of the dead, controlled by someone who’s mastered some of the darkest magic known to us. Whoever’s behind this isn’t just targeting random Muggles and Muggle-borns—he’s creating an army to wreak havoc, and potential victims don’t stand a chance against the sheer number and ferocity of them.”

“The Ministry,” Potter continued, “is more concerned with keeping the wizarding world’s secrets than actually stopping the attacks. They’re suppressing information, trying to keep the public calm, but all it’s doing is giving the killer more time to strike.”

“Some of you might be wondering why we’ve asked the Slytherins to join us,” Hermione added, her gaze sweeping the room. “The truth is, we need them. They have skills and connections that we don’t. If we’re going to do this, we have to work together.”

A murmur spread through the room—a mix of agreement and scepticism. Draco could feel the weight of their distrust, but he also saw the flicker of understanding in a few eyes.

Theo stepped forward, his expression calm but serious, then he began declaiming as if he was in some Shakespeare play: “Troubled souls unite, we’ve got ourselves tonight, I am fuel you are friends, we got the means to make amends,—”

“Thank you, Theo,” Draco interrupted, his voice deadpan, earning a few smirks from the Slytherins and eye-rolls from the DA. “What we’re trying to say is that if we all work together, we can strategise and come up with a plan that can protect Muggles and Muggle-borns. We need to act since the Ministry isn’t.”

“We didn’t come here to fight you lot,” Blaise said, his voice level but firm, sensing the DA’s hesitance. “We came because we understand what’s at stake. We’re not interested in dragging up old grudges, but we’re not here to be your lackeys either. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it as equals.”

Longbottom, who had been standing with his arms crossed, narrowed his eyes. “Equals, yeah? Last time I checked, your lot wasn’t exactly known for helping out Muggle-borns.”

A tense silence fell over the room, but Draco stepped in smoothly. “We’re not here to rehash the past, Longbottom. We’re here because we all want the same thing—to stop this killer before anyone else dies. That means using everything we’ve got, and that includes strategy.” Draco’s voice had a sharp edge of sarcasm that made Hermione shoot him a warning glance.

Hermione nodded in agreement, stepping into the centre of the room. “The Slytherins have a different approach. They think in ways we don’t, they see angles we might miss. We’re not asking you to trust them blindly, but we are asking you to give this a chance. Together, we’re stronger.”

Pansy crossed her arms, her voice cool but with an edge of sincerity. “We know you don’t trust us. But we’re here because we believe this is bigger than our past. We’re not looking for redemption—we’re looking for a way to make sure this world doesn’t fall apart again.”

George Weasley, standing near the back, exchanged a glance with Fred’s absence evident in the way his shoulders sagged slightly. He stepped forward, his tone unusually serious. “We’ve all lost something to this war—family, friends, our sense of safety. If we’re going to do this, we have to be in it together. No more looking over our shoulders, no more doubting each other’s intentions. We need every trick, every strategy we’ve got.”

Pansy met George’s gaze, and for a moment, something unspoken passed between them—a recognition of loss, of pain, and perhaps, of a shared determination to not let it happen again. She gave a small nod. “Then let’s make sure we use everything we’ve got. We’re not here to play nice—we’re here to win.”

Daphne spoke up, her tone even but firm. “As soon as Draco told us about what’s been happening, we started working on gathering intel that the Ministry might not be aware of. Some of us have family connections that could prove useful. And we’ve got our own ideas on how to track this killer down.”

Thomas, standing near the back, raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”

Draco exchanged a look with his mates before stepping forward. “The Ministry is focused on keeping this quiet; they’re missing crucial details and information about Dark and Ancient Magic. We’ve got ways to gather information that won’t raise suspicion. We’re proposing a two-pronged approach: one group works on protecting Muggle-borns and Muggles directly, while the other focuses on gathering intel and strategising against the killer.”

Potter nodded, picking up where Draco left off. “We’re going to need to split into teams. One group will handle protection—setting up safehouses, wards, that sort of thing. The other will be dedicated to tracking and finding the killer. We’ll use any means necessary—information from the Ministry, from the streets, from… less conventional sources.”

“What do you mean by ‘less conventional sources,’ Harry?” Longbottom asked, his voice tinged with concern. “Are you serious?”

“Draco’s shown us a different side of him… and we trust him,” Hermione said, looking at Draco with intent. “I trust him and his plan. If you trust me, then you need to trust him too.” Her tone was resolute. She glanced at Draco, signalling for him to take the lead. “He’s made some good points. Go on, Draco.”

Draco cleared his throat, feeling the weight of the room’s attention on him. “Well… Dark magic… as they taught us at Hogwarts… isn’t precisely accurate. Dark magic, in its purest form, is the magic that a person can use by potentiating their own power with additional sources. For example, if I want to cast a spell, I can channel my own magic through my wand, but if I also take a potion while doing so, then I’m essentially casting Dark magic. In that sense, Potions could be considered Dark magic, since they are a source of power alien to the one within ourselves.”

He paused, letting his words sink in. The room was silent, every eye on him. “Dark magic isn’t something intrinsically ‘bad’; it’s just a way to enhance one’s power. There’s no good or bad, just what you do with that power. In this sense, if we need to use Dark magic, and we understand its true nature, we can choose to use it wisely.” He was saying this because he knew that in the long run, they were planning to use Fiendfyre, which was Dark magic.

The room fell silent as the DA members absorbed this. Hesitance was etched into their faces, and anger flickered in the eyes of some, like Finnigan and Thomas.

Pansy spoke up again, her voice firm. “Look, we know you’re all sceptical. But think about it—if we’re going to stop this killer, we need every advantage we can get. We’re not suggesting you dive into the Dark Arts, but if we can use it to our benefit without crossing lines, then why not?”

George Weasley, who had been quiet, finally spoke up. “And what about those of us who’ve seen what Dark magic can do? How do we know where the line is?”

Draco met his gaze, a flash of understanding passing through him. “We draw it together. We decide what’s necessary and what’s too far. But we can’t ignore tools that might save lives. Not this time.”

Slowly, hands began to rise, questions were asked, and one by one, members from both sides volunteered for different tasks. The tension and doubt were still there, but it was starting to shift, replaced by a sense of purpose.

Hermione smiled, her voice carrying a note of hope. “This is how we win—by working together, by using every resource we have.”

The room seemed to relax slightly, the energy shifting from wary suspicion to cautious cooperation. Draco caught Potter’s eye, and for the first time, there was a sense of mutual respect between them—a silent acknowledgement that they were now on the same side.

As the groups began to form and discussions broke out across the room, the strategies from the Slytherins started to mesh with the more straightforward approaches of the DA. Where the DA focused on direct action and protection, the Slytherins offered subtler tactics—espionage, misinformation, and leveraging their networks to gather information under the radar. It became clear that together, they could cover more ground and anticipate moves the Ministry couldn’t or wouldn’t.

In a quieter corner, Luna Lovegood and Daphne were discussing ways to use ancient wards to protect Muggle homes, their ideas bouncing off each other in unexpected harmony. Across the room, Weasley was talking to Blaise, the two of them begrudgingly finding common ground in their shared desire to keep people safe.

Longbottom, standing near a group of younger DA members, looked over at the Slytherins with a mixture of curiosity and caution. He caught Draco’s eye and gave a small nod. Draco returned it, understanding the significance—Longbottom had faced down Death Eaters before, and his acceptance, however tentative, was not given lightly.

George and Pansy found themselves standing near each other, the tension between them almost palpable. George was the first to break the silence. “You’re not exactly the first person I expected to see on our side.”

Pansy raised an eyebrow. “Trust me, Weasley, this isn’t exactly where I thought I’d end up either. But I’m here because I don’t want to see everything we’ve fought for go to waste. If that means working with you lot, then so be it.”

George nodded slowly, a grudging respect forming. “Fair enough. Let’s make sure it counts, then.”

Pansy smirked slightly. “I’ll hold you to that.”

As the night wore on, the groups solidified, and plans began to take shape. The initial suspicions began to give way to a tentative trust. They were far from being a united force, but the first steps had been taken. And as they prepared to face the darkness ahead, they did so knowing that, for better or worse, they were in this together.

By the end of the evening, a rough plan was in place: the DA and Slytherins would work in mixed tandem, Thomas, Finnigan, Ginny, Theo, Luna, George, Daphne, Astoria and some others, whose names Draco couldn’t recall, focusing on direct protection—setting up wards, creating safehouses, and patrolling vulnerable areas. The other team consisting of Potter, Weasley, Longbottom, Bell, Blaise, Pansy, Hermione and Draco on strategy and intelligence—gathering information, tracking the killer, and planning their next moves.

They would communicate through the modified Galleons, and regular meetings would be held to update each other on their progress.

Before everyone left, Potter, Hermione, Weasley, and Draco stood together, addressing the group as a united front. They shared everything they knew about the killer so far—the attacks, the Inferi army, the theories about Dark artefacts, and the potential use of Fiendfyre. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to galvanise the group into action.

“We’re not just fighting for ourselves,” Potter said, his voice firm. “We’re fighting for everyone who can’t. And we’re going to do it together.”

As the room emptied and people began to leave, there was a sense of something new forming—a team that, despite its differences, had the potential to be formidable. Draco lingered for a moment, watching as the last of the Slytherins left, before turning to the Trio.

“Let’s just hope we’re enough,” he said quietly.

“We will be,” Hermione replied, her voice filled with quiet conviction. “We have to be.”

Potter sighed as he said, “I am lost mates, I'm no guide, but I'm by your side…”

But just as he was to say something else, the room was suddenly filled with a blinding light. A silver capybara Patronus burst into existence, its voice frantic and desperate.

“Draco! Please help me! Tilly’s gone! She’s disappeared! I… I don’t know what to do! Oh God!” the Patronus screamed in Lucas’s voice before vanishing into the air.

As the silver capybara Patronus vanished, the silence in the room felt deafening. For a split second, no one moved, as if the world had stopped turning. Then, as if on cue, Draco’s breath hitched, the weight of the situation crashing down on him.

His mind raced, flashing through every possible scenario, every dark corner where Tilly might be hidden. But there was no time for doubt. He had to act.

“Merlin’s beard! We need to move. Now,” Weasley’s voice cut through the fog of dread, snapping everyone back to reality.

Draco’s eyes met Potter’s, and for the first time, he saw not just an ally, but someone who understood the stakes as deeply as he did. There was no turning back. The fight had begun, and this time, Draco was determined to make sure they wouldn’t lose.

Without another word, they Disapparated, the sound of rushing wind filling the room as they vanished into the night, leaving behind only the echo of Lucas’s desperate plea.

Chapter Text

"What we have once enjoyed we can never lose. All that we love deeply becomes a part of us."

— Helen Keller

Draco

The path leading to Lucas's cottage was lined with overgrown bushes and wildflowers, the night air heavy with a thick, almost suffocating tension. Draco's heart pounded with each step, the weight of what they were about to face pressing down on him. The small, rustic home sat nestled near the shore, the ocean’s waves crashing softly in the distance, an ominous backdrop to the dread that gripped him. The sun had long since set, leaving the cottage bathed in the dim, flickering light of the old-fashioned street lamps that cast long, eerie shadows across the weathered stone walls.

As they neared the door, it suddenly flung open, and Lucas stumbled out, his face ashen, his eyes wide with fear. His hands trembled violently as he clung to the doorframe, looking at them as if they were his last lifeline.

“Draco… thank Merlin you’re here,” Lucas choked out, his voice barely a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile hope he clung to. “She… she’s gone. Tilly… she went out this morning and… she hasn’t come back.”

Draco felt his stomach twist painfully. The guilt that had been simmering beneath the surface surged forward, clawing at him. He had warned Lucas, told him about what was happening and to be careful, but what good had that done? What good were words when action had been needed? He had failed him.

Swallowing hard, Draco immediately stepped forward, forcing his expression to soften as he placed a reassuring hand on Lucas’s trembling shoulder. “We’re going to find her, Lucas. We’ll do everything we can.”

But even as he spoke the words, a part of him recoiled, questioning their validity. Could he really promise that? What if they were too late? The thought gnawed at him, a dark whisper at the back of his mind. He couldn’t afford to think like that, he had to be strong for Lucas.

Lucas’s eyes filled with tears, his face contorted in a mixture of guilt and fear that twisted Draco’s gut even further. “I didn’t tell her anything… I didn’t want to scare her, Draco. I thought I was protecting her… but now… what if something’s happened to her?”

Draco’s grip on Lucas’s shoulder tightened, his own fear barely held at bay. “Lucas, listen to me,” he said firmly, trying to inject his voice with the conviction he didn’t entirely feel. “You did what you thought was best. We’re going to figure this out, but we need to know everything. She could be ok, you know? Now, start from the beginning.”

Lucas nodded shakily and led them inside. The cottage, usually a warm, welcoming place, now felt unbearable, the walls closing in with every step. The cosiness of the small space was overshadowed by the suffocating anxiety radiating from Lucas, whose pacing back and forth mirrored the turmoil that raged inside Draco. The sound of the ocean seemed louder now, as if it too was echoing the fear and desperation that hung in the air.

“I… I didn’t want to worry her,” Lucas began, his voice trembling, almost breaking. “I knew things were getting dangerous, especially for Muggles and Muggle-borns, but… I didn’t tell her. I thought if I could keep it from her, she wouldn’t be scared. I put more wards around the house, made sure we were safe here, but… if she was taken somewhere else… I wouldn’t have known…”

Potter, Hermione, and Weasley exchanged worried glances as they listened, but it was Draco who stepped closer, his heart pounding with a guilt that felt all too familiar. His eyes remained locked on Lucas, who was unravelling before him. “Lucas, you can’t blame yourself for this. We’re going to find her, but we need to know exactly what happened today.”

Lucas took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. “Tilly… she likes to go for a walk every morning, she likes to stroll on the shoreline. It’s her routine, you know? She left early, just after breakfast, and… and she didn’t come back. I waited… I waited so long… and then I knew something was wrong. I checked the wards, they were still intact, but… if she was taken somewhere else… I decided to walk to where she usually walks and felt something, dread and pain… and… Oh God!”, he began to sob uncontrollably, his knees buckling under the weight of his despair.

Draco caught him before he could collapse completely, holding him up as Lucas’s legs gave out. The man’s weight was heavy, but the emotional burden was heavier. Draco’s heart raced, and for a moment, he was terrified that Lucas might completely fall apart in his arms. He tightened his grip, feeling the tremors that ran through Lucas’s body, his own hands trembling as he tried to keep them both steady.

“Lucas, stay with me,” Draco urged, his voice a desperate plea as he guided Lucas to a chair. “We’re here now. We’ll follow every lead, every trace. We won’t stop until we find her.”

Lucas’s breathing was ragged, his hands shaking as he gripped Draco’s arm, his eyes wide and unfocused. “Draco, I think I’m having a panic attack… I can’t… I can’t breathe…”

Draco’s mind was racing, the fear in Lucas’s eyes cutting through him like a blade. He wanted to be there for Lucas, just as Lucas had been there for him, but he felt completely out of his depth. His own breath hitched, panic gnawing at the edges of his composure. But then, he took a deep breath and remembered how grateful he was for Lucas—the way Lucas always seemed to truly see him, the way he took care of him when he needed it most. He let those emotions flood through him, filling him with the strength he needed to do the same for the man who had slowly carved out a place in his heart. There was a connection there, one he didn’t feel with anyone else, and seeing Lucas like this—vulnerable, scared—made him feel even closer to him. It made Lucas more real, more human in his eyes, and that only strengthened Draco’s resolve to help him, no matter what it took.

“All right, all right, I’m gonna save you, fucker, not gonna lose you, ok?” Draco rambled, his words tumbling out in a rush as he tried to ground Lucas—and himself—in the reality of the moment. “Right now, I’m feeling strong, and I can't let you go… You’re… You are too important to me, Lucas, I’d be lost without you… If… If you need to let yourself fall, I'm right below you now…And fuck me if I say something you don't want to hear, fuck me if I care, but I'm not leaving here… I’m here, Lucas… we’re here, we’ll find her. I promise… You helped me when I was down, I'll help when you're down.”

Lucas took a shuddering breath, his grip on Draco’s arm loosening slightly as he sobbed again, but at least now he was breathing. Draco’s heart ached at the sight of him, the man who had been his anchor in so many storms now barely holding himself together.

“Lucas, you’re not alone in this,” Draco said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper as he sat across from him, still holding onto his arm. “We’re going to get her back. You have to believe that.”

Lucas looked up, his eyes red-rimmed and filled with tears, the despair in them nearly breaking Draco’s resolve. “What if it’s too late, Draco? What if… what if she’s already…?”

“No,” Draco interrupted, his voice firm, though his own fear gnawed at him. “Don’t think like that. Tilly is strong, and so are you. We’re going to find her, and we’re going to bring her home.”

Lucas swallowed hard, nodding, but the fear in his eyes remained, an unspoken acknowledgement of the darkness that loomed over them all. “I… I don’t know what I’d do without her, Draco. She’s everything to me…And I’m not living this life without her, I’m selfish and clear.”

Draco reached across the table, taking Lucas’s hand in his. “You’re not going to lose her. We’ll search every inch of Aberdeen if necessary, and we’ll find whoever did this.”

At that moment, Hermione and Potter, who had left the cottage at some point without Draco noticing, re-entered the room. Hermione’s expression was grim, their footsteps echoing in the tense silence. “There’s no sign of her along the shoreline, but I found something… it looks like a broken piece of a necklace. Could it be Tilly’s?”

Lucas’s eyes widened, and he quickly examined the piece, his breath hitching. “It’s hers… she always wears this… Oh God… Draco, what if…?”

“We’ll use it to track her,” Draco said quickly, trying to keep Lucas focused, trying to keep himself from drowning in the same fear. “Hermione, can you work on that?”

Hermione nodded, already taking out her wand, her movements precise and focused as she began to work on the spell. Potter and Weasley returned, shaking their heads.

“No signs outside,” Weasley reported as he re-entered the cottage as well, his voice tight. “Whoever took her covered their tracks well.”

“We’ll get her back,” Potter added, his tone firm and resolute as he looked at Lucas, his determination a steady anchor in the storm of emotions that swirled around them. “We’ve dealt with worse, and we’ve come out on top. We’ll do it again.”

Draco watched as Hermione concentrated on the tracking spell, his hand still on Lucas’s, offering silent support as the seconds ticked by, each one feeling like an eternity. He could feel the darkness pressing in, the weight of his own guilt and fear threatening to crush him, but he forced himself to stay strong for Lucas, to keep him from falling apart completely.

Finally, Hermione’s wand glowed faintly, and she looked up, her expression a mix of hope and worry. “There’s a faint trail… it’s leading towards the bay… it’s not far.”

Draco stood up, pulling Lucas with him. “Let’s go. We’re not wasting another second.”

As they moved towards the door, Lucas hesitated, his hand still clutching the broken necklace, his voice trembling. “Draco… thank you. For everything.”

Draco gave him a small, determined smile, though the weight of his own guilt bore down on him like a physical force. “We’re going to get her back, Lucas. I promise.”

They walked towards the bay, the night air growing colder, the darkness thickening around them as Hermione’s wand glowed brighter with every step. But then, without warning, the glow flickered and died, leaving them in near darkness.

“What?” Hermione muttered, her brow furrowing in confusion.

“Ehm… Harry, look,” Weasley said, his voice low as he pointed towards something shimmering in the air.

“Fuck,” Potter whispered, his voice filled with a dread that mirrored Draco’s own.

“What’s happening?” Lucas asked, his voice tinged with growing panic as he noticed the change in their demeanour.

Draco’s heart sank as he recognised the shimmer of magical residue. It was unmistakable—the same trace they had seen at every other site connected to the serial killer who had been raising an Inferi army. The realisation hit him like a cold wave, but he forced himself to keep his expression neutral, not wanting to alarm Lucas any further.

“We’ll have to call the Auror Department,” Potter said, his voice barely above a whisper, laced with a grim resignation. “We’ll have to investigate this thoroughly.”

“Shit! This can’t be happening… Oh my God, Tilly!” Lucas’s voice broke as he dropped to the ground, his sobs racking his body, trembling with the force of his despair. Draco knelt beside him, his heart aching at the sight of his soul healer so utterly broken.

Draco placed both hands on Lucas’s shoulders, grounding him as best as he could. “Lucas, listen to me. We’re going to find her. We’ll do whatever it takes, but you need to stay with us. We need you strong, for her.”

Lucas looked up at Draco, his eyes filled with a desperate hope that broke Draco’s heart even further. “Please… find her…”

“We will,” Draco promised, his voice steady, though inside, he was anything but. “But we need to be smart about this. We’ll figure it out, but we need to get back to the Ministry, alert everyone, and get more help. The more people we have on this, the better.”

Lucas hesitated, his breath hitching as he struggled with the thought of leaving the area, but he slowly nodded. “O-okay… but you come back, right? As soon as you have something, you come back.”

Draco nodded, his own determination hardening. “As soon as we have something solid, we’ll be back here. You have my word.”

Weasley, who had been scanning the area, turned back to the group. “We need to move. I’ve recorded everything. We can analyse it back at the Ministry.”

Hermione touched Lucas’s shoulder, her voice soft but firm. “We’re going to do everything we can, Lucas. We’ll reach out to everyone we can think of… we’re all in this together. We’ll find her.”

Lucas swallowed hard, the fear still evident in his eyes, but he managed a weak nod. “Alright…”

As they made their way back to the cottage to leave Lucas behind, Draco kept a close eye on him, the man’s anxiety palpable with every step they took away from the shoreline. Draco’s mind raced, the guilt and fear swirling within him as he tried to formulate a plan, tried to figure out what they could possibly do next.

Once they left Lucas safely at the cottage, Potter turned to the group, his expression serious. “We’ll head back to the Ministry and alert everyone. We need to coordinate with the Aurors, the DA, and the Slytherins—discreetly. We can’t risk this getting out of hand. Hermione and Draco, you go and coordinate with them, Ron and I’ll go to the Ministry and coordinate with the Aurors.”

They all nodded in agreement, and with one last look at the cottage, they Disapparated, the weight of the darkness they were heading into heavier than ever.

~

Draco and Hermione Apparated into the dimly lit street outside her flat, the weight of the evening’s events pressing heavily on their shoulders. Hermione’s flat, which had become a haven of calm for Draco with its overflowing bookshelves and the soft scent of vanilla lingering in the air, offered little solace tonight. The familiar surroundings only accentuated the turmoil churning within him.

As Hermione unlocked the door and stepped inside, Draco hesitated for a brief moment on the threshold, his mind replaying the fear and desperation etched on Lucas's face. The image clung to him, a persistent reminder of his failure. He should have done more—warned him better, insisted on stronger protections that he should have cast himself, or even he should have thought of something that could have protected Tilly as he had with Hermione, surely there would have been something useful in his vault. The guilt sat heavy in his chest, constricting his breath and making it hard to move.

"Draco?" Hermione's voice pulled him back to the present. She stood just inside the doorway, concern flickering in her warm brown eyes as she looked back at him. "Are you coming in?"

"Yeah," he replied, forcing a small nod as he stepped inside, closing the door softly behind him.

Hermione moved quickly, flicking her wand to ignite the lamps around the room. The warm light bathed the space in a comforting glow, but it couldn’t dispel the dark thoughts clouding Draco’s mind. She cleared the coffee table, making room for the parchments that recorded their investigation, before shrugging off her coat and draping it over a chair. Her movements were efficient, but when she glanced back at Draco, still standing near the door, her expression softened, her concern palpable.

"We need to act fast," she said, her tone brisk but softening as she noticed the tension etched in his features. She paused, studying him for a moment before speaking again, her voice gentler. "Are you alright?"

Draco blinked, taken aback by the question. He didn’t expect her to notice his inner turmoil; he'd always prided himself on keeping his emotions tightly guarded. But Hermione had a way of seeing through people’s façades, cutting straight to the heart of things. The concern in her eyes made his carefully maintained walls feel fragile, like they could crumble at any moment.

"I'm fine," he replied reflexively, but the waver in his voice betrayed him.

Hermione took a step closer, her eyes never leaving his. "Draco, it's okay not to be fine. Tonight was… difficult."

He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his pale hair. "I just keep thinking that I should have done more," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "If I had pushed harder, made it clearer and insisted on better protections… maybe Tilly wouldn't be missing right now. Maybe Lucas wouldn't be falling apart."

Hermione’s expression softened further, and she closed the distance between them, her hand hesitating for a brief second before resting gently on his forearm. The touch was light but grounding, sending a subtle warmth through Draco’s body that he hadn’t anticipated. It was as if her touch anchored him, pulling him back from the abyss of guilt and doubt.

"This isn't your fault," she said firmly, her gaze earnest and reassuring. "You did what you could with the information and resources you had. None of us could have predicted this would happen."

Draco looked down at her hand on his arm, the contact unexpectedly comforting. He could feel the warmth of her skin through the fabric of his sleeve, and the subtle scent of his amortentia on her— enveloping him, momentarily easing the tightness in his chest. It was a simple touch, yet it conveyed so much—support, understanding, and something deeper that he didn’t dare to name.

"I just… I hate feeling helpless," he confessed, his eyes meeting hers again. There was a vulnerability there that he rarely showed, a glimpse past the walls he so carefully maintained.

Hermione's thumb brushed softly against his arm, a small, instinctive gesture of comfort that sent a faint flush creeping up Draco's neck. "I know the feeling," she replied, her voice softening. "But we're not helpless. We're going to do everything we can to find Tilly and stop whoever's behind this. And we're in this together."

For a moment, the room seemed to shrink around them, the world outside fading as Draco found himself lost in the depths of Hermione’s eyes. There was a strength and determination there that was infectious, and he felt a spark igniting within him. His pulse quickened, and he became acutely aware of the small distance between them, the warmth radiating from her body, the way her curls framed her face in the soft light. The air between them felt charged, and for a brief second, he wondered what it would be like to close that distance completely.

He cleared his throat, gently pulling back though not entirely breaking the contact. "You're right. We should get to work."

A small smile tugged at Hermione's lips as she nodded, reluctantly letting her hand fall back to her side. "Alright then."

They moved to the centre of the room, both pulling out their charmed Galleons. Hermione's brows knit together in concentration as she sent out a message to the DA: "Abduction, more likely, report info, quick”

Draco mirrored her actions, his fingers brushing against hers briefly as he adjusted his coin. The brief touch sent a subtle jolt through him, and he found himself glancing at her, noticing the way her hair cascaded over her shoulder, the determined set of her jaw. Shaking off the distraction, he focused on sending his own message to the Slytherins: " Urgent, abduction report intel, prepare ."

As they waited for responses, the silence between them was filled with shared glances and unspoken thoughts. He noticed her skin flushing slightly, which made something flutter inside of him. The moment was fleeting, but it lingered in the back of his mind, even as the Galleons began to vibrate and glow, pulling their attention back to the task at hand.

"Luna's already responding," Hermione noted, a hint of relief in her voice. "She and Daphne have been working on integrating ancient runes into larger-scale wards. They think they can expand protections over entire neighbourhoods."

Draco's eyes flickered with interest. "Daphne mentioned experimenting with runes for increased distances in spells. If they combine that with Luna's work with wards, we could have a viable defence system up soon."

Hermione smiled slightly, the corners of her eyes crinkling with the gesture. "Seems our teams work well together after all."

"Who would have thought?" Draco replied, a hint of playful irony creeping into his tone.

Before they could delve further, a brilliant silver light burst into the room—a stag Patronus, majestic and urgent. Harry’s voice echoed through the space, tense and hurried: "We’re under attack in Edinburgh. Inferi confirmed. Need immediate backup."

The Patronus dissolved as quickly as it had appeared, leaving a charged silence in its wake. Hermione's eyes widened, and she was already reaching for her cloak before the echoes faded.

"Looks like we're needed," she said, her voice steady despite the urgency.

Draco nodded, his earlier doubts pushed aside as adrenaline surged through him. He grabbed his wand, meeting Hermione's gaze with a determined glint in his eye. "Let's not keep them waiting."

As they prepared to Apparate, Hermione's hand briefly brushed against Draco's once more, a fleeting touch that conveyed something deeper for Draco, something unspoken that lingered in the air. Draco's heart skipped a beat, but he pushed the distraction aside, focusing on the mission ahead.

They vanished from the cosy confines of the flat, ready to reappear amidst the chaos and darkness of the night and to face whatever awaited them, together.

~

The moment Draco and Hermione Apparated into the war zone, they were greeted by chaos. The acrid stench of burning flesh filled the air, mingling with the coppery tang of blood. The sky above Edinburgh was a sickly orange, tainted by flames that licked at the buildings. The street was a battlefield, littered with the bodies of fallen Aurors and Muggles, their lifeless forms grotesquely torn apart, their eyes staring blankly into the void.

In the midst of it all, the Inferi—almost a hundred of them—moved with a grotesque, jerking rhythm, their decayed hands reaching out to tear apart anything in their path. Their soulless eyes glowed with an eerie blue light as they advanced, undeterred by the spells that exploded around them. The air crackled with magic, the sounds of incantations and the screams of the dying blending into a cacophony of horror.

“Protego!” Hermione’s voice rang out as she deflected an Inferius that had charged towards her. The shimmering shield materialised just in time to slightly impede the Inferius, but it wasn't enough to stop its relentless attack.

Draco was at her side in an instant, his wand already raised, casting a barrage of spells at the advancing Inferi. “Confringo!” he shouted, the spell blasting a group of the undead creatures into pieces, their limbs scattering across the blood-soaked street. But even as they were torn apart, they continued to crawl towards them, undeterred.

To their left, Potter and Weasley were battling fiercely, their faces smeared with dirt and blood. Weasley was limping, his left leg clearly injured, but his wand hand was steady as he sent a stream of fire at the Inferi, the flames consuming them in an instant. Potter, blood dripping from a cut above his eye, was duelling two Inferi at once, his wand a blur as he cast spell after spell, trying to keep them at bay.

But it was clear they were outnumbered. The Inferi were hardly being destroyed, few spells did anything to them and they kept crawling from the shadows, their moans filling the air with a haunting symphony of death.

“Hermione, we need to regroup!” Draco shouted over the din, his voice edged with urgency. He felt his wand begin to vibrate, a subtle but insistent tremor that indicated Hermione’s heart rate was spiking—she was in danger. His gaze flickered to her, concern tightening his chest. She was fighting valiantly, her spells precise and powerful, but she was only one person, and the Inferi were relentless.

“Reducto!” Hermione yelled, the spell smashing through a line of Inferi, sending their decayed bodies flying. But she was tiring, and Draco could see the strain in her movements.

“Stay close to me!” he ordered, his voice carrying a note of desperation as he moved in front of her, determined to shield her from the worst of the onslaught. His wand slashed through the air, sending bolts of lightning crackling through the ranks of the undead, but the sheer number of them was overwhelming.

Suddenly, a particularly large Inferius lunged at Hermione, its rotting teeth bared in a snarl. Draco reacted without thinking, his body moving on instinct. “Expulso!” The force of the spell blew the creature backwards when it was just inches from Hermione.

Hermione glanced at him, her eyes wide with a mixture of gratitude and fear, but there was no time for words. Another wave of Inferi was surging towards them, and they had to keep moving.

“Incendio!” Draco cast, flames erupting from his wand, creating a barrier of fire between them and the advancing horde, giving them a moment to breathe. The heat was intense, and the Inferi shrieked but the fire did nothing to them, it just kept them at bay.

“Draco!” Hermione’s voice was sharp with warning, and he turned just in time to see an Inferius breaking through the flames, its skeletal hand reaching for him. He barely had time to react, slashing his wand in a desperate arc. “Sectumsempra!” The dark spell sliced through the creature, bisecting it and stopping it for a moment, but more were closing in.

“Fuck!” screamed Hermione, “Fire is the only way to beat them! But Robards was right, fire is doing nothing to them!”

Around them, the scene was one of carnage. Aurors were being overwhelmed, their bodies dragged down by the sheer weight of the Inferi. The Muggles caught in the crossfire had no chance, their screams abruptly silenced as they were torn apart by the undead. It was a nightmare, a hellish vision of death and destruction, and for the first time, Draco felt the icy grip of despair clawing at his insides. Even when the Dark Lord tortured him, he never felt so lost.

“We’re not going to make it,” Hermione gasped, her voice tinged with panic as she parried another attack, her wand hand trembling with exhaustion.

Draco’s wand continued to vibrate, the sensation growing stronger, telling him that Hermione’s heart was racing, her fear mounting. He knew he couldn’t let her fall—not here, not like this. He stepped closer to her, his body shielding hers as they fought back to back, their magic weaving together in a desperate dance of survival.

“We have to hold on!” he shouted, though he wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince her or himself. His focus was laser-sharp, every muscle in his body tensed as he cast spell after spell, each one more vicious than the last. The Inferi were closing in, their dead eyes locking onto them, but he refused to give in to the terror gnawing at his resolve.

And then, just as the Inferi were upon them, there was a sudden shift in the air—a strange, otherworldly ripple that sent a shiver down Draco’s spine. Before he could process what was happening, a massive portal ripped open in the fabric of reality, swirling with dark energy.

The Inferi paused, their heads jerking towards the portal as if drawn by some unseen force. The next thing Draco knew, the army was crossing the portal in tandem towards what seemed to be a cave. In the split second before the portal was closed, Draco caught a glimpse through it—and there he was, a man, standing on the other side, watching them. He was tall and dandy-looking, with long white hair that flowed past his shoulders and a pair of immaculate white gloves on his hands. His face was calm, almost serene, as if the chaos and bloodshed meant nothing to him.

And then there was nothing.

As the portal closed, the battlefield was eerily silent, save for the distant crackling of flames and the grotesque sounds of the remaining Inferi—those too damaged to follow their master through the portal—scraping and twitching on the ground. The air was thick with the stench of death, and the once-vibrant streets of Edinburgh were now a desolate graveyard, littered with the bodies of the fallen.

Draco, Hermione, Potter, and Weasley slowly came together, each bearing the weight of what had just transpired. The adrenaline that had fuelled their fight was fading, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion and a hollow emptiness that gnawed at their insides. Hermione was silently crying.

Potter’s gaze swept across the carnage, his expression grim. “Hestia’s gone,” he murmured, his voice rough with grief. “She fought aggressively, but… she didn’t make it.”

Hermione’s breath hitched as she spotted Hestia Jones’s lifeless body lying amidst the rubble, her wand still clutched in her hand, her face frozen in a final, defiant snarl. She swallowed hard, “We lost so many,” she whispered, tears brimming in her eyes as she scanned the broken bodies of both Aurors and Muggles alike.

Weasley knelt beside one of the mutilated Inferi, its mangled body twitching uselessly. “They’re still moving,” he said quietly, a mix of disgust and horror in his voice. “But they’re not a threat anymore. Whoever that was… he took most of them with him.”

Draco remained silent, his mind spinning with the image of the man he had seen through the portal—the calm, dandy figure who had seemed so utterly detached from the horror around him. A sickening sense of dread curled in his stomach as he considered the implications of what he had seen. “I think…” he began, his voice strained, “I think my father might know something about that man.”

Potter and Hermione turned to look at him, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and concern.

“What do you mean?” Potter asked, his eyes narrowing.

Draco hesitated, his thoughts swirling. “The man I saw through the portal—he wasn’t just any dark wizard. There was something… familiar about him. I think I’ve seen him before. My father was always involved with the darkest corners of our world, and if anyone might recognise him or know his motives, it would be Lucius Malfoy.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed as she processed his words. “Do you think your father would help us?” she asked cautiously.

Draco’s lips thinned into a grim line. “I don’t know. But if it means stopping more of this,” he gestured to the destruction around them, “I’ll make him help.”

The weight of their losses pressed down on them, and for a moment, the four of them stood in solemn silence, each grappling with the devastation they had just witnessed.

As they stood watching, a number of Ministry and St. Mungo workers began apparating. The Obliviator Squad had arrived and were already obliviating muggles, even the ones that were still hurt and needed medical attention. It made Draco’s stomach twist and bile rise to his mouth.

“The Ministry is still trying to keep this hidden,” Potter said with disgust.

“We need to act quickly, what happened just proves isn’t the solution,” said Weasley.

But then, something caught Draco’s eye—a figure, shambling awkwardly a few meters away, moving with the same jerky, unnatural gait as the other Inferius. His heart sank, a cold wave of dread washing over him as he realised what he was seeing. “No… oh, no…” he whispered, his voice breaking as he started towards the figure.

The group followed his gaze, their faces frozen in horror as the truth hit them like a sledgehammer. The figure was a woman, her clothes torn and bloodied, her eyes empty and lifeless. But there was no mistaking her face. “Tilly,” Draco breathed, the name catching in his throat like a curse and he moved towards her. Her body was horribly mangled, yet she continued to move, driven by the dark magic that had enslaved her even in death.

His breath hitched, and he staggered as he approached her, the world around him narrowing to the grotesque sight of her. The fires burning in the distance cast flickering shadows across her disfigured face, making the scene even more nightmarish. The ground beneath him felt unsteady, as though the earth itself was recoiling from the horror that had taken root upon it.

“Tilly…” The name escaped his lips again, like a prayer, a desperate plea for this to be some cruel illusion. But it wasn’t. The closer he got, the more the twisted reality set in. Her skin, once warm and full of life, was now mottled and grey, stretched taut over the sinew and bone beneath. Her once-bright eyes were now hollow voids, devoid of the spark that had made her human.

Hermione’s breath faltered, her hand flying to her mouth as the horrifying reality set in. Potter and Weasley moved closer, their faces drawn and pale. The horror of it was too much to bear—the knowledge that they had been too late, that the woman they had fought so desperately to save was now trapped in this grotesque half-life, her soul long gone.

Draco’s breath came in ragged gasps, tears falling freely from his eyes and his hands trembling as he stared at the remains of the woman who had been so fully loved by Lucas. Guilt and sorrow twisted inside him, suffocating him. He had promised Lucas they would find her, that they would bring her back. But now, all that was left was this abomination, this cruel mockery of life.

“Draco…” Hermione’s voice was barely a whisper, thick with stuck tears as she reached for his hand, her touch grounding him in the midst of the nightmare. He noticed her body trembling with the effort to hold back sobs, unable to tear her gaze away from Tilly, the horrific reality of what had happened to her a crushing weight on her chest. "This can't be real," Hermione choked out, her voice strangled by the tears she was desperately holding back. "She doesn’t deserve this… no one does.”

He didn’t pull away, couldn’t pull away. All he could do was stare at Tilly, his heart breaking for the man he had failed, for the life that had been so brutally stolen. The weight of it all crushed him, the horror of the battle, the loss of so many, and now this—a personal blow that left him hollow and aching. He had promised Lucas, sworn that they would bring Tilly back to him, but now… now all that was left of her was this—this horrifying shell, devoid of everything that had made her Tilly. He could see her trying to move, but her broken body only managed slight, jerky movements, as if she were a puppet being cruelly yanked by invisible strings.

Potter and Weasley circled around the grotesque figure, their wands drawn but their hands shaking. They had faced death countless times, but this was something different—this was a perversion of life and death, a sick joke played by a malevolent force they couldn’t yet comprehend.

“We have to… we have to stop her suffering,” Potter muttered, but even as the words left his mouth, Draco knew they were powerless. The fire that would have released Tilly’s spirit had been rendered useless, repelled by whatever dark magic protected these Inferi from the one force that should have been their undoing. He knew there was nothing—no spell, no magic that could undo what had been done. 

Tilly’s lifeless gaze turned towards him, as if recognising him in some distant, twisted way, and Draco felt his resolve shatter. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I’m so sorry, Tilly… Lucas… I’m sorry…”

They stood there, the four of them, trapped in a moment of unbearable sorrow and frustration, surrounded by the remnants of a battle they hadn’t truly won. The air was thick with the stench of death, the echoes of destruction still reverberating around them. And in the midst of it all, Tilly—what was left of her—stood as a cruel reminder of their failure.

The Ministry’s Obliviators were already at work, cleaning up the scene, but Draco knew that no amount of magic could erase the horror of what had happened here. It was a scar that would never heal, a memory that would haunt them all.

And as they stood there, the reality of Tilly’s fate sinking in, the night around them grew colder, darker, as if the very world was mourning the loss of another innocent soul to the darkness. There was nothing more they could do—no words that could comfort, no magic that could fix this.

Tilly was gone, and all that was left was a hollow broken shell, a monument to the cruelty of the forces they were up against. 

Robards approached them briskly, oblivious to the commotion between them.

“Potter, while the Obliviator Squad keeps working, we need to take the Inferi to the Department of Mysteries,” Robards said, his tone brusque and business-like, completely detached from the human tragedy that had just unfolded. “There’s already a room where we’ve been storing them as we investigate how to end them for good. Please coordinate with the Unspeakables to move them as inconspicuous as possible.”

He didn’t wait for a response, simply turned on his heel and strode away, leaving the four of them standing in the midst of the carnage, speechless and reeling from the events.

Draco’s wand fell to his side, his hand numb, his mind spinning. His breath was shallow, each inhale feeling like it was being choked back by the weight of what they had just witnessed. The image of Tilly—Lucas’s Tilly—reduced to this grotesque half-life, twisted and mutilated, her soul forever lost, was burned into his mind.

Hermione’s hand remained in his, warm and comforting, but it did little to ease the cold emptiness inside him. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he had failed Lucas, failed Tilly, and now, he was failing everyone else by not being able to stop this madness.

“This isn’t right,” Hermione whispered, her voice trembling with the effort to keep her emotions in check. “None of this is right.”

“We need to do something,” Weasley said, his voice hollow. He looked at Potter, who seemed just as lost as the rest of them, his usual resolve crumbling under the weight of their collective grief. “This… this can’t keep happening.”

Potter clenched his jaw, his fists tightening at his sides. “We’ll make sure it doesn’t,” he said, though the determination in his voice was tinged with a deep, simmering anger. He looked at Draco, his gaze sharp and piercing. “You said your father might know something about that man. Do you think he’ll help us?”

Draco swallowed hard, the question piercing through the fog of his thoughts. His father’s name was one he had long tried to distance himself from, but now, he couldn’t deny that his father’s connections and knowledge might be their only lead. The thought of having to confront his father, to ask for his help, filled Draco with a sense of dread, but he knew they didn’t have a choice.

“I don’t know if he’ll help willingly,” Draco admitted, his voice thick with reluctance. “But he’s our best chance at getting any information. If anyone would know who that man was… it would be him.”

Hermione squeezed his hand gently, drawing his attention back to her. “We’ll face it together,” she said softly, her voice filled with a quiet strength. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

Draco looked into her eyes, feeling a glimmer of hope and connection amidst the darkness. For a moment, he allowed himself to lean into that connection, to let it be the anchor that held him steady in the storm.

“Alright,” he said finally, his voice steadying as he made up his mind. “We’ll go to Malfoy Manor. But we need to be careful. My father… he’s not someone you can trust easily.”

Potter nodded, the fire returning to his eyes. “We’ll be careful. But we need to act quickly. The longer we wait, the more people will die.”

Draco’s stomach twisted at the thought, the image of Tilly’s lifeless form still fresh in his mind. “Then let’s not waste any more time.”

“Tomorrow, we go to Malfoy Manor. Malfoy, your father will answer our questions, whether he likes it or not. Ron and Hermione, you’ll handle the DA and the Slytherins—figure out how to protect as many people as possible. We’re running out of time.” said Potter while all of them nodded grimly.

“Hermione… Draco, take her to her flat, am both of you, rest and recover, we’ll have a long day tomorrow. Ron and I’ll stay to coordinate with the Unspeakables as Robards asked”, he was disgusted again.

As Draco and Hermione prepared to move, the eerie silence was broken only by the faint, grotesque sounds of the Inferi still struggling to move, their broken bodies writhing in the dirt. The air was thick with the stench of death, and the distant wails of sirens grew louder as more Ministry workers arrived to begin the grim task of cleaning up the aftermath.

They began to walk away, each step heavy with the weight of their mission. The battle was far from over, but they had to keep moving, had to keep fighting, even as the losses mounted. The night was dark and endless, the path ahead uncertain and treacherous, but they knew they couldn’t stop—not now, not ever.

As they turned the corner, leaving the devastated street behind, Draco cast one last glance back at the battlefield, his heart heavy with sorrow. The sight of Tilly’s body, her once-bright spirit extinguished, was a reminder of what they were up against—the darkness that threatened to consume them all.

Draco's fists clenched, determination igniting like a flame in his chest. He couldn’t let this happen again. He wouldn’t let this happen again.

With that resolve, they Apparated away, leaving the scene of death and destruction behind, but carrying its weight with them into the night, their hearts heavy, but their resolve stronger than ever.

Chapter Text

"Grief does not change you, Hazel. It reveals you." — John Green, The Fault in Our Stars

Draco

The battle was over, but the aftermath left a chill in Draco's bones that he couldn’t shake. As he and Hermione Apparated outside her flat, the weight of the night’s horrors pressed down on him like a leaden cloak. His mind was still spinning with images of the Inferi, the screams of the dying, and Tilly's lifeless, puppet body. The sense of failure clung to him, gnawing at his insides, dragging him back to memories he’d rather forget. Memories that had defined him for so long.

Hermione led the way to the door, her hand trembling as she fumbled with her keys. Draco noticed but said nothing. His own hands still shook, not just from the adrenaline but from the weight of the past crashing into the present—layers of trauma that had shaped him into the person he had become. He had spent years running from the darkness that still clung to him, but tonight, it felt as if it had found him again.

“Argh! Alohomora!” huffed Hermione, finally opening the door with her wand when the key refused to cooperate.

As they stepped inside, the familiar scent of vanilla and parchment greeted them—a stark contrast to the stench of blood, decay, and dark magic that clung to his robes. The soft lighting of the flat, and the coffee table still littered with their investigation, seemed almost wrong after the carnage they had just witnessed, abstract theories clashing with the visceral reality of the battlefield.

Draco paused in the entryway, his eyes unfocused, struggling to reconcile the safety of this space with the chaos they had just survived. He felt like a ghost, half alive, half trapped in the world of the dead. Could he ever truly be free of this weight?

He had once believed safety could be bought with loyalty—loyalty to a family, to a name. Back then, as a Death Eater, he had thought that following orders, no matter how gruesome, would protect him. It was all he had known. But now, after all that had happened, he knew there was no safety in that. Only pain. Pain that had hollowed him out, piece by piece.

But there had been no safety in that life, only pain. Pain, and a darkness that had seeped into his soul, a stain that he thought no amount of redemption could wash away.

“Draco?”

Hermione’s voice, soft and laced with concern, pulled him back to the present. He blinked, the image of Tilly’s hollow, lifeless eyes dissolving into Hermione’s worried gaze. Tears shimmered in her eyes, and for a moment, she looked like she was about to break—until she brushed them away quickly. But not quickly enough before Ginny appeared in the hallway.

Ginny’s face lit up when she saw them—until she took in their expressions. The relief in her eyes faded to worry as her gaze flicked between Draco and Hermione.

"What happened?" Ginny asked, her voice low, sensing the gravity of the situation.

Hermione’s voice trembled as she explained, "We... we... Harry and Ron were fighting the Inferi army, and they called us. We fought... and..." Hermione gasped, her tears spilling over before she could continue. "There was so much death... and we found someone important to Draco... she's dead, but she's an Inferius now, and we couldn't do anything," she choked out, her voice breaking.

The weight of her words hung in the air, suffocating.

Ginny’s hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide with shock. "Oh no… when Harry left, I imagined it could be something bad, but… I didn’t think…" She trailed off, shaking her head. "I’m sorry… I need to find him, I need to be with him."

She reached out to squeeze Hermione’s arm, then cast Draco a brief, understanding glance before slipping past them and out the door, leaving them alone in the silence.

Draco stood frozen, the weight of Tilly’s death pressing down on him like an avalanche. But it wasn’t just her—it was everything. Every person he had failed to save, every innocent life lost because of his cowardice. Tilly was only the latest name on a long list. Faces swirled in his mind, some familiar, some forgotten, but all accusing him of the same thing—inaction.

He saw another face now—a Muggle man, terrified, pleading. Draco had been too afraid to speak, too desperate to protect his mother to intervene. That man had died in front of him. And tonight, Tilly had died too. The memory was a festering wound, ripped open by the night’s events.

Hermione turned to him, her gaze softening as she took in the exhaustion and torment etched into his features.

“Draco,” she began gently, her voice careful, as if she knew he was standing on the edge of something fragile, “you’ve been holding it together all night. You don’t have to anymore.”

He met her gaze, his grey eyes clouded with pain. "I don’t know how not to hold it in," he admitted, his voice barely a whisper. "I keep seeing her… Tilly… and all I can think about is how I failed her. How I failed Lucas. How I failed… everyone."

Hermione stepped closer, her hand finding his. Her touch was warm, grounding him. "You didn’t fail anyone, Draco. What happened tonight... was beyond any of our control. But you were there, you fought for them. That’s what matters."

Draco swallowed hard, a lump forming in his throat. He wanted to believe her, but the guilt—the deep, gnawing guilt—was like poison in his veins. He closed his eyes, trying to block out the memories, but they only grew more vivid. He could hear the screams, the curses, the sickening thud of bodies hitting the ground.

And Bellatrix’s voice. That cold, mocking voice.

“ Do it, Draco ,” she had whispered, her breath hot against his ear as she tortured the person in turn. “ Show them what you’re made of. Show them you’re not weak .”

He had done it. He had cast the curse. And it had hollowed him out inside.

Hermione squeezed his hand, her thumb brushing lightly across his knuckles, pulling him back from the edge of that darkness.  “Come sit down. Let me take care of you for a change.”

Too exhausted to argue, Draco let her guide him to the sofa. As he sank into the cushions, the tension in his body began to unravel, but it left him feeling raw and exposed. Hermione disappeared into the kitchen for a moment, returning with a bottle of Firewhisky and two glasses. It was clear she didn’t intend to leave him alone tonight.

“I think we could both use a drink,” she said with a small, sad smile, pouring them each a generous measure.

Draco took the glass, his hand still trembling slightly. “Thanks,” he murmured, taking a long sip. The warmth of the alcohol spread through him, dulling the sharp edges of his anguish, if only for a moment.

Hermione settled beside him, close enough that their shoulders brushed. She took a sip of her drink, then looked at him, her gaze soft and searching. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” she said quietly. “But if you do… I’m here.”

They sat in silence for a while, the Firewhisky slowly numbing their pain. Draco’s mind swirled with thoughts of Tilly—of Lucas—and the growing storm inside him.

Draco stared into his glass, watching the amber liquid swirl in the dim light. For a moment, he considered keeping it all inside, burying it like he had buried so much before. But something about Hermione’s presence—her quiet strength, her unwavering support—made him want to let it out. To let her in.

“It’s just… all of it. The battle, the death, Tilly… I keep thinking I should have done more, should have been better. And I… I don’t know how to deal with that. It seems that nothing I do is ever enough. It’s like… there’s this emptiness, a darkness inside me that I can’t shake, no matter how hard I try.”

Hermione reached over, placing her hand gently on his arm. “I feel guilty too. I know we did what we could, but I also feel like it wasn’t enough…”

Draco looked at her, really looked at her, and for the first time, he saw the weariness in her eyes, the toll the night had taken on her as well. Without thinking, he reached up and brushed a stray curl away from her face, his fingers lingering on her cheek.

“I’m sorry you have to deal with me like this,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “You shouldn’t have to take care of me.”

Hermione shook her head, her eyes never leaving his. “I’m glad you’re here with me, Draco. I don’t want to be alone right now,” she whispered, her voice filled with sadness that mirrored the ache in his chest. “And maybe… maybe neither of us has to carry all this alone.”

Her words cut through him, peeling back the layers of guilt and shame. For so long, Draco had felt alone, burdened by the weight of his choices and his family’s legacy. But now, here was Hermione, offering him something he hadn’t thought he could have. She nursed him there, over the night, she wanted him to stay.

They sat in silence for a while, the Firewhisky slowly working its way through their systems, numbing their pain.

“Do you remember when we first met?” Hermione asked, her voice a little slurred, but her eyes bright.

Draco sighed, his head resting back against the sofa. “How could I forget? You barged into our cabin asking for a toad, your hair was… something else.”

Hermione laughed, and the sound was like balm to his weary soul. “And you were the arrogant git who slammed the door in my face.”

“Only because you made me feel...” he stopped himself, catching the words before he revealed too much. Before he told her the truth.

She looked at him, confused. “What was that?”

Draco cleared his throat, his voice lighter. “I’m getting sloshed apparently.”

Hermione’s gaze softened, and she reached out, her fingers brushing against his. “Never did I think we’d end up here. Together. Drinking.”

The room seemed to shrink around them, the world outside fading as they leaned closer. Draco’s heart pounded, but not with fear or guilt this time. It pounded with something warmer, something that made his pulse quicken in a way he hadn’t felt in years.

Just as the moment teetered on the edge of something more, Hermione blinked, as if coming back to herself. She looked away, her cheeks flushing slightly. “We should probably… take a shower and get some sleep.”

Draco nodded, though a part of him ached to close the distance between them. “Yeah… you’re right.”

They set their glasses aside, and Hermione stood, slightly unsteady on her feet. “Can you stay here tonight?” she proposed. “I don’t want you to be alone.”

Draco hesitated, but the thought of returning to the emptiness of the manor was unbearable. “Sure,” he said, his voice quiet.

Hermione disappeared into her bedroom and returned with a blanket and a clean towel, which she handed to him. “I’ll take a shower first, then you do. You can sleep on the sofa. It’s not the most comfortable, but—”

“It’s fine,” Draco interrupted, a small smile playing on his lips. “I’ve slept in worse places.”

She smiled back, and for a moment, they just stood there, the air between them felt charged with Draco’s unspoken emotions. Finally, Hermione stepped closer, and without thinking, she wrapped her arms around him in a gentle embrace.

Draco stiffened at first, but then he relaxed into her touch, his arms circling around her waist as he held her close. The warmth of her body against his was soothing, her smell was grounding, and for the first time that night, he felt a sense of peace.

“I’ll go take a shower, be back in a blink”.

Draco watched as Hermione disappeared into the bathroom, the door closing softly behind her. The sound of running water soon filled the flat, a steady rhythm that seemed to mirror the chaotic thoughts swirling in his mind. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, but the events of the night still clung to him like a dark shadow.

He moved to the sofa and sank into it, the cushions soft beneath him, but his mind was far from restful. The quiet of the flat was a stark contrast to the noise of battle and the hopelessness he felt, all of it threatened to overwhelm him. But then he looked at the towel in his hands, the blanket draped over the armrest, and something about Hermione’s simple act of care gave him the strength to keep it together.

He was startled out of his thoughts by the bathroom door creaking open. Hermione stepped out, steam billowing around her. She was dressed in a simple t-shirt and pyjama bottoms, her hair damp and curling slightly from the moisture. She looked at Draco, a faint smile on her lips, but there was a vulnerability in her eyes that he hadn’t noticed before.

“Your turn,” she said softly, handing him the towel she had brought out earlier.

Draco nodded, standing up slowly, his body feeling heavier than it should. He moved towards the bathroom, their hands brushing slightly as they crossed the hallway. That small touch, as fleeting as it was, sent a warmth through him that he hadn’t expected.

As he stepped into the bathroom and closed the door behind him, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. For a moment, he didn’t recognise the man staring back at him. His face was pale, his eyes haunted, but it was the sadness in his expression that startled him the most. He looked… broken.

He let out a shaky breath and turned on the shower, letting the hot water fall over him. The warmth was a welcome relief, washing away the grime of the night, but it couldn’t cleanse the memories. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on the present—the simple reality of being in Hermione’s flat, the way she had looked at him, her embrace, her offer of comfort.

Draco leaned his forehead against the cool tile of the shower, the water cascading over his tense muscles. The realisation that he was in Hermione’s bathroom, in her space, was causing his mind to wander in directions he hadn’t anticipated. It was an intimate space, filled with the scent of her—vanilla, lavender, and something uniquely her own—and it was doing things to his body that he struggled to control.

He groaned softly, trying to push those thoughts away, trying to focus on anything else—the battle, the aftermath, anything that would dampen the sudden heat coursing through him. But the more he tried to suppress it, the more his mind conjured images of her—how she looked when she handed him the towel, her hair still damp from her own shower, the way her t-shirt clung to her form.

Guilt gnawed at him as he struggled to reign in his thoughts. How could he be thinking of her like this after everything that had happened? After the horrors they had just faced? But his body seemed to have a mind of its own, reacting to the very idea of her in a way that made him feel conflicted, as if he was betraying the raw, vulnerable connection they had shared moments before.

Draco clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as he tried to will away the sensation, the growing on his length. The water pounded against his back, helping to soothe some of the tension, and slowly, his body began to relax. He took a deep breath, focusing on the rhythm of the water, the coolness of the tile, and the calming effect of the steam.

Finally, he felt the tension ease, and he stood there for a moment, letting the last remnants of his inappropriate thoughts dissipate with the steam. He couldn’t afford to think of Hermione like that—not now, not when everything was so raw and uncertain. He needed to keep himself in check, to remember why he was here, to take care of her.

But as he shut off the water and reached for the towel, Draco couldn’t quite shake the lingering warmth that her presence stirred within him. It was confusing, and disorienting, but it was also real—more real than anything he had felt in a long time. And that scared him.

Once he finished, he dried off and dressed in some clothes Hermione had left out for him—an oversized shirt of hers that clung to his body and a pair of Christmas pyjama bottoms which were a bit short and fit on him. After getting dressed, he felt more human, more grounded than before. When he emerged from the bathroom, he found Hermione sitting on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket with her legs tucked beneath her. She looked up as he approached, her expression soft, inviting him to sit beside her.

“You didn’t have to wait up,” he said quietly, though a part of him was glad she had.

“I didn’t want to sleep yet,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “The night… it feels too heavy.”

Draco understood that feeling all too well. He sat down next to her, and for a moment, they simply sat there in silence, the weight of everything that had happened pressing down on them.

They were sipping some tea, barely talking, when Hermione started to nod off, her head drooping and her eyes blinking as exhaustion took over.

“Goodnight, Draco, I don’t want to, but I need to get some sleep,” Hermione whispered, pulling back just enough to look up at him.

“Goodnight, Hermione,” he replied, his voice soft.

She lingered for a moment, her eyes searching his, and then she stepped back, heading to her room. “If you need anything… I’m right here.”

Draco nodded, watching her until she disappeared behind her bedroom door. He settled onto the sofa, pulling the blanket over himself, but sleep didn’t come easily. His mind began reeling from everything that had happened, from the battle, from Tilly, and from the confusing feelings stirring inside him for Hermione.

After what felt like hours, exhaustion finally took hold, and he drifted into a fitful sleep.

When Draco woke startled after a mild nightmare, he opened his eyes to a world that felt momentarily foreign. For a heartbeat, he couldn’t remember where he was, the echoes of the battle still clinging to his mind. But then, the soft warmth of the room, the scent of vanilla, and the gentle purring on his chest brought him back to the present. 

His senses sharpened, and the first thing he noticed was a soft weight pressing down on him. Groggily, he lifted his head and found himself staring into the golden eyes of Crookshanks, who had curled up on top of him. The cat's purring resonated through his chest, a soothing vibration that seemed to reach into the depths of his unsettled heart, pulling him out of the darkness that had threatened to consume him.

As his mind cleared further, he became aware of another warmth beside him. He looked down and saw Hermione, her head resting on his chest, her wild curls splayed across his shoulder like a halo. Her hand was draped across his stomach, fingers curled and grabbing the fabric of his shirt, as if even in sleep, she needed something solid to hold onto.

Draco’s heart skipped a beat, his breath catching in his throat as he took in the sight of her. The gentle rise and fall of her breath, the way her body fit so perfectly against his—it was as if she belonged there, as if they had always been meant to end up like this.

For a moment, he simply lay there, afraid to move, afraid to disturb the delicate balance of this peaceful moment. Her breath was warm against his neck, her presence grounding him in a way he had never experienced before. It was more than just comfort; it was something deeper, something that scared him and thrilled him all at once.

And then it hit him—like a bolt of lightning, searing through the fog of exhaustion and lingering grief. He was in love with her. She was beautiful, but also, she had carved his path into his heath slowly, so slowly that he didn’t even notice, but now it was obvious to him now, the way he admired her, saw her bravery, her strength, her selflessness, she was everything. The realisation was both terrifying and comforting, as if everything that had happened, every step of his tumultuous journey, had led him to this very moment. He had fought so hard to redeem himself, to find a place in a world that had once rejected him, and now, here he was, holding one of the persons who had seen him for who he truly was and had chosen to seek safety in him.

But what did that mean? For him? For her? For them?

His mind buzzed with questions, doubts swirling in the back of his mind, but he found himself unable to focus on anything other than the way she fit so perfectly against him, as if they had always been meant to be like this.

Crookshanks stirred, stretching out his paws before settling back down, his purring growing louder. The sound seemed to echo Draco’s own contentment, a rare feeling that he wasn’t quite sure how to handle. It was a feeling he hadn’t allowed himself to experience, not since before the war had stolen everything from him.

He looked down at Hermione again, her face soft and peaceful in sleep, and felt something inside him shift. This was new, uncharted territory, but for the first time in a long while, even though he was still afraid of what the future might hold. he could face it, whatever it was, as long as she was there with him. She made him feel strong.

For now, he would just be in this moment, let the rest sort itself out later. With a small, contented smile tugging at his lips, Draco closed his eyes, allowing himself to drift back to sleep with Hermione in his arms.

~

The morning light filtered softly through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the room. Draco stirred and stretched, blinking groggily as his senses returned to him. And then, he remembered. 

Hermione.

He glanced down and found her still nestled against him, her curls even more splayed across his chest, and her hand, no longer scrunching his shirt, now draped lazily over his stomach. Draco’s heart did an odd little skip. It was unexpected, but somehow... right. He took a deep breath, the scent of his amortentia, distinctly her , filling his senses. It felt surreal that she was still here, with him, after everything they had endured, their past and their present. She had seen through all his walls, and for some unfathomable reason, she had chosen to stay.

He closed his eyes and listened to the steady rhythm of her breathing. He needed that sound, that reminder that she was alive, safe— here . After everything, the dangers they faced, she was still here. A wave of gratitude washed over him, quickly followed by guilt. He knew all too well that nothing lasts forever, and this… this felt too fragile.

When he opened his eyes again, he couldn’t stop himself from watching her. The peaceful expression on her face, the way her hand clung to him even in sleep—it was unsettling, and yet, it made something tight in his chest loosen. How long had he convinced himself that closeness like this was something he didn’t need, something he could never have? It was dangerous, the way she made him feel tethered to something, to someone. His instinct was to push it away, to build walls, but with Hermione, that seemed impossible. And for the first time, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to.

But as if sensing his gaze, Hermione began to stir. Her hand twitched against his shirt, and her eyes fluttered open. She blinked, her gaze landing on his chest before trailing up to meet his eyes. The realisation of where she was—and how she was wrapped around him—hit her all at once.

“Oh!” Hermione gasped, sitting up abruptly. Her cheeks flushed a deep pink as she scrambled back, pulling the blanket up as if to shield her embarrassment. “I—I didn’t mean to…”

Draco couldn’t help the smirk that tugged at his lips. “If you wanted to throw yourself at me, Granger, you could’ve just said so.”

She shot him a glare, though the blush in her cheeks remained. “I wasn’t—oh, shut up, Malfoy.”

He chuckled softly, but it wasn’t just amusement—it was the warmth she brought with her, even in moments like this, where everything was so fragile. Seeing her, always so composed, letting her guard down in front of him… it stirred something inside him and it terrified him. But he couldn’t deny how right it felt. “I’ve had worse company in bed before”.

Her eyes narrowed, though a small smile played on her lips. “I’m sure you have,” she retorted, her tone light but carrying something… softer. It felt like affection, or maybe that was just his wishful thinking.

They settled into a brief silence, but it wasn’t an easy one. The room was quiet, but Draco could feel the weight of it all pressing down on them—the echoes of last night creeping back in. Tilly’s lifeless body, the screams, the relentless tide of death. His jaw clenched, the guilt threatening to swallow him whole again, but he pushed it down, burying it beneath the calm façade he’d perfected over the years.

She spoke quietly, almost to herself. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t sleep, and I came out to check on you… and you looked so peaceful.” She bit her lip, her voice trembling slightly as she added, “So I lay down next to you. I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I’m sorry if I—if I overstepped.”

Draco softened at her words. He saw the vulnerability there, the way she tried to carry so much on her own, and how her apology wasn’t really about falling asleep next to him, but something deeper. “It’s alright, Hermione. Really,” he said, his voice gentler than it had been in a long time. “It… helped me too.”

She looked at him, and for a moment, something passed between them. She didn’t say anything, but the look in her eyes—tired, sad, but full of understanding—spoke volumes.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” she whispered, breaking the silence. “The attacks, I mean. We’re going to have to keep fighting, aren’t we? No matter how much we lose… it never ends.”

Draco nodded. The weariness in her voice mirrored his own. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “But this time, we’ll fight together.”

Her gaze met his, searching his eyes as if looking for reassurance. He reached out, his hand finding hers, and squeezed gently. He wanted to say something to ease her mind, to let her know that as bleak as things seemed, they could have each other.

“We aren’t broken—not yet,” Draco murmured, his thumb unconsciously tracing circles on her skin. “As much as last night took from us, it didn’t take everything.”

Hermione blinked, her cheeks flushing at his touch, and for a moment, she looked as if she might say something. But instead, she stood abruptly, pulling away from the moment. “I’ll make us breakfast,” she said, her voice a bit too bright. “We need to start the day properly if we’re going to face whatever comes next.”

Draco watched her as she moved away, her back slightly tense. The mask of composure was back in place, but he had seen the cracks—felt them, too. After quickly casting a mouth-cleaning charm and ensuring there was no evidence of his morning… nature, he followed her into the kitchen.

Leaning against the counter, he watched as Hermione rummaged through the cupboards, muttering to herself. “Toast, eggs… nothing fancy.” The mundane task seemed to ground her, and he found comfort in that too—the simple act of preparing food together felt like a reprieve from the chaos.

They worked in a comfortable silence, the clattering of pans and the soft sizzle of eggs filling the air. It felt almost normal, as if the outside world didn’t exist for just a moment.

But then, the peace was interrupted by a sudden whoosh as the fireplace flared to life. Both Draco and Hermione turned to see Potter stepping through the Floo, brushing soot off his robes.

“Morning, Hermione,” Potter said casually before his eyes landed on Draco. “Malfoy.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, waiting for the inevitable questions, but Potter merely nodded. No surprise, no shock—just… acceptance.

“You two, uh… having breakfast?” he asked, though there was a glimmer of amusement in his tone.

“We were,” Hermione replied, her voice a little strained, clearly caught off guard.

“I figured you’d still be here,” Potter’s tone casual but his eyes glinting with something sharper. “Thought it might be a good time to check in.”

Draco’s frown deepened, his arms crossing in a familiar defensive posture. “You figured I’d be here? What exactly are you implying, Potter?”

Potter shrugged, but there was something annoyingly perceptive in his gaze. “Just that it made sense. After last night, I didn’t think you’d leave her alone.” He glanced at Hermione, with caring eyes, “And Hermione’s a good person to have around when things get messy.”

Draco’s irritation flared. What did Potter think he saw? There was something in his calm acceptance that gnawed at him, as if the man knew more than he was letting on. As if Potter had already drawn conclusions about his feelings, conclusions that even Draco had barely accepted. And how much had he been showing without realising it?

“Right,” Draco said dryly. “Glad to see I’m so predictable.”

Potter smirked, glancing between him and Hermione. “Have you told him yet?”

Draco’s gaze sharpened. “Told me what?”

Hermione flushed, her eyes widening in a mix of fear and embarrassment. She glared at Potter, but he just chuckled as if they were in on some inside joke Draco had yet to understand. Potter chuckled.

Before Draco could press further, Potter’s expression shifted, turning more serious. “We need to meet with your father, Malfoy. Sooner rather than later.”

Draco’s heart sank at the mention of Lucius, a cold chill sweeping through him. His jaw tightened, and the familiar weight of dread settled in his chest. Lucius was more than a father—he was the shadow Draco could never fully escape, no matter how far he ran. Every cruel lesson, every command drilled into him as a child, every sneer that told him he would never be enough unless he became exactly what Lucius wanted. Facing him meant stepping back into that darkness, and Draco wasn’t sure if he could do it without losing everything he was fighting to become, but he knew he had to, just as Potter said, sooner rather than later.

Draco forced a sardonic smile. “No time like the present.”

The silence that followed was heavy, fraught with unspoken tension. Draco turned to Hermione, his gaze softening. “Guess that’s our cue.” He quickly transfigured his clothes to something more proper to face his father and walked towards the door.

Hermione approached him, her eyes filled with concern. “Be careful, both of you.”

Draco offered her a small nod, their gaze lingering longer than it should have. He wanted to say something—anything to reassure her—but the words caught in his throat. Instead, he gave her a look that he hoped conveyed what he couldn’t say, and then, just like that, he pulled his usual bravado back into place, the mask he had worn for so long slipping on as easily as ever.

As Draco stepped outside, the warmth of Hermione’s flat clung to him like a last breath of comfort, but it was fleeting. The moment the door clicked shut behind him, the cold descended, sharp and biting. It wasn’t just the morning air—it was the weight of what was coming. Leaving her flat felt like stepping out of a sanctuary and into the storm, and he wasn’t sure he could hold onto the lightness he’d felt, no matter how brief it had been. In his mind, the looming silhouette of Malfoy Manor stretched out before him, dark and oppressive. A shiver ran down his spine as he braced himself for what was to come. 

“We’ll be fine,” Potter said, though there was an edge to his voice that betrayed his own unease.

Draco didn’t reply. His eyes were fixed ahead, but his mind churned. Lucius was always there, a spectre haunting his every move. And now, more than ever, Draco felt the old instincts kicking in—the urge to protect himself, to shut everything out before the weight of his father’s expectations crushed him again. 

With one last fleeting thought of Hermione, they both turned and disappeared into the cold, unforgiving grounds of Malfoy Manor.

~

Draco and Potter Apparated just outside the grand iron gates of Malfoy Manor, the familiar structure looming like a dark shadow cast over Draco's entire life. The sight of it made his stomach twist, a suffocating reminder of the years he’d spent in fear and frozen. After his father had been released from Azkaban he had found a way to spend the least amount of time at the manor that he could, and yet here he was, voluntarily walking back to face him and the expectations he’d been fighting so hard to leave behind.

He shot a sidelong glance at Potter, who stood beside him, arms crossed and gaze sharp, waiting for Draco to lead the way.

“Ready?” Potter asked, his tone neutral, though his eyes glinted with something unspoken—perhaps understanding, or maybe just anticipation.

Draco nodded, though the knot in his stomach tightened. “As I’ll ever be.”

They moved forward in silence, the crunch of gravel beneath their feet loud in the otherwise still morning. The imposing front doors of Malfoy Manor soon came into view, and before either of them could come closer, the door swung open, revealing Narcissa Malfoy. She stood tall and regal as always, her composure unshaken by the years, though her gaze softened when it landed on Draco.

Her eyes lingered on him for a moment before shifting to Potter. There was no open hostility—just a cold, distant politeness. “Draco. Potter,” she greeted, her voice as cool as marble, but not unkind.

“Mother,” Draco replied with a nod, his voice steady but distant. “We’re here to see Father.”

Her eyes flickered with something unreadable—concern, perhaps—but she didn’t comment. “He felt the wards, he knows you’re here. Follow me.”

The manor’s interior was as oppressive as always, the scent of polished wood and aged stone thick in the air. The walls seemed to close in as they walked, memories from his childhood pressing down on him like the suffocating weight of old ghosts. Potter’s silent presence beside him was grounding in a way Draco hadn’t expected, though strange.

Narcissa led them down the familiar corridors, stopping outside Lucius' study. Her hand lingered on the door handle as she looked at Draco, her expression softening just slightly, a rare crack in her poised exterior. “Be careful,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, but the weight of a mother’s concern unmistakable.

Draco met her gaze, his own expression a mix of determination and fatigue. He gave a curt nod. “I will.”

With that, she pushed open the door.

Lucius Malfoy sat behind his grand mahogany desk, a half-empty bottle of Firewhisky resting beside him. His once imposing figure had softened, though the cold air of superiority clung to him like a well-worn cloak. His eyes flickered up as they entered, narrowing at Potter before softening—just slightly—when they landed on Draco.

“Well,” Lucius drawled, swirling his drink with lazy precision. “If it isn’t my prodigal son. And... Potter.” His voice dripped with disdain, though the Firewhisky dulled his usual sharpness. His gaze lingered on Draco for a moment longer, as if trying to gauge the change in him, but there was something mocking in his eyes. He took a slow sip, waiting.

Draco stood still for a moment, his jaw tight. Potter remained by his side, watchful but silent.

“Malfoy,” Potter greeted, his voice measured but with an edge. His politeness felt strained, a simmering tension beneath the surface.

Lucius sneered, setting his glass down with a sharp clink. “So, Draco,” he said, his eyes locking on his son, “to what do I owe the... displeasure of this visit? I imagine this isn’t a social call.”

Draco met his father’s gaze, the familiar knot of tension twisting in his chest. But this time, he held firm. “We need information. There have been attacks, and I believe you know who’s behind them.”

Lucius let out a dark chuckle, devoid of warmth. “Straight to business, then. How very... utilitarian of you.” His gaze flicked dismissively towards Potter before returning to Draco. “But tell me, Draco, when did you start running errands for the likes of him?” The word "him" dripped with venom, his lip curling in contempt.

Draco didn’t flinch. He had expected this. “I’m not running errands,” he said, his voice steady. “We’re trying to stop a madman who’s killing innocent people.”

“Innocent people?” Lucius leaned forward, his tone thick with scorn. “And what are you now, Draco? A crusader for the weak? A protector of the undeserving? It’s pathetic.”

Draco’s fists clenched in his lap, but his voice remained calm, controlled. “I’m not here to debate morality with you, Father. We need information. You know something, and I’m asking you to help.”

Lucius let out a sharp, humourless laugh. “Help?” he scoffed, taking another sip of his drink. His eyes narrowed dangerously. “You’ve always been misguided, Draco, but this—this is beyond foolishness. You’ve turned your back on everything. Your family. Your heritage. You’re nothing but a dissident now.”

Draco could feel the weight of Potter’s gaze on him, but he didn’t look away from Lucius. The old fear that used to seize him in these moments had faded. His father’s approval no longer held him captive.

“Yes,” Draco said firmly, meeting his father’s gaze with unflinching resolve. “A dissident is here. And I’m proud of it.”

Lucius’ eyes darkened, his grip tightening on the glass. “Proud? Of what?” His voice rose, dripping with venom. “Of abandoning the Malfoy way? The pure way? The correct way? You think these people will ever see you as one of them, Draco? You think you can erase who you are?”

Draco’s jaw tightened, but his voice remained calm. “I’m not trying to erase anything, nor do I presume I can. I’m trying to do what’s right.”

Lucius slammed his glass down, spilling Firewhisky across the desk. “What’s right? And what, exactly, is right, Draco? Bowing to the Ministry? Submitting to the will of Mudbloods and traitors?” His face twisted with fury. “You’ve chosen the losing side, Draco. And you’re too blind to see it.”

Draco stood abruptly, his fists clenched at his sides, but his voice was cold and controlled. “The losing side? The only thing I’ve lost, Father, is the part of me that believed in you.”

Silence followed, sharp and suffocating. Lucius stared at him, his chest rising and falling with barely controlled rage. For the first time, Draco saw his father not as a towering figure of authority, but as a man clinging desperately to a crumbling ideal.

Draco’s voice dropped, final and resolute. “I’ll never be what you want me to be. I’ll never subscribe to your views again. So if there’s any shred of decency left in you, if there’s any part of you that ever cared about me—you’ll answer our questions.”

Lucius’ knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of his desk. For a moment, Draco thought his father might refuse, but then Lucius’ face twisted into a bitter, cruel smile.

“Decency?” he mocked. “That’s what you’re appealing to now?” He shook his head, his voice low and cutting. “Very well. I’ll tell you what I know, Draco. Not out of decency, but because I want you to see for yourself how futile this all is.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “So you know the wizard responsible for the attacks?”

Lucius smirked, swirling his drink lazily. “I might have an inkling.”

Draco’s teeth clenched. “Enough of your games, Father. I remember seeing him when I was a child.”

“Do you, now?” Lucius’ voice was mocking, but there was a flash of interest in his eyes. “And what does this wizard look like?”

“He’s older. White hair, white gloves, dead eyes… Now that I think of it, he looks like you but older,” Draco shot back, his tone biting.

Lucius’ smile faded slightly. He leaned back in his chair, his eyes cold and calculating. “If he is who I believe he is, he’s someone who doesn’t care for alliances or sides. He’s dangerous—more dangerous than you can imagine. And if you’re foolish enough to go after him, you’ll be swept away like the rest. But that’s your choice, Draco.”

Draco’s voice remained steady. “Who is he?”

Lucius waved his hand dismissively. “An acquaintance, once. Argo Pyrites.”

Potter, who had remained silent until now, stepped forward. “Argo Pyrites? The alchemist?”

Lucius nodded, swirling his drink. “The very same.”

“You are dealing with a very dangerous wizard, Draco,” Lucius said, his eyes gleaming with twisted satisfaction. “You should be careful.”

Draco’s gaze didn’t falter. “I’m not afraid of him.”

Lucius raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a cold smile. “You should be.”

The room fell into silence, the tension thick and suffocating.

Draco turned on his heel, his heart pounding as he walked toward the door, Potter close behind. As he reached for the handle, Lucius’ voice sliced through the air, sharp and cutting.

“You’ve made your choice, Draco. Don’t come crawling back when it all falls apart.”

Draco didn’t look back. His hand tightened on the door handle, his knuckles white. “I won’t.”

And with that, he walked out of his father’s study, the weight of his decision heavy but resolute.

As they strode down the long, cold hallway of Malfoy Manor, Draco’s mind raced, but his heart felt lighter, as if a burden he’d carried for years had begun to lift. Potter’s footsteps echoed behind him, but he remained silent, respecting Draco’s space. When they reached the grand staircase, Narcissa appeared at the top, her face pale and drawn, worry etched into her every feature.

"Draco," she called softly, her voice trembling slightly. She descended the stairs with her usual grace, though the fear in her eyes betrayed her calm exterior. "Draco, wait."

He stopped, turning to face her. The tightness in his chest returned, though he steeled himself against it. Potter stood a few paces back, watching the exchange quietly.

Narcissa reached him, her eyes searching his face. "Are you all right?"

Draco nodded, though he wasn’t entirely sure. "I’m fine, Mother."

But she saw through him, as she always had. Her hand rose to cup his cheek, her touch gentle. "You’re not fine, Draco," she whispered. "None of us are. This... all of this, it’s tearing us apart."

Draco swallowed hard, his throat tight. "I’m doing what I have to do. I can’t stand by and do nothing."

Narcissa’s expression wavered, but she didn’t argue. Instead, she let out a long, shaky breath. "Your father... he’s lost, Draco. Clinging to the past, to ideals that are crumbling beneath him." She paused, her voice softening. "But you—you’re different, you have been growing, I can see that. You’re braver than you know."

Draco blinked, surprised by her words. He wasn’t used to such praise. He glanced away, trying to maintain control of his emotions. "I’m just... trying to do the right thing."

Narcissa’s eyes softened further as she stepped closer. "I see that. And I’m proud of you. But this path... it’s dangerous. I want you to be safe."

Draco’s heart clenched at the vulnerability in her voice. "I’ll be fine, Mother. I’m not alone."

Her gaze flickered to Potter, standing silently in the background. Narcissa’s expression softened even more, a quiet awe filling her eyes. "You are helping them, aren’t you?"

Draco hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah, I am."

Narcissa looked at Potter for a long moment before turning back to Draco, her voice quieter but steady. "I never thought I’d see the day when you’d stand side by side with him, but... perhaps it’s time for second chances. For all of us."

Potter shifted, looking slightly uncomfortable, but said nothing.

"I want you to be happy, Draco," Narcissa said, her voice thick with emotion. "And safe. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. And if he—" she glanced briefly at Potter, "—if he’s part of that, then... thank him for me."

Draco felt his chest tighten at the raw emotion in her words. He wasn’t used to such openness, and it made him feel both stronger and more vulnerable at the same time. He simply nodded. "I’ll try, Mother."

Narcissa smiled, a sad smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She turned to Potter, offering him a small, hesitant nod. "Take care of each other, Potter."

Potter nodded. "We’re on the same side now, Mrs. Malfoy."

Narcissa’s lips pressed into a thin line, as if the words still stung, but she nodded again. "Yes... we are."

There was a brief silence before Narcissa spoke again, her voice low and filled with emotion. "Be careful, Draco. Both of you."

Draco gave her one last look, then turned and led Potter down the rest of the stairs, out of the manor, and into the cold morning air.

As they stepped outside, the warmth of Narcissa’s presence faded, replaced by the cold grip of reality. Potter, who had been quiet throughout, finally spoke. "You handled that well."

Draco shot him a sidelong glance. "I didn’t need your approval."

Potter smirked. "I didn’t say you did."

Draco’s jaw tightened. "Father... he’s not going to change."

Potter nodded grimly. "I didn’t expect him to."

Draco glanced back at the manor, its dark silhouette looming behind them like a shadow of his past. "It’s hard... watching him waste away, clinging to something that’s already gone."

"Yeah," Potter said quietly. "I know the feeling."

They stood in silence for a moment before Potter turned to face him. "Draco, we have to… let Lucas know about… what happened. I assumed you’d want to be there with me when I tell him”.

“Fuck, yes… but, fuck, what do I do? What can I say?”

“Just… be there for him.”

With a sharp nod, Draco followed. Together, they Apparated away from Malfoy Manor, leaving behind the ghosts of their past and stepping into the uncertainty of what lay ahead.

~

Draco could feel the weight of the news pressing down on him like a vice as they approached the small, dimly lit cottage. The air was thick with an oppressive silence, and every step felt heavier than the last. He glanced at Potter, who walked beside him, his face set in grim determination. But even Potter, with all his heroics and battle-hardened resolve, couldn’t hide the sorrow in his eyes.

They reached the door, and for a brief moment, Draco hesitated. His hand hovered above the knocker, his heart pounding in his chest. How could he do this? How could he stand in front of Lucas and tell him that the woman he loved, the person he had been searching for so desperately, was gone? Forever.

“MAlfoy,” Potter said softly, his voice barely a whisper in the quiet night. “We need to do this.”

Draco swallowed hard, nodding as he steeled himself. He knocked.

The door creaked open moments later, and Lucas appeared, his face pale and drawn. His eyes flickered with hope for the briefest of moments when he saw Draco, but it quickly faded as he took in their expressions. He knew. Even before the words were spoken, he knew something terrible had happened.

“Lucas…” Draco began, his voice low, struggling to keep his composure.

Lucas stepped aside, allowing them in, but his eyes never left Draco’s face. There was a tension in the air, a crackling unease that made it hard to breathe. Draco couldn’t look him in the eye. He knew the truth would shatter him, and he could already feel the weight of that guilt pressing down like a suffocating force.

“Did you find her?” Lucas asked, his voice trembling, clinging to hope. He stood there, fists clenched by his sides, as if bracing himself for the blow.

Draco opened his mouth, but no words came out. The words lodged in his throat, refusing to be spoken. His heart felt like it was being torn apart in his chest, and he fought against the overwhelming urge to run, to escape this unbearable moment.

Potter stepped forward, his voice steady but filled with sorrow. “We found Tilly, Mr. Linn. But… she’s gone.”

Lucas’s breath caught in his throat. “What do you mean she’s gone? Where is she?” His voice rose in desperation. "Why isn’t she with you?"

Draco’s stomach twisted. He felt the room spin as Lucas’s gaze shifted back to him, eyes wide with hope, desperate for reassurance. Desperate for anything but the truth.

“She…” Potter swallowed, forcing himself to continue. “She was turned into an Inferius, Lucas.”

The words were a death sentence. Final. Cold.

Lucas stumbled back, his hands clutching at his chest. "No… no… you’re lying!" His voice cracked, rising in a broken scream. "You must be lying! She can’t be—"

Draco felt his own chest tighten, guilt clawing at him like a beast. He had failed. He had failed Lucas. He had failed Tilly. Every promise he had made felt hollow now, empty words that couldn’t save anyone. He wanted to say something, anything, to ease Lucas's pain. But there were no words. Nothing he could say would ever make this right.

Potter moved toward Lucas, his hand outstretched, but Lucas recoiled, shaking his head. "No… no… I should’ve saved her. I should’ve been there."

Lucas’s legs buckled, and he collapsed into a nearby chair, his face buried in his hands as sobs wracked his body. The sound of his grief filled the room, raw and unfiltered, and it tore through Draco like a blade. He had seen death before, felt loss, but this—this was different. This was unbearable.

The raw guilt in Lucas's voice was like a mirror, reflecting Draco’s own failure back at him. The faces of the dead—the faces of everyone he had failed to save—swirled in his mind.

Draco knelt down beside Lucas, his throat tight with emotion. “I’m sorry, Lucas,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Lucas looked up, his tear-streaked face twisted with pain and disbelief. “How… how did it happen?”

Draco felt his chest constrict. He didn’t want to relive it. He didn’t want to see the lifeless, hollow eyes of Tilly’s body again. But he owed it to Lucas to tell him the truth.

“She…” Draco swallowed, his voice trembling. “She was turned into an Inferius. We… we couldn’t save her”.

Lucas let out a sound that was somewhere between a sob and a scream, his whole body shaking with the weight of his grief. He stood up abruptly, knocking the chair over in his fury. “No! No, that can’t be true! She can’t have been—who did this to her? Who?” His voice broke again, and he crumbled to the floor, his hands covering his face as he wept. Draco felt his own tears well up. The guilt—the weight of it—was too much. It was suffocating, pulling him under, drowning him in his own darkness.

Draco wanted to reach out, to offer some comfort, but he felt paralysed by the weight of it all. His own guilt was a physical presence, pressing down on him, suffocating him. It was his fault. If he had been faster, if he had been stronger, maybe he could have saved her. Maybe Lucas wouldn’t be on his knees, broken and lost.

“I should’ve saved her,” Draco muttered to himself, his voice barely audible. The guilt was too much, clawing at him with sharp, unforgiving talons. The battle was over, but the war—the one inside Draco—was far from done.

Potter, who had remained silent, placed a hand on Draco’s shoulder, his grip firm but understanding. 

Draco shook his head, he felt hollow, empty, just like the promises he had made to Lucas.

The room felt like it was closing in around them, the grief, the guilt, the unbearable weight of loss suffocating everything in its path.

Draco’s chest tightened as he watched Lucas weep, the raw agony in his cries cutting through him like shards of glass. He had seen pain before, but nothing like this. This was devastation. This was what failure looked like.

And as Lucas’s sobs filled the room, Draco could only stand there, drowning in the guilt that consumed him.

The chapter of their search had closed, but all it left behind was sorrow.

Chapter Text

"Vengeance is in my heart, death in my hand, blood and revenge are hammering in my head." — William Shakespeare, Titus Andronicus

Pyrites

1955

Argo Pyrites sat in his study, the familiar scent of old parchment and burning firewood filling the air. His hands moved deftly over a bubbling cauldron, its contents shifting from molten gold to deep violet, the result of months of meticulous alchemical experimentation. Outside, the Scottish Highlands howled with wind, but within the thick stone walls of his secluded cottage, the world felt perfectly still.

Pyrites had long retreated from the world of politics and power-hungry wizards. The Knights of Walpurgis had once seemed like a path to greater knowledge—a gathering of intellectuals and purists who sought to elevate magic to its rightful place. But it had quickly become apparent, especially with Tom Riddle at the helm, that their interest lay in domination—control—rather than the pursuit of knowledge.

For Pyrites, power was never the goal. Magic, particularly the Dark Arts, had always called to him for the secrets it held. In ancient texts and runes, there was untapped wisdom that wizards had long shunned. He wanted to understand magic, the way alchemy could transform not just matter but the very essence of life. The Dark Arts, forbidden and dangerous, held answers that other wizards were too fearful to explore. His research had uncovered something no other scholar had dared touch before—a lost branch of ancient magic that combined the raw force of the elements with the structured laws of alchemy. This magic, he believed, could transcend the physical limitations of modern magic. And he would devote years to mastering it.

But he knew he had to be cautious. The wizarding world wasn’t ready for this kind of magic—especially not with the growing tensions between wizards and Muggles. Too much attention could jeopardise the peace he had found in his secluded home. His family was the constant that kept him grounded.

Peace. That was the word he now associated with his life. He had his work, his wife, and his son, Jeremy. Nothing else mattered. As the winds outside howled, the sweet sound of giggling echoed from the corner of the room, and a smile tugged at his lips.

Jeremy, just four years old, sat cross-legged on the floor, his tiny fingers smeared with bright blues, greens, and yellows as he painted another wild, imaginative scene. His son’s innocent laughter and endless curiosity were like magic in their own right—pure, untouched by the darker aspects of the world.

“Daddy, look!” Jeremy called out, holding up his masterpiece. It was a crude but heartfelt drawing of their family. His wide grin made Pyrites' heart swell.

Pyrites left his work, kneeling beside his son to admire the painting. “That’s brilliant, Jeremy. You’re a natural artist.”

He ruffled his son’s hair, smiling at another picture of mountain tops, with him on top, under a lemon-yellow sun, his arms raised in a V, and flowers lay in pools of colour below. Jeremy’s joy, his boundless creativity—it reminded Pyrites that there was more to life than knowledge and alchemy. His son was the real magic, the centre, the tether that connected him to the world beyond alchemy. Jeremy was the light that balanced the darkness of his research—the light in his life.

But in the quiet corners of his mind, something else lingered. A desire. No, a need. Could his knowledge, his growing understanding of dark magic, be used to protect Jeremy? He knew how to create and transform matter, but he wondered—could he one day create a shield so powerful that nothing could harm Jeremy? His ultimate goal of transformation wasn’t just about himself—it was about protecting what he loved most.

And yet, the world was full of threats. Muggles. They represented a danger unlike any other. It wasn’t their power—it was their ignorance. History was filled with examples of Muggles turning to violence the moment they encountered magic they couldn’t comprehend. And Pyrites had always feared that one day, their ignorance would become a weapon against those he held dear.

His wife often dismissed his concerns. She had a softer heart, a more hopeful outlook on the world, and insisted on taking Jeremy into the nearby Muggle village from time to time. “He needs to see the world, Argo,” she would say. “He can’t grow up hiding from it.” She had insisted that evening too, taking Jeremy to dinner at a Muggle pub with a Squib friend. Pyrites had preferred they stay home—he always felt uneasy about Jeremy’s unpredictable magic in such a place—but his wife had reassured him.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” she had said with a gentle smile before they left.

That smile replayed in his mind as he returned to his alchemical studies. But as the fire crackled beside him, a pit of unease settled in his stomach. He had always been careful. He had always tried to protect them.

Then, a frantic tap-tap-tap at the window snapped him out of his thoughts. He looked up to see a small owl flapping desperately against the glass. His heart stuttered as he rushed to the window, yanking it open and snatching the letter from the bird’s beak.

The parchment was hastily scrawled, the ink smudged. Pyrites’ heart froze as he read the message:

There’s been an incident. Jeremy… the Muggles…

His worst fear.

Pyrites felt the ground give way beneath him. Jeremy had shown signs of magic early on, and he had always known this could happen. Without a second thought, he Apparated, his breath catching as the world twisted and blurred around him.

~

He appeared outside the Muggle pub, the tug behind his navel barely registering. The night air was thick, still, and too quiet for what lay ahead. The windows were shattered, the streets littered with broken glass, and inside, Pyrites could see Muggles huddled together, whispering frantically to one another.

The scene that greeted him when he pushed through the door stopped his heart.

His wife—his beloved wife—lay crumpled on the floor, blood staining her robes, her lifeless eyes staring blankly at the sky. Pyrites’ legs gave way as he rushed to her, falling to his knees. But his eyes were drawn to the small, fragile figure beside her.

Jeremy.

His precious son lay motionless, pale, his body still. The warmth that had filled Pyrites’ life was gone in an instant, snuffed out by the ignorance of those around them.

Pyrites dropped to his knees, pulling Jeremy into his arms. He cradled the boy’s lifeless body, his hands shaking as he felt the last remnants of warmth leaving him. For a moment, the world disappeared. Time ceased to exist. All that remained was an unbearable, hollow silence. Numbness flooded him. The world blurred, and all that remained was the cold, empty space where his son’s laughter had once been.

And then, through the fog of grief, something darker began to stir. A deep, guttural rage.

“What happened?!” Pyrites’ voice echoed in the room, but it wasn’t the voice of a scholar—it was the roar of a man whose world had been ripped from him.

A Muggle man stumbled forward, his face twisted with horror. “We—we didn’t know. The boy—he made things move—chairs, glasses—and then the lights… they shattered. We—we thought they were demons. We—”

Pyrites’ vision blurred with tears of rage. They hadn’t understood. They had been too afraid, too ignorant to recognise the beauty of magic. And in their ignorance, they had killed his family.

He knelt there, cradling Jeremy’s body for what felt like an eternity, as grief and fury warred inside him. They’d unleashed the lion, and slowly, the rage won out. His pursuit of knowledge had once been noble, a scholar’s quest for understanding. But now, it had purpose. The Dark Arts were no longer just a curiosity, a hidden passion. They would be his weapon. His findings in ancient magic would be the force that tore down the world of Muggles and their ignorance.

“I will burn their world to the ground,” he vowed, his voice cold with hatred. “I will gnash my teeth and I will watch them suffer as I have suffered.”

Pyrites had once been a scholar. Now, he was something else.

He was a weapon.

And the world would burn at his hands.

~

1973

The candlelight flickered in the darkened chamber beneath the cottage, casting long, jagged shadows across the stone walls. Argo Pyrites sat hunched over a massive tome, preparing for the ritual. The fire in the hearth crackled faintly behind him, offering the only warmth in the otherwise cold, still room.

His study had once been full of light—his son’s laughter, the scent of fresh herbs, and the warmth of family. But now, it had become a tomb of memories and loss. The pursuit of knowledge had once been noble. It had once been about transformation and the understanding of magic. But after Jeremy’s death, that pursuit had changed. Now it was a fevered obsession—an all-consuming quest to bend the world to his will.

Pyrites’ fingers traced the ancient runes on the pages before him. Arcanum Noctis: A Treatise on the Dark and Forgotten Arts —the fusion of dark magic and raw elemental forces—had once been his fascination. He had spent years translating the book, written in Proto-Celtic, into modern English. Now, it was his weapon—a tool for vengeance. The ancient texts spoke of magic so powerful it could stop time itself, bending reality and defying the laws of physics. But such magic came with a cost. It demanded sacrifices—gruesome, unspeakable sacrifices.

He’d discovered a branch of Dark Ancient magic so dangerous that even the darkest wizards dared not speak of it: Temporal Sealing . With it, time could be frozen, reality suspended—an ultimate weapon, capable of bringing the world to its knees.

He had prepared for this moment for years. Every experiment had led him here: to the creation of an artefact that could harness temporal magic—the white gloves—imbued with the very essence of time itself. These gloves would allow him to stop time within a set radius, freezing everything around him in a single, suspended moment. They would give him control over life and death. He could walk across a battlefield unscathed, striking down his enemies before they had the chance to raise a wand.

But the creation of such an artefact required more than skill. It demanded sacrifice.

Pyrites rose and walked to the centre of the dungeon, where a stone altar awaited. The air was thick with the smell of burning potions and magical herbs—ancient ingredients said to transmute elements and manipulate the forces of nature. His wand was drawn, its tip glowing faintly as he murmured incantations under his breath, the words foreign and ancient. The ground trembled beneath his feet as the runes inscribed in the floor began to glow, radiating a sickly green light.

Upon the altar, surrounded by the glowing runes, lay a young wizard—barely more than a toddler—whom Pyrites had taken from Godric’s Hollow. The boy lay unconscious, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. He was a pure-blood, but Pyrites no longer cared about bloodlines or allegiances. The boy had magic in his veins, and that was all that mattered now.

“ Biwotū, Anmanā, Amser, ” Pyrites whispered, his voice steady as his wand hovered over the boy’s still form. Life, soul, time—these were the components necessary to fuse magic with alchemy. The boy’s life force would fuel the creation of the gloves, binding the temporal magic to the fabric of reality itself.

The ritual was gruesome, as Dark Ancient magic often was. It demanded the life of an innocent, the extraction of their very essence to fuel the artefact. Pyrites no longer flinched at the thought. He had long since abandoned the morality that had once held him back. The world had taken everything from him, and now he would take it back, piece by piece.

The boy stirred, his eyes fluttering open, confusion and terror flashing across his face as he realised where he was. Pyrites did not meet his gaze. He was beyond guilt. Beyond regret.

“ Tre amserū et tre igniū… biwotū yertom nelet, ” Pyrites intoned, his wand moving in deliberate patterns above the boy’s chest. The runes on the floor flared even brighter, casting the chamber in an eerie, pulsating glow.

The boy screamed as the magic took hold, his body convulsing as his life force was drained from him. Pyrites felt the energy pouring into the air—raw and potent. It coiled through the room like a serpent, twisting and spiralling before being absorbed by the white gloves resting on the altar beside the boy.

The gloves shimmered as the life force was drawn into them, the fabric rippling as though it were alive. Pyrites watched, his heart pounding in anticipation. This was it—the moment he had waited for. The gloves would hold the power of time itself, able to freeze entire moments, bending the very flow of reality to his will.

The boy’s cries grew weaker. His small body grew paler, his eyes glazing over as the last of his life was siphoned away.

When the ritual was done, the chamber fell silent.

The boy lay still, lifeless—his soul now bound to the artefact. Pyrites reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he picked up the gloves. The fabric felt soft, almost ethereal, as if woven from the very essence of time. He slipped them on, feeling the surge of power rushing through him, his body vibrating with the energy of the ancient magic.

He flexed his fingers. The gloves glowed faintly, the runes etched into the fabric pulsing with a cold, steady light.

“ Tempus stagnat, ” Pyrites whispered, raising his wand.

Instantly, the room froze. The flames in the hearth stopped mid-flicker, the smoke from the incense hung still in the air, and the slow drip of water from the ceiling halted, mid-drop. Everything around him was locked in a single, frozen moment.

Pyrites stood in the centre of it all, his heart racing with exhilaration. He had done it. He had created the ultimate weapon—an artefact that could manipulate time itself. With this, he could achieve his goal.

But as he stood in the frozen world, something shifted within him. He looked down at the boy’s lifeless body, at the blood staining the altar, and felt... nothing. There was no guilt, no sorrow, no regret. The sacrifice had cost him more than the boy’s life—it had hollowed him out.

He was beyond feeling. Beyond emotion.

The Dark Arts had changed him, stripped away whatever was left of the man who had once loved his family. Now, there was only cold, methodical ambition. The world had taken everything from him, and in return, he had become something darker. The scholar was gone.

All that remained was vengeance.

And it was all for Jeremy.

~

1980

The war was at its peak. Voldemort’s name was whispered in fear, his influence spreading like wildfire through the wizarding world. Death Eaters, emboldened by their Dark Lord, wreaked havoc on witches, wizards, and Muggles alike, their brutality leaving a stain on every corner of Britain. But in the depths of his secluded cottage in the Scottish Highlands, Argo Pyrites saw Voldemort’s vision as little more than a flicker compared to his own. Still, he’d often visit certain Death Eaters to strike up alliances—exchanging books, contacts, and information he needed for his own grand design.

Pyrites had always been a scholar. Even now, amidst the most destructive wizarding conflict in living memory, he viewed Voldemort’s actions with nothing but dispassionate curiosity. He had once walked among those followers, drawn in by promises of knowledge. But now, it was plain as day: Voldemort’s ambitions were rooted in domination, in securing control over both the wizarding world and the Muggles beneath it. Domination was fleeting, however—Pyrites knew that.

The Dark Lord’s war was nothing but a temporary storm—devastating, sure, but ultimately fleeting. Pyrites wanted more. He wanted to reshape the very foundations of the world, tearing it away from the hands of Muggles.

In his study, the soft crackle of the fire illuminated ancient texts scattered across his desk. He’d recently acquired a turntable—who’d have thought it—Muggle music, of all things, helped him focus, drawing him deeper into his studies. ABBA’s melodies played gently in the background while he worked. His mind wasn’t on Voldemort, nor on the battles raging across Britain. He had something far greater in his sights—a vision that transcended mere power. Voldemort was but a blip, a flash of chaos. Pyrites sought true transformation.

His gaze flitted across the plans laid out before him, the pages filled with runes of ancient magic, calculations, and sketches of what would become his most ambitious creation yet.

An army.

Not just any army, though—an indestructible one. One he wouldn’t have to rely on others to help him exact his vengeance. He had already begun the groundwork, slowly collecting the knowledge he needed to bring his vision to life. And while Voldemort terrorised the wizarding world, Pyrites had chosen to wait. To pause. To watch. Let the Dark Lord burn the world down. When the ashes finally settled, Pyrites would strike, unleashing something far more terrifying than a few Death Eaters in dark cloaks.

His fingers traced the design of a dark artefact he’d been toying with for years. His brow furrowed in concentration. He would need to create an artefact powerful enough to change fire itself—corrupt it, twist it. This fire would fuel the core of his army, ensuring their invincibility. But fire alone wasn’t enough. Bel fire, once corrupted, would be bound to his Inferi through the power of runes and dark potions. He would imbue their bodies with eternal flames—twisted, deathless magic that would render his creations truly indestructible.

He would need an Obscurial. A being born from pain, from the repression of magical power—it would give him access to raw magic beyond what any ordinary wizard could achieve. A betrayed Obscurial would help him corrupt the Bel fire, and with the dark alchemy he had perfected over years of research, he’d possess the means to make his army truly unstoppable. They wouldn’t burn, they wouldn’t rot. They would walk through fire, and no spell would destroy them. All he needed was the right potion, the right runes to bind the corrupted fire with the Inferi. There were many steps left, but he had time.

Time was always his ally. He was patient—far more than Voldemort or any of his Death Eaters. Pyrites could wait, study, and perfect every detail. He had seen wizards rush into darkness, only to be consumed by it, driven by ego and bloodlust. Pyrites, though, would wield it like a scalpel—precise, methodical.

A knock at the door broke his thoughts.

Pyrites’ hand stilled, fingers resting on the edge of the ancient manuscript before him. He turned slowly, his sharp eyes narrowing as they fell upon the door. He’d long since abandoned the need for pleasantries, all business now when dealing with others.

The door creaked open, revealing a thin, hooded figure. “The Dark Lord requests your assistance,” rasped the voice, barely more than a whisper, though dripping with reverence. A Death Eater, cloaked in the trappings of Voldemort’s ranks, sent to gather whatever they could from those powerful enough to resist.

Pyrites’ lips curled in disdain. Voldemort’s war was crumbling, and they all knew it. “Tell your master,” Pyrites said, his voice low, biting, “that I’ve no interest in helping with his petty squabbles.” He waved a dismissive hand, his eyes already back on his notes, as though the Death Eater was nothing but an annoyance.

The man hesitated, but then gave a quick nod and slunk back into the shadows.

As the door closed behind him, Pyrites let out a long breath, his fingers drumming lightly on the desk. Voldemort’s war would end soon—one way or another. He would fall, or perhaps succeed for a short while, only to face resistance again. It was irrelevant. Pyrites was focused on the long game.

His gaze flicked back to his notes. The army would be made. And when it was ready, Pyrites would unleash it upon the Muggle world—starting with small cities, working his way up to their densest urban centres. They’d have no defence, no hope against what he’d bring. And as the world collapsed around them, wizards would no longer be forced to hide in the shadows. No more secrecy, no more repression, no more ignorance. Magic would reign supreme, and those who had once feared it would be swept away like vermin.

His gaze darkened, moving across the runes etched into the corners of the ancient pages before him. He would need more research into ancient magic—deeper, darker power. He’d uncovered scraps over the years, but now was the time to plunge further—to unlock the secrets no wizard had dared to touch.

His fingers traced a symbol—one he had seen in the oldest magical scrolls. It was connected to an ancient form of binding magic, one that could twist life itself. It was this magic that would help anchor the corrupted Bel fire into the Inferi. This was the key to making his army undying, unstoppable—a weapon that would tear apart the veil of secrecy that had kept the magical world hidden for so long.

And he would pay any price. Pyrites had long since crossed the moral lines that others clung to. His heart had hardened after the deaths of his wife and son. What were sacrifices now, when his goal was nothing less than the destruction of everything that had ruined his life?

His eyes flickered to the white gloves on the shelf above his desk—the first dark artefact he had created, years ago. To the untrained eye, they were nothing special, but their purpose was far more sinister. They were time-stoppers, capable of freezing a moment, allowing Pyrites to manipulate events as he saw fit. But the creation of such an artefact had only been the beginning.

Pyrites inhaled deeply. He had sacrificed before. He would do so again.

The gloves were only the start. Once his Inferi were imbued with corrupted Bel fire, they would do more than just march through Muggle cities. They would tear through them, leaving nothing but cinders in their wake.

With one final glance at his work, Pyrites smiled—a cold, calculating smile. Voldemort’s war was nothing but a distraction, a passing storm. But Pyrites’ plan… Pyrites’ plan would be the storm that cleansed the earth. When the time came, nothing would stop him from releasing his creations into the world. Not Voldemort. Not the wizarding world.

No one.

Chapter Text

"You can't go back and change the beginning, but you can start where you are and change the ending."

— C.S. Lewis

Lucas

Victoria Park was eerily quiet at this hour. The shadows of the tall oak trees stretched long over the pathways, blending into the darkness that seemed to cling to everything in Lucas’ world these days. He stood still, his breath hanging in the cold air, but his heart pounded, a dull roar in his ears. The weight of his grief and fury coiled deep within him, ready to lash out at the slightest provocation.

Tilly was gone.

His Tilly—his everything—had been taken from him by a bloody dark wizard. They’d survived a war together, and now he’d lost her to some heartless monster. The days since he found out blurred into a haze of agony. The pain of her absence twisted inside him like a knife, dull at first but sinking deeper each day. Mourning her wasn’t enough. No, there was no peace in that. Grief was too passive. The only thing that soothed his heart now was the thought of finding the one responsible—and destroying him.

But as the cold air bit at his skin, Lucas wasn’t sure he recognised himself anymore. Who had he become? A man consumed by vengeance, or a shell of the man Tilly had loved?

He reached the fountain and closed his eyes, reaching out with his ability. The park stretched out like a map in his mind, every emotion tied to its own corner. He felt the faint joy of lovers meeting, the quiet sorrow of an old man on a bench, the indifference of those just passing through. But none of that mattered. He wasn’t interested in the ordinary.

Where are you? he thought, sharpening his senses.

There. A cold, cruel pulse of emotion—hatred—lingering just left of the fountain. He could almost smell it, like rotting flesh left in the sun. Lucas’ eyes snapped open, his jaw clenched. That’s it. That’s him.

He knew this spot. He’d felt it once before, a lingering sense of dread he’d tried to ignore, thinking it could have been nothing. But now, he understood. A Muggle had gone missing here, and Lucas suspected this was where the dark wizard had either abducted or killed him. The residue of the wizard’s magical signature was faint but unmistakable if you knew how to look for it. And Lucas knew.

Frantically, he began searching the area, his hands trembling as his wand flicked out. His spells were small, subtle, but filled with frantic energy as he cast them to detect the lingering traces of dark magic. There . Faint streaks of twisted, malicious energy hung in the air like smoke long after the fire had burned out. His breath came quicker as he traced the arc of energy—likely from a Killing Curse—that had seeped into the very earth beneath his feet. He could feel it crawling up his spine, cold and vile.

He crouched, his wand tracing the air where the body might have lain. His heartbeat drummed in his ears, the world narrowing to this single spot. His mind replayed Tilly’s death over and over—he wasn’t there to protect her, to stop it. His grief twisted into something sharper, more desperate, as if the hatred embedded in the ground was merging with his own. This was it. This was where he’d find the bastard.

But a part of him—deep, buried under the rage—felt her absence too keenly. He could hear her voice, soft but clear: “This isn’t who you are, Lucas. You’re better than this.”

He pushed it away. Tilly was gone. What he had left was this burning need for revenge.

Lucas stalked forward, muttering spells under his breath, his wild eyes scanning the ground, not caring who might see him. Nothing mattered but the hunt. His hands shook as he cast again and again, each pulse of magic becoming more erratic, more desperate. He needed to feel something—anything—other than the gaping wound of her absence.

But then something interrupted him.

A group of young men, out far too late, stumbled into the clearing. Lucas barely registered their presence at first, his mind lost in the remnants of dark magic. His senses were fraying. Their drunken laughter and jeers broke through the haze, but he ignored them. None of it mattered. He had to follow the trail.

But then, one of them shoved him.

“Oi, mate, you deaf? Watch where you’re goin’!” the man barked, slurring his words.

"He’s barmy, mate, look at him—crouching and muttering to himself like a lunatic," another sneered.

Lucas blinked, his mind snapping back to the present. His wild, bloodshot eyes locked onto the group. He was crouched on the ground, his hands trembling, and the sudden jolt of their touch sent his world spiralling. His heart pounded louder, faster. 

One of the men approached, shoving him again. Mocking him. Laughing at his grief. Lucas’ eyes darkened, the hate swelling up inside him like a tidal wave. And then he saw red.

The hatred—the same dark energy he had been tracking—flared up inside him, ignited by the touch of another person. The faces of the men blurred with the face of the wizard he was hunting. Everything became a haze of fury.

Without a word, Lucas swung. His fist connected with the man’s jaw, the sound of bone crunching reverberating through the air as the man fell, sprawling to the ground. The others reacted immediately, fists and legs flying toward Lucas, but he didn’t care. Nothing mattered anymore. His grief, his rage—it consumed him. It fuelled every punch, every desperate swing of his fists. He fought like a man possessed, his knuckles raw, his breathing ragged.

The brawl escalated, blood dripping from his hands, but Lucas couldn’t stop. He couldn’t see the men anymore. He was striking out at the wizard—the faceless figure who had taken everything from him. Blood splattered across his face as his fist connected with one of the men’s noses. The world around him blurred—he couldn’t tell if the blood on his hands was his or theirs.

The shouts around him faded into a hum, a distant noise, as his body moved on instinct. One of the men stumbled backward, wiping blood from his mouth, fear flickering across his face. But Lucas wasn’t done. He wasn’t satisfied. He wanted to hurt them.

His hand fumbled inside his jacket, and suddenly, his wand was out. Without thinking, he levelled it at one of the men.

Some of them laughed, not realising what was coming.

" Stupefy! " Lucas roared, his voice cracking. The spell hit one of them square in the chest, sending him crashing into a tree. His body slumped, unconscious. The others froze, terror in their eyes, but Lucas wasn’t finished. He fired off another spell, sending a second man flying backwards into a park bench.

"Bloody hell! What the fuck is that?" one of the men screamed, his voice laced with panic. They scrambled to their feet, tripping over each other as they tried to escape. But Lucas advanced, wand still raised, fury rolling off him in waves.

The Statue of Secrecy be damned.

But even as he fought, he knew the Aurors would come. They’d been watching him for days—after every reckless brawl, every time he nearly exposed their world. He was becoming a danger.

As the remaining men bolted, disappearing into the darkness, the telltale crack of Apparition echoed through the park.

“Lucas! Stop!” a voice shouted.

He turned, his wand still raised, breath coming in ragged gasps. The Aurors approached, their wands already drawn, their faces set in grim determination. But Lucas was too far gone. He swung his wand again, throwing a spell wildly across the park. A flash of red light missed one of the Aurors by inches.

“Enough!” one of them barked, flicking their wand. " Incarcerous! "

Invisible ropes coiled around Lucas, yanking his arms to his sides. He struggled, blind with rage, his mind still lost in the desire for vengeance. The few remaining men fled, scrambling away in terror as the Aurors dragged Lucas down, holding him in place.

As one of the Aurors began casting memory-altering spells on the scattering Muggles, Lucas’ breathing slowed, the adrenaline wearing off. But the fury didn’t leave him—it simmered just beneath the surface, a dark cloud hanging over him.

~

The interrogation was brief.
They already knew what Lucas wanted. They knew what he was chasing, but none of them had the heart to truly stop him. The pain in his eyes was unmistakable, the brokenness clinging to him like a dark cloud, draining the colour from his once sharp gaze. The Aurors, seasoned in the art of extracting information, found themselves softening. It was all too clear that this wasn’t just a man breaking the law—this was a man broken by grief.

As before, they wiped the memories of the Muggles and warned him again about his reckless behaviour. But this time, they didn’t just let him go.

They escorted him back to his cottage—the place where every inch of it was a haunting reminder of her. Lucas barely noticed the flick of the Auror’s wand to unlock the door, his movements slow and automatic. As he stepped inside, the familiar scent of Tilly’s lavender soap still lingered faintly in the air, making his chest tighten painfully. It was as though she might still walk in any second, humming some soft tune.

But she wouldn’t. She was gone.

The cottage felt cold, abandoned in more ways than one. Dust clung to the shelves where she’d once arranged her books, and the curtains—Tilly’s choice, floral and delicate—hung limply in the still air. Her favourite teacup sat on the counter, a crack along the rim that she always meant to fix, but never did. His fingers twitched as he noticed it, an ache spreading through his chest.

The silence in the cottage was suffocating. It used to hum with life—her laugh, the sound of her bare feet padding across the floor in the mornings. Now, it was a tomb. Lucas stood there, staring blankly at the room. His hands clenched at his sides as memories flooded in—her dancing around the kitchen, the way her eyes lit up when she talked about their plans for the future. A future they’d never have.

“Lucas,” one of the Aurors said softly, their voice low, hesitant. They sat him down at the kitchen table, the wooden chair creaking under the weight of his exhaustion. "You need to stop. You can’t keep doing this."

The words barely registered. His eyes were vacant, staring at nothing in particular. He was a shell of the man he’d been, worn down by the loss that gnawed at him day and night. One of the Aurors, a younger one with sympathy in his eyes, placed a bottle of firewhisky in front of him. It was a silent offering—a way to numb the pain.

But no amount of firewhisky would ever be enough to make it go away.

The Aurors exchanged uneasy glances. One of them—a woman with greying hair and tired eyes—paused before she left. She had been present in most onf Lucas’s altercations, she’d seen him crumble many times. She lingered in the doorway, wanting to say something—anything—that might reach him. But what could she say to a man so hollowed out by grief? With a sigh, she turned and left, the door closing softly behind her.

Lucas didn’t care that they were gone. He didn’t care about anything anymore.

His hand moved on its own, wrapping around the neck of the firewhisky bottle. The first gulp burned, but Lucas welcomed the sting. It was the only thing that cut through the numbness, the cold that had settled deep inside him. He drank deeply, hoping that somehow, if he drank enough, he might feel something. Anything.

But the room remained as it was—silent, lifeless. The shadows in the corners seemed to press in on him, and for a moment, he could almost hear her voice, soft and distant. He could almost see her standing in the doorway, her hair curled from the steam of the shower, smiling at him with that infectious warmth.

He reached out, a trembling hand extending to touch the phantom image.

But it vanished.

There was nothing. Only the crushing weight of the emptiness she’d left behind. His hand dropped, the firewhisky bottle slipping from his grasp, thudding onto the table. He stared at it for a long moment, feeling the tears sting at the corners of his eyes, but he blinked them away, swallowing hard.

Lucas reached for the bottle again and drank until the ache in his chest dulled to something distant, until the memories blurred and his mind became foggy. He drank until the room spun, until the weight of it all pressed him down into the chair, into the floor. The shadows around him flickered and twisted, and the burn of the firewhisky became the only thing anchoring him to the present.

But even that wasn’t enough. Not to dull the pain. Not to fill the gaping hole that Tilly’s death had left in him.

He kept drinking, long after the bottle was empty, long after the shadows danced around him in silent mockery of the life he’d lost. And when the alcohol finally claimed him, dragging him into the void, he collapsed onto the table.

The firewhisky may have numbed his body, but it couldn’t touch the hollow pit where his heart used to be. He was lost in the darkness, in the silence, and the world around him blurred into oblivion.

There was nothing left for him now.

Just the crushing emptiness.

~

Draco

The cosy clutter of Hermione’s flat buzzed with tense energy. Books, parchment, and notes were scattered across every available surface, each corner of the room showing signs of their desperation. Every minute that passed was another opportunity for Pyrites to unleash his army again—more death, more destruction. The smell of tea hung in the air, but it did little to calm the simmering anxiety. The fireplace crackled softly, casting flickering shadows that seemed to grow darker with every failed lead. Weeks had gone by, and it felt like Pyrites was always one step ahead, slipping further from their grasp. The stakes had never been higher, and everyone knew it.

“We’ve gone through all the reports of Muggle disappearances and linked them with signs of dark magic,” Longbottom’s voice was hoarse, his bloodshot eyes revealing how little sleep he had gotten. He traced a line on the map spread across the floor, his fingers trembling slightly. “We can pick out the ones connected to Pyrites, separate them from the others, but... there’s no clear pattern. He’s unpredictable, pure chaos.”

Blaise, lounging back against the armrest of the sofa, let out a bitter laugh, rubbing his temples in frustration. “That’s not Pyrites. He never acts on impulse. My mother used to say he never made a move without calculating ten steps ahead—brilliant, but bloody dangerous. He’s creating a pattern that looks random, but it’s not. He’s freeing the Inferi in a way that keeps him ahead of us. He knows exactly how to keep us chasing our tails.”

Weasley groaned, rubbing his face in frustration, and before he could stop himself, he snapped, “We’ve been over this! It’s always bloody chaos with him. Maybe there isn’t a pattern, Zabini. Maybe you’re just grasping at straws.”

Hermione shot Weasley a sharp look, her patience clearly fraying. “Of course, there’s a pattern! You just can’t see it yet,” she retorted, “If you’d bother to look at the data properly instead of throwing your hands up every time we hit a wall— We’re clearly missing something,” Hermione’s exasperated voice cut through the silence like a knife. She frowned deeply, her brow furrowed as she scanned a piece of parchment covered in scribbled notes. “He’s not just creating Inferi; he’s doing it for control, weaving a system around us. We’re being drawn into his pattern without realising it. Zabini’s right—there’s a method here. We just haven’t seen it yet.”

Weasley slammed his fist on the arm of his chair, his face red with anger. “I have been looking, Hermione! For weeks! It’s not like we’re any closer to catching him because of all your theories!”

“Oh, brilliant, let’s just give up then, shall we?” Hermione snapped back, her eyes blazing. “Maybe if you stopped complaining for five seconds, we’d actually get somewhere!”

Blaise let out another low, sarcastic laugh, clearly enjoying the tension as a way of coping. “Ah, the golden couple at it again,” he drawled, folding his arms and smirking. “Love to see a solid bit of teamwork under pressure. Really inspiring.”

Weasley turned, his glare shifting to Blaise. “What’s that supposed to mean, Zabini?”

Blaise raised an eyebrow, his tone dripping with irony. “Nothing, Weasley. Just that it’s comforting to know that while Pyrites is out there wreaking havoc, we’ve got you two bickering like it’s a Sunday dinner at The Burrow. Very productive.”

“Shut it, Zabini,” Weasley growled, his temper flaring. “You think making snide comments is helping? You’ve done sod-all but sit there and act like you’re above this.”

Pansy, calm but clearly irritated, leaned forward, her tone cool but acid. “Oh, leave him be, Weasley. Blaise is just expressing himself in the only way he knows—through sarcasm and deflection. It’s very therapeutic, apparently. Besides, it’s not like your temper tantrums have led us to any breakthroughs.”

Weasley’s jaw clenched, his fists balling at his sides. “At least I’m not sitting here, pretending to know everything while—”

“Stop it, all of you!” Hermione’s voice wavered as she stood, glaring at everyone. Her hands clenched into fists, her knuckles white, trembling with barely suppressed frustration. “We don’t have time for this. We need to find Pyrites, not tear each other apart.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Blaise muttered under his breath, but Pansy shot him a warning glance.

Weasley, clearly still stewing, couldn’t hold back his frustration any longer. “Maybe if we weren’t wasting time on every pointless idea you’ve come up with, we’d be a bit closer to finding him! Not everything is a bloody riddle for you to solve!”

The words hung in the air like a slap, and for a brief moment, the room fell into stunned silence. Hermione’s face paled, her hands frozen over her notes. She opened her mouth to respond, but nothing came out. She blinked rapidly, her breath catching in her throat as her eyes flicked down, away from the rest of them. It wasn’t just the insult—Weasley’s words had cut far deeper than that.

The silence stretched unbearably long as she turned her back on the group, pretending to refocus on her parchment, but it was clear to everyone that she was holding back tears. A tear slipped down her cheek, and though she quickly wiped it away, the sight was enough to twist something deep inside Draco and he felt his chest tighten, watching her crumble under Weasley’s words. His hands tightened into fists at his sides. He’d never particularly cared for Weasley, but seeing him hurt Hermione like this made anger coil tight in his chest. Weasley had crossed a line. How many times had Draco stood back while people said cruel things, let words wound him or others without stepping in? But not this time. He wasn’t going to just stand by. Not anymore.

But it wasn’t Draco who spoke.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” Pansy snapped, her tone icy as she glanced at Weasley. “If you’re going to act like a complete prat, at least have the decency to do it quietly.”

Weasley’s head jerked up, taken aback. “What?”

“You heard me,” Pansy said, her voice like acid. “She’s the one keeping this whole thing together, and you treat her like she’s the problem? You should be on your knees thanking her for even putting up with you, Weasley. She’s doing more than any of us to stop Pyrites, and you’ve got the nerve to blame her for your incompetence?”

Weaslesy’s face flushed with anger and embarrassment, but he said nothing. He had the decency to look guilty, but the damage was done. Hermione didn’t turn around, her shoulders stiff as she fought to hold back more tears.

Draco’s gaze lingered on her, feeling the anger still simmering inside him. He wanted to say something, to comfort her, but instead, he stayed rooted in place, his fists still tight, anger coiling inside him like a snake. He wouldn’t let Weasley see just how much this was getting to him.

“Weasley, if you’ve got a better idea, we’re all ears,” Draco said finally, his voice sharp and cold, cutting through the tense silence. The room turned to him, surprised at the interruption.

Weasley stared at him, his face still flushed. “I just... I just don’t see how we’re ever going to figure this out if every bloody lead goes nowhere.”

Hermione’s silent tears continued to fall, but she didn’t turn to face them. Draco could feel her emotions hanging in the air, her pain palpable. He wanted to say something comforting, something reassuring, but the words wouldn’t come.

Longbottom stepped forward, his voice calm but carrying the weight of someone tired of seeing friends tear each other apart, sensing that the group was about to implode. “Enough. We’re all tired, and we’re all on edge,” he said, his gaze sweeping across the group. “But this isn’t helping. We’re not going to find Pyrites by turning on each other.”

There was a tense silence. Drac felt the weight of the room pressing down on him. He’d mostly stayed back, observing, watching as the group barely held itself together, and it gnawed at him. This was exactly what he didn’t want to be anymore—a bystander. It had always been his role, hadn’t it? Watching, waiting, afraid to take the lead. But not anymore. He couldn’t just sit here, not now . His gaze shifted between Hermione, who was visibly crying, and Weasley, whose fists were still clenched in anger. Pansy looked bored, as though the tension between the others was nothing new, while Blaise wore a smirk that only deepened as the atmosphere grew more strained.

“We will figure it out, we have to. But we need to keep working together. Fighting just enables Pyrites and his pursuit of control”, Longbottom’s voice resonated with Draco.

Blaise let out a slow, sarcastic sigh. “Well, isn’t this heartwarming? We’re all friends again. Now, can we get back to the whole ‘stopping an army of Inferi’ bit before it’s too late? Hermione, were you saying you reckon Pyrites is looking for control?”

Pansy smirked, her voice as cold as ever, “I think it’s more than just control,” she said, her tone laced with unease. “He’s using something we’ve never encountered before. Even our parents never went this far. This isn’t just a power grab—it feels... bigger. Darker.”

Draco’s voice was tight and controlled, but there was a sharp edge to it that silenced the room. “My father mentioned something during my last visit,” he began, his grey eyes flickering with something darker than mere concern. There was a tension in his frame, an unease that hadn’t been there before. His fingers drummed lightly against his knee, betraying the internal struggle he was trying to hide.  The room turned towards him, the strain rising. When Draco spoke about Lucius, everyone listened.

“There were whispers about Pyrites, even back when I was a kid. He’s been after old texts—scrolls that have been untouched for centuries. Magic that was lost for a reason. Maybe that’s why we’re seeing traces we can’t identify. It’s possible this is magic we’ve never seen before.”

Hermione’s quill hovered above her notes, her eyes wide as the implications of Draco’s words hit her. “A new kind of magic,” she murmured, her mind racing as pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place. “You’ve said Pyrites was a scholar, a brilliant one, and in his writings, he hinted at something... new. If that’s what he’s working on, it would explain why the Aurors can’t catch him. He’s not playing by the rules we know! We’re working from one playbook, and he’s writing his own!”

Weasley’s expression darkened as he leaned forward, his tone more serious now. “We’ve got a problem then. It’s not just about catching Pyrites anymore—it’s about stopping him before more people die. You all saw the reports from the last attack. The Inferi—they weren’t just killing Muggles. They were going after wizards too, anyone who got in their way. If we don’t stop him, he’s going to bring this right to our doorstep. We’re running out of time.”

A cold dread seemed to settle over the room, each person feeling the enormity of the challenge they were facing.  It wasn’t just that they were hunting a dangerous dark wizard—they were chasing someone who had mastered the unknown. Someone who was always one step ahead, playing a game none of them fully understood.If they didn’t find Pyrites soon, the consequences would be catastrophic—an army of Inferi, free to wreak havoc, with no one capable of stopping them.

Before anyone could respond, a sharp knock at the door broke the silence. Hermione exchanged a quick glance with Weasley before crossing the room to open it. The door creaked open, revealing Potter, looking more worn and frayed than they had seen him in a while. His robes were crumpled, dark circles under his eyes revealing too many sleepless nights tangled in paperwork and endless meetings with Robards.

“Sorry, the Floo was down... Robards is still none the wiser,” Potter said, stepping inside and giving the room a quick once-over. “As far as he knows, we’re not working on this case together.”

“Good,” Draco replied sharply from the arm of the chair. His voice was cool, detached, shoulders rigid, and the way he sat made it clear he was ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice.   “The last thing we need is the Ministry breathing down our necks.”

Potter nodded, but his gaze lingered on Draco for a moment, his expression hesitant but then tightening. “Can I have a word?” he asked quietly, his tone more personal, his voice low.

Draco frowned but stood, following Potter to the far side of the room. The atmosphere shifted, the air between them heavy with something unspoken. His face was set, his jaw tight, and when he spoke, it was with an urgency that made Draco’s stomach drop.

“It’s Lucas,” he began, his voice low but charged. “He’s in trouble, Malfoy.”

Draco’s face hardened, a flicker of something darker passing over his features. “What’s happened?”

“He’s been after Pyrites—tracking him through his ability. But it’s not just about following leads anymore. He’s getting into fights—bar fights, street brawls. He’s losing himself in the chase. And he’s been drinking... a lot. I think he’s close to breaking.”

Draco’s stomach churned at the thought. Lucas had become important to him, more than he had realised until now. The idea of losing him, of watching him spiral into a darkness Draco knew all too well, made him feel like the floor was falling out from under him. “Why hasn’t anyone done anything?”

“They’ve tried,” Potter said, his voice heavy. “But Lucas... he’s past listening to reason. He’s pushing everyone away, even the Aurors. I’m telling you because I thought you’d want to know.”

Draco clenched his jaw, his hand tightening into a fist at his side. He’d seen this before, seen people fall apart under the weight of pressure and grief—he had been one of them. He wasn’t about to let that happen to Lucas. He couldn’t lose him, not like this. He wouldn’t let him fall.

“Where is he?” Draco growled, his voice laced with determination.

Potter placed a hand on his shoulder, his grip firm. “They left him at his cottage a couple of hours ago. But he’s not himself, Malfoy.”

Draco’s jaw tightened as he glanced back at the group. Every instinct told him to stay, to finish the mission they had all risked so much for. Pyrites’ shadow loomed large over everything, and yet... Lucas. The thought of him slipping away, falling into the same abyss Draco had barely crawled out of, twisted his stomach. He knew that kind of darkness—it consumed you, made you reckless until you either burned out or broke entirely. If Draco waited any longer, would Lucas even be there to save?

“This might be it! If we don’t stop Pyrites soon, more people will die,” Hermione had said just moments ago, her words still ringing in his ears. The stakes were real. But so was the pull to Lucas, who was drowning alone.

“Draco,” Blaise’s voice cut through his thoughts, sharp and probing. “You alright?”

“Lucas is in trouble… I need to go,” Draco said, the words heavy on his tongue. The group fell silent, all eyes on him, confusion and concern flickering across their faces.

“We’re finally on the edge of something,” Blaise said, his voice sharp as he leaned forward, fixing Draco with a piercing stare. “You can’t leave now.”

Draco’s stomach churned. He could feel the weight of the investigation pressing down on him,  he knew the stakes—if they didn’t stop Pyrites, more lives would be lost, more families torn apart—but Lucas lost in grief and violence, gnawed at him even more. If he waited, he might lose Lucas for good.

“I have to go,” Draco said firmly, his voice steady, but the inner turmoil was unmistakable.

“I’ll go with you,” Hermione’s voice broke through the rising tension. She was already standing, her wand in hand. Her expression left no room for argument, her resolve a mirror of his own. Draco blinked, momentarily caught off guard by her readiness to leave. Draco hesitated. She shouldn’t have to leave the group when they were so close, but Hermione understood. Maybe more than anyone. With a quick nod, he turned towards the door, feeling the weight of his choice settle over him like a cloak, but as the soft crack of their Disapparition echoed through the flat, all he could think of was Lucas—and the fact that time was running out for them all.

~

Draco’s heart pounded as he and Hermione approached Lucas’ cottage. The air around them felt thick, as though even the wind had grown heavy with the weight of unspoken pain. The cottage, once peaceful and inviting, now seemed to hold a darkness of its own, like the walls had absorbed Lucas’ grief and anger, making it heavier than it had any right to be.

Hermione was quiet beside him, her gaze flicking over the cottage. Draco could sense her unease. She knew this wasn’t just a conversation—it was something deeper, something fragile. Draco felt it too, more intensely than he’d expected. He wasn’t just here to help Lucas. He was here to prove something to himself—that he was different, that he could be different.

As they reached the door, Draco hesitated, his hand hovering just above the wood. He’d thought he was ready, but now, standing on the threshold of Lucas’ despair, doubt clawed at him. Could he really do this? Could he actually help? Could he truly step into this role, and be the one to support someone in their darkest moment? Or would he, like so many times before, just be a bystander, watching the world unravel without stepping in? The familiar fear of failure clawed at him, a voice from his past whispering that he’d never be good enough. But no. He wasn’t that person anymore.

He knocked softly. The sound barely cut through the thick silence around them, but when the door creaked open, it wasn’t the Lucas Draco remembered. Lucas looked hollow—his eyes sunken, his once-vibrant features now ghostly and drained. His skin looked almost grey in the dim light, his hair dishevelled, and his clothes hung off his frame as if they’d been thrown on without thought. Shadows clung to him like old memories, too heavy to shake off. His gaze briefly flicked to Draco and Hermione before retreating inward again.

"Lucas," Draco said, his voice low but steady. "Can we come in?"

Lucas shrugged and stepped aside, not bothering to speak. The inside of the cottage was a reflection of its owner—cold, bare, and suffocatingly empty. The air was suffocating, thick with the stale smell of old alcohol and neglect. The silence inside the room felt oppressive, as though the walls themselves were pressing down, echoing Lucas’ despair. Empty bottles littered the floor, the hearth was cold and unused, and the room felt like a tomb. Draco could feel it—the dark chill that crept into every corner, threatening to swallow everything whole.

He had been here before, in this place of desolation. He knew the darkness well.

The silence inside was oppressive, suffocating. Draco glanced at Hermione, whose wide eyes scanned the room, taking in the emptiness with a quiet understanding. But this wasn’t about her. It was about Lucas—and about him, too. He turned to Lucas, feeling the weight of all that was left unsaid between them pressing down like lead.

“How are you, Lucas?” Draco asked, his voice steady despite the tension tightening his chest.

Silence.

Draco stepped closer. “Please, talk to me.”

Silence.

Draco swallowed, feeling the familiar frustration bubbling beneath the surface. He could sense Lucas’s anger—how it simmered just under the surface, ready to explode. But anger, Draco had learned, was never the root of anything. It was always hiding something else. He knew this because Lucas had taught him.

“I know you’ve been getting into trouble,” Draco said, keeping his tone calm, but firm. “Hunting Pyrites. Getting into fights. What’s driving all this anger?”

Lucas turned his back on Draco, his shoulders stiff with tension. “I don’t need your help, Draco,” he muttered, his voice tight, trying to sound strong but cracking around the edges. “I’m fine.”

Draco didn’t flinch. He’d been here before—telling himself the same lies, pushing people away. “You’re not fine, Lucas. You don’t have to pretend. Not with me. I see you.”

Lucas remained silent, his jaw tightening, his fists clenching at his sides. Draco recognised that tension, that desperate attempt to hold everything in.

"If there’s one thing I’ve learned from you, Lucas," Draco began, his voice calm but intent, "from all those therapy sessions—it’s that underneath anger, there’s usually something else. Something deeper. Something you’re not letting yourself feel."

Lucas didn’t respond, but Draco noticed the slight tension in his posture. He was listening, even if he wouldn’t admit it.

“What is it for you?” Draco asked, stepping closer, his voice almost a whisper. “It’s pain, isn’t it? Grief. Sorrow. It grows bigger every time you try to push it away. Every time you deny it, it only takes up more space inside you.”

Hermione stood quietly in the corner, her presence a quiet, grounding force. Draco could feel her eyes on him, but for once, he didn’t feel the need to perform or hide. This wasn’t about ego. This wasn’t about being the Draco Malfoy of the past. This was about stepping into something new. Something real.

“You’ve got the answers, Lucas,” Draco said softly. “You taught me this. Feelings don’t disappear when we ignore them. They grow. They get louder. But we don’t have to be afraid of them. We can face them and learn from them by feeling them. Really feeling them.”

For the first time, Lucas met Draco’s gaze, his eyes filled with something raw and fragile. The pain was there, but there was recognition too—a flicker of understanding beneath the layers of hurt. 

As Lucas’ eyes met his, hollow and filled with grief, Draco saw a reflection of himself—lost, drowning in anger that masked something far deeper. How many times had he stood in Lucas’ shoes? Refusing to feel, afraid that if he did, the world would collapse around him. Lucas had shown him the way out, and had given him the tools to confront his own pain. And now, it was his turn.

“I can’t…” Lucas’ voice was barely more than a whisper, cracked and broken. “I don’t know how…”

“You do know how,” Draco said, his voice firm, but full of compassion. “You’ve been running from this for too long. You don’t have to fight it anymore. It’s okay to feel the hurt. It’s okay to let yourself crumble. You taught me that. You released me when I couldn’t let go of my own pain. Now let me be here for you.”

Lucas turned away, his body shaking, breath coming in ragged gasps. “If I let myself feel it… I’ll break.”

Draco took a step closer, his own voice trembling with emotion. “No, Lucas. You won’t break. You’ll bend, but that’s how you heal. That’s how you find yourself again. It’s okay to be vulnerable. It’s okay to fall apart. That’s how we grow, by bending, not breaking. You showed me that. You made me stronger. And now I’m here for you. I’m not perfect, but I’m here. For the first time in my life, I see the world, feel the chill, which way to go… I’m not running. I’m open. And that’s because of you. Let me be here for you.”

For a long moment, Lucas just stood there, trembling. Draco could see the battle happening inside him—the fear, the grief, the desperate need to hold it all together. But then, slowly, something shifted. The walls Lucas had built around his pain began to crack. His shoulders sagged. His fists unclenched. And then, without warning, the dam broke. His body crumbled, collapsing into Draco’s arms, the sobs ripping through him like a force of nature. His grief spilled out, raw and uncontainable, soaking into Draco’s chest as he held him tighter. Draco could feel every shudder, every tremble of Lucas’ body, as if the pain were his own.

And in a way, it was. Draco could feel it too—the old wounds, the buried grief, the parts of him he had tried to ignore for so long. But instead of pushing it away, he held it, just like he held Lucas. This was the work. This was healing.

As he stood there, arms wrapped around a man, a muggleborn, who had become so important to him, Draco felt the final shreds of his old self fall away, he felt something inside himself shift too. He had always been the bystander, watching, waiting, afraid to act. But not now. Not this time. He was here, truly here, holding Lucas through the storm of his emotions, without judgment. Without running. Draco realised he wasn’t just holding Lucas together. He was holding himself together too. This was what he had been afraid of for so long—this vulnerability, this rawness. But now, standing here, he realised it didn’t make him weaker. It made him stronger. For the first time in his life, Draco felt... free. He thought of his father and the differences between them.

Father, can you see me now? I am myself, like you somehow. I’m riding the wave where it takes me, I no longer hold the pain, I’m released.

In that moment, Draco felt something he hadn’t expected—a sense of purpose. For the first time in his life, he was doing something different. He wasn’t just reacting to the world around him; he was stepping into it. He wasn’t running from pain. He was holding it, witnessing it, and in doing so, he was stronger than he’d ever been.

Lucas sobbed against him, his body trembling with the release of his grief. And Draco held on. This was what healing looked like. It wasn’t neat or clean. It was messy, painful, and raw. 

As Lucas’s sobs subsided, Draco spoke again, his voice steady but full of emotion. “You’re not alone in this. You’ve got me, and you’ve got yourself. You’ve got your pain, and it’s okay to feel it. It’s part of you, you can use it. I’m sure Tilly would have wanted you to use it.”

Lucas pulled back slightly, his face tear-streaked but lighter. He didn’t say anything, but the gratitude in his eyes spoke volumes.

Draco exhaled, feeling a quiet sense of accomplishment. He had done something different today. He had stepped into a role he never thought he could fill—one of comfort, of presence. He had helped someone through their grief, not by fixing it, but by sitting with them in it.

Hermione watched in stunned silence, her breath catching as she witnessed Draco holding Lucas, her eyes filled with awe and something else. Thoughts passing through her eyes. “That was something else”, she muttered to herself.

Draco turned to her, his own heart full. For the first time, he didn’t feel the need to hide behind a mask. He felt raw, exposed, but it was freeing.

“I’m learning,” Draco said softly, the words not just for Hermione, but for himself. “I’m learning to be someone different.”

Hermione smiled, her gaze full of admiration. “I think you already are.”

As the three of them sat together in the quiet cottage, Draco felt something settle inside him. He wasn’t the same person he had been. He had become someone who could hold space for others, who could face his own pain and stand taller because of it. Vulnerability didn’t make him weak—it made him strong.

And for the first time in a long time, Draco felt like he was exactly where he was meant to be.

~

Draco stirred in his bed at Malfoy Manor, the late afternoon sun casting a soft, golden glow through the large, ornate windows. He blinked, feeling a strange sense of contentment wash over him. It was a rare sensation, one that had been foreign to him for so long. Last night, after spending time with Lucas, something had shifted in him. The heaviness that had always clung to him felt lighter now, as if he was shedding the layers of his old self.

He stretched, surprised by the calm that had settled in his chest. The Draco of just a year ago would never have imagined feeling this way—content, and even a little proud of himself. He was changing. It was the perfect way to start a birthday. Just the thought of his birthday sent shivers down his spine a couple of days ago, but now, it truly felt like it could be a happy birthday.

With a slow exhale, he rose from his bed, moving toward the bathroom. The cool marble tiles of the Manor felt smooth under his feet as he made his way toward the large, opulent bath. He turned the taps, watching as the steam rose, the water filling the tub quickly. He sloshed his favourite bergamot soap into the water, breathing in the decadent smell.

As he slipped into the bath, the warm water enveloping him, Draco closed his eyes, sinking into the comfort of it. He felt his body’s tension being released by the warm water and the calming soap. He permitted himself to just enjoy for once. His thoughts wandered, drifting back to last night and Lucas’s grief, and how both of them had been brave to feel and bend with emotions. Lucas had slowly seemed to return to himself, but what lingered most in Draco’s mind was the look Hermione had given him. Her deep, brown eyes had held so much emotion. There had been admiration, yes, but also something else—something he hadn’t expected. She had looked at him as if seeing him for the first time, like he was someone new, someone worthy. It had shaken him deeply.

He could picture her so clearly now—those beautiful eyes, her soft, bushy hair that framed her face perfectly. As the water lapped at his skin, his mind wandered further. He remembered the way she once slept beside him, the warmth of her body over his chest. The way her lips parted slightly when sometimes she looked at him with that mix of awe and confusion. He wondered what it would have felt like to touch her that morning, to run his hands through her hair, to pull her close and kiss her deeply.

The thought sent a shiver through him, and before he could stop himself, his hand slipped lower, under the water. His breath hitched as he stroked himself, slowly. His mind filled with the image of Hermione’s eyes locked on his, her lips parted in surprise, then pleasure, as he kissed her, touched her. He’d begin with a deep hungry kiss, his hand on her neck, slowly going down into her chest, her abdomen, everywhere he could touch. He would feel her heart rate increase through her bra and he would stroke her nipples. He would then kiss her neck, going down into her breasts, and then slowly and deliciously tasting her there. He would play with her nipples with his mouth and his fingers, and she would moan and whimper, saying his name in a breathy voice.

His hand moved more insistently, the water splashing gently as he lost himself in the fantasy. He imagined touching her lower, stroking her folds and her clit, finding her entrance and inserting his fingers into her, that would find a rhythm that would make her moan his name incessantly. Her body would press against his, her hips would tilt, giving him more space to roam, to make her squirm in pleasure. She would pull him closer, wanting more, and she would begin to touch him. His pulse quickened as he pictured her hand on his chest, going down to his length. She would hold his cock and stroke him just the way he liked it.

It didn’t take long for the tension to build inside him, his body tightening as his strokes became faster, more desperate. His breath came in shallow gasps, his body trembling with pleasure, soft moans escaped his mouth, his mind completely consumed by the image of Hermione writhing beneath him, her eyes filled with desire, her body trembling in pleasure with him inside her, filling her to the hilt, in and out, fast and with no mercy, she’d begin to cry in pleasure... And then, with a low groan, Draco came, hard, his release washing over him as he slumped back against the bath, his chest heaving, water sloshing around him.

For a moment, he simply lay there, his body still tingling, his mind spinning. He hadn’t meant for his thoughts to go there, but now that they had, he couldn’t shake the way it made him feel. It was dangerous— this pull towards Hermione—but it was undeniable, he wanted her, and he was in love with her.

After a few minutes, Draco composed himself, washing away the remnants of his fantasy and slipping out of the bath. He dressed quickly and headed downstairs, where his mother was waiting for him in the drawing room.

“Draco,” she greeted him with her usual grace, smiling softly as he sat down across from her. “Happy birthday, my dragon. You look well today.”

“Do I?” Draco asked, raising an eyebrow as a house-elf placed a light lunch before him. “I feel… different.”

Narcissa’s eyes flickered with something unreadable. “It suits you,” she said simply, before taking a sip of her tea and pulling to his side a small wrapped gift. Draco opened it, it was a betrothal ring.

“Have you given any thought to your future, Draco? Your father would want to see you settled—married, perhaps, with children.”

“Really, Mother?” Draco said annoyed, though his thoughts drifted back to Hermione.

“Just… think about it, will you?”

Draco hesitated, his thoughts lingering on Hermione for a brief moment before he shook them away. “I’ve thought about it,” he lied, “but things are complicated right now.”

Narcissa nodded, her gaze softening. “I understand. But don’t let the complications of the present stop you from planning for the future. You will need stability, Draco. A wife, a family.”

“Sure,” Draco said, though his mind was already elsewhere. He needed to go to Nott Manor, to check in with his mates and learn about the investigation.

After a silent moment, Narcissa took out another wrapped gift. “I’m sorry, Draco, I don’t mean to push, it’s just that, it’s difficult for me… with your father. That was your father's gift. But I hope you know that you don’t have to do anything that you don’t want to. I just forget sometimes that that’s an option. Please take this gift, this is from me.”

Draco sighed in relief after his mother’s words and unwrapped the new gift. It was a Muggle book of all things.

“I was recommended this book. It’s supposed to be light and filled with some understanding Muggles have of magic, I think.”

“Tolkien… rings a bell. What the hell is a Hobbit?”

“Language, Draco.”

“Sorry, Mother.”

They ate lunch comfortably and silently. No need to fill the moment with words. Draco knew the significance of Narcissa’s gift. It was her way of saying that Muggles were worth their money and time; that was the real gift.

Later that day, Draco arrived at Nott Manor, where Blaise, Theo, and Pansy were already deep in discussion. Astoria and Daphne were working with Luna and George somewhere in Scotland, casting their recently developed wards for large areas. At least there was some development in protecting Muggle areas.

“Happy birthday, mate!” Theo approached Draco with a smile and a gift. Blaise and Pansy followed, each with their respective gifts and a hug from Pansy.

“Alcohol?” Draco asked with a smirk.

“The finest for the finest,” Pansy joked.

“You lot aren’t very creative.”

“Say thanks we remembered at all. With all this investigation, there’s no room left for creativity in other areas.”

Blaise, ever the one to deliver news with a sharp edge, leaned back against the sofa, his eyes gleaming with mischief.

“Well, Draco,” Blaise began, “you’ll never guess who came up with our latest lead on Pyrites.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Do tell.”

“Ron Weasley,” Blaise said, his smirk widening. “He’d been feeling guilty after Granger left with you, apparently. And he came up with a hypothesis—that Pyrites is using magic similar to what the ancient Celts wielded, back when the magical and Muggle worlds weren’t so separated. Apparently, it’s all in Theo’s books.”

Draco frowned, intrigued despite himself. “Elder Celtic magic? That’s a bold theory.”

Theo nodded, his face serious. “We’ve been combing through the texts. It’s not impossible and actually makes some sense, but if Pyrites is tapping into that kind of magic, we’re dealing with something far older—and potentially far more dangerous—than we thought. There’s just not much information about it.”

They spent the afternoon poring over old tomes, silently investigating and reading in their own corners. The hours slipped away as they searched for answers.

It was late in the afternoon, the room filled with the smell of old parchment and dust, when suddenly Draco’s wand vibrated in his pocket.

His heart lurched. It was the signet ring charm he had placed on Hermione—a way to monitor her heart rate for any sudden spikes. And now, her heart rate had peaked out of nowhere.

Dread filled him. Without a word, Draco stood, his face paling. The others looked at him in confusion, but before anyone could ask, Draco reacted on instinct. The world around him blurred as he Apparated directly to where Hermione was, his heart pounding.

He landed in a dark forest, the air thick with tension. A cold wind whispered through the trees, carrying with it a faint, metallic tang—like blood. The forest seemed to close in around him, the towering trees casting long shadows that danced eerily in the fading light. His breath was shallow, every instinct screaming that something was horribly wrong. And then he heard it—screams. Hermione’s screams. Panic seized his chest as the sound echoed in his ears, the same screams that haunted his nightmares. For a moment, he froze, his body paralysed with terror.

But then, something inside him snapped. He shook off the dread and ran as fast as he could towards the sound, his heart hammering in his chest. Hermione’s screams cut through the forest, echoing off the trees like a twisted symphony of pain. The forest seemed to twist and warp, the thick underbrush scratched at his legs as he ran, the branches whipping his face, but he hardly felt it. The air was thick, suffocating, as though the very atmosphere was tainted by dark magic. His mind was consumed with one thing: reaching her.

His heart hammered in his chest, and the taste of fear filled his mouth. The ground beneath his feet was uneven, roots and rocks jutting out of the earth, but he pushed forward, his legs burning as he sprinted through the dense forest. Every second felt like an eternity, the screams growing louder, more desperate.

When he finally reached a clearing, his breath caught in his throat. The scene before him was like something out of his worst nightmares. 

Hermione was on the ground, writhing in pain, her body contorted under the effects of the Cruciatus Curse, her spine bent at unnatural angles, her fingers clawing at the dirt as if trying to escape the invisible binds of torture. The air around her shimmered with dark energy, the very earth trembling beneath her agony.

And standing above her, his wand raised high, was Pyrites. His figure loomed tall and menacing, his dark robes billowing around him as if they were part of the shadow itself. White gloves held his wand high, and the tip of it glowed with a sickly red light, casting a malevolent glow across the clearing. The trees seemed to bow toward him, their branches twisted and gnarled as if they were feeding off the dark magic that pulsed from him. 

Hermione’s screams were ragged, broken—each one cutting through Draco like a blade, like nothing Draco had ever heard before. Not even with Aunt Bella.

Nearby, Ron Weasley lay motionless, his body limp on the forest floor. Blood trickled from his nose and ears, pooling beneath him in the dirt. Draco’s stomach twisted at the sight. He looked dead. Draco’s heart plummeted into his stomach. Was he too late?

“Hermione!” Draco shouted, his voice cracking with fear and desperation, but she didn’t respond. Her body convulsed violently, her eyes wide and unseeing.

Pyrites turned slowly, as if savouring the moment. His twisted smile curled into something darker as he met Draco’s gaze. His eyes gleamed with cruel amusement, as though he had been waiting for this exact moment.

“Well, well, well… look who decided to join the party,” Pyrites drawled, his voice low and mocking. “How charming, little Malfoy, rushing to save a Mudblood. You’re far too late.”

Draco’s blood turned to ice. He barely registered the curse leaving his lips as he lunged at Pyrites, his wand slashing through the air with desperate fury. But Pyrites merely laughed a low, dark sound that reverberated through the clearing like a cruel echo. With a flick of his wrist, he deflected Draco’s spell effortlessly, the red light of Draco’s curse dissipating into the air like smoke. It was as if the magic itself bent to Pyrites’ will. There was something wrong, something terrifyingly different about his magic. No spell or course Draco knew could simply vanish other’s spells like that.

“Is that the best you’ve got, little Malfoy?” Pyrites sneered, his voice dripping with malice. “You’ll have to do better than that if you want to save her, but you’re still that scared little boy, hiding behind his father’s robes. Weak. Pathetic.”

Fury surged through Draco, his heart pounding in his ears.The forest seemed to close in around them, the shadows deepening as Pyrites’ magic filled the air with an oppressive weight. The ground beneath Draco’s feet trembled, the trees creaking as if they were alive, twisted by the dark energy that radiated from Pyrites.

Draco fired off a barrage of curses—Expelliarmus, Sectumsempra, Confringo—even Crucio, but Pyrites vanished them away effortlessly, laughing all the while, the sickly red glow of his magic growing brighter with each failed attempt.

“Pathetic,” Pyrites sneered, his wand spinning lazily between his fingers. “I expected more from you. You’re not even worth the effort.”

Draco’s chest heaved with frustration and fear as he circled the clearing, his mind racing. Pyrites wasn’t just skilled—there was something unnatural about him. His magic felt… wrong. Darker than anything Draco had ever faced before. It clung to the air like a living thing, wrapping around him, squeezing tighter with every second. The very ground beneath his feet seemed to pulse with malevolent energy, reality seemed to be at his command.

He pointed his wand towards Hermione again, and the sickly red light returned, her screams ripping through the clearing once more. Desperation clawed at Draco’s throat as he watched Hermione’s body twist in agony. Her screams were growing weaker, her body trembling as if on the verge of collapse.

“No!” Draco roared, sending a powerful Blasting Curse towards Pyrites, the ground shaking as the spell exploded inches from his feet. The force of the explosion sent dirt and debris flying, the shockwave rippling through the trees. But Pyrites didn’t flinch, his smile widening as the dust settled.

“You’re out of your depth, boy,” Pyrites hissed, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “You don’t know what you’re dealing with.”

“What are you?” Draco demanded, his voice shaking despite his efforts to keep steady. “What kind of magic are you using?”

Pyrites chuckled softly, the sound sending a chill down Draco’s spine. “You’d never understand, little Malfoy. This is beyond your little Death Eater tricks. This is the magic of the old world. The world your ancestors tried to bury. But it’s back. I’ve brought it back and created something new.”

Draco’s mind whirled. Ancient magic, yes. The Celtic hypothesis—Weasley had been on to something. But this was worse than any of them had imagined. Pyrites wasn’t just using dark magic—he was wielding something older, something primal, and he had created something new, Hermione was right about that.

Draco raised his wand again, his hand trembling, but Pyrites just shook his head, bored.

“You’re in over your head,” Pyrites said with a smirk, his eyes gleaming with malice. “But it’s been fun, hasn’t it?”

And then, without warning, he flicked his wand, and Hermione’s screams stopped abruptly as she collapsed into unconsciousness. Pyrites disapparated in the blink of an eye, leaving the clearing deathly silent.

For a moment, Draco’s world froze. His breath caught in his throat as he watched Hermione’s limp body on the ground, fear seizing him. He couldn’t hear her breathing.

“No…” Draco whispered, panic clawing at his chest as he rushed to her side. He dropped to his knees, his hands trembling as he reached for her wrist, desperately searching for a pulse.

Nothing.

“No… no, no, no…” Draco whispered, panic rising in his chest. He shook her gently, his voice breaking. “Hermione, please… not like this… Please…”

But she didn’t respond. Her body was still, lifeless, and Draco’s world tilted on its axis, the horror of what had just happened crashing down around him.

Chapter Text

"Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art... It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things which give value to survival." – C.S. Lewis

Harry

Harry sat at the old wooden table in Grimmauld Place, his eyes unfocused as he stared down at the barely touched plate of food in front of him. The soft glow of candles on the table cast long shadows across the darkened room, but the comfort they provided did little to ease the cold knot of tension in his chest. His fingers tapped absently against the worn wood, his mind drifting to thoughts he couldn’t fully grasp. His shoulders were slumped, and his gaze seemed far away, haunted.

Ginny watched him from across the table, her expression a mix of concern, sadness and patience. She knew him well enough to recognise when something was eating at him, but she hadn’t pushed, waiting for him to speak in his own time.

Harry exhaled deeply, rubbing a hand over his scar—a tic he hadn’t shaken even after all these years. The pressure in his chest seemed to grow heavier, the weight of Pyrites’ looming threat pressing down on him like an invisible force. He wasn’t mourning anyone yet, but the fear of it... the dread of what Pyrites could unleash... it felt like the lead-up to a loss he couldn’t prevent. He’d seen it with Lucas and Tilly, he couldn’t bear to think that something could happen yet again to his family.

"I just..." Harry muttered, his voice finally breaking the thick silence. His words were low, edged with frustration. "I can't stop thinking about how we haven't got anything on Pyrites. The Aurors, the whole department... we’ve been scrambling for weeks, and it's like he’s a ghost. No leads, no location, no pattern. Nothing." He clenched his fist against the table. "And if he does it again, Ginny... if he opens that bloody portal to his army..." His voice cracked, his green eyes flashing with the weight of unspoken fear. "What if it’s London?"

Ginny’s brow furrowed, her gaze softening as she leaned forward, resting her hand over his. "We’ve managed to ward some areas, Harry, and created safe houses for Muggle-borns. It’s not all bad news." Her voice was calm, steady—an anchor in the sea of his rising panic. "We’ve been working with the DA and some of the Slytherins. We’ve warded small cities—Leeds, Portsmouth, a few others—and it seems to be doing something. We noticed the wards were tampered with a couple of times for just a few seconds, and then... nothing."

Harry’s frown deepened. "Tampered with? Do you think it was him?"

Ginny shrugged, her lips pressed into a thin line. "We can’t be sure, but it’s the best lead we’ve got. Maybe it slowed him down, maybe it stopped him from opening the portal. But if you really think London’s next, Harry..." She hesitated, searching his face. "Maybe we should start warding some of the more populated areas here. As a precaution."

He nodded slowly, her words sinking in, offering a sliver of hope amidst the anxiety gnawing at him. “It’s worth trying. If it worked in those smaller cities, it might work here. But it’s a big risk, Ginny, the Ministry can’t know, and if Pyrites is targeting London, we’re going to need every resource, every bit of magic we can muster.”

Ginny’s grip on his hand tightened. “We’ll do whatever it takes. I’ll talk to Luna and Daphne, as well as the others. We’ll ward as much of the city as we can.”

Despite the warmth of her touch, Harry couldn’t shake the feeling of dread. The stakes had never been higher, and the thought of losing more—losing people he loved—twisted his stomach into knots. The war with Voldemort already took too much from him, he couldn’t bear more losses. 

He exhaled deeply, forcing himself to focus on the present, on the fact that Ginny and her team had made progress, the other team seemed to be working on theories that might have some sense. But still, the tension in his chest didn’t ease. It was there, constant, like a pressure building, waiting for the moment to snap. Even with Ginny’s reassurances, the dread gnawing at Harry’s insides refused to ease. The stakes had never felt higher, and the thought of losing more people—losing the ones he loved—twisted his stomach into knots. It was there, ever-present, like a ticking clock counting down to something he couldn’t stop.

Then, without warning, the quiet warmth of the room was shattered by a brilliant burst of silver light. A hawk patronus swooped into the kitchen, its wings spreading wide as it circled the air above them. Ginny’s hand shot away from his as they both watched in stunned silence.

The hawk’s beak opened, and Robards' voice filled the room, urgent and strained.

"Potter. St. Mungo’s. Now. Granger and Weasley—gravely injured. Malfoy brought them in."

For a moment, Harry couldn’t breathe. The world around him seemed to freeze, his mind blank as the words slammed into him like a physical blow. Ron and Hermione... injured? His heart stuttered in his chest, a cold wave of dread washing over him. His first, irrational thought was dark and ugly— Malfoy . Could Malfoy have done something to them?

But then logic caught up with him. Why would Malfoy take them to St. Mungo’s if he had harmed them? No, it didn’t make sense. He remembered how Malfoy had been different lately—more focused, more present, as if trying to make up for his past mistakes. Malfoyhad been... regretful. Braver, even. The Malfoy he once knew wouldn’t have risked anything to help Ron or Hermione. But this Malfoy... this Malfoy was different .

Ginny’s sharp intake of breath yanked him out of his spiralling thoughts. "Harry—" Her voice was tight with urgency, her face pale as she stood, her chair scraping loudly across the floor. "We have to go. Now. "

The urgency in her voice snapped him back to the present. He shot to his feet so quickly that his own chair tipped over. His heart raced, fear pounding through his veins like fire. He couldn’t lose them. Not Ron. Not Hermione.

Without another word, Ginny grabbed his arm, and together they Disapparated, the familiar warmth of Grimmauld Place vanishing in a rush of cold air, replaced by the stark, sterile reality of St. Mungo’s looming ahead.

~

Harry and Ginny Apparated directly into the bustling atrium of St. Mungo’s. The usual calm of the hospital was shattered by chaos. Mediwitches and healers hurried through the corridors, robes streaked with blood, their faces tight with worry. The air was thick with the sound of hurried footsteps, clipped conversations, and the occasional cry of pain.

Harry’s heart pounded in his chest, the dread he had been carrying all day tightening into a knot in his stomach. Every time they had been here, it had been bad. Every single time. His mind flashed back to the battles they had fought, the friends they had lost. What if this was one of those times?

“Harry!” Ginny’s voice broke through his thoughts, sharp and panicked, her eyes wide as she scanned the room, desperately searching for any sign of Ron or Hermione. But all Harry could see was the blur of panic around them—the overwhelming sense that something had gone terribly wrong.

“There!” Ginny’s hand tightened around his, guiding him towards a room down the corridor. But before they could take more than a few steps, Robards strode toward them, his face grim, eyes dark with exhaustion. His robes were wrinkled, his expression lined with stress.

“Potter. Miss Weasley.” His voice was clipped, the tension in the air palpable.

Harry stepped forward, the words already forming on his lips—questions, demands—but Robards cut him off, his tone more serious than Harry had ever heard before. “Granger’s stable, for now. She’s in a coma, but the healers believe she’s out of immediate danger.”

Relief flooded Harry, but it was short-lived as Robards’ eyes darkened further. “Your brother, Weasley—he’s still fighting. He’s lost a lot of blood. They’re doing everything they can, but it’s touch and go.”

Ginny’s breath hitched audibly, her face going ashen, and without a word, she bolted down the corridor towards Ron’s room. Harry followed close behind, his heart hammering in his chest, his mind spinning. The thought of losing Ron—the thought of Hermione never waking up—was too much to bear. They reached the door, but a team of healers blocked their way, their faces apologetic but resolute.

“You can’t go in,” one of the mediwitches said softly but firmly, stepping in front of the door. “He’s in critical condition. We need to keep the room sterile.”

Ginny’s face crumpled, her eyes filling with tears as she looked from the door to the mediwitch. “Please… he’s my brother. I need to see him.”

“I’m sorry,” the mediwitch replied, her voice laced with sympathy, but unwavering. “We’re doing everything we can.”

Ginny’s legs buckled, and Harry barely caught her in time, steadying her as the weight of everything crashed down around her. She was shaking, her breath ragged with sobs. Another mediwitch appeared, holding a small vial.

“She needs to calm down. This will help,” the mediwitch said gently, offering Harry the calming draught.

Ginny shook her head, tears spilling down her cheeks, but Harry nodded at the mediwitch, his own heart breaking as he gently urged Ginny to take it. “Ginny… it’ll help. Please.”

With trembling hands, Ginny accepted the draught and drank, her body still trembling as the potion began to take effect. Her breathing slowed, and her grip on Harry’s arm loosened.

“I’m sorry, Harry…” she whispered, her voice weak and fading as her eyelids drooped. “I should be stronger.”

“You’re already strong, Ginny. But I understand I’m scared too,” Harry murmured, holding her until she drifted into a fitful sleep. He guided her to a nearby bench, gently laying her down and covering her with a transfigured blanket from his robes. For a moment, he stood there, watching her, the sight of her so still and fragile sending a pang of worry through him.

But he couldn’t stay. He needed to see Hermione.

With one last glance at Ginny, Harry straightened and made his way toward Hermione’s room, dread heavy in his chest with every step he took. As he approached the door, he heard a low voice—a voice he hadn’t expected.

Malfoy.

Harry froze, his hand hovering just above the door. Malfoy’s voice was soft, broken, as though he was speaking to someone he feared would never hear him again.

“I’m sorry… Hermione, I’m so sorry,” Malfoy’s voice cracked as he grappled with his emotions. “I’ve been wondering every day lately, as I look upon your face… how are you so selfless? Everything you give and nothing you’ll take. I’ve never met anyone like you, Hermione,” Malfoy sobbed quietly, and Harry could hear the raw emotion in every word. “I never thought it would come to this. I should’ve known, I should’ve protected you… done more. I can’t believe this happened to you again. I failed… again. I’m hurting, Hermione, and I don’t know what to do… and I don’t want to hurt anymore. There’s so much in this world to make me bleed.”

Harry’s breath hitched as he stood in the shadow of the door, listening.

“Stay with me, Hermione… just breathe,” Malfoy continued, his voice barely a whisper now. “Stay with me because you’re all I see… please, just keep breathing.”

Harry’s chest tightened as the full weight of Malfoy’s words sank in. This wasn’t just guilt or fear. This was something far deeper. Malfoy wasn’t just trying to make up for past sins. Malfoy was in love with Hermione.

The realisation hit Harry like a jolt of lightning, leaving him momentarily stunned. He had seen the changes in Malfoy—seen the way he had tried to step away from his past, but this… this was something else entirely. This wasn’t just a man trying to redeem himself. This was a man who had fallen in love, who was utterly broken by the thought of losing the person who had come to mean everything to him.

For a moment, Harry didn’t know what to do. Should he leave? Should he confront Malfoy? The tension in his chest twisted painfully as he wrestled with this new revelation. He had suspected Malfoy fancied Hermione, but he hadn’t realised just how deep his feelings went.

Malfoy’s voice faltered again, barely audible through the crack in the door. “I… I know I don’t deserve you, not even your friendship, Hermione. I practised all my sins… I can’t deny what I did, and my past is never going to let me win, is it? But under everything, I’m just another human being, and you know it, don’t you? Sometimes I believe you can really see me, Hermione… Did I say that I need you? Did I say that I want you? If I didn’t, I’m a fool. No one knows this more than me…”

Harry closed his eyes, his own heart heavy with the fear that had gnawed at him since they’d arrived. He couldn’t stand outside the room any longer. He needed to see her, to make sure she was still with them. But first, he gave Malfoy a moment—the privacy to be vulnerable, to express the feelings Harry never thought he’d witness in the boy he once despised.

Finally, when the room fell silent again, Harry stepped forward and knocked softly on the door.

Malfoy stiffened as soon as Harry knocked, quickly letting go of Hermione’s hand—though not before Harry saw it. There was tenderness in the way Malfoy had been holding her hand, his fingers lingering as if afraid to let go. Their eyes met briefly, and for a fleeting moment, Harry saw something raw, something vulnerable flicker across Malfoy’s face before he masked it behind his usual stiff expression.

“Potter,” Malfoy greeted stiffly, standing up straight, his voice clipped as though bracing himself. “She’s stable. For now.”

Harry stepped into the room, his gaze falling on Hermione, pale and still in the hospital bed. Her breathing was slow and shallow, her face almost as white as the sheets. A fresh wave of dread washed over him at the sight of her so fragile. “What happened?” he asked, keeping his tone even. He could sense the tension in Malfoy, the control he was barely clinging to.

Malfoy’s explanation was clinical, as if he were reciting a report. “I was at Nott Manor, going over Weasley’s theory, when my wand alerted me that Granger was in danger. I Apparated to her location using the charm on my signet ring. I appeared in a forest… I heard screams, and when I got there, I saw Pyrites. She’d been hit with a series of curses, including the Cruciatus for an extended period. There was some dark magic I didn’t recognise. Definitely something new, like she said. Weasley was bleeding out when I arrived. I duelled Pyrites but didn’t get the better of him, and he fled. After that, I managed to stop Weasley’s bleeding long enough to get them both here. Side-Along Apparition.” Malfoy paused, exhaling sharply, his voice tight. “I couldn’t cast a Patronus to alert you.”

Harry absorbed the details, noticing how Malfoy was deliberately keeping it factual, distancing himself from the emotions that lay beneath. But Harry had seen him earlier—heard the way he’d spoken to Hermione, the way he’d held her hand, his voice cracking with grief.

“How are you?” Harry asked softly, keeping his gaze fixed on Malfoy, watching as the mask of control cracked ever so slightly.

“I’m fine.” Malfoy’s response was automatic, but his voice was strained, and Harry could tell he wasn’t fine at all.

“I’m serious, Malfoy,” Harry pressed, his voice gentler this time. “It must have been hard. I’ve seen how much you care... how you feel responsible for her and for everyone’s safety.”

Malfoy’s jaw clenched, his eyes dropping to the floor as if the weight of Harry’s words was too much to bear. His fists were clenched so tightly his knuckles were white. “I... I was scared, Potter,” he finally admitted, his voice breaking. “I thought I’d lost her. After Pyrites fled, I couldn’t feel her heartbeat. I still don’t know if she’ll wake up. I don’t—” His breath hitched, and suddenly all the emotion he had been holding back came pouring out. “I don’t know what I’ll do if she dies.”

Harry stayed quiet, letting Malfoy speak. He could see the guilt and fear etched into every line of his face, the burden of failure Malfoy had been carrying for far too long.

“I can’t—” Malfoy continued, his voice trembling now. “I can’t be a failure again. Not after everything. I thought… I thought I was doing the right thing. That I could protect her. But I wasn’t fast enough, I wasn’t—” His voice cracked, and suddenly, Draco Malfoy—the boy who had always been composed, always in control—fell apart in front of him.

Before Malfoy could pull away, Harry stepped forward and wrapped his arms around him, pulling him into a tight embrace. Malfoy stiffened in surprise at first, his body rigid, but then he gave in, his shoulders shaking as he sobbed into Harry’s shoulder. For a moment, they stood there, two former enemies, bound by the weight of their shared fear and pain.

“I’m sorry, Malfoy,” Harry whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m sorry you had to go through this, but you saved her. You saved Ron. If it wasn’t for you, they might not have made it.”

Malfoy didn’t respond at first, his breathing uneven as he struggled to compose himself. Finally, he pulled away, wiping at his face with a trembling hand, clearly embarrassed by his breakdown. “I just… I don’t want to lose her,” he muttered, his voice raw with emotion. “I can’t.”

“You won’t,” Harry said firmly, though his own voice wavered with uncertainty. “We’ll do everything we can. But you can’t carry this all on your own. You need to let some of it out.”

Malfoy let out a bitter chuckle, a half-hearted attempt at humour. “What do you suggest, Potter? A walk in the park?”

Harry gave him a faint smile, relieved to see a glimpse of the old Malfoy, even in this vulnerable moment. “It wouldn’t hurt. Just for a bit. Clear your head.”

For a moment, Malfoy looked like he might refuse, but then he sighed, running a hand through his dishevelled hair. “Maybe... maybe you’re right.” He hesitated, glancing at the door to Hermione’s room. “But I don’t want to be far from her, in case she wakes up. Could we just walk to the atrium?”

“Sure, we won’t go far,” Harry promised.

They stepped out into the corridor, the tension between them easing as they walked side by side. The sterile, quiet halls of St. Mungo’s offered a stark contrast to the chaos and turmoil Harry felt inside. After a few moments of silence, Harry noticed Malfoy glancing at him awkwardly.

“Is there something you want to say?” Harry’s tone was reminiscent of their old rivalry, but softer now.

Malfoy let out a sigh, his eyes fixed ahead. “I was just thinking,” he began, his voice unusually reflective, “I always wanted to be your friend. When we were kids.”

Harry stopped walking, turning to face him. “What?”

Malfoy gave a dry laugh, devoid of his usual arrogance. “I’m not saying this for pity, Potter. It’s just… you rejected me. And I didn’t know what to do with that. So I became the person I thought I had to be—the one who sneered, who made you my enemy, because it hurt too much to think I wasn’t good enough.”

Harry blinked, taken aback. He had never imagined that the animosity between them could have stemmed from something so simple, so human.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said, surprising even himself with the sincerity of the words. “I never realised... I should’ve handled things differently.”

Draco looked at him, his expression unreadable. “We were just kids, Potter. You didn’t have to handle it any differently… and I wasn’t exactly easy to deal with, was I?”

“No, you weren’t,” Harry agreed, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “But still... I’m sorry.”

Malfoy nodded, his face softening in a way Harry had never seen before. For a moment, it felt like something shifted between them—years of animosity giving way to an unspoken understanding.

Harry extended his hand, a gesture of peace. “Hello, I’m Harry.”

Malfoy looked at him, momentarily taken aback. But then, something changed in his demeanour, something softer. His eyes flickered with amusement. “Hi, I’m Draco.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Draco. Would you like to be my friend?”

Draco smiled, shaking his head in disbelief, but something had definitely changed between them. “Am I supposed to call you Harry now?”

“Yes, my friends call me Harry.”

A moment passed in reflective silence until they heard the quiet murmur of a passing healer discussing Hermione’s condition.

“We should head back, Harry,” Draco said after a pause. “I don’t want to be away for too long, in case she wakes up.”

“Yeah, let’s go.”

They walked back to Hermione’s room in silence, the weight of their conversation still hanging between them. When they entered the room again, the healer wasn’t there. Draco immediately took his place beside Hermione’s bed, his eyes never leaving her face. Harry stood by the door, watching as Draco reached for Hermione’s hand, holding it gently, protectively.

The door creaked open, and Robards entered, his expression tired but relieved. “Potter, Malfoy.”

Harry straightened, his heart thudding in his chest. “What is it?”

“Ron’s out of danger,” Robards said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “He’s sleeping, but he’ll make it. The healers managed to stabilise him.”

Harry’s knees nearly buckled with relief. “Thank Merlin.”

Robards nodded. “You should let Ginny and the rest of the Weasleys know. They’re in the atrium, making a bit of a scene.” He chuckled softly. “Ginny woke up and called them, but I think they need to hear the news from you.”

Harry glanced at Draco, who hadn’t moved from Hermione’s side. “I’ll go,” Harry said softly. “I’ll let them know.”

Draco nodded, his eyes still fixed on Hermione. “Thank you.”

With one last glance at Draco, Harry turned and made his way down the corridor toward the atrium. As he approached, he could hear the low murmurs of conversation, the familiar voices of the Weasleys. When he stepped into the atrium, he found them all huddled together, pale and tear-streaked, waiting for news.

“Molly, Arthur…” Harry’s voice trembled as he spoke, his own relief threatening to overwhelm him. “Ron’s going to be okay. He’s out of danger.”

Molly let out a strangled sob, collapsing into Arthur’s arms as the rest of the family surrounded her, tears of relief spilling down their cheeks. Ginny rushed into Harry’s arms, holding him tightly as they stood together in the chaos of the hospital.

And for the first time since they had arrived at St. Mungo’s, Harry allowed himself to feel the warmth of hope. Ron was safe. Hermione was alive. And maybe, just maybe, they would all make it through this together.

~

Draco

Draco sat in the quiet room, the rhythmic sound of Hermione’s breathing the only thing cutting through the oppressive silence. He hadn’t left her side since the attack—not really. Physically, he’d been present for the briefings with the others, but his mind was always here, in this room. With her. The dim light from the enchanted lanterns flickered weakly, casting long shadows that danced over her still form. Every day that passed without her waking felt heavier than the last, like the walls themselves were closing in on him.

The DA and the Slytherins had been working tirelessly to piece together what had happened in that wretched forest. They had theories, sure, but nothing solid. Hermione and Weasley had stumbled upon something—something dangerous enough to land them both in St Mungo’s. And despite their best efforts, they still couldn’t work out exactly what it was.

Draco gripped the edge of his chair so tightly his knuckles had turned white. He hated not knowing, hated the feeling that they were always two steps behind. But more than that, he hated the helplessness of sitting here, watching Hermione lie motionless in this hospital bed, fighting to regain consciousness. Fear clawed its way up his spine every time he looked at her pale face. I almost lost her —the thought repeated endlessly, gnawing at him, wearing him down.

The sadness was sharp, like glass in his chest, but it was the fear of losing her that truly paralysed him. He’d felt it before, that helpless, all-consuming dread. The same one he’d felt during the battle when Pyrites tortured her endlessly.

He sighed, his heart heavy. Over the past few days, he’d lost count of how many times he’d come to sit by her side. Her recovery had been agonisingly slow, and though the healers reassured him that both she and Weasley were on the mend, it wasn’t enough. Weasley had always been in the room across the hall, and Draco knew why Harry was there. They’d agreed, after all. One of them would watch Hermione, the other Weasley.

Harry had chosen Weasley’s room without a second thought, and Draco... well, he’d volunteered to stay with her. He’d told himself it didn’t matter. That he could handle it. But as the days dragged on, he wasn’t so sure. Every minute she remained unconscious felt like another reminder that he had failed yet again.

Suddenly, Hermione stirred, her hand twitching beneath the blankets. Draco shot upright, his heart thudding in his chest as he leaned forward, holding his breath. Her eyelids fluttered, blinking groggily against the dim light, and for a moment, everything seemed to stop.

“Hermione?” Draco whispered, his voice hoarse, barely daring to believe what he was seeing.

Her eyes blinked open slowly, as though the effort was too much, but eventually, they focused on him. Her lips parted, dry and cracked, and the faintest whisper escaped her. “Draco?”

He nodded, swallowing the sudden lump in his throat. “Yeah. You’re awake.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed as she tried to remember what had happened. Her gaze flickered around the room, the confusion evident on her face. But then, like a bolt of lightning, panic flashed across her features. “Ron. Where’s Ron?”

Draco’s stomach dropped. Jealousy surged through him like wildfire, his heart twisting painfully. Of course . The first thing she’d ask about would be Weasley. It didn’t matter that he’d been sitting by her side for days, waiting. She’d never look at him the way she looked at Weasley. She’d never choose him, always. 

He tried to force the bitterness down, he had sworn to himself that he wouldn’t let his feelings cloud his judgement, that he’d put everything on the line to protect her, even if she never looked at him the way she did Weasley. But now… sitting here, watching her fragile form stir back to life, it was harder than ever to untangle his emotions. Had he really changed, or was he still that same selfish boy who just wanted to win? 

“He’s fine. Still unconscious, like you were. But stable,” his voice came out clipped and cold despite his efforts.

Hermione’s face softened with relief, but Draco felt his stomach twist into knots. He hadn’t expected anything else, but it didn’t stop the hurt, didn’t stop the sickening sense of loss gnawing at him. Before he could say anything more, the door burst open, and Harry rushed into the room, his face lighting up when he saw Hermione awake.

“Hermione!” Harry’s voice was breathless as he ran to her side, his relief evident. “You’re awake. Thank Merlin.”

Hermione smiled weakly, but her exhaustion was obvious. Draco’s chest tightened as he watched Harry take her hand, concern etched across his face. Draco couldn’t help the flare of resentment whenever Harry entered, seeing that connection between them. It was a bond he thought he’d been building with her, but after nearly losing her, he wasn’t sure if it was real or just in his head.

“What happened?” Harry asked, his voice gentle but edged with urgency. “Why were you and Ron out there alone? Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

Hermione sighed, clearly worn out but determined. She glanced between them, then spoke slowly. “After Draco helped Lucas, I felt like I needed to do more, to stop Pyrites. Something shifted in me, and I just couldn’t sit still. So I decided to help Ron with his theory.”

“You found something?” Draco asked, his voice sharper than he meant it to be.

“Ron was researching proto-Celtic magic when I caught up with him,” Hermione explained. “We reckoned that if Pyrites was using ancient magic linked to the Celts, we might find something no one else had noticed. So, we started with the reports on the disappearances. We studied the signature he’d left behind and then we saw it—tiny runes, almost molecular in size, around the sites. No one would’ve noticed unless they knew what to look for. We followed the runes to see if they also appeared at the sites of the Inferi attacks, and they did. Right where the portals had been. We tracked them, and they led us straight to that forest.”

Harry frowned. “But why didn’t you tell us? You knew it was dangerous.”

“We didn’t know for certain,” Hermione admitted, her voice strained. “We thought we had to be sure before telling anyone. We didn’t want to alarm everyone if we were wrong. We certainly didn’t expect to find him there.”

Draco folded his arms, his frustration bubbling over. “So, you put yourselves in danger for a theory?”

Hermione’s gaze flickered to him, and for a brief moment, guilt flashed across her face. But then her expression hardened. “It wasn’t just a theory, Draco. I thought… I thought we could handle it. That if we were right, we could stop him before anyone else got hurt,” Hermione’s voice cracked slightly, and she looked away, the guilt evident in her eyes. “But I put Ron in danger. I put us all in danger, but when Pyrites found us, I realised exactly what he was doing.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, his brow furrowing.

Hermione’s eyes darkened as she recalled the attack, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “Pyrites isn’t just using dark ancient proto-Celtic magic. He’s created something new—something… horrifying.”

Draco and Harry exchanged worried glances. “What do you mean?” Harry asked cautiously.

Hermione’s hands trembled slightly as she spoke, and Draco noticed how pale she’d become. “He’s mixing that with alchemy, which seems obvious now, though I don’t know how we didn’t think of it sooner—he’s well known for his work in alchemy, after all... I’m calling it Arcan Alchemy. Seems fitting, doesn’t it?”

“Arcan Alchemy?” Draco repeated, his tone flat, unimpressed with Hermione joking at a time like this.

“Well, think about it,” Hermione said, her voice laced with dread. “It’s magic that goes beyond the usual spells. It’s… molecular manipulation. He’s found a way to manipulate the very essence of magic—matter itself. He’s bending reality on a molecular level, reweaving the magic in the air around him.”

Draco’s breath caught, his mind flashed back to that moment in the forest—how the air had warped around Pyrites, twisting like smoke around a fire. His spell, powerful and precise, had evaporated before it even reached him. It hadn’t just fizzled—it had been sucked into nothing, as though Pyrites had absorbed it. Draco could still feel the sickening lurch in his gut, the knowledge that nothing they threw at him would stick. That fear was back now, gnawing at him. “He’s manipulating the magical field?”

“Exactly,” Hermione said, her voice trembling slightly. “The runes weren’t just markers—they were stabilisers. He’s using them to alter the very fabric of reality. It’s magic we’ve never seen before because it blends the metaphysical and the physical. Alchemy and magic combined, but on a scale that affects reality itself. He can create portals, manipulate the laws of physics. That’s how he’s been moving undetected. He’s not just using magic—he’s changing it.”

Draco’s mind raced back to their confrontation with Pyrites. He could still see the way Pyrites had fought him barely lifting a finger, how the spells had fizzled into nothing, how the forest itself seemed to move around him. Magic didn’t work against him.

“Are you sure this is something new, Hermione?”, Harry was pacing anxiously around her bed.

Hermione nodded grimly. “Yes. There’s no record of it anywhere—no research, no information. This is something he’s been developing for years, in secret. I don’t even know where to start learning about it, let alone how to stop him.”

The room fell into a heavy silence. Draco could feel the weight of Hermione’s words sinking in, the gravity of what they were up against pressing down on him. “And you reckon he created this on his own?”

Hermione nodded again. 

Harry ran a hand through his hair, his face pale. “How the hell are we supposed to fight something like that?”

“I don’t know,” Hermione whispered, her voice cracking. “We barely understand what he’s doing. If he’s figured out how to manipulate magic on this scale, there’s no telling what else he’s capable of.”

Draco’s mind raced, dread tightening its grip on him with every word. They were fighting against something they couldn’t even fully comprehend, something they had no way of learning about fast enough. Pyrites was always a step ahead, lurking in the shadows, waiting. The fear of losing Hermione—of failing her—burned like acid in his veins. He couldn’t lose her. Not after everything. Not to this.

But as he looked at her lying in that hospital bed, so fragile and pale, something stirred inside him. Determination. Pyrites might be manipulating reality itself, rewriting the laws of magic, but Draco wasn’t going to let him win.

He turned to Harry, his voice firm, though his heart was pounding in his chest. “We’ll find a way. We have to.”

Harry nodded, though the same fear flickered in his eyes. They were completely out of their depth. But they couldn’t afford to let that stop them.

Hermione gave a weak nod, her face pale but resolute. “We need to start studying, figure out how it works. There has to be a way to counter it. I just hope we can do it in time.He’s not finished.This was just the beginning. Whatever he’s doing, he’s building towards something bigger. We need to figure it out before… before it’s too late.””

Draco stood beside her, his hand brushing hers for the briefest of moments. He didn’t have the answers. Not yet. But he wasn’t going to lose her. He wasn’t going to let Pyrites take her from him.

“We’ll figure it out,” Draco murmured, more to himself than anyone else. His jaw clenched. “Even if it kills me.”

~

Draco stood near the grand fireplace in Nott Manor’s drawing room, watching the group in front of him slowly unravel. The air was thick with tension, not just because of Pyrites’ looming threat but because of everything that had happened since the attack. Hermione, now out of St Mungo’s, sat at the head of the long table, her face pale but determined. Weasley was still unconscious, and despite her strength, Draco could see the weight of it all in her eyes.

He wasn’t the only one. Everyone here—Slytherins and DA members—was on edge. They were trying to come up with a plan to stop Pyrites, but fear twisted its way into every conversation, every silence that dragged on for too long.

Harry stood beside him, now a friend rather than a rival, his jaw tight. The two of them had forged an uneasy bond over the past weeks, shaped in the fires of battle and the fear of losing those they cared about. They exchanged a glance—both knowing they had to keep it together for everyone else.

Across the room, Theo leaned back in his chair, an amused smirk plastered on his face, as usual. “So, we’re about to take on a dark wizard with a dodgy new brand of alchemy, and I’m supposed to be reassured by the fact we’ve got access to my dusty old library?”

Draco rolled his eyes, but Hermione didn’t miss a beat. “You’re supposed to be reassured by the fact that you’ve got me, and I’m leading,” she shot back, her tone sharp but not unkind.

There was a flicker of warmth in her eyes, something that had surfaced ever since they’d begun working together. She glanced at Draco, the trust between them palpable. Draco felt a brief pang of something close to pride, her trust grounding him in the midst of the growing dread.

“Fair point,” Theo said with a wink, his usual charm breaking some of the tension. “Though I was hoping for more explosions and less homework.”

Pansy snorted from where she was sitting next to George Weasley, of all people. The two had formed an unlikely bond over their shared dark humour. George, ever the prankster, grinned at Pansy, nudging her with his elbow. “Explosions are your speciality, aren’t they, Pans?”

Pansy rolled her eyes dramatically. “That’s Finnigan’s department. I only explode when people get on my nerves, Weasley. You’re pushing it.”

“Oi!” Finnigan feigned offence, crossing his arms, grinning.

“Well, it’s true, mate. You are the king of explosions,” Thomas teased, chuckling lightly.

Across the room, Daphne and Luna huddled together, murmuring softly. It still surprised Draco how well they got on—Luna with her dreamy oddities, Daphne with her calm, steady care. Together, they formed a strange but balanced friendship Draco hadn’t anticipated.

Hermione cleared her throat, drawing everyone’s attention back to the task at hand. “We need to focus. As I was saying before, Pyrites is using something we’ve never seen before—alchemy that defies our understanding. And the Inferi army…” She paused, her expression grim. “It doesn’t react to fire the way it should. Something’s been altered.”

Draco straightened, his voice steady, despite the tension in the room. “That’s because it’s not just magic he’s using. It’s a blend of alchemy and ancient magic—something that centres around transformation. He’s changed the nature of the Inferi, making them immune to fire.”

Luna, her wide, dreamy eyes focused on Draco, nodded thoughtfully. “Alchemy transforms. It changes what something is, at its core. Perhaps he’s altered the bodies so they can’t be harmed by fire, as pure and destructive as it is.”

Blaise, who had been quietly observing from the sidelines, leaned forward from the shadows. “Fire’s sacred. It’s been used for centuries to destroy darkness—like the Inferi. But what if Pyrites corrupted that element?”

Hermione’s gaze sharpened. Her brow furrowed in thought, her mind racing. “Corrupted it how?”

Draco’s mind raced. There was something nagging at the edges of his thoughts, a piece of the puzzle they hadn’t quite pieced together yet. “Alchemy requires an exchange,” he said slowly, narrowing his eyes. “If Pyrites has found a way to corrupt fire—something pure, something that should destroy his army—then he must’ve twisted it with something just as powerful. Something opposite.”

“Betrayal,” Daphne said suddenly, her voice calm but certain. She glanced at Luna, who gave a small, approving nod. “Fire represents loyalty, protection, purification, and light. Betrayal’s the opposite. It corrupts loyalty, twists it into something else. Something painful.”

George’s usual light-hearted expression fell away. “So you’re saying he’s using betrayal to… what, strengthen his army?”

“That’s exactly what we’re saying,” Hermione replied, her voice grave. “Pyrites has somehow infused the bodies with something that prevents fire—something that should destroy the Inferi—from doing so.”

Silence settled over the room again, thicker than before. Astoria’s voice wavered, betraying her nerves. “Maybe he’s taken the very element that purifies the bodies and twisted it into something that binds the Inferi even tighter to him?”

The tension in the room felt like a storm about to break. Draco could feel the fear pulsing in the Gryffindors—the anxious whispers between Finnigan, Thomas, and Longbottom—but his own lot remained more composed, though just as nervous.

Theo, who had been uncharacteristically quiet for a moment, leaned forward with a smirk. “I always knew betrayal was powerful, but using it like this? That’s bloody genius. Horrifying, but genius.”

Pansy shot him a look. “Leave it to you to admire the villain, Theo.”

Theo shrugged, nonchalant. “What? Credit where it’s due. Can’t argue with the results.”

“Corrupting fire with betrayal and infusing it into the Inferi... How would he even do that?” Blaise asked, sounding genuinely baffled.

“Arcan Alchemy,” Hermione said, glancing at Draco with a knowing smile. Draco had thought she hadn’t noticed his annoyance at her naming that brand of magic with such a pun, but clearly, she had—and was trying to lighten the moment.

Suddenly, Ginny stood up, nearly knocking her chair over in the process. Her eyes were wide and bright, her mouth opening and closing, but no sound came out at first. Then she locked eyes with Harry. “Bel fire!” she blurted out, excitement flashing in her voice.

Theo grinned, standing up and wandering over to a stack of books he had summoned from his library. “You might be onto something, Gingersnap.” He picked out a thick, weathered tome with a brown leather cover, handing it to Hermione.

“‘ Cerridwen agus Fàinne Beannaichte Eynhallow …’” Hermione’s fingers traced the letters delicately, almost reverently, as if caressing a lover. Draco felt a flush creeping up his neck.

“Supposedly, she enchanted her fire—the one she used in her cauldron—to have stronger properties, especially purification,” Longbottom said, his voice distant, as if he was remembering something from long ago. “It’s said her magic is strongest on Beltane.”

“Merlin! The same day as the first Inferi attack!” Harry was pacing around the table, his eyes darting around as his mind raced.

“That’s got to be it!” Hermione’s eyes gleamed with excitement.

Draco watched the room come alive with energy as the tension slowly lifted, replaced with lighter banter and teasing. For the first time in weeks, it felt like they were finally getting somewhere.The puzzle pieces were coming together.

Theo leaned back in his chair, his usual smirk firmly in place. “Well, well, Gingersnap, looks like there’s more to you than fiery temper.”

Ginny rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress the grin tugging at her lips. “Careful, Theo. Keep that up, and I’ll make sure you’re the first to test any future explosions.”

Pansy snorted, nudging George. “Looks like Finnigan’s about to lose his crown as king of destruction.”

George grinned, crossing his arms. “At least Ginny’s explosions seem intentional. As for Seamus’s…”

“Oi!” Finnigan shot back, laughing. “They’re intentional enough, you git!”

Theo raised his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. Let’s leave the pyrotechnics to the professionals. But seriously, Beltane and Cerridwen’s fire... We might be onto something here.”

Draco allowed himself a small smile as he surveyed the room. The DA and Slytherins were chatting like friends, more at ease with one another than he’d ever thought possible. It was strange, but reassuring. For once, the sharp edge of distrust that usually lingered in the air was absent.

Even Blaise, who had been quietly observing from the side, looked impressed. “Bel fire, corrupted with betrayal,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Pyrites really is playing a different game. But how do we even start to reverse something like that?”

Hermione, still holding the ancient tome, ran her fingers along the spine thoughtfully. “If we’re right, and Pyrites used alchemy to corrupt the fire… then maybe it’s not about reversing it. Alchemy is about transformation. We need something just as strong, but in the opposite direction.”

Draco caught her eye, and something passed between them. “We need something that counters betrayal. If betrayal twisted the fire, we need an element—or an emotion—that can untwist it.”

“Love?” Luna said softly, her voice certain. “It’s the opposite of betrayal. Loyalty, love… things that can’t be corrupted.”

“That’s a bit on the nose, don’t you think?” Theo teased. “Love conquers all and all that fairy tale rubbish.”

“It’s not rubbish. It’s what saved Harry,” Ginny shot back, giving Theo a pointed look.

“But maybe Theo’s right. Love, loyalty—they’re strong forces, but are they really the opposite of betrayal? Feels too simple, for someone like Pyrites,” Blaise mused, rubbing his signet ring thoughtfully.

But Draco wasn’t listening anymore. A new idea had taken root in his mind, gnawing at him. Alchemy wasn’t just about elements—it was about emotions, transformations on a deeper level. If Pyrites had used betrayal to corrupt fire, they needed to find its counter. And there was only one person he knew who understood emotions on that level. He didn’t want to cause him trouble, Lucas was already grieving, but they needed him.

“We need to speak to Lucas,” Draco said suddenly, turning to Harry.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Lucas? Why?”

“Because he understands emotions better than anyone. Assuming Pyrites has corrupted fire with betrayal. If anyone can figure out how to counter that, it’s Lucas.”

Hermione looked at Draco, her eyes wide with realisation. “You think Lucas might know the opposite of betrayal—what could counter Pyrites’ magic?”

Draco nodded slowly. “It’s worth a shot. We need something that can undo what Pyrites has done. I reckon Lucas might have an idea.”

Hermione seemed intrigued, her fingers pausing on the tome. “It’s not a bad plan. Alchemy’s as much about the emotional and philosophical as it is the physical transformation. If Pyrites is using betrayal, Lucas could help us figure out what neutralises it.”

A knot of hope formed in Draco’s chest. It was risky, but it was the best lead they had so far. “We need to move quickly,” he said, his voice firm. “Pyrites won’t wait for us to figure this out.”

Theo stretched lazily, his grin never faltering. “Brilliant. Off to visit an emotional guru, then? This keeps getting better.”

“Don’t worry, Theo. I’m sure Lucas will find you absolutely fascinating,” Draco said dryly.

Theo chuckled, raising an eyebrow. “Well, I am fascinating. Full stop.”

Pansy rolled her eyes dramatically. “Can we just go before Theo starts talking about himself again?”

George snickered. “You’d think he’d run out of material by now.”

“Never,” Theo shot back with a wink. “I’m a bottomless pit of charm.”

As the banter continued, Draco allowed himself a brief moment of relief. They weren’t out of the woods yet—not by a long shot—but for the first time, it felt like they were making progress. The dread of Pyrites’ next move still loomed, a dark shadow over their heads, but they were beginning to unravel his plan.

As if summoned by his thoughts, a shimmering white hawk burst into the room. The Patronus hovered in mid-air, its silvery glow casting eerie shadows against the walls of Nott Manor. Everyone froze, dread tightening around them like a noose. They all knew what this meant.

The hawk’s message rang clear in Robards' voice, but it was filled with grim urgency: “Potter! There’s an attack developing in Bristol.”

As it vanished, a heavy silence followed. It was as though the room had forgotten how to breathe.

Harry’s jaw clenched, his hands tightening into fists at his sides. “None of you are coming.”

The declaration cut through the quiet like a whip. Everyone turned to him, startled by the command in his voice.

“You can’t stop us, Harry,” George said, stepping forward, his voice steady but carrying the same weight of fear and determination as everyone else in the room.

“I can and I will,” Harry snapped back, turning sharply to face the group. His face was set, eyes flashing with anger. “This isn’t up for debate. None of you are Aurors. The Inferi army is still unstoppable, and you’ll get yourselves killed. I made that mistake before, taking Draco and Hermione, and we barely survived. I’m not making the same mistake again.”

“We’ve been training—” Theo began, but Harry cut him off.

“You’re not ready! You’re students, not soldiers. I’m not losing anyone else to Pyrites. Don’t make me ward you inside this manor.”

There was an undercurrent of desperation in Harry’s voice, as though he was on the verge of losing control. He glanced around, his eyes flicking from Draco to Hermione, to Theo, to Ginny, knowing full well that none of them planned to listen to him. The atmosphere was thick with defiance.

Draco opened his mouth to protest, but the look on Harry’s face stopped him. He knew Harry was right. The army they were dealing with was beyond anything they could face. If Pyrites made a move, there was nothing they could do to protect themselves. Draco had seen it. He knew.

“Please,” Harry added, quieter now, a pleading edge to his tone. “I can’t risk any more lives. I won’t.”

Hermione’s gaze softened, her resolve momentarily faltering. “Harry…”

Theo let out a frustrated sigh, leaning back in his chair. “Fine,” he muttered, though his expression betrayed his annoyance. “I’ve adjusted the wards for you. You can Apparate straight from the foyer.”

Harry shot Theo a nod of gratitude, though his expression remained grim. With one last glance around the room, he turned towards the door. “Stay here. If anyone disobeys, I’ll lock you all in.”

Without waiting for another word, Harry strode out of the room, the door swinging shut behind him with a finality that left a suffocating silence in his wake.

The tension that followed pressed down on everyone like a weight. Draco clenched his fists, his mind racing. Waiting around, doing nothing, wasn’t an option. Not anymore.

He spoke abruptly, making everyone flinch and catching their attention. “We can’t wait any longer,” he said, his voice thick with urgency. “We’re going to see Lucas. Now.”

A ripple of shock passed through the group, but there were no objections. Hermione nodded almost immediately, her determination reigniting. “You’re right. We need answers.”

Theo raised an eyebrow, his usual smirk absent. “Lucas, the emotional guru? He’d better have more than just sound advice.”

“Whether he does or not, it’s our only shot,” Draco replied without hesitation. “Who’s coming?”

“I’m in,” Hermione said firmly, stepping up beside him.

Luna, who had been quiet, gave a serene nod. “I think Lucas will know. He understands emotions in ways none of us do.”

Daphne hesitated for a moment, her brows furrowed. Then she stood as well. “I’ll go,” she said softly, but there was a steely resolve in her eyes. “We need to end this.”

Theo shrugged, getting to his feet with a casualness that belied the seriousness of the moment. “Couldn’t let you lot have all the fun.”

Draco glanced at Blaise, Pansy, and the others, feeling the nervous energy rise again in the room. But this time, it wasn’t paralysing. It was propelling them forward.

“I think it’s best if we divide our efforts,” Blaise said calmly. “If Bristol’s under attack, it means our wards have been compromised. No surprise there. Pyrites is clever. We’ll need to regroup and adjust the wards. Daphne, Lovegood, you two are the brains behind the wards—you should stay.”

Daphne nodded. “Right, we’ll stay then.”

“I’ll go too,” Pansy said, standing up with a calm certainty.

“Me as well,” George added, getting to his feet.

“Alright,” Draco said, his voice steadying. “We leave now. Time’s running out. You lot, if there’s any emergency, someone send a Patronus. We’ll be back once we’re done.”

Hermione gathered the ancient tome she’d been holding, her hands moving with a quickness that betrayed her focus. Theo casually flicked his wand, adjusting the wards one last time to allow them to leave undetected.

The group moved with a new sense of urgency. They didn’t know what awaited them with Lucas, but for the first time in days, there was a glimmer of hope—a chance they were taking real steps towards stopping Pyrites.

As they made their way down the hall, Draco felt the heavy dread hanging over them, but it was interwoven with something else: resolve. For the first time in weeks, they had a lead, a direction. Lucas might hold the key they needed, the counter to betrayal that could reverse the dark magic Pyrites had wrought upon the world. They might be able to stop him, one step at a time.

They reached the foyer, and urgency nipped at Draco’s skin. There was no time to waste. Pyrites was moving, and so were they.

“Let’s go. Take my hand.”

With hands grabbing onto each other and a sharp crack, they Apparated, heading into the unknown, hope lighting their way.

~

Draco, Hermione, Theo, George, and Pansy Apparated just outside Lucas’ cottage, the air cool and crisp with the scent of the sea lingering in the wind. The moonlight bathed the small stone structure in a soft, eerie glow, and for a brief moment, Draco hesitated. The weight of what they were about to ask, and what it might mean for Lucas, pressed heavily on his mind. But there was no turning back now.

He took a deep breath and knocked on the old wooden door. The familiar creak of the hinges pulled him back to the present, and when Lucas appeared in the doorway, Draco’s heart lifted slightly. Lucas looked better than he had the last time. The deep lines of grief had softened somewhat, and his posture wasn’t weighed down by despair. The absence of alcohol on his breath was a relief, and there was a spark in his eyes—a warmth that hadn't been there the last time.

Draco felt a swell of admiration for him. Despite everything Lucas had lost, he was healing, moving forward in a way Draco could barely comprehend. In the midst of their world’s chaos, Lucas was a reminder of resilience, of finding strength in grief. He respected him more than ever for it.

“Draco,” Lucas greeted, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “It’s good to see you.”

“You too,” Draco replied, his voice soft but full of meaning. He gestured to the others. “I’ve brought some friends.”

As Lucas stepped aside to let them in, Draco couldn’t help but glance around at the familiar warmth of the cottage. The flickering firelight from the hearth gave the room a comforting glow, a stark contrast to the cold dread of the world they’d left behind outside. This place, modest and simple, grounded him in the moment.

“This is Theo Nott, George Weasley, and Pansy Parkinson,” Draco said, introducing each of them in turn. Lucas nodded, greeting them with the same quiet kindness he had always shown Draco. The group settled around a small wooden table, the atmosphere shifting as they prepared to discuss the weighty matters they had come for.

Hermione was the first to break the silence, her voice calm but purposeful. “Lucas, we need your help. We’re dealing with something that we don’t fully understand—something dangerous.”

Draco found himself leaning forward, his fingers tracing the grain of the table as he began to explain. “It’s called Arcan Alchemy,” he said, using the term without hesitation. When he caught Hermione’s amused smirk, he felt a flicker of humour himself. “It’s a blend of ancient magic and alchemy. We believe Pyrites has used it to corrupt fire—specifically Bel fire. He’s transformed its purity into something darker. Something tainted.”

Lucas furrowed his brow, his gaze growing distant as he absorbed the information. His fingers tapped lightly against the table, a familiar gesture Draco recognised as Lucas’ way of piecing together something complex. “Fire corrupted… But by what force? What could do that?”

“That’s the thing,” Theo cut in, his usual bravado toned down by the gravity of the situation. “We reckon it’s betrayal. The fire that should purify, that should destroy the Inferi, has been twisted—corrupted by betrayal. It’s why the army is unstoppable.”

Pansy, sitting beside George, leaned in, her voice unusually serious. “We thought love might be the key to reversing it. But it doesn’t feel right. It’s too… simple for what Pyrites is using.”

George, who had been uncharacteristically quiet until now, nodded. “It’s too simple. Pyrites is using something far more insidious than anything we’ve dealt with before. If we’re going to stop him, we need something just as powerful.”

Lucas sat back in his chair, his gaze distant, as if lost in thought. Draco watched him carefully, his heart aching for the man. He knew how deeply Lucas was mourning—how the grief over losing Tilly still shadowed him. Draco could see it as plain as day. Yet here Lucas was, standing strong, willing to help. Draco admired his resilience, his quiet strength.

“I’ll do whatever I can to help,” Lucas said, his voice firm. “I’ve lost too much already to stand by and do nothing. If there’s a way to stop Pyrites, I’ll find it. For Tilly. For all of us.”

At the mention of Tilly, a heavy silence fell over the room. Hermione and Draco, especially, understood the depth of his pain. But Lucas’ expression shifted, his brow furrowing as he considered their theory. “Love is powerful. But it’s not the answer this time.”

Draco’s pulse quickened. He could see the gears turning in Lucas’ mind, the way they always did when he was piecing something together.

“It’s not love,” Lucas continued, his voice quiet but sure. “It’s something more fundamental. Something that goes beyond romantic love, beyond loyalty to just one person. It’s friendship. True, pure friendship.”

Hermione blinked, processing the revelation. “Friendship?”

Lucas nodded, leaning forward slightly. “Think about it. Betrayal corrupts loyalty, yes, but friendship is built on trust. It’s a bond that isn’t easily broken, and it’s more powerful than betrayal because it can be shared by more than two people. It’s a collective strength.”

Draco felt his chest tighten as Lucas’ words sank in. Friendship. It made sense. Love was intimate, singular. But friendship… friendship spanned across people, binding them together, something Pyrites couldn’t corrupt.

“That makes sense,” Theo said slowly, a note of realisation in his voice. “But what the bloody hell is a pure friendship? I’m a lucky man to count on both hands the ones I love, but I wouldn’t say our friendship is pure.”

Lucas smiled faintly. “I’d say a pure friendship is one born from deep understanding, care, and empathy. There are all kinds of friendships, but maybe the strongest ones are those where friends can rely on each other completely. They trust each other in a fundamental way, and they become each other’s safety net.”

Lucas’ eyes locked onto Draco’s. “You’re not going to be able to stop Pyrites on your own. You’ll need the strength of the bond between all of you. That’s what will counter the alchemy he’s using.”

A ripple of understanding passed through the group. Draco could see it in their eyes—each of them realising the truth in Lucas’ words. Friendship wasn’t just an answer—it was the answer. And as they exchanged glances, the connections between them seemed to deepen, to solidify. But one friendship stood out, undeniably fitting Lucas’ description.

“We’ll need the Golden Trio,” George said, breaking the silence. His voice was steady, but the weight of his words hung in the air. “Harry, Hermione, and Ron. Their friendship... it’s the strongest, purest force we have.”

Hermione nodded, her throat tight. “Yes,” she whispered, “it is.”

Draco stood, the urgency settling back into his bones now that they had a direction. “Then we need to act. We can’t afford to wait any longer. We need to figure out how their friendship can neutralise the army.”

The others followed, their movements quick and purposeful. Lucas stood with them, his eyes soft but filled with resolve. “I’ll help in any way I can.”

Draco met Lucas’ gaze, and for a moment, there was no need for words. He knew Lucas was doing this for Tilly, but he was also doing it for them—for the future they were fighting for. “Thank you, Lucas. You’ve already helped more than you know.”

As they turned to leave, the weight of their mission settled over them again. But this time, it wasn’t just dread that filled the air. There was hope—fragile but bright, flickering like a candle in the darkness. Perhaps they had found the key to stopping Pyrites.

Draco’s thoughts raced as they stepped outside into the cool night air, but for the first time in weeks, there was clarity. They had a plan. They had the truth. And they had their bonds—bonds Pyrites could never corrupt.

As they Apparated back to the manor, the image of Lucas standing in the doorway stayed with him. Draco didn’t know what the future held, but for now, that flicker of hope burned brighter than the fear.

And for now, that was enough.

Chapter Text

"The universe is full of magical things patiently waiting for our wits to grow sharper."

— Eden Phillpotts

Draco

Nott Manor loomed darkly against the night sky, the cool air brushing Draco’s face as they approached the front door. Despite the chill, his blood was thrumming, alive with anticipation to bear the news to the others. If Draco believed in Divination, he’d say the manor itself sensed something was shifting, like the world’s fabric was fraying before a battle.

The familiar glow of enchanted lanterns greeted them, casting a warm light on the stone walls, soft shadows playing over ancient tapestries. But the warmth did little to dispel the tension that hung thick in the air. The DA and Slytherins were scattered across the drawing room, their faces drawn from fatigue but still determined, their hands working over old texts, notes, and spellbooks. Maps covered the walls, intricate wards marking where they had tried to contain Pyrites' growing reach.

In the corner, Luna, Longbottom, and Daphne huddled over a large oak table, their faces creased with concentration. When Draco and Hermione approached, Luna looked up, her usual dreamy expression sharpened with a rare seriousness.

"We’ve figured out Pyrites tampered with the wards by cracking our rune work," Luna’s soft voice was unusually grounded. "He’s obviously more familiar with runes than us. It was only a matter of time before he noticed how we merged them with our spells."

Longbottom stepped forward, frustration etched on his face. “We think he’s using neutralising runes, mixed with some other magic. It’s why our wards crumbled so easily.”

Draco clenched his jaw, stomach twisting. “Any leads on stopping him?” The frustration bit into his words. The last attack—the one that left Tilly dead—played over and over in his mind. Pyrites had undone everything in seconds, and Draco’s failure tasted bitter.

Daphne, who had remained silent until now, finally spoke up. “We’re considering using Mandrake’s Bloom. It’s rare but has properties that interfere with magical constructs, similar to what Pyrites might be doing.”

Longbottom’s voice brightened with excitement. “If we can find enough of it, we could fortify the wards. Make them resistant to Pyrites’ runes and alchemy. It would give him a taste of his own medicine.”

Luna’s pale eyes gleamed. “Mandrake’s Blooms grow where the earth’s energy is strongest—often where there’s a gravitational pull. Moon Frogs are drawn to the same force, but harvesting the blooms is illegal.”

Draco noticed Daphne smirking at the mention of Moon Frogs, but Hermione was already processing the information, cutting through the whimsical detail. “If we gather enough, it could shift things in our favour. Can you track it down and come up with a plan to do it quietly?”

Daphne, Luna, and Longbottom exchanged determined glances. “We’ve already sent Astoria to our vault to retrieve an artefact that can detect gravitational anomalies,” Daphne said, scribbling notes onto parchment. “It should help us find the blooms faster.”

“Good,” Hermione said, exhaustion creeping into her voice. “We need all the help we can get.”

Draco turned to the other group gathered around the long table. Weaselette, Blaise, Finnigan, and Thomas sat in various states of frustration. Scrolls and alchemical texts were scattered before them. Theo, as usual, was already taking the lead, his calm charisma drawing the others into a focused conversation, even though he had just arrived with them from Lucas’s cottage.

Weaselette sighed, rubbing her temples. “We’re trying to crack Arcan Alchemy, but it’s like deciphering centuries of knowledge in a few hours. Pyrites has had decades. We don’t.”

Blaise, usually unflappable, stretched his back, tension visible. “We’re not getting anywhere. At this rate, we’ll need a miracle.”

Thomas agreed, “A miracle—or some ridiculous stroke of luck—just to know where to start.”

At that, Hermione’s eyes lit up. “Felix Felicis,” she said, her voice rising with excitement. “When Harry needed information during the war, Felix was the key. It also worked when…” She glanced briefly at Draco, her expression tightening. “Maybe it could guide us now.”

For a moment, the room went silent, the weight of her words sinking in. Then Theo leaned forward, his mind already working through the possibilities. “That’s actually a brilliant idea. Felix Felicis could give us the edge we need to figure out the alchemy in time.”

Weaselette straightened in her seat, her determination renewed. “You and the ferret are the best at Potions. You should brew it.”

Hermione nodded, but Draco, remembering the complexity of the potion, frowned slightly. “Felix Felicis... I don’t remember it being simple, actually…”

But the others were already moving with a new sense of direction—a plan forming. 

“We can’t afford to waste time, and it might still give us the answers we need”, Blase urged the group.

Draco glanced at Hermione, her face alight with determination. For a moment, his hesitation slipped as he allowed himself to admire the fire in her eyes. But then reality came crashing back. "Felix Felicis takes months to brew," he muttered, his frown deepening, but before he could continue, Theo raised his voice capturing everyone’s attention, “There’s something else, Lucas believes the key to stopping Pyrites is friendship—true, pure friendship. That’s what can neutralise the corruption of Bel fire and betrayal.”

“We believe he’s right. We need to figure out how to channel that into a spell or ritual—something that will destroy the corruption Pyrites has spread.”, Hermione was explaining but Draco’s frustration was increasing each second he wasn’t listened to.

“Felix Felicis takes...”

“That means we need to approach this differently. Friendship isn’t just about loyalty or love—it’s about trust, connection. It’s something Pyrites will never understand”, it was George’s time to interrupt.

Pansy, ever pragmatic, leaned in, her eyes sharp. “While Draco and Hermione brew the potion, the rest of us can work on figuring out how to weaponise friendship—whatever that means. We won’t get far with logic alone. There’s something deeper we need to uncover.”

“Felix…”, Draco began but Theo spoke louder, “We’ll need to focus on two things: how the emotional bond affects magic and how we can apply it in battle. If Pyrites is using betrayal to corrupt fire, we need to reverse that. It might not be just about friendship as an abstract idea, but about how trust between friends impacts the magical field.”

“Exactly. There’s more to this than we realise. We’ll work on the Felix Felicis while you lot focus on using friendship to counter Pyrites”, Hermione suggested until it was too much for Draco to bear.

“FELIX FELICIS TAKES SIX MONTHS TO BREW!” Draco’s voice cut through the room like a whip. His heart pounded in his chest, the weight of his words sinking in. “We don’t have that kind of time, Granger! If we keep grasping at straws, we’ll be dead long before that bloody potion is ready.” He shot Hermione a sharp look, but the frustration went deeper than the potion—it was everything. The weight of failure, the crumbling wards, the memory of Tilly’s lifeless body. It gnawed at him, and for a brief moment, the tension between them was palpable, thick enough to suffocate.

Hermione’s face fell as realisation dawned. “Shite. You’re right.” She crossed her arms, her frustration palpable. “I can’t believe I forgot. That’s basic Potions.”

Draco’s emotional exhaustion and Hermione’s disappointed face began to awaken something in him, a want for normalcy and lightness, and he couldn’t help but smirk “Well, no one ever accused you of being perfect, Granger.” 

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. “Excuse me? I’m not the one who took an entire year to master a simple Levitation Charm.”

Draco’s grin widened, that was exactly what he hoped she would answer. Leaning back casually, emphasising his nonchalance he said “Ah, yes, but evidently I excelled in Potions, even under Snape’s delightful instruction. Think you could’ve handled that?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “You had an unfair advantage—Snape was practically drooling over you. I’m surprised you weren’t handed all your grades on a silver platter.”

“Jealous, are we?” Draco asked, stepping closer. “Want someone drooling over you?”

Her eyes narrowed, but her lips twitched in amusement. “You’ve always been better at looking brooding in dark corners.”

Draco stepped closer, the space between them shrinking. “And yet, you’ve been following me into those dark corners.” He was remembering the night she slept beside him.

The air between them buzzed with tension, their gazes locked. Hermione’s breath hitched slightly, but before either could move, Theo’s voice broke through the charged silence.

“As much as we all enjoy watching you two flirt, can you take it elsewhere? We’re trying to work here.”

Hermione jerked back, her face flushing deeper. “We’re not—flirting! We’re just... having a conversation.”

Weaselette let out a dramatic sigh from the table, her head in her hands. “Merlin’s beard, just snog already or leave so we can think! We have to find a solution to our Felix problem”.

Draco's smirk faded as he remembered said problem. “Right. I might have a solution. My father could have some Felix Felicis stashed in his potion room.”

Hermione’s eyes brightened with hope, but Draco’s tone turned serious. “But it’s massive. It would take me days to search alone.”

“I’ll go with you,” Hermione said instantly, already reaching for her bag.

Draco stepped forward, catching her arm. “Wait. We need to be smart about this. We can’t just walk in and expect my father not to notice. Best case, he’s unpleasant. Worst case… well, he’ll ruin everything.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed, but her determination didn’t falter. “You said yourself it’d take days. Besides,” she added, rolling her eyes, “I’m wearing the Malfoy signet ring. I assume it comes with perks?”

Draco’s gaze lingered on the ring, a reminder of its protection—and of how close he’d come to losing her. “The ring will let you pass through the wards, but Father could still sense something. If he catches you…”

Hermione huffed, crossing her arms, defiant as always. “You think I’m scared of Lucius Malfoy?”

“No,” Draco said, stepping closer, his voice softening just a touch. “But I don’t want you to have to deal with him. It’s... complicated. He’ll know if we take anything, and I don’t trust him not to interfere. He won’t hurt you, but his words... and his ability to ruin things... that’s a different story.”

“Then we’ll have to be discreet,” Hermione said, her voice steady. “We don’t have time to waste. Felix Felicis could be the edge we need. We need this Draco, to save everybody”.

He narrowed his eyes at her, knowing she wasn’t about to back down. Merlin, she was impossible sometimes. “You don’t know my father like I do...”

“We’ll do it carefully,” Hermione said, leaving no room for argument. “You need someone who knows potions as well as you. I can easily identify the potion and we can come up with a search system. Besides,” she added with a smirk, “I’ll bring Harry’s Invisibility Cloak.”

Draco’s lips twitched at that, and he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You always think of everything, don’t you?”

“That’s why we make a good team,” she quipped, her smile widening just a fraction, and for a moment, Draco couldn’t help but feel a strange warmth spread through him. That insufferable sense of competence she always had, was infuriating.

Draco’s lips twitched, barely hiding a smirk. “Fine, we do this my way. I’ll Floo us directly into my room. Mother won’t see us, but stay under the cloak, Granger. One wrong move, and you’ll have Lucius breathing down our necks.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow, her voice cutting through his calm. “I’ll be fine, Malfoy. Believe it or not, I can handle more than just books and rules.”

Draco shot her a look. “I’m not questioning your brains, Granger. It’s your recklessness that worries me.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was a slight flush to her cheeks. “Then maybe you should try trusting me, for once.”

“Let’s just hope your cockiness is sufficient,” he shot back as they walked towards the fireplace.

With a final eye roll, the rest of the group returned to their work, while Draco and Hermione disappeared, the bickering and flirting still echoing faintly as they walked away and left.

Blaise grinned, “They’re going to be unbearable once they finally realise they fancy each other, aren’t they?”

George chuckled. “Oh, absolutely.”

With the teams set, the atmosphere in the room shifted. The tension hadn’t dissipated, but now it was mixed with purpose. Everyone had their task, their role to play.

Luna, Longbottom, Astoria and Daphne would focus on tracking down Mandrake’s Bloom to strengthen the wards. Theo, Pansy, Blaise, Finnigan, and the others would work on figuring out how to harness the power of friendship, and Draco and Hermione would retrieve the potion. Three teams, three different paths—all leading toward one goal: stopping Pyrites and saving their world.

~

As the green flames faded, Draco’s familiar surroundings settled around them. His room was elegant and pristine, as expected. Dark furniture, heavy drapes, rich fabrics, and his scent filled the space. But with Hermione there, it felt... different. There was a charge in the air he couldn’t quite explain, like her mere presence shifted something he didn’t want to face.

“This is... very you,” Hermione said softly, her eyes wandering as she moved through the room, fingertips grazing the intricately carved dresser. The faint touch of her fingers on the wood sent a ripple of unease through him—he wasn’t sure if it was her proximity or the way she was touching his things.

Her gaze lingered on the bed, and Draco followed it, his throat tightening as he watched her fingers trace the edge of the silk sheets. Her hand seemed to linger, and for a split second, he let his mind wander. He imagined those fingers tangling in the sheets... his sheets.

He forced himself to look away, heat rising to his neck. Control, Draco.

She walked towards him then and he gasped trying to release some of the anticipation from his body. She was beautiful in the dim light, the way her hair caught the flicker of the lanterns, the way her lips parted slightly as if she were about to say something. But she didn’t speak. Instead, they just stood there for a moment, the air between them thick with the kind of tension that had been building for far too long.

When Hermione finally moved, it was abrupt, almost as if she had to break free from the moment. She pulled the Invisibility Cloak from her bag and draped it over her shoulders, her flushed cheeks half-hidden as she avoided his gaze. “We should... we should go,” she murmured, her voice tight.

Draco swallowed hard, nodding. “Right.” He cleared his throat, pulling himself back to reality. Focus.

Hermione placed a silencing charm on herself as Draco told her to follow him. They left his room, moving quietly through the dimly lit halls of Malfoy Manor. The portraits sneered down at him, nothing new since he began working on the case, it was as if his ancestors thought he was a blood traitor just because he was helping Harry Potter. But today, it felt different. Every shadow seemed heavier, every footstep a reminder of the danger lurking around each corner. He didn’t want Hermione anywhere near his father. Not now. Not ever.

They walked quietly through the Manor, pausing at every corner to make sure no one was around.

As they neared the potion room in Lucius’s wing, Draco's chest tightened. Draco knew that his father would be alerted of him entering his premises, and as they approached, Draco’s heart pounded in his chest. He wasn’t afraid of his father, not anymore, but he knew how dangerous Lucius could be when he felt threatened. And if he caught them... well, things could get complicated fast.

The scent of old potions and herbs hit them as they slipped into the room. Hermione pulled the cloak off, her features tense but composed.

“Be careful, Hermione, if Father sees you it will be bad.” Draco was feeling apprehensive and rather protective, he didn’t want her to be off the cloak. “Let’s begin from left to right, from top to bottom. You take those aisles and I’ll search these ones… and, if you hear anything put the cloak back immediately”. 

She nodded and her eyes immediately began scanning the shelves he directed her to for any sign of Felix Felicis. They searched in silence, their fingers brushing past jars and bottles, but after several minutes, they found nothing.

Just as Hermione was about to check another shelf, the sound of footsteps echoed down the hall.

“Hide,” Draco hissed, his voice barely above a whisper.

Hermione quickly threw the cloak back over herself, vanishing just as the door creaked open.

Draco’s heart raced as the door swung open, revealing the tall, intimidating figure of Lucius Malfoy. His father stepped into the room, his cold grey eyes scanning the shelves, but something about his movements told Draco he wasn’t here for potions. He knew. Or at least, he suspected something.

Lucius’s lips curled into a thin, mocking smile when his gaze landed on Draco. "I wondered what you were up to, Draco. You’ve been sneaky lately," he slurred, clearly under the effects of his drinking, but that didn’t keep disdain from his voice. "Care to tell me what you’re searching for in my potion room?"

Draco stood tall, keeping his expression impassive. "I needed to grab something, just a few ingredients."

Lucius raised a sceptical eyebrow, taking a slow, deliberate step closer to his son. "Am I supposed to believe your lies now, Draco?" His eyes flicked around the room as if searching for something—or someone—else. "Is there something you’re hiding from me?"

Draco clenched his jaw, fighting the urge to glance in Hermione’s direction. "What could I possibly be hiding, Father?"

Lucius smirked, clearly enjoying the tension. "Well, you’ve always had a knack for keeping secrets, haven’t you? Though I must admit, your little attempts at defiance are hardly subtle."

Draco forced a smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. "I don’t have time for games, Father. I just need the ingredients and I’ll be on my way."

Lucius’ footsteps echoed ominously as he approached, each step deliberate. “Go on then, Draco,” he purred, his voice sharp as a blade. “Grab your ingredients.” Draco hesitated, but Lucius’ cold whisper followed swiftly. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten where your loyalties lie.”

Draco’s skin prickled, his muscles tensed. The words felt like a noose tightening around his neck. One wrong move, and Lucius would choke the life out of his fragile alliance with the DA. And worse—he’d drag Hermione into it.

"My loyalties are clear, Father. I don’t need your lectures. Not anymore."

For a moment, Lucius simply stared at him, the tension between them thick enough to cut with a knife. Draco could feel Hermione’s presence, hidden under the cloak, mere feet away. One wrong move and Lucius would know.

Finally, Lucius turned, his expression unreadable. "You may not need my lectures, but remember, Draco. The world isn’t as forgiving as you’d like it to be. No matter what you do, they won’t ever forgive you, they’ll never forget. Don’t waste your time on foolish endeavours." He then glanced briefly towards the corner where Hermione was hidden and smirked.

Draco’s jaw clenched, every nerve on edge. Hermione was just feet away, hidden under the cloak, and Lucius was too perceptive for his own good. But then, Lucius just glared at him and strode out of the room, his robes billowing behind him. The door creaked shut, leaving Draco standing, his heart pounding in his chest.

Hermione reappeared from beneath the Invisibility Cloak, her face pale but composed. "That was close, are you OK?" she whispered.

Draco let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. "Yeah, but too close. We need to get out of here as soon as we can… let’s keep searching, quickly."

They resumed their search, but after an hour, it became clear—there was no Felix Felicis in Lucius’s potion room. They had tried everything, even summoning spells, but no potion was detected.

“There’s nothing here,” she said quietly, frustration lacing her words.

 "We’re back to square one," Draco muttered, rubbing his temples in frustration.

Hermione’s face was etched with disappointment, but after a long pause, her eyes brightened with sudden realisation. “Slughorn,” she said quickly. “He mentioned once that he keeps a personal stash of rare potions... including Felix Felicis. He might have some. With Hogwarts closed, still being repaired after the war, he might be staying at his house. We could go there and ask him?" 

Draco nodded, already piecing together how best to approach the situation. Slughorn had always been one for flattery, and Draco knew exactly how to leverage that. “Yes, he is, Father has asked me to collect some favour from him. But we’ll need to play this right. I don’t reckon he’ll just give us the potion because of our cute faces, he’s still a Slytherin, he’ll be looking for some gain.”

Hermione smiled slyly. “My face is cute?” 

“We’ll need to charm him, your cute face can help but it won’t be enough”. She rolled her eyes slightly, but her lips twitched into a small smile. Draco shrugged, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “It’s not as though we haven’t seen him melt under a bit of well-placed praise before. He’s predictable like that, and maybe we can take some of these rare ingredients as… leverage.”

“As bribery, I’m sure you mean…Fine,” Hermione sighed in resignation. “But I’m not going to sit around and play sycophant while you sweet-talk him.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Of course not, Granger. Being the charming one, I’ll handle that. You handle the facts. We’ll need both to convince him.”

They exchanged a knowing glance, the familiar balance between them slipping easily into place. As much as they bickered, they worked well together when the situation demanded it, and this was one of those times.

“Hide again under the cloak, we are leaving”.

Hermione vanished again and he could hear a silencing charm being placed, and then he resumed walking. He was faster this time, hoping he didn’t run into his father again. They crossed the whole manor until they reached his bedroom.

“Good thing that Slughron was the House Head and his fondness for luxury is greater than his sense of self-preservation. Father always knew how to buy his favours… and his home location”. 

They walked into the fireplace and suddenly felt her hand on his while he muttered “Slughorn’s Lodge. ”

~

Draco and Hermione arrived directly into Slughron’s study. She was still holding his hand when they walked out of the fireplace, studying their surroundings. He didn’t want to let go but he couldn’t find a reason to keep holding her hand when a startled Slughorn appeared on the threshold of the room, his walrus-like moustache twitched as his eyes widened in surprise.

“Draco, my boy! Miss Granger!” Slughorn boomed, stepping inside the room. “What brings you here on such short notice, and together no less? I’d never thought I’d see you two together outside of a classroom. You’re not planning another impromptu Potion’s lesson, are you?” He chuckled, though his eyes twinkled with curiosity.

Draco immediately stepped forward, taking the lead. “Professor, we wouldn’t want to impose, but we’re in a bit of a bind,” he said smoothly, his voice adopting the posh, respectful tone he knew Slughorn liked. “You see, we’ve come across a situation where we believe Felix Felicis might be the only solution.”

Slughorn’s brow furrowed as he led them into his study chairs, his fingers twiddling with his watch chain. “Felix Felicis, you say? Quite the rare potion. Takes months to brew, you know. What sort of situation could possibly require such a thing?”

Hermione, sitting down across from him, leaned forward, her face earnest. “It’s about Pyrites, Professor. I don’t know if you know him, but there’s been a situation that the Ministry is not being open about and a lot of lives are in danger, muggle and muggleborn lives,” she explained, her tone more direct than Draco’s. “He’s using a form of Arcan alchemy, and as you might know, it would take years if not decades for us to understand his use of magic. We believe Felix Felicis could help guide us to understanding how to counteract it. We don’t have the time to brew it ourselves, so we hoped—” She hesitated, glancing at Draco for support.

Draco picked up the thread without missing a beat. “We hoped you might have some in your collection,” he said, his tone light and friendly, as though they were discussing the weather. “Given your remarkable ability to procure the rarest potions, I thought if anyone might have Felix ready, it would be you, Professor… Also, we brought these… you might be interested in an exchange?”. He placed the rare ingredients on the coffee table to display his offer.

Slughorn’s eyes gleamed at the prize and his chest puffed out a bit at the compliment, his moustache twitching with eagerness. “Well, I do try to keep a well-stocked cabinet. You never know when a potion like that might come in handy.” His eyes flickered between the two of them and the bag in front of him, clearly intrigued.

Hermione leaned in slightly, her gaze unwavering. “We wouldn’t ask if it weren’t critical, Professor. Pyrites has found a way to… cause a lot of harm, and this could be the key to stopping him. Lives are at stake.”

The seriousness in her voice grounded the conversation, and Draco watched as Slughorn’s expression shifted, the gravity of the situation sinking in. The Professor hummed thoughtfully, tapping his fingers against the arm of his chair.

“Well,” he said slowly, “Felix Felicis is no small favour. It’s incredibly valuable, not to mention... hard to come by these days.”

Draco could see the hesitation in Slughorn’s eyes, and he knew exactly what to do next. He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a softer, more sincere tone. “Professor, if we succeed in stopping Pyrites with your help, it’ll be more than just a small favour. Your name will be mentioned, of course. People will know that Horace Slughorn was the man who made the difference.”

Slughorn’s face brightened at that, his ego clearly being stroked in all the right ways. He chuckled warmly, his demeanour softening. “Ah, my boy, always thinking ahead. You make a compelling case, both of you.”

Draco and Hermione exchanged a glance, a silent understanding passing between them. They were on the same page, working seamlessly together.

Slughorn stood up, waddling over to one of his ornate cabinets. “As it so happens, I do have a small stash of Felix Felicis,” he said, pulling out a crystal vial filled with the shimmering gold liquid. He held it up to the light, the potion gleaming.

Hermione’s breath hitched slightly, her eyes locked on the vial. Draco remained composed, but inside, relief flooded through him.

Slughorn handed the vial over, his tone magnanimous. “Use it wisely,” he said, though his eyes twinkled with amusement. “I expect you’ll keep your promises, Draco.”

Draco gave him a small bow of his head, his voice smooth and confident. “You have my word, Professor.”

Hermione stood up, her expression one of gratitude, but also one of determination. “Thank you, Professor. You might have just helped us save more lives than you know.”

With the vial safely in hand, they turned to leave, but as they reached the front door, Slughorn called after them. “Good luck, both of you! And do come back and tell me how it all plays out. I’ll be most interested to hear.”

Once outside, the cool air hit Draco’s face, and he glanced at Hermione. There was a shared sense of triumph between them, but also something deeper. They didn’t need to say anything—their silent understanding spoke volumes.

With the vial safely in hand, they were one step closer to stopping Pyrites.

~

As Hermione and Draco stepped into Nott Manor, the weight of their recent victory hung between them, palpable and electric. In Draco's hand, the small crystal vial of Felix Felicis shimmered like a beacon of hope, the golden liquid inside humming with potential, the key to tipping the odds in their favour.

The moment they crossed the threshold of the drawing room, the mood hit him like a wave. The DA and the Slytherins were scattered around, exhaustion etched into every face. Theo and Daphne were hunched over a document, their expressions frustrated and tired. Luna whispered quietly to Neville, while Blaise, Ginny, and Seamus sat by the fire, worn out. But it was Harry, standing in the centre of the room, his shoulders tense and his jaw clenched, who looked like he was carrying the weight of the world. Again.

Draco could see it instantly—Harry had just returned from another one of Pyrites’ devastating attacks, and the loss was written in his every movement.

“Too many people lost again,” Harry muttered, his voice raw, filled with frustration. “We couldn’t save them.”

Draco’s jaw clenched as Hermione stepped toward Harry, her voice soft, reassuring. “Harry, we’re all in this together. You can’t shoulder this alone.” Draco watched, a tightness growing in his chest. There it was again—that invisible line between them and him. Hermione’s voice was always softer with Harry, always more open. He swallowed, feeling the familiar knot of isolation tighten. It didn’t matter how far he’d come—he’d never really belong to them .

“Yeah, well, it doesn’t feel like enough,” Harry’s face was tight with frustration, his voice raw. “We found the Mandrake’s Bloom—three locations across the UK. But we can’t collect them until the full moon.” He paused, running a hand through his hair. “That’s days away, and people are dying, right now, and we’re no closer to figuring out how to use friendship against this damn Bel fire, it’s like we are drowning amongst the waves.”

The weight of his words hung in the air like lead. Draco’s pulse quickened, a creeping sense of dread clawing at his chest. They didn’t have days. They barely had hours. But this was the moment he and Hermione had been waiting for.

“Well,” Draco began, allowing a small smirk to form as he raised the vial, “I wouldn’t say we’re entirely empty-handed.”

Every head in the room turned towards him, confusion quickly replaced by realisation as their eyes landed on the shimmering Felix Felicis.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Blaise said, leaning forward, a grin slowly forming. “You actually got it?”

Hermione beamed, stepping closer. “Slughorn had a stash. And now we’ve got just enough to turn things around.”

Draco watched as Harry’s rigid stance softened, the tension easing out of his shoulders as hope flickered back into his green eyes. “Felix Felicis,” he repeated, the weight of the name settling in. “You think that’ll be enough?”

“A drop each,” Hermione confirmed, her smile still bright. “It’ll help us find the answers we’ve been missing.”

Theo, who had been silent, now stood and approached the vial with a mischievous gleam in his eye. “Well, well, look at you two, coming in like heroes from a fairy tale,” he teased, winking at Draco. “I thought we were stuck waiting on the full moon, but no, you had to bring us the liquid luck. This might actually stir the cauldron in our favour, don’t you think?”

“Careful, Theo,” George chimed in, grinning. “We mix this lot with Felix Felicis, and who knows what chaos we’ll get into. Could be my kind of fun.”

Draco chuckled despite himself. The room was already starting to lighten, the oppressive frustration beginning to dissipate. “Enough banter,” he said, uncorking the vial and passing it around. “We’ve got work to do. A drop each.”

One by one, they took a sip of the shimmering liquid, and the effect was almost instantaneous. Draco could feel it—a warm, comforting sensation spreading through his body, sharpening his senses, making everything seem clearer. There was a lightness in the air now, a sense of optimism and focus that hadn’t been there before. And judging by the grins spreading across everyone’s faces, they felt it too.

“Blimey,” Finnigan said, breaking into a broad grin. “This feels… brilliant.”

“Like I’ve had a couple of Firewhiskies,” Ginny added, nudging Blaise playfully.

Theo leaned back, his smirk widening. “Careful, now. Felix makes you bold... and a bit cheeky.” He winked at Hermione, whose cheeks were already flushed with excitement.

Draco shook his head, unable to suppress a grin. The lightness in the room was infectious, and for the first time in a long while, he felt like they might actually stand a chance.

Harry, who moments before had been weighed down with loss, now stood a little straighter, his eyes clearer. “Alright then, let’s plan this out. We have the Mandrake’s Bloom locations, but we can’t collect them until the full moon. We need to focus on what we can do now.”

Pansy, reclining with a sarcastic smirk, spoke up. “Oh, the power of friendship,” she drawled, her tone dripping with mockery. “What are we, six? But, maybe we’ve been overthinking it. We’ve been treating this like some grand philosophical puzzle when it’s really just… energy.”

She glanced around at the group, her smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “So, what if the answer’s been staring us in the face this whole time?”

“What do you mean?” Ginny asked, leaning in.

Pansy rolled her eyes, leaning back with that signature smirk of hers. “Think about it, we're treating friendship like some abstract concept, instead of energy. And if Pyrites’ alchemy is all about transforming energy, then we need to ask ourselves... what kind of energy does friendship actually hold?” She paused, raising an eyebrow. “Because, let’s be honest, it’s a bit more than just group hugs and warm fuzzies, isn’t it?”

“The Patronus charm,” Hermione said, her voice rising with excitement. “It’s a manifestation of pure energy—of happiness, hope, and in my case, friendship. When I cast mine, I think of my best memories with my friends.”

Longbottom’s eyes lit up. “So, you’re saying that if you merge your Patronuses—combine your happiest memories—you could use that energy to break through the Inferi’s defences?”

“Exactly,” Hermione nodded, her eyes lighting up. “The Patronus is so powerful because it’s fuelled by pure, positive emotion. If we channel the energy of friendship into it—through our intention and memories—and direct that towards the core of an Inferius, it could be strong enough to break the corruption Pyrites has cast on them.”

Harry’s face broke into a grin, the idea clearly taking root in his mind. “Of course. It’s pure energy—one of the few magics Pyrites wouldn’t be able to corrupt.”

“And we’ve got enough friendship to fuel it with the three of you,” Finnigan said with a laugh, the potion clearly making him bolder.

Gooky suddenly Apparated beside Theo, his face twisted with anxiety. "Master Theo, there’s a visitor at the front door, says he’s Ron Weasley..."

Before anyone could react, Ginny shot to her feet, excitement lighting up her face. "Ron!" she screamed, her voice ringing through the room, before darting off towards the front door without another word.

The room erupted into murmurs of surprise, a few exchanged glances and raised eyebrows following her swift exit.

Weasley and Ginny came back holding each other, and though Weasley looked pale, there was no mistaking the fact that he was very much alive. He was still wearing the remnants of his hospital robes, and his hair was more dishevelled than usual, but it was the stubborn grin on his face that really irked Draco.

“Oi! I’m not even out of the hospital for five minutes and you lot are having secret meetings at Nott Manor of all places? Thought you were trying to get rid of me,” Weasley said, though the grin softened his words.

Draco felt his jaw tighten, though he tried not to let it show. As much as he had grown to tolerate the Weasel, the fact that he could just stroll in like a bloody hero was irritating.

Hermione’s reaction, though, was what truly grated on him.

Without hesitation, she flung herself at Weasley, wrapping him in a tight hug. "You absolute idiot! You should be resting!"

Draco stood a few feet away, arms crossed, watching the scene unfold. Of course, she'd do that , he thought bitterly. Merlin forbid she ever reacts that way when I'm around . The feeling was irrational, he knew that, but it burned all the same.

Weasley chuckled, and Draco had to bite back the urge to roll his eyes. "Yeah, well, so do you, don’t you?" Weasley cut in, his voice annoyingly playful as he tucked some of her curls behind her ear with a familiarity that made Draco’s stomach churn.

“You’ll have to try harder if you want me out of the picture.”

Oh, brilliant , Draco thought. Now he’s touching her too. He glanced away briefly, feeling the heat rise in his chest. It wasn’t like Hermione was his or anything, but watching Weasley play the hero—getting her attention, her touch—well, it made Draco feel more possessive than he'd like to admit.

He had to swallow hard, keeping his face neutral, even though every fibre of his being wanted to step in, pull Hermione away, and remind Weasley that she wasn’t his to comfort. But of course, that would look ridiculous. Get a grip, Malfoy, he scolded himself.

Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the world always seemed to line up perfectly for Ron Weasley—right down to Hermione throwing herself at him the second he walked through the door.

Harry, who had been sitting quietly, now rose to his feet, relief written all over his face. "Ron, you git, we thought you were out for longer. You really can't stand missing out, can you?"

Draco, standing with his arms crossed, quirked an eyebrow, unable to help himself. “I see near-death experiences haven’t killed your need to be the centre of attention, Weasley.”

Weasley shot him a sideways smirk. “What, Malfoy? You’re disappointed? Thought you’d finally get to hog all the glory?”

Pansy snickered from her spot near the fireplace, muttering sarcastically, “Oh please, Weasley. You’re too stubborn to die—everyone knows that.”

Theo, grinning, raised the vial of Felix Felicis in the air and teased, “Honestly, Ron, you’re just lucky you didn’t croak. Otherwise, we’d be stuck in the middle of all this without your charming wit. Shame that… Take a sip of this, we are working after all.”

George chimed in from across the room, his voice laced with playful sarcasm. “Well, if you’d kicked it, we were just gonna throw a party. Guess you’ve spoiled the fun.”

Weasley, ever quick with a retort, shot back, “I’ll make it up to you, George. Next time I’ll give you more notice before I almost die.” He grinned, though the relief in his eyes couldn’t be hidden. Despite the playful banter, it was clear everyone was relieved that the Weasel was back on his feet.

Draco, trying to maintain his usual aloof demeanour but failing slightly, added dryly, “It’s a shame, really. Now we’re all going to have to listen to you moan about how hard it is to survive another battle.”

Weasley looked around, the weight of being surrounded by friends—and even allies he wouldn’t have expected—settling over him. He sighed, but his grin remained. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

As the group settled back into their spots, the energy in the room shifted, lightening as relief spread through everyone. Hermione stood by Weasley, her hand resting on his shoulder, the tension she had carried visibly lifting now that he was safe.

Draco, on the other hand, was doing his best to keep his face neutral, pushing down the simmering jealousy that threatened to creep up. He wasn’t about to let it show, not now. Instead, he focused on the task at hand, trying to refocus the group and move things along.

“Right,” Draco began, stepping forward to draw attention back to their mission, his voice steady and businesslike. “Weasley, it’s good to see you back on your feet, but we’ve got work to do. While you were out, we’ve come up with a plan—well, Granger came up with a plan.” He shot Hermione a brief glance, careful to keep his expression unreadable.

Weasley raised an eyebrow, still looking a bit worn but clearly intrigued. “What’s the plan, then?”

Draco didn’t waste time. “It’s about your Patronuses. We reckon they might be the key to countering Pyrites’ Inferi. Hermione figured that if the Patronus Charm, already driven by pure and happy emotions, is infused with the energy of your friendship and bond, and then combined, it could be strong enough to break the corruption Pyrites has been using. It’s not just about casting the charm—it’s about merging and amplifying it, fueling it with your friendship.”

Hermione nodded along, her eyes flickering between Draco and Weasley, as if encouraging him to continue.

“So, the three of you—Golden Trio—are going to practice,” Draco added, his voice taking on a firmer edge as he tried to shift the focus away from his own feelings. “We need to see if merging your Patronuses together can create the kind of power we’re looking for. Think of your strongest memories, the times you’ve fought together, the friendship that’s kept you alive through everything.”

Weasley exchanged a look with Hermione and Harry, a mix of surprise and understanding crossing his face. “That sounds... intense. But if it works, it could be exactly what we need.”

Draco nodded curtly, trying not to let the moment between the trio affect him. “Let’s test it out, then. Golden Trio, you’re up. We need to see what you’ve got.”

As the others gathered around, their mood still elevated from the Felix Felicis, Draco stepped back, watching as the trio readied themselves to put their bond to the test. The weight of their mission hung in the air, but with that subtle, newfound optimism, the group seemed ready for whatever was coming next.

Hermione, Weasley, and Harry stood together, exchanging glances. They closed their eyes, each focusing on a memory—perhaps the first time they met, their adventures, their shared moments of joy and hardship. Together, they raised their wands.

“Expecto Patronum!”

Three radiant Patronuses burst from their wands—Harry’s familiar stag, Hermione’s graceful otter, and Weasley’s playful terrier. But this time, instead of simply hovering, the three creatures began to move towards one another, their forms merging into a single, blinding beacon of pure energy.

Draco felt a shiver run down his spine. The light was overwhelming, filling the room with warmth and hope. It was more than just magic—it was the embodiment of everything the trio had fought for, everything they had been through together. The air around them crackled with power.

“It’s working,” Luna whispered, her eyes wide with wonder.

The merged Patronus surged forward, its energy palpable, filling the room with a warmth that pushed back against the coldness they had felt for so long.

“This is it,” Harry said, his voice filled with awe. “This is how we fight back.”

The rest of the group erupted into laughter and excitement as Felix Felicis worked its magic, making everything seem smoother, brighter, more possible. The tension that had once filled the room was now replaced with a contagious, almost giddy optimism.

They practised the charm, refining the connection, learning how to merge their memories and their magic until the Patronus felt strong enough to counteract the dark magic they were up against. Laughter filled the room as Felix Felicis worked its magic, making every movement seem smooth, every idea brilliant.

After what felt like hours of practising, the effects of the potion still buzzing through them, the group began to disperse—each person heading off to do random, carefree things with the leftover energy from the potion.

Draco caught Hermione’s eye across the room and felt a tug at his chest. The light from the Patronus had faded, but the warmth of their victory still buzzed in his veins. He crossed the room to her, offering a small smile.

“So,” he said, his voice low, “fancy some tea back at your flat? I’m not quite ready to call it a night.”

Hermione looked up at him, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Tea sounds nice,” she teased. “But with Felix still coursing through us, it might end up being something a bit stronger.”

Draco chuckled, offering her his arm. “Well then, let’s see where the night takes us.”

~

At Hermione’s flat, Draco felt an unfamiliar warmth bloom in his chest as they prepared tea together, their movements synchronized in a way that felt strangely natural. There was a sense of quiet triumph between them—a shared understanding after everything they had been through. As they walked towards the living room, each holding a steaming mug, Draco caught Hermione’s eye, and she giggled softly, her cheeks flushed in the cozy light.

She reached the couch and tugged him down beside her, her feet effortlessly finding his lap as if they’d always belonged there. Draco's pulse quickened at the contact, but he kept his cool, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

“You know,” Hermione teased, her eyes dancing with mischief, “I’ve always thought you were a little... uptight, Malfoy.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, leaning back slightly, feeling bolder than he had in a long time. “Uptight?” He repeated, giving her ankle a light squeeze, the warmth of her skin seeping through his fingers. “I’d say you’re the one who’s uptight, Granger. All those books and rules…”

Hermione swatted at him with her foot, her laughter bubbling up as she kicked playfully at his chest. “Books and rules have saved our arses more times than you’d admit!” she shot back, her voice bright with amusement.

Draco chuckled, catching her foot before she could kick him again. “Oh really? Well, let’s see how well you do without your books and rules now.” In one swift motion, he grabbed her ankle and pulled her closer, his fingers lightly grazing her foot in a way that made Hermione squeal with laughter.

“No! Stop!” she gasped, squirming as she tried to wriggle free, her giggles betraying her. Draco grinned wickedly, his fingers continuing their playful assault, sending ticklish jolts up her leg.

“Not so in control now, are you, Granger?” he teased, his voice lower, almost a growl. The sound sent a thrill through him that he hadn’t expected, the intimacy of the moment catching him off guard.

Hermione’s laughter filled the room, bright and uninhibited. She tried to twist away, her movements playful but increasingly frantic. "You're such a prat!" she giggled breathlessly, reaching up to grab his wrist. But in the commotion, Draco twisted her too far, and suddenly, she was sprawled across his lap, her face inches from his.

The room fell into a charged silence. Their laughter faded into the background as Hermione’s hands rested on Draco’s chest, and his arms instinctively circled around her waist. For a long, breathless moment, neither of them moved. Hermione’s wide brown eyes met Draco’s, and he could feel the soft warmth of her breath brushing against his cheek.

Draco’s heartbeat thundered in his ears, every nerve alight with the proximity between them. There was something about the way her fingers gripped his chest, the way her eyes darkened with an intensity he hadn’t seen before. It made his pulse quicken in a way that had nothing to do with Felix Felicis.

Hermione was the first to break the tension, standing up abruptly with a wide grin. “You’re... a prat,” she whispered, though her voice had softened, as if she were trying to brush away the lingering tension.

Draco leaned back, trying to mask the heat still simmering beneath his skin. “Are you singing?” he asked, arching an eyebrow as Hermione hummed a melody, the tune unfamiliar to him.

Hermione laughed again, light and carefree. "Yes! One of my favourites!" She crossed the room, pulling out a record from her collection with a nostalgic smile.

As the soft, upbeat rhythm of Just Like Heaven filled the room, Draco watched, transfixed, as Hermione began to twirl in place. The light in the room caught in her curls as she moved, her hips swaying effortlessly to the music. It was like watching her transform—carefree, radiant, every movement fluid and intoxicating.

Show me, show me, show me how you do that trick...

Her hair spilt over her shoulders as she tilted her head back, completely lost in the music. Draco couldn’t tear his eyes away from her. The Felix was still coursing through his veins, making everything sharper, more vivid, and Hermione… Merlin , Hermione was glowing. Every movement she made felt like a spell wrapping around him, drawing him closer, deeper into her orbit. She danced as if the world had melted away, as if it was just them in this moment.

The one that makes me scream, she said…

She caught his gaze, and the playful glint in her eyes sent a shiver down his spine. As she spun again, her dress swirled around her thighs, teasing him, drawing his attention in ways he was trying—and failing—not to think about. Every sway of her hips, every flick of her hair sent a jolt of electricity straight to his core.

Draco swallowed hard, trying to keep his composure, but it was impossible. The way her eyes flicked toward him, the way her lips parted slightly—it was driving him mad.

Why are you so far away, she said…

He could feel the tension between them building, thicker than before. His eyes traced the line of her neck as she tossed her head back, laughing freely, her skin glowing under the soft light. Draco's breath caught in his throat. Her movements were so fluid, so natural, and all he could think about was closing the distance between them.

Hermione’s gaze caught his again, and this time she didn’t look away. Her eyes were darker now, her pupils wide, and she bit her bottom lip in a way that nearly drove him mad. Draco’s chest tightened, and he stood up slowly, his body drawn to hers like a magnet.

You, soft and only… you, lost and lonely… you, strange as angels…

Before Draco could think twice, he was on his feet, drawn to her like a magnet. His eyes locked on hers, and the world around them faded into the background. He stepped closer, his breath catching in his throat as he reached out, his fingers brushing a strand of her hair behind her ear. Hermione’s breath hitched at the touch, and Draco’s fingers lingered, tracing the soft line of her jaw.

Her chest rose and fell, her breaths shallow, as if she were waiting for something—expecting something. The pull between them was undeniable, and Draco felt like he was teetering on the edge of something far bigger than either of them.

He couldn’t stop himself. He didn’t want to stop.

Daylight licked me into shape…

Draco’s hand slid to her waist, his fingers curling into the fabric of her dress, tugging her closer. He could feel her warmth, her heartbeat echoing in the space between them. “Hermione…” His voice came out low, rougher than he intended, but he couldn’t help it.

Hermione’s eyes flickered up to meet his, her pupils wide, her lips inches from his. "Draco..." she whispered, her voice barely audible over the music. Her fingers traced the line of his collarbone, sending a shiver down his spine.

Spinning on that dizzy edge...

Before either of them could think, Draco leaned down, closing the gap between them. Their lips brushed, tentative at first, but the moment they touched, a spark exploded between them. Hermione’s fingers tightened in his shirt, pulling him closer as their kiss deepened. Her lips were soft, warm, and tasted like something forbidden, something he craved more than anything.

It wasn’t enough. He wanted more. He needed more.

Hermione’s hands tangled in his hair, her soft moans only spurring him on. The kiss deepened, and Draco’s senses were overwhelmed—her taste, her scent, the way she moved against him, desperate, as if she needed this as much as he did.

When they finally broke apart, both gasping for air, Hermione’s forehead rested against his, her cheeks flushed, her lips swollen. Her eyes, though—Merlin, her eyes—were full of something Draco had never seen before. Something that made his heart race and his mind whirl.

You, just like a dream...

“Draco…” she whispered, her voice thick with desire.

Draco swallowed hard, his hands gripping her waist, his breath uneven. “You’re driving me mad, Hermione…”

She laughed softly, her fingers brushing the nape of his neck. “Good.”

That did it for him, something inside of him snapped and he lost all control and self-restraint. He pushed her towards the wall, grabbing her hair and pulling her head back, getting access to her neck. She moaned and the sound went straight into his core, sending shivers down his spine. Reacting to her sounds he pushed his leg between hers and felt the heat of her core in his thigh. His cock was throbbing, he knew he was hard and he knew she could feel him, but he didn’t care. He wanted this, had been wanting this for a long time.

His hands left her hair and began to trail her body, her curves. He grabbed her hips and waist while he felt her move subtly on his leg as if trying to find some pressure to find her pleasure.

“Fuck, Hermione”

She moaned again while tilting her hips to increase the pressure of his leg into her core. “Yes, Draco…”

Hearing his name between moans made his cock twitch with anticipation. He could feel precum already and he couldn’t help but move his hands under her dress. He could feel her legs, her bum, her warmth and wetness all over him. He moved his hands again and reached her abdomen and under her breast. Hermione groaned and was trembling. And before he knew it, she was touching him. He could feel her hand on his cock and the lightest caress made him groan and bite her lip.

Draco’s hands roamed over her body, memorising every curve, every shiver of pleasure that escaped her lips. Hermione gasped, her fingers gripping his shoulders as he moved his hand up her breasts. He touched her nipple which only hardened even more under his fingers. He didn’t think he could take any more of this before coming. 

And then she pushed him slightly. When they looked at each other again he noticed her hair was messier, her lips were red and swelled, and her gaze was full of desire. She began to undress as she pushed him back into the couch. He sat mesmerised by her movements watching her dress come off. He began to touch himself over his clothes and Hermione’s eyes fell on his hands and at what he was doing.

“Oh, yes Draco, please show me how you do it”.

He couldn’t believe it. But slowly, he took off his belt,  pushed down his zipper and opened his trousers. His cock was hard as a rock and pressed under his trunks and then he let it free.

Hermione gasped when she saw it, his head wet with precum, pink and ready for her. He began to stroke himself taking some of the precum down his shaft and towards the base, making his cock twitch under his fingers. Before he knew it, Hermione was kneeling between his legs and as he stroked himself, she began to rub herself under her knickers. 

They were both groaning, gasping and moaning and then she took out her wet hand and grabbed his cock. Draco almost lost it. He could smell her, and he could smell her on him now, and that simple thought made his cock twitch again.

Hermione smirked and began to stroke him just like he was doing it to himself before, and her lips parted and her tongue was out, licking his length. She began on the base, upwards and to the tip. She swirled her tongue and he moaned. She smiled, opened her mouth and took him in, fully. Up and down, up and down, up and down until he thought he was going mental.

“Fuck, Hermione, please stop, or I’ll come”

She laughed and stood up and suddenly Draco had her breast, still inside of her bra on his face. He didn’t hesitate and began to kiss them as he released her from her bra. Her pink nipples were on his face and he licked them and sucked them like his life depended on it. Hermione was sitting on him now, moving her pelvis over his cock giving him inexplicable pleasure. He could feel her wetness through her knickers. 

He lowered his left hand and began to push his fingers into her knickers, caressing what he found there and when she gasped he went down a little further, finding her warm core. He began to rub slowly, opening her folds and taking the wetness into her clit. Hermione began to squirm over him, gasping and panting. Her fingers pushed into his shoulders as her pleasure increased. 

“Draco… don’t…. don’t stop, please”

“Fuck, Hermione”

And following his instincts, he went lower with his fingers until he found her entrance. He pushed slightly, just a tip of his finger and she moaned again. The sound of it aroused him and he pushed his whole finger inside her. She was warm and tight and he thought that he might die now, and then he began to push and pull his finger in and out of her while she moaned and screamed in pleasure. Her breasts were jumping up and down on his face as she began to move to find his fingers.

“I want you Draco”

“I want you too, Hermione”.

“I want you, now”.

On command, Draco removed himself from his trousers as Hermonie took off her knickers. They looked at each other briefly before Hermione was above him again, grabbing his shoulders for balance as she sat over him. His cock twitched under her core and he could feel all her warmth and wetness on it. He centred himself and with a gasp entered her. 

If his fingers were giving him an idea of her tightness, he wasn’t ready for the reality of it. She was so tight he couldn’t believe he was inside her now. And just as he was getting used to the sensation, Hermione began to move.

Draco was moaning, screaming, just as she was. Their sounds echoed through the whole flat, their bodies moving in perfect harmony. The potion made everything sharper, more intense, and as they lost themselves in each other, it felt like nothing else in the world mattered. It was just them, wrapped in the magic of the moment.

He didn’t want this to end. Feeling her was something that not even in his wildest fantasies he could envision as it was in reality. She was everything and he would give her everything. He wanted her, she was his and he was hers. With her, he could feel like he had a soul that had been saved, he could feel like he’d put away his early grave.

He noticed she was getting tired in the position so he pushed her towards the couch while he stood up behind her, her knees supported on the couch. And then he took her again. The new position and new angle made her scream in pleasure. Draco began to thrust in and out at an unforgiving pace, he was losing control, he wanted to come, but not yet, not before her.

He kept thrusting inside of her and with his hand began to rub her clit, and after a few moments Hermione's moans and gasps became more erratic, her legs began to tremble and he could feel her fluttering around his cock. Hermione was coming, saying his name over and over again and that did it for him. With a loud groan and a few snaps of his hips, he began to come inside of her, marking her as his.

As they came down from their high, they found each other lying together and wrapped around each other on the couch, their bodies still tangled, their breaths slowly evening out. Draco glanced at Hermione, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“I’ve fancied you for a while,” he admitted softly, his voice still rough from the intensity of their encounter.

Hermione, still catching her breath, turned her head towards him, her curls wild against the pillow. There was a softness in her eyes, an openness Draco had rarely seen before. She gave him a small, almost shy smile. “You... fancied me?” she echoed, teasing lightly, though her tone was warm.

Draco chuckled softly, running a hand through his already messy hair. “I have. Since... well, for longer than I care to admit.”

Hermione propped herself up on her elbow, studying his face intently. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Draco shrugged, glancing away for a moment before meeting her gaze again. “You were always so... good. And I wasn’t. I didn’t think it was my place to fancy you.”

She reached out, gently tracing a finger along his jawline. “You’ve changed, Draco. You’re not that person anymore. Now you're strong. I can see that you've bled yourself, but the wounds are gone now. You, like us, were just a kid in a war we had no place in but were thrown into it anyway. But you survived and you're amongst us now, you are one of us.”

Her touch sent a shiver down his spine, and for a moment, they just looked at each other, the intimacy between them raw and real.

“I guess... maybe I’ve always known,” Hermione said quietly, her fingers lingering on his skin. “There was a moment, back when I was trying to teach you how to cast a Patronus, when I thought...”

Draco's expression softened, his mind flashing back to those moments during their training session. He remembered how close they had stood, how her voice had soothed his frustrations, how her encouragement had meant more to him than he’d ever let on.

He smiled faintly, nodding. “I remember. I could feel it too. You were so close... and I wasn’t used to someone like you believing in me.”

Draco took a deep breath, trying to make sense of everything as the silence settled around them. Hermione’s words, her touch, the closeness—it was overwhelming in the best way possible. He had spent so long distancing himself from everyone, especially from his feelings, that he wasn’t sure how to deal with the warmth that was now filling his chest.

He smiled softly, his hand brushing a stray curl from her face. "I guess we both survived more than we thought we would, huh?"

Hermione’s eyes shimmered with something tender, something that made his heart ache in a way he wasn’t prepared for. She tilted her head slightly, her fingers tracing lazy circles on his chest as she whispered, "More than we could have imagined."

For a moment, the weight of everything—the war, the losses, the pain—seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of them in this quiet moment. Draco leaned down and kissed her forehead gently, his lips lingering there, letting the feeling of her warmth seep into him.

“We’re a good team, aren’t we?” Hermione said, her voice quiet but filled with certainty.

Draco pulled her closer, holding her tight as if the world outside the walls of her flat could wait a little longer. "The best."

They lay there, tangled in each other’s warmth, the echoes of their earlier laughter still hanging in the air, and for the first time in a long time, Draco felt like everything was going to be okay.

Chapter Text

"Alone we can do so little; together we can do so much."

— Helen Keller

Draco

Fuck.

Draco woke to a sharp chill against his skin, his body half-covered with just his shirt. His head felt heavy, the comforting warmth of Felix Felicis long gone, replaced by the cold clarity of reality. His chest tightened as the euphoria from last night faded like a dream.

He blinked groggily, trying to adjust to the dim light creeping into the room. Every muscle in his body felt tense, wound up tight. Last night, everything had seemed so perfect—every touch, every word, the way she’d smiled at him. But now, the certainty from the night before crumbled, leaving him with nothing but dread.

He glanced down, his breath catching in his throat.

Hermione lay beside him, her bare skin pressed against his, her back rising and falling gently as she slept. His heart lurched. Merlin, she was beautiful, but the weight of the situation came crashing down. They’d had sex. Not just that—they’d fallen asleep together, wrapped up in the fleeting certainty of Felix Felicis. But now, without the potion bolstering his confidence, Draco’s mind was spinning out of control.

What have I done?

His mind was spinning in a million different directions. How had they gotten here? For weeks, maybe months, he’d felt something shifting between them. It wasn’t just the way they bantered, though Merlin knew they did that. It was the quieter moments—the way her brow furrowed in concentration when they investigated together, the way she occasionally shot him a smile when something went right, the way she encouraged him and told him he was changing. He’d started noticing the smallest details: the scent of her hair, the way she bit her lip when she was thinking. And somewhere along the line, he had stopped thinking of her as Granger, the know-it-all from his past, and started thinking of her as Hermione. His chest tightened painfully at the thought of losing whatever this fragile, tentative thing between them was.

The night before they’d been under the influence of the potion—that intoxicating, golden liquid that made everything feel like destiny. But now, stripped of its effects, all Draco could think about was whether Hermione had truly wanted it. Did she actually want him , or had she just been swept along by the false sense of inevitability that Felix provided?

And then, another thought hit him hard. He’d confessed. He had told her he fancied her. The words had spilt out of him, reckless under the potion’s influence, but now they lingered between them like a curse. He swallowed hard, his stomach churned violently, cold sweat prickled his skin as his gaze darted to Hermione’s peaceful face. 

Had she said anything back? Anything real?

She hadn’t. Not about her feelings. She had smiled, said something about them being a “good team.” That was it. That’s all, Draco thought bitterly, his pulse racing. Did she go along with it because of Felix, because of the ease it brought? Was this all a cruel fantasy conjured up by the potion?

A sharp pang of regret lodged itself in his chest. He shifted slightly, trying to pull away from her warmth, as a sudden urge to flee surged through him. He couldn’t be here when she woke up, couldn’t face her realisation of what they’d done. She’d look at him and see it as a mistake.

But what if it wasn’t a mistake for me? The thought whispered through his mind, but he shoved it aside, too scared to entertain it.

As he tried to stand, the couch creaked beneath him, loud and accusatory.

Draco froze.

Hermione stirred beside him, her soft sigh filling the room. She blinked groggily, her eyes fluttering open. Draco’s body went rigid, his heart hammered so loudly in his chest, he was sure she could hear it. He watched her, panic thrumming through every nerve.

She blinked blearily, her eyes still heavy with sleep, and turned to look at him. A faint, sleepy smile tugged at her lips. “Mornin’,” she murmured, her voice soft and thick with sleep.

Draco forced himself to breathe, but his throat was tight. “Morning,” he managed to croak, but the word came out cold, stiff, not at all matching the storm inside him.

Hermione shifted, sitting up slowly. Her smile faltered, and Draco saw it—the hesitation, the awkward way she pulled a throw blanket around her shoulders, like she was shielding herself from the closeness of last night. His heart sank, a hollow ache spreading through his chest.

It hit him like a curse.

She regrets it. Of course, she did. Maybe she expected to wake up next to someone else— the Weasel or anyone but him. He could see it in the way she pulled the blanket tighter, like a barrier between them, her posture defensive, in how she avoided his eyes.

“So, uh...” Hermione started, her voice uncertain as she ran a hand through her messy hair.

Draco’s heart plummeted. Here it comes. She was going to say it—that last night was a mistake. He could feel the words building, ready to shatter everything, and it crushed him.

His fingers twisted into the fabric of his shirt, trying to keep himself steady, but he was losing his grip fast. He’d ruined everything. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be—he had messed it all up.

The silence between them was unbearable. Draco opened his mouth, desperate to say something, anything to fill the void, to stop her from saying those awful words. But nothing came out.

She was never supposed to regret it.

Suddenly, a soft tapping sound broke through the tension like a knife cutting through the fog.

Draco’s head snapped towards the window, relief surging through him at the interruption. An owl perched on the ledge, a small scroll attached to its leg. His heart raced as he scrambled off the couch, grateful for any excuse to escape.

He could feel Hermione’s eyes on him as he fumbled to grab his trousers and yank them on. The silence between them was heavy, suffocating. He didn’t bear to look at her, not now.

The note was from the Ministry—a sharp reminder that he had a mandatory therapy session in an hour. Draco clenched his jaw as he stared at the words, his chest tightening with more than just dread. A flicker of relief at the thought of seeing Lucas washed over him, but even that was drowned by the chaos inside him. How could he face Lucas now? He was still grieving… and Draco had this mess to sort out. He didn’t want to be another burden on Lucas, not with what happened to Tilly, not after how he’d let him down.

He could barely breathe as he stuffed the note into his pocket. His mind raced—between Hermione, the unbearable silence, the therapy session and the fact that he didn’t know how he would survive this. Even though it was clear she regretted everything, for him, it was everything. And it was all falling apart around him.

“I—I’ve got to go,” he mumbled, his voice strained as he fumbled with the buttons on his shirt. His hands shook as he moved, his nerves betraying him.

Hermione watched him, her expression unreadable, her eyes glassy, but Draco couldn’t bring himself to look at her properly. He didn’t know how to handle her regret. He understood it, of course. It didn’t come as a surprise, but that didn’t stop it from tearing him apart. After all, he loved her.

Her lips parted as if she wanted to say something and Draco couldn’t handle listening to her rejection.

Please don’t say it, please don’t say it.

Before anything else could be said, he turned and headed for the door, his chest heavy with the weight of everything that had gone wrong. He could feel the cold morning air seeping through the cracks in the door, but even that couldn’t quell the knot of regret and sadness twisting violently in his gut.

Draco’s hand froze on the door handle as he heard Hermione’s soft voice from behind him, the words laced with quiet frustration. “It didn’t have to be like this, you know.” He turned, his heart pounding in his chest, but she wasn’t looking at him. She was staring at the floor, her fingers clenched tightly around the blanket, her voice strained as if holding back something deeper. “You always make things harder than they need to be.” The words stung more than he cared to admit, and for a moment, he couldn’t think of anything to say. Was this it? The final nail in the coffin of whatever fragile connection they’d forged? He wanted to ask her what she meant, but the lump in his throat made speaking impossible. Instead, he turned back to the door, pushing it open with a sense of finality, the air between them thick with everything unsaid.

As the door clicked shut behind him, he swallowed the lump in his throat, but it did nothing to ease the ache in his chest.

I’ve ruined everything.

~

Lucas

Lucas sat in his chair, staring at the small plant on his desk. Tilly had loved it—insisted it was a symbol of resilience, growing despite the odds. Now? It was just a green reminder of how bloody unfair life was. Resilience, ha! If this plant had to deal with what I’ve been through, it’d have wilted weeks ago.

He rubbed his temples, the familiar weight of exhaustion sinking into his bones. It’s too soon , his mind echoed, though he was supposed to be the one giving therapy, helping others navigate their own messes. Half the time, he couldn’t even muster the energy to get out of bed without feeling like an empty shell. And today? The light in his office felt like one of those bloody interrogation lamps.

Tilly’s dead, Lucas, he reminded himself . And here you are, trying to be the emotional janitor for everyone else’s messes, while your own is festering like an open wound.

He let out a sharp breath, glancing at the clock. Draco would be here soon. And the strangest thing? He was glad. As if, in some twisted way, seeing Draco anchored him. There was that odd sense of normalcy, even if normal for them meant wading through a swamp of trauma and guilt.

Lucas remembered the days after Tilly’s death, the rawness of it all. He’d been useless, a shell of himself. And Draco… well, Draco had shown up. Not the sarcastic git everyone knew, but someone gentler. He’d sat with Lucas, held him when he’d broken down, and reminded him—strangely enough—to feel his emotions.

Bloody ironic , considering Lucas was supposed to be the expert on feelings. But in that moment, it was Draco who’d patched him together. And it wasn’t just the words Draco had said—it was the way he’d said them, the way he’d stayed. No running off. No false promises. Just presence.

It had made all the difference.

The familiar sound of the Floo turning green snapped Lucas out of his thoughts. Draco stepped into the office, and Lucas immediately clocked the state of him. Dark circles under his eyes, shoulders hunched like the weight of the world was pressing down.

He looks worse than I do , Lucas thought with a grim chuckle, and I’m the one with a dead wife.

“It’s good to see you, Draco,” Lucas said lightly, but the heaviness in the air was impossible to miss.

Draco slumped into the chair, like a marionette whose strings had been cut. His hands trembled slightly, his jaw clenched tight, and Lucas could practically feel the waves of anxiety rolling off him.

Draco sat there for a beat, and then the dam broke. His face crumpled, and the tears came fast. Not just crying—it was that soul-crushing, rug-pulled-from-under-you kind of sobbing. Lucas had seen it plenty of times before, but this… this was different.

It was raw, the kind of crying that came from deep within—the sort that was born from too much guilt, too much loss, too many sleepless nights. Lucas had seen it a hundred times in his patients, but it was different with Draco. Maybe because of what they'd been through together. Or maybe because Lucas knew that feeling too well himself.

“I failed you,” Draco choked out, his voice cracking. “I failed Tilly. I should’ve been able to stop it. I should’ve—  I’m so sorry, Lucas… I’m so sorry.”

Hearing Tilly’s name hit Lucas like a punch to the gut, reigniting the ache he was barely keeping at bay. But there was no anger—just sadness, deep and aching, but it had nothing to do with Draco.

He sighed, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. His heart clenched, but he kept his tone light. Draco didn’t need more weight. “You didn’t fail me, Draco. Not then, not now. Pyrites took Tilly. That’s on him, not you.” He paused, letting out a bitter chuckle. “If anyone’s to blame, it’s me for thinking I could still have nice things.”

Lucas wasn’t sure if he was being funny or if his grief had just turned macabre, but he let the dark humour hang in the air.

Draco let out a harsh, half-laugh, half-sob, wiping his face roughly with the back of his hand. “I was supposed to… I tried to protect you both—”.

The guilt pouring out of Draco was palpable, and Lucas could see how it was eating him alive. 

“No,” Lucas interrupted softly but firmly, his voice steady. “You did what you could. And you told me what was happening… and when I needed someone, you didn’t leave me alone. You stayed.”

Draco shook his head, the guilt etched into every line of his face. “I was useless.”

Lucas leaned back, breathing slowly, reminding himself to stay present, to feel what was there and make sense of it. His own memories floated to the surface. That night when Draco had held him, when the grief had been too much to bear. He could still feel Draco’s arms around him, his voice steady and calm, telling him to just let it out, to stop trying to be the strong one for everyone else.

That night, Lucas had let go. Stopped pretending. And Draco had stayed. Draco Malfoy of all people, reminding him that feeling didn’t make you weak. That had been the turning point, and now, Draco didn’t even realise how much he’d done. It was a lesson Lucas was supposed to have mastered years ago. A spoonful of his own medicine of sorts, after all, it was Lucas always telling that to his patients.

“Do you remember what you told me?” Lucas asked, his voice quieter now. “That night when I couldn’t keep it together? You reminded me that feeling the pain didn’t make me weak. You told me it was alright to let go of trying to be strong all the time.”

Draco looked up, confused. “Yeah, but—”

“You saved me, Draco,” Lucas said, a soft smile tugging at his lips despite the pain in his chest. “You showed up. You stayed with me, reminded me I didn’t have to do it all on my own. You didn’t let me drown.”

Draco blinked, his breath hitching. “I didn’t… I didn’t do anything.”

Lucas chuckled darkly. “You did more than you know. And look at you now. You’re sitting here, thinking you’ve mucked everything up, but you’re different. You’ve grown. You’re not that angry kid anymore who thought the world was better without him. You’re someone who cares. Someone who stays. Someone brave. You’re like a snowflake falling in May.”

Draco let out a short, bitter laugh, wiping his eyes again. “You say that now, but it doesn’t feel like enough. I was bloody useless when it mattered.”

“It never feels like enough, does it?” Lucas said, his voice dropping. “That’s the kicker, isn’t it? Grief, guilt… it never feels like we’ve done enough. But you did. You did more than enough.”

Draco let out another bitter laugh, rubbing his eyes with his hands. “You say that now, but it still doesn’t feel like it.” He paused, lips twisting into a smirk. “Look at me. I’m a mess. I just… I don’t know how to deal with any of this.”

Lucas nodded, understanding. “It’s not about ‘dealing’ with it. You’re going to feel it, Draco. Just like you reminded me that night.”

Draco exhaled slowly, the silence between them stretching as the weight of everything settled. Lucas could feel his own grief creeping in again, but he reminded himself of the tools he had—the things Draco had unknowingly reminded him of.

“I wasn’t expecting you to swoop in like some hero and fix everything,” Lucas said, his tone light.

Draco shifted, still uncomfortable. His eyes flicked to the window. Then, with a sigh, he let out a broken laugh. “Well, it’s good you didn’t. I’m rubbish at this whole ‘hero’ thing. Honestly, I should’ve stuck to being a rich prat—it suited me better.”

Lucas let out a soft chuckle. “You were a spectacular prat. But I prefer this version of you. The one who cares. The one who stays. You’re human.”

Draco snorted, the sound almost bitter. “Barely.”

There was a beat of silence before Lucas leaned back, giving Draco space to breathe. He could sense that Draco wasn’t done—there was more weighing on him.

“Is there anything else you want to throw at me?” Lucas asked lightly, though his eyes were still kind.

Draco hesitated, tension building again. “It’s about… Hermione.”

Lucas didn’t push. He simply waited, letting Draco find his words.

“She… she almost died,” Draco said, his voice a whisper. His hands were clenched tightly in his lap. “I thought I was going to lose her too. And I—Merlin, I love her. I’ve never said that out loud before. But it’s true, Lucas. I love her. And we… we slept together.”

Lucas raised his eyebrows, slightly amused about the last bit of information, “Okay…”

Draco’s face twisted in confusion and anguish. “But she regrets it. I know she does. I could see it in her face this morning—like it was a mistake, and she said that I always make everything more difficult than it has to be. We were under Felix Felicis, and everything felt so right. But now…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “She doesn’t feel the same way, does she? I’ve mucked it all up, haven’t I?”

When Draco opened up about Hermione, the fear was palpable. Lucas listened, the poor bloke was spiralling, convinced she regretted everything.

“Ah, love,” Lucas said dryly. “The unfixable mystery. But look, mate, you’re making this all about you . You’re assuming how Hermione feels, and you’re not letting her tell you what she’s actually feeling. You don’t know what’s going on in her head, but you’re writing the story before she’s had a chance to.”

“She didn’t say anything,” Draco muttered. “She just smiled and said we were a good team. A good team . What does that even mean? I know she regrets it, Lucas. I know it. She probably hates me now.”

Lucas shook his head, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth despite the situation.  He recognised the familiar pattern—Draco was catastrophising, consumed by his fear of rejection. 

“You’re scared she regrets it,” Lucas said slowly, echoing Draco’s words back to him. “You’re scared she didn’t feel the same.”

Draco nodded quickly, his eyes flicking to Lucas’s. “Yes. I know she didn’t.”

Lucas paused, letting the words sink in before continuing. “But you don’t actually know that, do you? You haven’t asked her, haven’t given her a chance to tell you how she feels. You’re assuming she regrets it because you’re already expecting rejection.”

Draco opened his mouth to protest, but Lucas held up a hand gently. “I’m not saying you’re wrong to feel this way. It’s natural to be scared when you open yourself up to someone you care about. But those feelings—this fear—it’s coming from inside you, not necessarily from Hermione.”

Draco blinked, clearly trying to process the idea. “But… what if she does regret it? What if I’ve already messed everything up?”

“Then you deal with that when it comes,” Lucas said softly. “But what you’re doing right now is punishing yourself for something you don’t even know. You’re searching for certainty, even if it’s a fucked up certainty, because it gives you a sense of control of the narrative, and you are telling yourself a story that may not even be true, and that’s not fair to either of you. ”

Draco shifted uncomfortably, clearly not convinced. “But when I told her I fancied her she didn’t say it back. That’s practically a death sentence, isn’t it?”

Lucas let out a quiet laugh. “Or maybe she was just nervous, caught off guard. Feelings are complicated, Draco. They don’t always come out cleanly. It doesn’t mean she doesn’t care about you.”

Draco looked down at his hands, frustration etched on his face. “But what if she doesn’t? What if this is all just… a disaster?”

Lucas took a deep breath, leaning back in his chair, allowing the silence to settle between them. “Remember what we’ve talked about before, Draco—about using the emotions in front of you. Your fear is telling you something important—it’s showing you how much you care about Hermione, how deeply you’re invested in her. But it’s also telling you where you’re vulnerable, where you’re most afraid. That’s where you need to focus.”

Draco frowned, his eyes narrowing in thought. “So… what do I do?”

“You acknowledge the fear,” Lucas said. “You let yourself feel it, and use it to be brave. And more importantly, you talk to Hermione. You ask her how she feels, instead of assuming the worst.”

Draco snorted. “You say that like it’s easy.”

“Nothing about this is easy,” Lucas admitted, “but you’ve faced harder things. You’ve survived Pyrites, you’ve carried the weight of Tilly’s death, you’ve taken care of me when I was a mess. You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for. This… this thing with Hermione? It’s part of life. And yeah, it’s messy, but that’s what makes it real.”

Draco sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. “I’m so used to keeping everything in. I don’t know how to—how to trust that everything won’t just fall apart.”

“That’s because you’re still learning,” Lucas said gently. “And that’s okay. You’ve been through hell, Draco. But you don’t have to do it alone. You can let people in, even if it’s terrifying. And Hermione… she’s part of that, whether you realise it or not.”

Draco glanced up, a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes. “What if I can’t fix it?”

Lucas smiled softly. “Maybe it doesn’t need fixing. Maybe it just needs time. Trust her to figure it out—and trust yourself to be patient enough to wait.”

Draco rolled his eyes but didn’t argue, his lips curling into a faint smirk. “Patience. Right. Like I’m any good at that.”

Draco stayed quiet for a moment, his shoulders still tense but less so than before. “I don’t know what I’d do without this,” he admitted softly, glancing at Lucas. “Without being able to talk to you.”

Lucas smiled, though it was tinged with sadness. “I’m glad to be here, Draco. Really. Even now. Especially now.”

As the session wound down, Lucas couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of appreciation for Draco. The kid—well, man—had come so far. And in some twisted, cosmic joke, it had been Draco who’d reminded him how to cope, how to grieve, how to stay present with the pain.

And maybe, in the end, that’s all anyone could really do. Be present. Let the pain sit beside you, like an unwanted guest, until one day it felt just a little lighter.

~

Theo

Theo lounged back in his chair, the picture of nonchalance as his friends began to filter into the main hall of Nott Manor. After everything last night— the frustration of not being able to defeat Pyrites, finding out about Mandrake’s bloom but having to wait for the full moon, Felix Felicis ( (which, admittedly, Theo had enjoyed), the Patronus charm experiment— he figured everyone would be knackered.

But apparently, not everyone had gotten a good night’s rest.

He took one glance at Draco, and it was all he could do not to burst out laughing. His best mate looked like he’d been dragged backwards through a hedge. Twice. His long hair all over the place, dark shadows under his puffy eyes, and an anxious energy that practically screamed I’ve done something stupid .

“Oh, Draco,” Theo drawled, eyeing his friend up and down with the kind of grin that promised trouble. “Mate, what happened to you? Fall into a wardrobe? Or was it a duel with a rogue hairbrush?”

Draco shot him a death glare but said nothing, which only made Theo grin wider.

“Oooh, touchy,” Theo cooed, leaning forward with a mock concerned expression. “Come on, spill. What’s got you looking like a kicked Crup? Did someone keep you up all night?”

“Not. Now. Theo,” Draco bit out, his voice low and filled with warning.

Well, that was confirmation enough. Theo’s grin widened as his mind filled in the blanks. Whatever had happened between Draco and Hermione last night, it was enough to have Draco looking like a man on the edge. The thought was bloody delightful.

Of course, the rest of the Slytherins had started to gather as well. Pansy took one look at Draco, then at Theo, and raised an eyebrow.

“Have I missed something?” she asked, a wicked gleam in her eye. “Or is Draco always this dishevelled after a big battle?”

Blaise chuckled from his place on the couch, lazily twirling his wand between his fingers. “I’m sure it’s nothing a hot shower won’t fix. Or maybe a cold one, given how he’s acting.”

Astoria, perched gracefully next to Blaise, gave Draco a sympathetic smile. “Rough night, then?”

Draco just groaned and rubbed his temples, clearly wishing he could hex them all into silence.

But Theo? Theo wasn’t about to let it go. He lived for these moments, after all. He opened his mouth to continue teasing when Hermione entered the hall, followed closely by the rest of the Gryffindor lot: Potter, Weasley, and Gingersnap, with Ex-twin Weasley, Thomas, Finnigan,  Longbottom and Luna, the adopted one, trailing behind.

Theo’s eyes flicked from Hermione to Draco, and then back to Hermione. Her eyes were red, like she’d been crying, and her entire posture screamed do not engage . She was ignoring Draco with a determination that was almost comical, while Draco… well, Draco kept stealing furtive glances in her direction, like a puppy who’d been scolded.

And then it hit Theo: Oh, there’s definitely something going on .

He caught Pansy’s eye and raised an eyebrow. She, of course, clocked it immediately, a slow smirk spreading across her face. Blaise gave a quiet chuckle under his breath.

This was going to be fun.

Theo casually sauntered over to Hermione, keeping his voice low. “Good morning, Hermione. You look absolutely radiant today. Crying really brings out your eyes.”

Hermione shot him a withering look. “Not now, Nott.”

“Oh, we are back to Nott again? We’re all friends here, aren’t we?” He leaned in slightly, dropping his voice further. “So… what exactly did Draco do to earn that death stare? I’m dying to know.”

She scowled, crossing her arms. “Draco’s an arse. That’s all you need to know.”

Theo grinned. “That’s his trademark, but there seems to be… more to the story, no?”

Hermione gave him a look that could’ve set fire to the room. “I said drop it, Theo.”

He raised his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. Just trying to help.” But of course, that wasn’t true. Theo was undoubtedly getting involved in this. Draco and Hermione were his new pet project, and he was going to have them paired off and talking before the day was out.

Theo rejoined the others, nodding slightly at Pansy, who gave him a knowing look. The Slytherin gang had a knack for sniffing out drama, and this was prime material. They all knew what needed to be done.

“All right, enough chit-chat,” Potter said, stepping forward and placing a large map on the table. “Our next step is to figure out where Pyrites is hiding his army.”

“The forest,” Hermione interjected, her voice sharp but controlled. “Where Ron and I battled him before. I’m almost certain that’s where he’s based, it has to be.”

“More like almost died, you mean.” Interjected Draco bitterly earning her glare.

Weasley frowned, rubbing the back of his neck and ignoring Draco’s comment. “Yeah, but how do we find it? He must be using a Fidelius Charm, and we could be standing right in front of it and never see it.”

Theo leaned in, a smug smile tugging at his lips. “Ah, Gryffindors, this is where you Slytherin-proof the plan. Leave it to me .”

Potter narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “And what’s your brilliant idea this time, Nott?”

“Simple,” Theo drawled, looking far too pleased with himself. “We don’t need to find the house. We just need to make Pyrites leave it. And then, voilà, we’ll see it for ourselves.”

Longbottom looked at him, confused. “How are we supposed to do that?”

“Ah, Longbottom, this is why I am the man of the hour,” Theo said with a wink. “Pyrites is a narcissistic arsehole, right? He can’t resist a challenge. So we bait him out. Give him a reason to leave his little hidey-hole, and once he steps out, we’ll see where he’s been hiding. Easy-peasey.”

Thomas chuckled. “And how do we get him out? Send him a nasty owl?”

“We can create a fire”, said Finnigan eagerly, his eyes brightening at the idea of using his special gifts.

Theo smirked. “No, something better. We challenge him directly. We know he’s obsessed with this whole Arcan Alchemy thingy, right? So we make him think we’ve got something he wants. Some big magical artifact. Something he can’t resist.”

Gingersnap’s practicality arose. “Alright, but let’s not underestimate him. Pyrites is dangerous, and if he catches wind of what we’re up to, we’re all in serious trouble. We need a plan, not just chaos.” She shot a pointed look at Theo, who smirked in return, unbothered by the tension. 

Pansy flicked her hair over her shoulder. “We’ll create a good plan, all right. And if he doesn’t fall for it, we’ll just make enough noise that he has no choice but to notice. We’re Slytherins. If there’s one thing we know how to do, it’s create chaos.”

Ex-twin Weasley rolled his eyes, clearly unimpressed. “And here I thought you lot were all about subtlety. You should leave the chaos to me instead, we all know I’m the master.”

Pansy grinned. “Maybe we should, what’s your proposal?”

Luna, standing in the corner with her usual serene expression, tilted her head. “Perhaps if we give him something he’s not expecting, he won’t see what’s really there. People often miss what’s right in front of them when they’re looking for something else.” Her voice dreamy caught everyone’s attention. “We could plant something in the forest. Something that feels like ancient magic. Pyrites might sense it and come looking for it.”

Finnigan nodded. “That could work. We just need to make sure whatever we plant is powerful enough to draw him out.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Pansy interjected, raising an eyebrow. “None of us knows much about ancient magic. How could we emulate its ‘feeling’?”

Theo rolled his eyes, as if that was the least of their problems. “Pansy, darling, that’s the beauty of it. Pyrites doesn’t need to know it’s real. He just needs to think it is. The man’s ego is bigger than Potter’s hero complex. We’ll plant something shiny enough to tickle his paranoia.”

Ex-twin Weasley chimed in, grinning like a mischievous schoolboy. “I could whip up something. Might not know a thing about ancient magic, but I can fake a relic better than any curse-breaker, and make it appear to have different kind of powers.”

Longbottom frowned, clearly still a bit uncertain. “But what if he senses it’s fake? We could be walking straight into a trap.”

“That’s the idea, Longbottom.” Theo’s grin widened. “We are the ones creating the trap, we bait him with something that looks like it’s valuable and magical. If he takes the bait, we’ll have him out of hiding and will be able to see his lair. Then we strike.”

Weasley snorted, leaning back in his chair. “You make it sound so simple. I’m still waiting for the part where everything goes wrong.”

“We’re Slytherins, Weasley,” Pansy said, her smirk lazy. “Nothing goes wrong. We just pivot the plan until it looks like it was supposed to happen all along.”

Daphne, who had been listening quietly until now, finally spoke, her voice smooth and teasing. “I think what Ron’s saying, love, is that it always goes wrong before you pivot.”

Theo shot her a wink. “Only makes the victory sweeter, like you dear.” Daphne blushed.

Draco, who had been uncharacteristically silent through all of this, suddenly muttered, “Are we really trusting George with faking ancient magic?”

Ex-twin Weasley feigned offence. “Oi, Malfoy! I’ll have you know, faking things is my speciality.”

Blaise laughed softly. “He’s not wrong.”

“I say we let George and Seamus handle the decoy,” Gingersnap cut in, sounding as though she was already envisioning the chaos. “If we’re going to pull this off, we need to make it big, loud, and impossible for Pyrites to ignore.”

“Finally, someone with vision,” Theo declared, throwing a hand dramatically in the air. “We’ll stage the most theatrical setup you’ve ever seen. Pyrites won’t be able to resist showing up.”

Potter, however, wasn’t convinced. His brows knitted together, his voice cutting through the banter. “Look, I get that we need to draw him out, but this can’t turn into a free-for-all. If things go south, the only ones going in are me, Hermione, Ron, and Draco.”

“And why is that?” Theo asked, leaning back casually. “You’re going to deprive us of all the fun, Potter?”

Potter gave him a level stare. “Because we’re the ones to cast the Patronus Charm to deal with the Inferi. And we’ve dealt with Pyrithe's corruption, we’ll need Draco for the Fiendfyre.”

Theo shot a glance at Draco. “There it is. The real reason you’re in this. Your lovely, warm Fiendfyre. How heroic.”

Draco shot him a warning look. “Shut it, Theo.”

Theo shrugged, unfazed. “Just saying, mate. We’re all counting on your pyromania to save the day.”

Hermione, who had been scrutinizing the map, cut in with a sudden shift in tone. “Listen, I know we’re joking about this, but we have to remember what’s at stake. Pyrites is using alchemy on a level we haven’t seen in years. If he’s got that Inferi hidden somewhere, they’re directly connected to him. This isn’t just about drawing him out—it’s about stopping him before he unleashes something far worse. We will need something that keeps him occupied, and we’ve already witnessed his magic, it’s terrifying. I mean, he changes all laws of physics.”

The mood in the room shifted, the gravity of the situation settling in. Even Theo felt a pang of seriousness creep in.

Draco, who had been fidgeting for most of the discussion, finally spoke up. “We will probably need everybody to create a distraction, not just the decoy, but we need to make sure that everybody is safe while they are distracting Pyrites long enough for Harry, Weasley, Hermione, and me to find the Inferi and end them.”

Hermione glanced at him, her expression unreadable, but she nodded. “I read something in "Veil of Illusions: Mastering Spells and Charms to Shape Reality", about a spell… Speculum. The spell creates multiple identical illusions of the caster, confusing opponents or distracting them in battle, much like a magical decoy.”

“That’s it!” Draco nodded, his sharp gaze flicking to Hermione, who turned to ignore him. “We can plan it on a large scale. We need to make sure Pyrites can’t tell who the real casters are If we can project images of ourselves—moving, casting, fighting—it’ll throw him off.”

“Speculum, then,” Blaise chimed in, crossing his arms thoughtfully. “It’s risky. Creating something convincing enough to fool a dark wizard like Pyrites won’t be easy. But…” He smirked, leaning back. “It’s not impossible. We’ve all had our share of, let’s say, less-than-legal magical experimentation, and we can practice the spell if Hermione teaches us.”

Pansy raised an eyebrow, her usual sharp smirk playing on her lips. “Please, Blaise, don’t flatter yourself. You couldn’t project your own shadow if your life depended on it.”

Theo chuckled, but his mind was already racing ahead. “Nah, Blaise is right. It’s risky, but we’ve got a brain trust here, don’t we?” He winked at Hermione.

“Actually,” Hermione interrupted, her eyes bright with thought, “there’s a spell we can modify. It’s called Gemino . We’ve learned about it thanks to Draco’s adorable aunt. Normally it duplicates objects, but with a bit of tweaking, we could make it duplicate people. If we combine it with Speculum, perhaps—it could create realistic illusions of us, not just mirror images, enough to confuse Pyrites.”

Potter looked impressed. “You can do that?”

“Of course, she can,” Draco muttered under his breath, though his tone carried a begrudging respect. “That sounds like it could work, but the trick is making sure the illusions move convincingly as if they’re casting spells or preparing for battle. We can’t afford for them to look like hollow puppets.”

Luna’s soft voice floated into the conversation as if she had just wandered back in from another realm of thought. “Perhaps if we tied the illusions to our own movements, like shadow puppets? So they follow us but at a slight delay. It would give them the illusion of independence.”

“That’s… brilliant,” Hermione said, nodding slowly. “If we link the images to your own movements, Pyrites won’t know who’s real and who’s not. And if you can scatter enough of them, putting yourselves far from harm, you might buy us enough time to figure out where the Inferi is hidden.”

Blaise’s smirk returned. “Looks like we’re all in for some fun after all. Creating chaos is what we do best.”

“Exactly,” Draco said, glancing at the group. “We’ll need you all to be at your best. The illusions will only work if they’re convincing, and that means staying sharp, unpredictable. Pyrites is smart—if we’re sloppy, he’ll catch on.”

Theo clapped his hands together, breaking the tension. “Sounds like a proper Slytherin plan. Chaos, deception, and a bit of heroism for good measure.” He shot Draco a smirk. “Always knew you had it in you, Drakey.”

Draco rolled his eyes but didn’t respond. His focus was elsewhere, clearly turning the plan over in his mind.

Pansy stretched lazily, her eyes glinting with amusement. “So, what’s the next step, then? We practice these decoys? Perfect our moves? Or do we just show up and wing it?”

“We’ll need to practice,” Hermione said, her tone firm. “The spell modifications aren’t simple, and if we mess it up, Pyrites will know something’s off.”

“Yeah, well,” Weasley muttered, eyeing Theo with suspicion, “just make sure that deception doesn’t get us all killed.”

“Relax, Weasley,” Theo said, winking at him. “I’m not letting anyone die on my watch. Not today, at least.”

Draco finally broke his silence, his voice quieter than usual but filled with resolve. “This is our best shot. We distract Pyrites, we find the Inferi, and we end this.”

Theo clapped his hands together, breaking the tension with his usual flair. “Look at us! Who knew we were such a dream team ?” He shot a glance at Draco and Hermione. “Speaking of dream teams, I think you two should work on merging the spells so you can teach us. You know, since you’re both so in sync and all.”

Draco looked like he wanted to hex Theo into oblivion, but Theo just winked. “Oh, come on, mate. Don’t be shy. You and Hermione make such a good pair. Isn’t that right, Hermione?”

Hermione glared at him, but before she could snap back, Astoria cut in, her voice smooth. “Theo’s right. You and Draco should handle the modified spell. The rest of us will handle the decoy we’ll plant.”

Blaise leaned forward, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “So, the ‘man of the hour’ says we plant the decoy, create an army of fake ourselves as a distraction to keep Pyrites busy chasing shadows, while the Chosen Four slip in, find his base, and neutralise the threat. Sound about right?”

Theo grinned. “That’s about the size of it.”

Potter, still looking less than thrilled with the chaos-prone Slytherin, sighed heavily. “Fine. But we do this quietly and carefully. No unnecessary risks. Let’s split up and get to work.”

As the group continued planning, Theo couldn’t help but glance at Draco, who was still stealing nervous glances at Hermione. They’d have to deal with that little situation soon enough, but for now, there were more pressing matters at hand.

But that didn’t mean Theo wasn’t going to help things along when the time came.

After all, he was many things—chaos-bringer, strategist, Slytherin extraordinaire—but above all, he was a bloody good matchmaker.

Oh yes. Cupid Theo was very much in play.

The man of the hour, indeed.

Chapter Text

I just wanted to show up here to let you know that I'm revising al my chapters because I've made errors in the plot I want to change. This work is not abandoned, I'm just slow, a perfecctionist and have had another rough year.
If you can, read back the first three chapters and let me know what you think.

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