Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hogwarts was too clean.

The floors and walls were scrubbed clean of the bloodshed that took place only months earlier. The halls were quiet but there was a looming sense of dread and heartbreak over the castle.

Somehow no one was paying attention to that fact, obviously and watching enchantedly at the Great Hall and its projected bright starry sky, not a cloud in sight.

Over the summer, a select group of students were invited back to complete their seventh year as ‘Eighth Year’ students. I didn’t want to go, but Hermione convinced Ron and me to return to Hogwarts so we could “get a proper education” and earn our degrees without being handed job offers as Aurors.

The letter claimed that we would not have many rules coming back. Headmistress McGonagall stated that we were permitted to wear muggle clothing if we wished. We are allowed to visit Hogsmeade anytime we wish as long as we are back by 11 pm. And we could roam the halls as we pleased as long as chaos didn’t break through the castle.

The 1st years were soon sorted, many getting places in Hufflepuff, Gryffindor, and Ravenclaw, surely because of the stigma that grew over the summer, and the feast began. I didn’t pay much attention to the clatter and laughter of the people around us.

That’s when I notice him.

Sat there silently, head down staring at an empty plate that seemingly looks untouched.

He was thinner. Drastically thin. Pale, almost ghost white. But it’s his hair that caught my attention.

His hair. It was fluffy. Not slicked back like usual. Unstyled. Soft-looking. So un-Malfoy it was almost disorienting.

But…nice.

At the front, several Ministry officials entered the Hall. Purple-robed. Wands at their sides. One held a glowing scroll that unfurled midair, covered in runes.

“Before we dismiss for the evening,” she said, “I must ask that all First through Seventh Year students follow your Heads of House to your dormitories. Eighth Years—remain seated.”

Around 20 students were remaining in the Great Hall after everyone else left the room. Hermione and Ron turned to me with puzzled looks on their faces. I slowly scanned the room to find everyone else was in the same state of confusion, chatter breaking out through the space.

“As you know, the war has destabilized the magical fabric of our society. To address this, the Department of Magical Reconstruction has passed a new magical law. As of tonight, all Eighth Year students will be magically bound through the Unity Bonding Act. This will be in place for all students when they graduate from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”

All hell breaks loose, many people shouting their disapproval.

“Each of you,” she continued, unfazed, “will be paired with a magically compatible partner, determined by ancient bonding spells channeled through the Sorting Hat. These matches are final,” she says as someone is bringing the Sorting Hat back into the hall. “The bond is legal, magical, and immediately effective,” McGonagall continued. “Marital in structure. Designed to stabilize core magic through shared magical resonance.”

Ron made a choking sound. Hermione had gone very still. I could tell that they were both nervous that they would not be magically compatible enough to be paired together, but I know they shouldn’t be worried. They were perfect for each other in their own little ways. I felt bad for other couples though, knowing that a couple of them would be split up and put with others.

“You will share living space, training assignments, and bonding exercises for the year.” A pause. “If a bonded individual willingly breaks their oath through infidelity or intentional the magical consequence is severe,” she said, and her eyes scanned the room like she dared anyone take it lightly in the slightest. “Any such violation will result in the immediate severance of their magical core. Irrevocable. No appeals.”
My blood ran cold.

Someone muttered, “This is mad.” As the sorting took place.

“Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger.”

Hermione gasped. Ron’s ears turned red. But he was smiling. Of course, they’d be thrilled.

“Neville Longbottom and Blaise Zabini.”

Neville blinked in confusion and deep thought staring over at Blaise. Blaise raised one eyebrow and smirked. I think they would be good together.

“Ginny Weasley and Dean Thomas.”

Not surprising. They’ve always had some unfinished spark between them.

“Pansy Parkinson and Luna Lovegood.”

Pansy is looking green as the reality settles on her shoulders and Luna is being Luna.

Then—

“Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy.”

I think I’m going to be sick. No. No, this can’t be right. Anyone but him. The whole room is shocked into silence. We haven’t talked in a few months after his father’s trial. Lucious was meant to get the dementors’ kiss, Malfoy and his mom were to get 10 years in Azkaban, but I spoke for them and was able to get his mom under house arrest for 5 years and Malfoy got free, as long as he went back to school and kept a clean record with the school because he was a kid when all of this broke out and he didn’t ask for it.

Across the hall, Malfoy didn’t move. No change in expression, just staring blankly at the headmistress He looked like he’d known all along. Like the universe was just finishing a cruel joke only he’d already heard the punchline to McGonagall’s voice softened. “You are now magically bound. You will be escorted to your
shared suites in the Unity Wing.

And with that, we all rise and find our partners.

I locked eyes with his from across the hall. There was no hate there. No mockery. Just stillness.

And something like... acceptance?

I wished I hated him. I never really hated him throughout the years. Yes, I thought he was a pompous arse and needed to be knocked down a few pegs but never hated him.

Maybe we can make this work.

But I didn’t know what “work” looked like anymore. I didn’t know how to be around people, let alone share a room with someone who used to hex me in the corridor. Someone who stood in the same house as the man who killed countless people.

Someone I’d saved.

And who hadn’t asked me to.

I didn’t look at anyone as we were called forward. Just picked up the small parchment with our names and the suite number scribbled in curling gold ink.

We stepped into the hallway. Side by side. Not touching.

Silence stretched between us like a ward neither of us wanted to be the first to break.

I had no idea what I was supposed to say to him. Thanks for not making this worse? Sorry I once almost killed you? None of it fit. None of it mattered.

I stole a glance. He walked like he always had—shoulders back, head high, like the world owed him nothing but still feared him anyway. And yet, something about him was different. Quieter. Controlled in a way that didn’t feel arrogant anymore—just... tired.

The silver envelope crinkled in my palm. I handed it to him without thinking.

He took it wordlessly. Read the passphrase aloud.

"Ignis et Umbra."

The door glowed and clicked open. Suite 207. Our new home.

I felt the magic seal behind us. A quiet tug at my chest, deep and warm, like a new heartbeat syncing with mine. I didn’t know what it meant.

But Malfoy stopped walking, mid-step then continued on

Whatever this was—it had started.

And there was no going back.

Chapter Text

I knew what fear looked like.

I’d watched it bloom in my mother’s eyes the night we crouched in silence, hearing The Dark Lord's footsteps echo on the marble. I saw it etched in the mirror when I could barely meet my own gaze. It lived in the pause between sentences during my trial, in the way people flinched when I entered a room. Fear had a thousand faces. And I’d memorized most of them.

I was sitting there, spine straight, jaw tight, while the Wizengamot murmured like vultures about to devour us. I hadn't spoken. Not until they made me. My father’s chair beside me was cold and empty. My mother’s hand gripped mine under the table so tightly I thought our bones would fuse. But then Harry bloody Potter ran in yelling at them to stop just before their final sentencing. Of course, the savior of the world had to run in and do his savior duties. Standing there like the poster boy for sainthood. But I remember the relief. Shocking. Clean. Temporary. I don’t know why he did it and don’t know if I will ever truly understand.

I don’t think he knew either.

We didn’t speak as we followed the Ministry escorting down the hallways to the designated Unity Wing of the castle. I could feel the storm brewing beneath his skin even though the bond was still new and fresh. I can feel the shear panic running laps through his brain, making it hard to breathe.

I didn’t say anything though. What was there to say? Anything I said would make it worse as Potter already looked like the world was too loud, on the edge of a mental breakdown of some sort.

On our last stretch down the corridor, Potter pulled out the envelope with our room number and password. Ignis et Umbra. Fire and shadow. Bloody poetic. Potter still seems in his own world as we walk into the room. It has a full living room, kitchen, and a master bedroom with a massive bathroom equipped with a tub and a glass walk in shower. It had a double bathroom vanity. Overall, the flat was very cozy, I suppose. There was an enchanted fire crackling in the living room.

Then Potter walked into the bedroom just as I was standing near the bookshelf, pretending to admire the worn spines of the Hogwarts-issue classics. I wasn’t actually reading the titles. I was avoiding the sight of the bed.

He stopped. Like he’d hit a wall.

His eyes locked on the bed—just one, of course—and everything about him tensed. His jaw, his shoulders, the way he clutched the parchment with our room assignment like he could crumple the entire situation out of existence.

He should’ve known. We both should’ve. The Unity Bond wasn’t just paperwork—it was proximity. Magical, emotional, physical. Of course there’d be one bed.

Still, seeing it… did something to him. I felt it through the bond like a cold splash to the chest. He was spiraling already. So I cut it off before he could say anything.

“I’ll take the couch,” I said before he could even open his mouth.

He didn’t say anything. Just stood there, eyes flicking between me and the bed like he was preparing for a duel. Maybe he thought I was mocking him. Maybe he didn’t know what to do with someone who didn’t want to fight.

I couldn’t let him sleep on the couch. Not after what I’d seen flicker across his face—that tight, twisted panic that sat just under his skin like a live wire. That kind of panic didn’t fade overnight. It lived in bones. I knew that kind of panic. It was the same kind that made you flinch at soft noises. The kind that made sleep feel dangerous.

So I walked past him, didn’t wait for thanks, didn’t offer a look. Just flicked my wand at the couch, transfigured it into something serviceable, and sat down like it meant nothing.

Because it had to look like it meant nothing.

That was the only way he’d take it.
He disappeared into the bedroom without a word. The door coming to a close with a slight click and the turning of a lock.

I sat back on the couch, picked up a book I didn’t read and started breathing slowly. Deep. Even. Measured.

Through the bond, I felt the edge of his panic ease. Not vanish. But ease. His breathing slowed to match mine like he didn’t even realize.

Hearing the shower turn on he felt more at ease.

Still. Breathing. But not shaking anymore.

And eventually, he slept.

I stayed awake.

Not because I couldn’t sleep—though I knew I wouldn’t—but because the quiet felt safer than the dark. Because I couldn’t let go. Not yet. Not when the only reason he was still breathing like that was because I’d kept my own lungs moving for him.

I stared at the ceiling, the firelight flickering along the stone. Everything was still. My thoughts weren’t.
They never are.

There was a whisper under it all. A voice I never invited.

You shouldn’t be here. You don’t deserve the space you take up. You only get peace when it’s borrowed from someone else.

And maybe that’s why I stayed up. Because if I let myself sleep, I might start dreaming again.

And I’ve had enough of that.

So I breathed. For him. For me. For as long as I had to.

Because that’s what I do now.

I survive in silence.

Chapter Text

I woke up warm.

Which, with all things considered, should’ve been my first red flag. Warm meant still, and still meant I’d slept and like really slept.

I blinked against the soft morning light streaming in from the window across the room. Something is wrong. My chest isn’t tight, my throat wasn’t raw—no phantom echoes of screams or static or blood.

I stared at the ceiling, taking a minute to realize where I was.

Hogwarts. Eighth year. The Unit Wing…married. To Draco sodding Malfoy

But that isn’t what hit the hardest of all.

Slowly sitting up, the sheets twisted around my legs, and my shirt was damp with sweat, which isn’t unusual. But there weren’t any nightmares or flinching awake. No bracing for a wand or the end of it all.
Just… morning.

I hesitated, still halfway tangled in the sheets, trying to figure out how I’d slept at all, let alone slept that deeply. Something felt off. Not wrong. Just unfamiliar.

I climbed out of bed slowly. My legs held. I didn’t shake. That was new.

I walked out of the bedroom, yawning and getting a start on my day before classes.

“Morning,” came a voice—quiet, dry—from across the flat. Making me flinch toward the voice, forgetting Malfoy now lived here. With me.

Malfoy was already primarily dressed. Dark jumper, sleeves pushed up. Barefoot. He had one leg folded under him on the couch, a book balanced in one hand, the other holding a half-empty mug.
He looked like he didn’t sleep a bit, but he did a good job hiding it. Merlin knows how much caffeine he has consumed this morning.

“Er—yeah. Morning,” I said, voice rough and unsure.

He didn’t look up. “There’s coffee if you want it.”

I padded into the kitchen area, grabbed a mug, and poured some coffee. It was strong. Sharp. The kind of thing that woke you whether you wanted it to or not.

I dumped a little sugar in. Then more. A splash of cream. Stirred until it was almost beige.

When I turned around, Malfoy was staring at me over the top of his book.

“That’s not coffee,” he said dryly. “That’s dessert.”

I gave him a look. “It’s too early for bitterness.”

“Then why are you talking to me?” he muttered, but there was no real venom in it. We sat in silence. Him reading, I perched on the arm of a chair, holding my over-sweet mug like a lifeline. I kept glancing at him. He looked fine. Still. Like he was trying not to exist too loudly. Eventually, he stood, stretched, and gestured vaguely toward the bedroom.

“Bathroom’s all yours. You’ve got ten minutes before we’ve got to head to Unity Training.” I blinked. “Unity what?” He raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t read the schedule packet they gave us, did you?” “No, I—” He continued. “We’ve got bonding class first. Then Magical Reintegration. Then lunch. Then core alignment exercises.”

“Core alignment?”

“It’s all vague and invasive as it sounds. Go shower. You’ll feel and look less like death.” He said it lightly, but it landed heavy. Because he didn’t know that “feeling and looking like death” was the baseline I’d been hovering over for months. Still, I nodded and slipped into the bathroom. It was nicer than I expected. Polished black tile. Steam-proof mirrors. Double sinks. A huge walk-in shower and a separate tub. The kind of space meant for two people, It made my chest ache in a way I couldn’t name. Like a room made for two, waiting for one to notice. I shut the door. Locked it.

The silence pressed in. And the calm I’d felt earlier started to crack. I stood in front of the mirror for too long, just staring. My reflection looked better than I felt. Tired, sure. A bit pale. But not broken. Which was bullshit.
Because underneath the t-shirt, I could still feel it. The pull. The pressure. The urge.

My fingers twitched.

I peeled the shirt off slowly. The sleeve caught against the fresh bandage wrapped around my left bicep. I winced, even though it didn’t hurt.
I didn’t take the bandage off. I didn’t need to see it. But I looked anyway.

I pulled the edge back carefully and stared at the angry red skin beneath it. Some lines newer. Some fainter. Last night, before the ceremony, it had felt unbearable. I’d needed something to anchor me. Something real. And I hadn’t known we’d be bonded—hadn’t known I’d sleep at all.

I ran a thumb over the skin. Just enough to feel it. The silence in the bathroom echoes. Everything felt like it was buzzing just under the surface. For a moment—just one stupid, shaky moment—I looked toward the drawer beside the sink. I knew what was in it. Razors. Neat little rows. Clean, sterile.

My body moved half a step forward. And then I stopped. I didn’t know why. It wasn’t logic. It wasn’t a shame.
Maybe it was exhaustion. Or maybe it was that tiny hum in the back of my mind. That thread of stillness I wasn’t used to. The bond, maybe. Whatever Draco had done last night—whatever he was doing without saying anything, it worked. And if I broke again now, I wasn’t sure I’d make it back.

So I stayed where I was. Shaking, breathing, not moving. Eventually, I grabbed a towel. Turned on the water. Let it scald my skin in the shower, just long enough to feel something. Not pain.

Just... present.

When I stepped out, Malfoy was gone. A note floated just above the table, hovering in that annoyingly elegant script of his.

Training Room C, East Wing. Don’t be late. —D

Below it, another parchment. My class schedule. I picked it up, eyes scanning quickly.

Advanced Potions

Unity Bonding

Advanced Astronomy

Magical Reintegration

Dark Arts Recovery

Advanced Transfiguration

Core Alignment & Magical Theory

None of them optional. Of course they weren’t

Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.

I shoved the paper in my bag and grabbed my wand. First day back at Hogwarts. First day of marriage. First day of being tethered to someone I didn’t trust.
And already I was falling behind.

I stared at the schedule until my eyes blurred. None of them were optional. Of course it wasn’t. Advanced Potions, Unity Bonding, Magical Reintegration, Transfiguration, Core Alignment... It felt like a punishment disguised as progress. A structure meant to hold us together just tight enough to keep us from falling apart. But barely.

I finished dressing slowly, hands moving on instinct. Black jumper. School robes. Boots. Wand holstered at my wrist. A familiar weight. A familiar lie. That I was ready.
The coffee from earlier sat cold on the counter. I downed it anyway.

The flat felt quieter without Malfoy in it, but not in a good way. The bond still hummed faintly in the air, stretched thin between us. I didn’t understand it. I didn’t want to.
I stepped out into the corridor and let the door seal behind me. The castle was different. Colder. Cleaner. Too quiet in places that used to echo with chaos and blood and shouting. There were new wards humming faintly in the air. Students filtered past, eyes glancing at me and quickly looking away. Some whispered. Some didn’t even bother pretending not to stare.

Training Room C was tucked away in the East Wing, down a long corridor I didn’t remember from before. A new addition, probably. Or just something I never noticed when I was running through the halls chasing death.
I reached the door, hand on the handle, and exhaled once. Then I stepped inside. And there he was.

Malfoy.

Back straight, arms crossed, posture perfectly defensive. “His jaw was tight. His eyes looked past me like I wasn’t even there. But I felt it in my chest—the shift. The change
Something was off.

And whatever peace we’d found last night wasn’t coming to class with us.

Chapter Text

He disappeared into the bathroom with barely a word. I heard the door shut. The soft click of the lock turning. Then nothing. Just silence.

It should’ve felt like a relief. I’d been desperate for a moment alone all night. But now that I had it—now that he wasn’t standing two meters away, vibrating with tension and refusing to look at me—I hated it. The flat was too quiet without him in the room.

The bond hummed faintly in the background, still soft from whatever sleep had wrapped itself around him the previous night. But even without it, I could’ve told you what he was feeling. He wasn’t alright. Not in the way that mattered.

I stood slowly, stretching out the knots in my back and neck. My shirt had ridden up in the night, and the scarred skin around my left forearm pulled tight. I didn’t look at it. I never did if I could help it. The mutilated shape of the Dark Mark was no longer clean—no longer a symbol. Just a ruined patch of skin. And the surrounding lines that crawled up both arms? Still fresh. Still burning when I flexed my hands too tightly.

I pulled my sleeves down and wrapped them over my wrists. I wasn’t going to let him see.

I stepped toward the bedroom door, then paused. I could feel Potter in there. Not directly—but his pain clung to the air like dust. Buzzing under the surface. Sharp. Quiet. Familiar.

I pressed a hand to my chest, over where the bond lived, just for a moment. Then I turned away. Refilled my coffee. Black. Bitter. Hot enough to burn.

I sat on the sofa and tried to read, knowing I wouldn’t absorb a word of it. I just needed something in my hands. Something to do with the shaking.

Eventually, the shower turned on. I exhaled. It felt like an hour passed in five minutes.

When the door finally creaked open, I dropped the book in my lap and looked up. He looked… not terrible. His hair was still wet. His shoulders tense. But he’d dressed, and his hands weren’t trembling. That was something.

I let my voice come out dry and quiet. “Morning.”

He flinched. Actually flinched.

Right. Because I was the danger now.

“Er—yeah. Morning,” he said, still half asleep.

“There’s coffee if you want it.”

He nodded and moved past me, grabbing a mug. He poured the coffee, strong and plain—and then added enough sugar to qualify as a health hazard. A splash of cream. Another spoonful of sugar.

When he turned back around, I was already staring.

“That’s not coffee,” I muttered. “That’s dessert.”

He gave me a flat look. “It’s too early for bitterness.”

“Then why are you talking to me?”

He didn’t laugh. But the silence that followed didn’t feel angry. Just… wary.

We sat in it. He perched awkwardly on the chair arm, holding his sweetened mug like it might float away. Me, still pretending to read. Pretending I wasn’t counting how long it would last before I said the wrong thing again.

Eventually, I stood. My sleeves slipped slightly—just enough to show a sliver of pink scarring. I tugged them down.

“bathroom’s all yours,” I said. “You’ve got ten minutes before we’ve got to head to Unity Training.”

He blinked. “Unity what?”

“You didn’t read the schedule packet they gave us, did you?”

“No, I—”

“We’ve got bonding class first. The Magical Reintegration and Advanced Potions. Then lunch. Then Core Alignment. It’s all vague and invasive as it sounds. Go shower. You’ll feel and look less like death.”

I didn’t mean for it to land like that. But it did.

He nodded once. Walked past me again. Shut the bathroom door.

I stood there alone in the flat. Heart racing like I’d sprinted a corridor. Because I could still feel it. That flicker of something he hadn’t said.
And I knew I didn’t deserve it.

I made it to Training Room C before the bond started humming again. He was close. I could feel it—just a whisper of static at the edge of my ribs. That slight, involuntary pull that came with him being near. Not touching. Not even looking. Just… near. I stood outside the door for a moment longer than I should’ve. Just long enough to brace myself. Because whatever quiet we’d shared last night—that reluctant truce, that breath of something still—was already gone.

I’d woken up first. Gotten out first. Left a note. Not because I didn’t care, but because I cared too much. And I couldn’t let him see that. So when he walked into the room—hair damp, robes askew, face closed off—I did what I always do.

I shut down.

Back straight. Arms crossed. Posture perfectly defensive.

I didn’t have to look at him to know he noticed. I felt it in the bond—like a door slamming shut between us.

His jaw was tight. His eyes looked past me like I wasn’t even there.

But I felt it in my chest—the shift. The change. That tiny, precious thing we almost had? Gone.

And the worst part? It was my fault.

So I held still. Pretended it didn’t matter. Gave him every reason to hate me. Because it was easier than letting him know I’d give anything not to feel this distance. Anything.

Professor Ives stood at the front, radiating Ministry polish in pale blue robes. She smiled like she’d read every file on us and still believed we could be fixed.

“Good morning,” she said. “Today we’ll begin with a basic resonance alignment. You and your partner will attempt magical synchronization through proximity. Eye contact, emotional presence, steady breathing. Nothing invasive—just the groundwork.”
Fantastic.

“Partner up,” she said, like we had a choice. Potter hesitated. Then sat across from me. He wouldn’t look at me. We sat in silence. Other pairs turned toward each other. We stayed facing forward.

Then his voice cut the air between us.

“What’s your problem?”

I looked at him. “You’re going to have to narrow it down. I’ve got quite a few.”

His jaw clenched. “Don’t start with me this morning.”

“Didn’t realize I needed your permission to breathe, Potter.”

His lips thinned. “I’m not doing this with you.”

“Oh, thank Merlin,” I snapped. “Because if I have to sit here and pretend to bond with someone who can’t even make eye contact without looking like he’s about to cry, I may fling myself off the Astronomy Tower.”

The words hit harder than I meant them to. Too far. Too fast.

The bond spasmed. Tightened. Something in it cracked.

He froze.

And then he stood. Voice low and gutted.

“Go fuck yourself, Malfoy.”

He walked out.

Didn’t wait for Ives. Didn’t say another word. Just left.

And I—I sat there. Silent. Burning.

Because I felt the pain through the bond, raw and immediate. Because I’d caused it. Because every inch of my skin itched with the urge to chase him, and I didn’t move.

Because I don’t get to be the one who fixes things.

Because if I open my mouth again, I’ll make it worse.

Because cowards don’t get second chances.

And I’ve already had too many.

The door closed behind him.

Not slammed—he wasn’t that dramatic—but it felt like it should have. Like the air should’ve cracked in half with the pressure it left behind.

The bond snapped taut the second he left the room.

It didn’t break. That’s not how it worked. But it tightened in my chest like a rope pulled too far. It hurt. Not physically—nothing visible—but something deep. Something beneath my ribs. Like breath that wouldn’t come all the way in.

I sat there, still facing his chair, pretending like I hadn’t just gutted him. Around me, the room was silent. Uncomfortably so.
Professor Ives didn’t say a word. No one did. A few pairs glanced at us—Neville looked especially uncomfortable—but nobody spoke.
I looked down at the table. At my own hands.

The sleeves of my jumper had slipped slightly again. Just a few inches. Just enough to show where scar tissue ended and damage still healing began. My thumb brushed the raised edge where the Mark used to be recognizable.

Now it was just lines. Lines and pain and things I’d never speak of. I tugged my sleeves back down and clenched my fists until my nails bit into my palms.

You should go after him.

I didn’t.

Because I’d already gone too far.

Because I’d already made him flinch this morning. Because I’d made him walk out now. Because if I chased him, what was I going to say?
Sorry I said you looked like you were about to cry? Sorry I meant it because I panicked the second I felt something real between us? Sorry I want to be close to you but I don’t know how?

I couldn’t say any of it.

So I sat there.

Swallowing glass.

Professor Ives stepped forward after a moment, her voice carefully neutral.

“Class dismissed early for today. We'll revisit alignment tomorrow.”

I didn’t move. I didn’t speak to anyone. I waited until the room emptied and then got up, slowly. My legs didn’t want to cooperate.
As I walked back toward the Unity Wing, the bond was still tugging. Still twisted. Still angry. It didn’t want to be apart.

Neither did I.

But he didn’t know that.

And maybe he never would.

The corridor felt colder after I left the classroom. Or maybe that was just me. Hard to tell, with the bond thrumming like a second heartbeat against my sternum—tight, erratic, furious.

I didn’t go after him.

I wanted to. Merlin, I wanted to.

But what was I going to do? Chase him through the castle like a bloody romantic cliché? Grab him by the arm and apologize in front of the second-years in the corridor? Tell him I didn’t mean it—when part of me clearly had?

No. I was already doing enough damage.

So instead, I kept walking.

Magical Reintegration & Social Ethics was next. As if I needed a class to explain why I felt like a walking crime scene.
Potter didn’t show. He had every right to skip.

Professor Moore glanced at the empty chair beside me but didn’t comment. She gave me the kind of smile people give unstable animals. Careful. Small. Don’t make sudden movements.

I sat there, alone, taking notes I wouldn’t remember.

Potions was never quiet, but that day it felt like a minefield. The bond hadn’t stopped vibrating since Unity class. Still tense. Still sour. It was like trying to think with white noise in my bones.

Slughorn, in his usual oblivious cheer, waved us to our table. “Ah yes, Potter and Malfoy—together again! Let’s see what magic you two cook up today!”

We stood side by side at our cauldron. Neither of us spoke.

I started chopping the root base for the Clarity Draught. Harry reached for the stirring wand at the same time. Our hands brushed.

A zap of emotion hit like a slap to the face.

Rage. Shame. Heat. Panic.

His or mine—I couldn’t tell anymore.

“Don’t touch me,” Harry muttered through clenched teeth.

“You’re the one breathing down my neck,” I snapped.

“Maybe if you actually brewed like a human instead of a bloody ice sculpture—”

“Oh, I’m sorry, would you prefer I brew like a reckless Gryffindor who can’t follow instructions unless they’re shouted at him during a war?
Harry froze. His knuckles went white on the edge of the table.

“You don't get to talk about the war like you were the one bleeding for it.”

Something in my chest cracked. “And you don’t get to act like I wasn’t bleeding too.”

“Oh, fuck you, Malfoy. You don’t get to play martyr—”

Across the room, Ginny and Dean’s cauldron exploded.

There was no warning—just a flash of light and a burst of scalding potion, flying in all directions.

A thick splash landed across both our chests. The room screamed.

I stumbled back, but it was already too late. The liquid hissed on contact—soaked through our robes. Too fast. Too alive.
And then the bond detonated.

Emotion roared up like a tidal wave. Everything I was feeling—he felt. Everything he felt—I drowned in.

Panic. Fury. The sudden flush of heat when our hands brushed again—that too.

I gasped. He staggered.

“What the fuck—” Harry gripped the edge of the table like the floor had dropped out beneath him.

I couldn’t breathe. My thoughts weren’t mine. They were ours. Shared. Mutating. Spiraling.

His guilt punched me in the chest.

My shame knocked the wind out of him.

The whole room backed away. Slughorn muttered something about “resonance contamination.”

His shoulder brushed mine when we staggered back from the cauldron. And it felt like electricity—hot and unrelenting, dragging all the air out of the room with it. My skin buzzed, not from magic, but from him—from the bond flaring like it was trying to rip our ribs apart and reassemble us as one.

We both stayed like that. Frozen. Barely breathing. I couldn’t even move my hand without feeling the echo of his fear bleeding down my spine.

“Ah, a bit of a mishap!” Slughorn chuckled awkwardly, stepping closer. “Potter, Malfoy—just a touch of a compatibility flare-up, no doubt! A common side effect of high-resonance pairings! Very exciting, really—”

“Don’t,” I snapped before I could stop myself. My voice came out colder than I meant. “Don’t fucking call this exciting.”

He blinked. “Right, right—well, off to the hospital wing if it stings! And we’ll clean this mess up—don’t worry!”

But we weren’t moving. Neither of us.

Harry’s hands were still trembling. I could feel it even before I saw it—his fingertips twitching as he braced against the workbench like it might vanish beneath him. His magic was wild, sparking faintly across his knuckles in tiny bursts of static.

And mine… mine wasn’t much better.

I flexed my fingers and felt my core pulse back at me in protest. Not pain. Just warning. Like my magic had been bled too thin.
Too much. Too fast.

Too connected.

I took a slow breath. Tried to suppress the spinning behind my eyes.

I didn’t know how to fix this. I didn’t even know if I should. But I knew one thing—this bond had teeth. And it was hungry.

But I couldn’t look away from him.

He was shaking.

So was I.

We tried to make it through the rest of the day pretending everything was fine.

It wasn’t.

I could feel everything.

Every tremor of anxiety. Every time he clenched his fists. Every flicker of tension in his jaw. His thoughts tasted like panic. His magic was short-circuiting mine. And I knew he could feel me too. The self-loathing. The flashes of heat I couldn’t control when he was close. The hollow ache in my ribs where words kept dying.

By Core Alignment, we were both so tightly strung the classroom might as well have been a war zone.
I couldn’t focus. Not on the lecture, no on the magical theory diagrams glowing at the front of the room. Couldn’t focus on the way my wand was buzzing like it wanted to scream

Because I could feel him.

Every time he shifted. Every flicker of a thought. When he scratched his wrist, my skin crawled. When he looked down, my stomach twisted. His shame bled into me. His guilt soaked into my spine. And I was holding it in. All of it.

My knuckles were white against the desk. I hadn’t slept. Not really.

My throat still ached from choking on my own breath in the middle of the night, from biting down on panic just hard enough to stop it from showing. The worst part was—I knew he’d heard me. I’d felt him feel it.

So when my pen snapped in half and ink bled across the page like a curse, I snapped.

And finally—finally—he snapped.

“I’m fine,” he growled, tossing a textbook onto the desk.

I turned on him. “No, you’re not.”

His eyes were glassy. His magic flared hot under his skin. “You don’t get to say that.”

“I feel it, Potter. I feel everything. You’re angry. You’re tired. You’re scared out of your bloody mind and I know because I haven’t had a single thought today that wasn’t half yours!”

He surged forward, fists clenched. “Then maybe get the fuck out of my head!”

“Trust me,” I hissed, “if I could, I would.”

We were both breathing hard.

Silence fell like a weight across the classroom.

Even the bond stilled. Like it was listening.

Like it had been waiting for this.

We didn’t speak for the rest of the evening.

Not during the last half of Core Alignment. Not on the walk through the hallways, where the walls seemed to breathe with tension. Not when we finally reached the Unity Suite.

The door clicked behind us with a quiet thud that sounded far too final.

I peeled off my robes in the sitting room, left them slung over a chair like I didn’t care. Harry muttered something under his breath—maybe a swear, maybe my name—but I didn’t ask him to repeat it.

He slammed the bedroom door.

I stayed on the couch.

That had been the deal, hadn’t it?

Separate space. No touching. No pretending. No proximity.

Except now I could feel every inch of him on the other side of that wall. The bond was still thrumming—slightly duller, like it was licking its wounds—but there. Alive. Heavy.

And gods, I was exhausted.

My hands still trembled faintly. The scars on my arms ached under my sleeves, as if they could feel the weight of everything he was carrying—and how violently I’d refused to help carry it.

I tried to read. Tried to drink water. Tried to breathe without feeling like my chest was folding in on itself.
None of it worked.

Sometime near midnight, I heard it.

A sharp sound. Gasping. Sheets rustling too hard. Then a low noise—raw, dragged from the back of his throat like something choking him. The bond lit up in my chest like a siren.

Panic.

Terror.

Memories he couldn’t fight. A nightmare. Or a panic attack. Or both.

I closed my eyes and pressed my fist against my sternum, breathing through it.

It would pass. It always did. This wasn’t new.

Not for him. And not for me.

I sat there on the couch, perfectly still, while the gasping continued behind the wall. The kind of sound that made you flinch, if you had any softness left in you.

But I didn’t move.

I didn’t go to him.

Because if I did—if I crossed that line—I wouldn’t be able to hold the rest of it back.

And I didn’t trust myself not to ruin it worse.

So I stayed where I was.

Let the bond pulse.

Let him drown on the other side of the wall.

Let myself burn with the guilt of it.

Eventually, it stopped. The noises. The panic. Or maybe he passed out. Maybe he just learned how to cry quietly.

Either way, I didn’t help.

And I hated myself for it.

But I told myself it was the only way to keep things safe.

To keep him safe.

From me.

Chapter Text

And whatever peace we’d found last night wasn’t coming to class with us.

He was already sitting when I walked in—back straight, arms crossed, jaw locked like I was something to brace against. His eyes didn’t meet mine. He looked right through me. But I felt him.

Tension poured off him like a hex. The bond buzzed under my ribs, not steady like last night—but jittery, frayed. Like it was holding us apart on purpose, even though the bond wanted to pull us closer.

I wanted to scream. Or shake him. Or maybe both.

I sat down but couldn’t look at him. Didn’t trust what I might say if I did look at him.

Professor Ives started talking about magical resonance, emotional proximity, and grounding
through shared breath. I couldn’t hear her.

All I heard was his voice from this morning

“You’ll feel and look less like death.”

The way he said it. So casual. Like it didn’t matter or wasn’t the truth.

Because I do feel like death. And I’ve felt like this for so long, I don’t remember what not feeling like death is.

I sat still. Trying not to pass out.

But the bond kept pulsing. Not gently or softly. But vibrating out of sync. As if we were too close yet too far.

I snapped back to the present when I heard him breathing and it suddenly became too much.

“What’s your problem?” I said, before I could stop myself.

And everything after that happened too fast.

He fired back like I’d been waiting for it.

Like he’d wanted me to start just so he could end it.

“Because if I have to sit here and pretend to bond with someone who can’t even make eye contact without looking like he’s about to cry—”

My ears rang.

Something cracked inside me.

I stood up. Could barely look at him.

“Go fuck yourself, Malfoy.”

And then I walked out.

Didn’t wait for the professor. Didn’t look at anyone. I barely made it to the corridor before the walls felt too close.

Running through the halls, sweating and out of breath I found the nearest bathroom from muscle memory on the third-floor landing. It was small, quiet, and many people didn’t know existed.

It was all too much. The room was spinning and the world was going fuzzy. Dropping on one of the toilet stalls, I dropped my head in my hands trying to breathe but I couldn’t. Not properly at least. His voice, the way he didn’t come to me last night even though he felt me and didn’t come.

The rage and shame was overbearing as I tugged my sleeve up and peeled off the bandage. The pain was grounding me back to reality. Pulling it out, I dug into the same incisions, deeper this time. And that awful, awful voice in the back of my head that said, "You don’t deserve to be helped.

Blood welled up too quickly.

I cursed under my breath.

"Accio bandage" A wad of bandages wrapping it fast and too tight. Just needed it to hold so it didn’t want to soak through.

I didn’t want anyone to see and definitely didn’t want him to feel it.

But now it’s too late.

The bond twitched and jolted behind my ribs. I squeezed my eyes shut and braced my forehead against the mirror.

“I’m fine,” I whispered to my reflection. “I’m fucking fine.”

But my reflection didn’t believe me either.

But the world will keep spinning with or without me.

Potions was never quiet. But today it felt dangerous.

I could already feel it in the way Slughorn grinned too widely when we walked in, like he thought pairing us again was clever like he didn’t realize we were two minutes from burning the entire classroom down just by existing near each other.

“Ah yes, Potter and Malfoy—together again! Let’s see what magic you two cook up today!”

He had no idea.

We walked in without a word. Took our place at the front bench. I could feel the heat of Malfoy's magic before I even looked at him—sharp, agitated, laced with something bitter I didn’t know how to name.

I started setting out ingredients. He was already chopping the root base, meticulous and clinical.

Reaching for the stirring wand, our hands brushed and the floor felt like it was going to give out underneath me. Rage, shame, panic, and want slammed into me so hard I felt dizzy but I don’t know how much of what I felt was mine or his.

“Don’t touch me,” I snapped before I could help it.

“You’re the one breathing down my neck,” he bit back.

My fingers curled tighter around the wand. “Maybe if you actually brewed like a human instead of a bloody ice sculpture—”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he sneered, “would you prefer I brew like a reckless Gryffindor who can’t follow instructions unless they’re shouted at him during a war?”

I froze.

I couldn’t move.

Something hot and sharp twisted in my stomach.

“You don’t get to talk about the war like you were the one bleeding for it.”
His mouth twitched.

“And you don’t get to act like I wasn’t bleeding too.”

“Oh, fuck you, Malfoy,” I hissed. “You don’t get to play martyr—”

And then it happened.

The explosion was instant. Ginny and Dean’s cauldron burst like it had been hexed, potion flying in all directions. A thick splash hit my chest—soaking through in seconds.

It burned. Not hot—loud. Like it roared against my skin.

Then the bond detonated.

A tidal wave of emotion knocked the breath out of me.

His guilt. My panic. His heat. My shame.

All of it. Every ugly, twisted thought we’d shoved down all day came crashing through in a flood of shared feelings.

I gasped. He swayed.

“What the fuck—” I gripped the edge of the table, trying not to collapse. My knees buckled.
I couldn’t think.

I couldn’t tell where I ended and he began.

And I didn’t want him to see this. Not this part. Not what I’d just done in the bathroom. Not what I was still bleeding under the bandage.

But I knew he felt it.

Because I felt the instant he realized.

I felt it slam into the bond like lighting on water and now he knew what I had done. What I was hiding and the pain I ripped into myself to make everything quiet. But now my pain was his and his was mine.

I could see it on his face, even if he didn’t look at me. The way he flinched. The way his breathing changed. The way his shoulders curled in like he was trying to shield something with no arms left.

“Ah, a bit of a mishap!” Slughorn chuckled awkwardly, stepping closer. “Potter, Malfoy—just a touch of a compatibility flare-up, no doubt! A common side effect of high-resonance pairings! Very exciting, really—”

“Don’t.” His voice was a whisper, low and scraped raw. “Don’t fucking call this exciting.”
Slughorn paused, blinking behind his glasses.

I didn’t look at him. I couldn’t. I was too busy holding onto the edge of the table like it was the only thing keeping me from unraveling.

I didn’t need a professor to tell me we were bonded. I felt it in my bones. Felt it in the static between us. Felt it in the way I knew exactly how much he hated himself in that moment—because it was identical to how much I hated me.

He blinked. “Right, right—well, off to the hospital wing if it stings! And we’ll clean this mess up—don’t worry!”

But I wasn’t moving and neither was Malfoy standing there staring at each other as if we knew everything about the other.

But I wasn’t sure if I was going to throw up, scream, or cry and Malfoy was feeling the same. But if I cried it would prove him right so I didn’t.

By the time we made it to Core Alignment, I was shaking. Thoughts were ricocheting off of each other so fast I could hardly focus long enough to hear the professor’s name. The air in the room, thick and pressing on my shoulders.

Malfoy sat down next to me. He felt too far yet too close

The potion had cracked something open. Not just in our magic—but in us.

My magic kept flaring in small pulses, almost panicked. Like it didn’t know where to settle. And every time I tried to steady my breathing, the bond answered with his shame. His guilt. His heat.

I didn’t want it. I didn’t want him in my head. Not after last night. Not after what he didn’t do. But there he was. Still inside me. Still echoing through my chest like a memory I hadn’t permitted to stay.

The professor handed us worksheets. Asked us to “ground and align” with our partners. I didn’t even touch mine. I stared at the desk.

Curling my hand into a fist so tight it hurt. After flexing it I could feel the fresh wounds trying to rip apart from earlier. I tried not to feel the tension that kept humming through me like static before a lightning strike.

He shifted in his seat and it knocked the air out of me. Just a twitch. Just a glance. But the bond lit up again—too aware, too sensitive. I couldn’t take it anymore.

The pen in my hand snapped. Ink spilled across the desk. Like a warning.

And I lost it.

“I’m fine,” I said—sharply, too loudly.

Everyone turned, but I didn’t care. I was looking at him.

Draco raised his head slowly. His mouth was tight.

“No, you’re not,” he said.

There was no venom. Just certainty. Like he already knew before I’d said anything.
I wanted to scream.

“You don’t get to say that.”

“I feel it, Potter. I feel everything. You’re angry. You’re tired. You’re scared out of your bloody mind and I know because I haven’t had a single thought today that wasn’t half yours!”

His voice hit like a spell. My breath caught in my throat.

“Then maybe get the fuck out of my head!” I snapped, each word cutting harder than the last.
He leaned forward slightly, eyes sharp. “Trust me. If I could, I would.”

Silence fell over the room as we were breathing hard, even making the bond still and if it were listening and waiting for this.

We didn’t speak the rest of the day even when we got to the Unit Wing.

I walked into the sitting room, not bothering to watch Malfoy in throw his shit on the chair.
“Night” I muttered as I slammed the door to the bedroom.

It started like always.

The battlefield was too quiet.

Fog clung low to the ground. A haze of smoke and ash. Everything was grey. Flattened. Dead.
Harry walked through it barefoot, each step sinking into mud thick with blood he couldn’t see but felt. His wand was gone. His hands were cut. Voices echoed from somewhere in the distance.

“You left us.”

He turned, but no one was there.

“You saved him, not us.”

Then he saw them.

Fred. Lupin. Tonks. Colin Creevey. Their faces pale, eyes empty. Standing in a jagged line—frozen in the moment he last saw them. Fred smiling. Tonks reaching. Lupin’s hand on his son’s photo.

“You chose him.”

“You chose Malfoy.”

Harry shook his head, backing away—but their feet didn’t move, and still they got closer.
The fog curled around his throat.

His scar burned.

Then a wand pressed to the back of his neck.

A voice he hadn’t heard in months.

“Expelliarmus.”

Voldemort’s hiss but layered. Wrong. Familiar.

Harry turned.

And it was him.

Draco, pale and blood-covered, wand pointed at Harry’s chest. But his eyes weren’t Draco’s—they were dark, endless, hollow. Like someone had emptied him out.

And he spoke.

Not a spell. Not a curse. Just:

“I didn’t ask you to save me.”

The ground opened.

Harry fell.

Fell into noise. Screaming. Green light. Bellatrix laughed. A thestral’s cry. A hand slipping from his. Ron shouting. Hermione crying. Malfoy bleeding. Fred still smiling.

And Harry choking on the taste of being too late again.

With a gasp I woke up, sweat soaking my shit and the sheets tangled around my body.
I could feel the bond puling through me but nothing followed like it did last night.
He isn’t here for me. He didn’t come to save me even through the bond.

He didn’t save me.

Again.

Chapter Text

I woke up before the bond did. Not that it ever truly slept.

4:30 a.m., like clockwork. My body didn’t know rest anymore—it only knew habit. So I dragged myself out of bed without thought, ignoring the way my chest already ached before my feet hit the floor. Quiet. Careful. No need to wake him. No need to explain.

The flat was still dark, shadows cast long by the dying embers in the fireplace. I walked past the couch I’d claimed as mine, stepped into the bathroom, and shut the door with a soft click.
I didn’t turn on the main light. Just the one above the sink. I couldn’t stand to see myself too clearly.

Water scalded as it hit my skin, and I welcomed it. Let it bite down on my nerves like punishment. The steam fogged the mirror and my thoughts in equal measure.

I wasn’t thinking. That was the point.

It started with one mark. Shallow. Controlled. Familiar.

But the spiral was fast this morning. Faster than usual.

It was the bond. The fallout from yesterday. Or maybe just the fact that I couldn’t get the image of Potter’s face out of my head—the way it twisted when he felt what I did. The way he looked at me like I was the worst thing he’d ever touched.

More lines. My hands trembled. My vision started to blur.

I pressed my back to the cold tile and slid down the wall. The razor slipped out of my fingers and clinked against the tub floor.

Blood dripped, hot and clean down my arms.

I didn’t stop it.

I couldn’t.

Get up. I told myself. You’re not a coward. You’re not a child. This is nothing.

But the dizziness was thick. The room swayed like a ship at sea, and my legs didn’t want to listen.

Then I felt it.

A flicker in the bond. A question. And then a knock.

“Malfoy?” Potter’s voice, rough with sleep, filtered through the door. “Are you—are you alright?”

His voice shouldn’t have done anything. Should’ve bounced off me like every other well-meaning whisper I’d ignored since the war.

But it didn’t. It hit something soft.

I hated that.

“Draco?”

I snapped. “I’m fine! Go back to bed, Potter!”

I didn’t shout it.

I cast it. With the kind of venom I didn’t mean to let slip. With the kind of sharpness that carried weight.

The mirror exploded.

Not cracked. Not splintered. Shattered.

Potter rammed through the door like I’d screamed. He wasn’t even wearing shoes. Just a wrinkled sleep shirt and panic in his eyes.

“Fuck—what happened?!”

He stopped dead when he saw me.

Blood on my arms. On the white tile. The steam. The shards of glass glinting under the vanity light.

His eyes locked on mine—and I felt it. The bond. The way it surged.

Panic. Confusion. Pain. So much pain that I wasn’t sure if it was mine or his anymore.

I tried to stand and immediately swayed.

Potter reached out instinctively.

“Don’t,” I croaked, voice flat.

He froze. Not out of obedience, but because he didn’t know what to do next.

The bond was pulsing again. Not with heat. With rain. A slow, dull ache in the air. The feeling of a storm that wasn’t quite forming—but refused to leave.

Emotion leak. I realized distantly. I’d read about it. Rare. Caused by magical over-resonance. Potions backlash. Trauma-induced tethering.

Potter was feeling everything I was trying not to feel.

I swallowed hard and looked away.

“It’s nothing,” I muttered. “Go back to bed.”

“Draco—”

“I said go.”

He didn’t move for a moment. Then he stepped back, still staring like I was something fractured beyond recognition.

“Fine,” he said finally. Soft. Angry. Hurt. “But I’m not pretending I didn’t see this.”

I turned my back on him. He left.

And the bond throbbed like an open wound.

I didn’t move for a long time after the door clicked shut.

The mirror was in pieces. The blood was drying on my arms. The steam had already begun to fade, leaving cold air behind it like a slap.
I exhaled shakily, leaning forward to grab my wand from the sink. Tergeo. The blood vanished in clean swipes. Vulnera Sanentur. The deeper lines hissed beneath my breath, sealing slow. I winced. I always did.
My sleeves were already ruined, crimson soaked through the edges. I swapped out the shirt, wrapped the worst of the damage under clean gauze, and stood staring into the shattered reflection for a moment longer than necessary.

All those broken fragments, none of them showing a face I wanted to claim.

I pulled my expression back into place.

Then I left the bathroom.

The flat was still mostly quiet. Potter’s bedroom door was shut again, but I could feel him behind it. The bond wasn’t raging anymore—just pulsing low. Curious. Hesitant. Unsettlingly gentle. I hated how that unnerved me more than his anger had.

I moved through my morning as if it hadn’t happened.

Coffee. Dark, bitter, scalding. No sugar. No cream.

I sat in my usual spot on the sofa, book open in my lap, fingers turning the pages with practiced calm. The kind of calm that only came from years of wearing masks so tight they fused to the bone.

I kept breathing. Measured. Even.

Until I heard the bedroom door creak open.

His footsteps were softer than usual. He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there, hovering near the kitchen, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to ask.
But he did.

“Draco?” his voice was quiet—still rough from sleep. “Are you okay?”

I didn’t look up from the page I wasn’t reading.

“Yes,” I said flatly.

He stepped a little closer. “Because earlier—”

“I said I’m fine.”

It came out sharper than intended. Not a snap. Just... enough to cut.

I saw him flinch in my periphery. Just the smallest shift in his shoulders. But he didn’t leave. He crossed his arms and leaned against the counter.
“You shattered the mirror,” he said. “You were bleeding.”

I turned a page.

“I cleaned it up.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.”

Silence stretched like thread between us, too tight and ready to snap.

His voice was quieter this time. “I felt it. The panic. The pain. I thought it was me. But it was you.”

I closed the book. And finally looked at him.

And I hated what I saw there—that look. That gentle concern hidden under bravado. That aching helplessness that said I’ve been there.

“I don’t need you to save me, Potter.”

“I’m not trying to save you.”

“Yes, you are.”

He didn’t deny it.

I stood. Moved past him toward the kitchen, grabbing another mug.

“You want coffee?”

He hesitated. “Yeah. Sure.”

We didn’t speak while I poured. I handed it to him without a word. He sipped it. Then made a face.

“You’re supposed to boil water, Malfoy. Not murder it.”

I snorted—actually snorted, surprising even myself. “Sorry. I forgot you like your coffee pre-chewed and dipped in syrup.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, but he didn’t smile.

We sat in silence again, the bond humming low and uncertain between us.

It wasn’t peace. But it wasn’t war either.

And maybe, for now, that was enough.

We left the flat late, still quiet, both of us gripping our coffee like it was armour.

Classes passed in a haze. People stared. The bond stayed tight but tolerable, like a pressure headache that hadn't decided whether it was going to explode or simmer. We didn’t talk about what happened that morning. Or yesterday. Or the day before that. We moved through the halls as one unit with two silences between us. Until the end of the day.

We returned to the Unity Suite with the same sort of fragile truce we'd left with. No words. Just tension and footfalls.

I opened the door first, stepping inside with that familiar flick of my wand. The wards shimmered once in recognition, then let us pass.

He moved slower than me, dropping his bag by the door and trailing toward the bedroom with half a yawn. Probably planned to crash early.

I started toward the bathroom. Needed to scrub the dried blood from the inside of the cuffs I hadn’t changed all day. Maybe vanish the faint line still peeking out above my wrist. But as I turned into the corridor—he was there.
Frozen, staring at something in his hand.

Something small and Folded.

My blood ran cold.

I knew what it was before I even saw the scrawl on the front.

Harry.

He’d found the fucking note. My heart kicked once, then sank.

“What is that?” I asked, voice sharper than I meant.

He startled. Looked up too fast, guilt already flooding his expression.

“I—it was just on the counter,” he said. “I didn’t read it.”

I was in front of him in two steps. Ripped it out of his hand. Crumpled it in my fist.

“You weren’t supposed to see that,” I said through clenched teeth. “It wasn’t meant for you.”

“You wrote my name on it.”

“Doesn’t mean you were meant to read it.” I was spiraling. I knew I was spiraling. But I couldn’t stop. Not now. Not with the way he was looking at me again—like I was breaking open and he didn’t know where to put the pieces.

His mouth opened. Then closed.

And I cracked.

“You hurt yourself,” I snapped.

His eyes widened.

“In that fucking bathroom,” I repeated. “Third floor. Left corridor. You thought I wouldn’t feel it? You thought I wouldn’t know?” His jaw twitched. His shoulders stiffened like he was about to deny it. I didn’t let him.

“You can lie to everyone else, Potter. But not to me. Not anymore. Not with this—” I jabbed a hand at the space between us. “—this bond screeching every time your body decides it can’t handle the pressure anymore.”

“Don’t say that,” he cut me off. “Don’t tell me I wasn’t supposed to feel it. That’s not how this works anymore.”

He looked away.

“Draco—I'm trying”

“I know,” I said, suddenly quiet. “But that doesn’t mean you get to go down alone.”

“I’m not doing this again, Potter,” I said, voice low, dangerous. “Next time you decide to bleed in a bathroom, don’t expect me to stand here pretending it’s fine.”

He didn’t say anything. I didn’t wait for him to.

I turned and tossed the crumpled note into the bin beside the sink—even though I knew I’d dig it out later.

And then I left him standing there, bleeding behind his eyes.

Just like I was.

Chapter Text

It hit me like a Stinging Hex to the chest.

A rush of pain. Hot, sharp, not mine.

I was halfway to the kitchen, barefoot and bleary-eyed, when the bond snapped awake. Not the usual thrum. This was different. Urgent. It burned down my arms, made my stomach twist.

Draco.

The connection between us wasn’t supposed to feel like this—like someone had set fire to the thread tying us together. I felt it crawl across my skin like panic. Like the morning after the war. Like I was going to be sick.

“Malfoy?” My voice cracked.

Nothing.

“Draco?” I stepped forward, heart thudding against my ribs.

“I’m fine! Go back to bed, Potter!” he snapped—so venomously it made my teeth ache.

Then came the crash.

I didn’t wait. I shoved the door open with my shoulder, wand already raised, expecting blood—maybe something worse.

I wasn’t expecting to see him, curled on the floor of the shower, blood on his arms, the mirror blown apart behind him, and steam still clinging to his skin like it was trying to hold him together.

“Fuck—what happened?!”

He looked at me. Really looked at me. And I felt it then. The bond. The pain. The spiraling shame. The same sense of drowning I’d tasted just yesterday in that corridor bathroom, only now it was his.

He swayed, trying to stand.

I reached out automatically, but he flinched. “Don’t.”

My hand froze in the air.

It was all too much. The steam, the blood, the way his voice had cracked like he hadn’t meant to let me see any of this.

The bond pulsed. Not anger. Not guilt. Something quieter. Rawer. Like both our nerves had been turned inside out.

Emotion leak.

My stomach twisted. He didn’t want me to see this. He didn’t want anyone to see this.

But I had.

And now I couldn’t un-feel it. Couldn’t un-know what it felt like to carry his agony like it was my own.

“It’s nothing,” I muttered. “Go back to bed.”

“Draco—”

“I said go.”

I didn’t want to. I felt something fracture in me, and it wasn’t him.

But something in his eyes made me back off. That last line of defense he still had—pride, shame, whatever it was—he was hanging onto it with bloodied fingers.

“Fine,” I whispered. “But I’m not pretending I didn’t see this.”

He turned his back.

And I walked out.

The door shut softly behind me, but the weight of the bond stayed. Heavy. Unbearable. Silent.

I couldn’t sleep after lying there 2 hours so I got up to get ready for classes of the day.

“Draco?” I said silently so I didn’t disturb whatever peace he had left.

“Yes,”

“Because earlier—”

“I said I’m fine,” and it hurt

“You shattered the mirror with your magic.”

“I cleaned it up.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.” And the silence stretched thin.

“I felt it. The panic. The pain. I thought it was me. But it was you.”

“I don’t need you to save me, Potter.”

“I’m not trying to save you.”

“Yes, you are.”

Hesitating a little, I accepted his offer for coffee. I said something and he responded but I couldn’t tell you what I said, still thinking about what happened this morning and why he is in such denial about it. But then again, so am I.

It wasn’t until much later—after class, after pretending through every interaction like my chest hadn’t been peeled open—that it happened again.

We got back to the flat late. Barely said a word. He went to the bathroom, and I drifted toward the kitchen to ditch my bag.

And then I saw it.

A folded piece of parchment. Small. Barely visible behind the coffee tin. Like it had been dropped or stashed.

My name written across the front in his handwriting.

Harry.

I shouldn’t have touched it. But I did.

And then the air behind me changed.

“...What is that?”

Draco’s voice was razor-sharp behind me.

I turned around slowly, note still in my hand. “It was just sitting here. I didn’t—”

He was in front of me before I could finish. Snatched the parchment out of my hands like it burned him.

“You weren’t supposed to see that,” he hissed.

“You wrote my name on it.”

He crumpled it in his fist. “Doesn’t mean you were meant to read it.”

I stared at him. I didn’t mean to press. I didn’t mean to find something I wasn’t supposed to. But it hurt. Because it meant he’d thought about saying something. And then didn’t.

And I’d done the same. And that’s when it hit.

“You hurt yourself,” he said.

The air left my lungs.

He stepped closer. “In that fucking bathroom,” he repeated. “Third floor. Left corridor. You thought I wouldn’t feel it? You thought I wouldn’t know?”

“You can lie to everyone else, Potter. But not to me. Not anymore. Not with this—this bond screeching every time your body decides it can’t handle the pressure anymore.”

“Don’t say that,” I cut him off. “Don’t tell me I wasn’t supposed to feel it. That’s not how this works anymore.”

I looked away. My chest was burning. The shame clamped tight around my ribs.

“Draco—I’m trying,” I whispered.

“I know,” he said, suddenly quiet. “But that doesn’t mean you get to go down alone.”

I looked up.

“I know. “I’m not doing this again, Potter,” he said, voice low, dangerous. “Next time you decide to bleed in a bathroom, don’t expect me to stand here pretending it’s fine.”

And something passed between us. Not forgiveness. Not healing.

But honesty. Raw. Ugly. Honest.

He turned and tossed the note into the bin without another word.

And I stood there—hands shaking—still feeling the weight of his voice like it had carved something into me that I didn’t know how to name.

The rest of the morning blurred.

Classes came and went, or maybe I just sat through them like a ghost wearing someone else’s skin. Draco and I didn’t speak. Not during Magical Reintegration. Not during Advanced Astronomy, even when we had to share a star chart and our elbows kept brushing and the bond buzzed every time we did. He looked away every time I looked over. So I stopped trying.

I wasn’t mad.

No, that was a lie. I was mad. But it wasn’t at him. Not really.

It was the kind of anger that turned inward. The kind that made your hands itch. The kind that whispered you did this every time you tried to breathe.

By the time lunch rolled around, I hadn’t eaten all day. The tight coil of shame in my stomach made the idea of food feel laughable. But I went to the Great Hall anyway, because not showing up would mean someone might come looking. And I couldn’t afford that today.

Hermione waved me over before I could find an excuse to sit anywhere else. Ron was already halfway through his shepherd’s pie and waved with his fork.

I dropped into the seat across from them, immediately regretting it.

Hermione squinted at me over her goblet of pumpkin juice. “You look like you’ve been run through a Dementor.”

“Thanks,” I muttered. “You’re positively glowing yourself.”

She didn’t smile. “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Harry—”

“It’s fine.”

She paused, fork halfway to her mouth. “That’s the third time you’ve said that today.”

Ron finally looked up. “Did Malfoy say something? Because if he did—”

“No,” I cut in. “He didn’t.”

That wasn’t the truth. But it also wasn’t a lie. Not really.

Hermione reached for her bag and pulled out a parchment scroll—our schedule. “You missed half of your classes this morning. You were there, but you weren’t there. And you’re shaking.”

I looked down at my hands. I hadn’t even noticed.

Ron frowned, lowering his voice. “Is the bond… bad? Like, hurting bad?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “It’s just—loud. And I can’t tell what’s mine anymore.”

Hermione’s eyes softened. “You’ve both been through… everything. Trauma bonds aren’t just a theory, Harry. They’re magically real. When two people with unhealed trauma are magically tethered—things leak.”

“I know,” I said too quickly.

Ron looked uncomfortable. “Still weird they thought this was a good idea.”

Hermione nodded slowly. “I don’t think they care about what’s good for us. Just what stabilizes magic. And we’re expendable if it works.”

I bit the inside of my cheek.

“It’s not like I hate him,” I said finally. “It’s just—he’s there. All the time. Even when I don’t want him to be.”

“Do you ever want him to be?” Hermione asked gently.

I didn’t answer and she didn’t push.

Ron looked between us and said, “You know, if I were magically soul-bonded to Malfoy, I’d just let the Ministry take my magic.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “That’s not helpful.”

He grinned, unrepentant.

I pushed food around my plate, not really seeing it.

Draco hadn’t come to lunch. Or maybe he had and left already. Maybe he was sitting at the other end of the hall, perfectly unreadable, perfectly untouchable, and I just hadn’t looked hard enough.

Or maybe I had, and that was the problem.

Hermione was saying something about Core Alignment theory when I felt it.

A flicker. Not pain or panic. Just… guilt.

Low and cold and sitting heavy in my chest.

It wasn’t mine.

Draco.

Wherever he was, he’d dropped the mask for just a second. And I caught it.

I rubbed my thumb along the edge of my spoon, heart skipping.

Ron nudged me. “You good?”

“Yeah,” I lied. “Just tired.”

Hermione didn’t believe me. I could tell by the way she glanced at my arms like she was trying not to.
But she didn’t say anything.

And maybe for now, that was enough.

I didn’t remember most of the afternoon.

I was there for Advanced Transfiguration, sat in my usual spot, wand in hand, but I couldn’t have told you what spell we practiced if you’d offered me a Firebolt. Professor McGonagall must’ve noticed—I saw her glance my way once or twice with that piercing sort of knowing she’d always had, but she didn’t say anything.

I was grateful for that.

The bond was quieter now. Not dormant, but slow. Like a heartbeat that didn’t know if it wanted to keep going. And I could feel him, not fully—but like a pressure in the back of my skull, a tightness behind my ribs. Draco had shut me out again, or tried to, but his exhaustion still leaked through like smoke.

Core Alignment was a joke.

They handed us glass orbs we were meant to “attune” to with our partner. Something about centering your shared resonance and identifying harmony points. All I could hear was the scratching of Draco’s quill beside me. He hadn’t said a word all class. Neither had I.

Our elbows kept brushing. I hated how much I noticed.

He didn’t flinch. But he didn’t lean into it either.

I turned the glass orb in my hand, watching the faint light swirl inside. It pulsed in time with
something between us. The tether. The bond. His breathing.

I wanted to hate it. I wanted to hate him. But all I felt was tired.

And when the bell rang, I didn’t even look at him. I just shoved my things into my bag and walked out.

He followed, of course. Not close, but not far either. Always that two-step radius. Enough to make me feel him behind me. Just enough to twist the bond like a knife.

We didn’t talk on the walk back to the suite.

The halls had started to empty, dinner bells ringing faintly in the distance. The torches flickered as we passed, and I kept my eyes forward.

It wasn’t until we stepped through the door into the flat that I let myself breathe.

The door clicked shut behind him.

I dropped my bag by the armchair and shrugged off my robe, tossing it over the back of it without care. My whole body ached—not from any spell or potion, but from holding myself together all day.
Draco moved past me, silent as always. His steps made no sound on the rug, his presence muted but impossible to ignore. I didn’t know how someone could make silence feel so loud.

I went to the kitchen, grabbed a glass, and filled it with water from the tap. I didn’t realize how dry my throat was until the second gulp.

He lingered in the entryway to the hallway, eyes flicking toward the bedroom door, then away.

Still, nothing.

And it hurt. Not the silence. Not really.

It was the space between us. That ache that came from knowing everything and nothing about someone at the same time.

“I’m going to shower,” I said. My voice was hoarse.

He nodded once.

I turned away.

But just before I stepped into the bathroom, I felt it.

A flicker in the bond. Not panic. Not pain.

Just… weight.

He was thinking something. Heavy and oud. Directed at me.

I paused. Turned halfway toward him.

“What?”

He looked at me like he hadn’t realized he’d said anything, even in the bond.

“Nothing,” he muttered, but his jaw was tight.

“Right.”

I waited for more. He didn’t give it.

So I shut the bathroom door behind me and leaned against it, letting the steam from the running water fill the room, trying to breathe in something clean.

The water didn’t wash it off.

The weight stayed.

Even when I stepped out twenty minutes later, skin pink from the heat, hair dripping, the feeling hadn’t left.

Draco was still sitting in the living room, a book in his lap, eyes unfocused. He didn’t look up when I walked past. And I didn’t say goodnight.

But I knew he was still awake long after I’d gone to bed.

And that maybe—maybe—he was still listening.

Chapter Text

I jolted awake with pain pulsing through my body.

The fire was burnt out, the pillows thrown off all the couches as glass actively shattering on the ground.

“No—don’t touch him—stop—STOP—”

“Shit.”

Jumping to my feet I run over to the bedroom to find Harry tangled and writhing in pain as if he was fighting someone or something. His voice was cracking like a strangled sound—half sob, half scream—as he was thrashing against the unknown force.

“Harry—” I rushed to the side of the bed.

His body jerked.

“Please—he didn’t do anything—hurt me instead—don’t hurt him—”

I froze. Breath locked in my throat.

He wasn’t just dreaming. He was reliving something.

“Harry.” My voice cracked. I reached out, fingers brushing his shoulder.

He flinched so hard, he nearly fell off the bed.

“Draco—no—don’t make me watch—”

That tore it.

Terror. Guilt. That awful choking feeling.

Blood on his hands. Screams in his ears.

“Don’t take him—I chose him—I CHOSE HIM—”

The words hit harder than any spell I’d ever been hit with.

I didn’t know what was worse—hearing my name in his nightmares, or the desperation behind it. The way he sounded like he’d rather die than watch me hurt.

I gripped his arms and leaned down, not yelling—just firm. Just there. “Harry. It’s not real. You’re dreaming. You’re here, you’re safe.”

His eyes snapped open. Wild. Glassy. Like he wasn’t sure where he was.

He tried to sit up and collapsed into me instead, fists clenching in my jumper like he didn’t realize he was holding on.

“I saw them,” he rasped. “They were torturing you. And I couldn’t stop it. They said it was my fault. That I let it happen.”

He swallowed hard, voice breaking.

“I begged them to stop. I told them to take me instead. I meant it.”

Every part of me locked down. Not because I didn’t feel it. But because I felt all of it.

“I didn’t mean to choose you,” he whispered. “But I did. I do. And I’d do it again.”

And just like that, my whole fucking world tilted.

“I know,” I said quietly.

My voice didn’t shake.

“I didn’t ask you to.”

But Merlin help me—I don’t think I’ve ever wanted someone to choose me more.

There was a pause. Then—

“Why are you still here? Leave. I don’t want you here.”

I don’t believe him though. His words were hollow and a lie he was clinging on to because he cannot admit it to himself but the bond does. The bond is pulling me towards him. Yelling at me to stay here. With him. Saying that he wants, no, needs to be with him. Not just for the time being.

“I’m not leaving you.” That’s all I need to say. For both of us.

Eventually, his breathing evened out. I didn’t move scared to wake him up.

“Draco…please.”

It wasn’t loud or fully conscious. More a whisper that was pulled from a dream.

The bond yanked at my chest, a magical fist curling around me, pulling at me like gravity. Or need.

I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t.

But I did.

The floor was safe. The floor was neutral. The floor didn’t mean anything.

But that bond—bloody thing—was humming now, like it knew what he wanted, even if he didn’t. And it knew what I wanted, too. Which was worse. Because I wanted to give in. I wanted to climb into that bed and let the silence between us soften into something bearable. I wanted to believe—for one night—that this didn’t have to hurt so much.

But if I stayed… if I crossed that threshold…

I wouldn’t be able to pretend anymore.

It wouldn’t be neutral. It wouldn’t be routine.

It would mean something.

And I wasn’t sure which of us would fall apart first.

Still… I stared at him—his face half-buried in the pillow, his fingers twitching like he was reaching for something he couldn’t hold.

And the bond kept tugging. Gentle. Steady. Stay. Stay. Stay.

I exhaled. Quiet. Shaky.

Then, slowly, I stood.

When I released his hand his body went stiff and his face contorted in hurt.

“Draco…?” He said with a whine in his voice.

Bloody hell. Merlin, I am fucked.

Slowly, I get into the bed, pull the covers over both of us, and I feel the bond cool down. I felt calm and relaxed. I haven’t felt like this in years.

Harry immediately rolls over into me and I felt complete and I knew he did too.

Slowly, I slipped into the bed, careful not to disturb the fragile peace hovering in the room. The sheets were still warm from him, and the moment the covers fell over both of us, the bond eased—like tension finally exhaling from the air.

The magic between us… settled.

For the first time in years, I felt calm. Not numb. Not guarded. Just… quiet. Like my mind finally let go of the noise.

And then—

Harry shifted.

In his sleep, without hesitation, he rolled toward me. One arm flopped across my waist, his forehead brushed against my shoulder, and I felt it.

That slow, magnetic pull as his body curved instinctively into mine.

My breath caught in my throat.

It wasn’t about the weight of him, or the closeness. It was how right it felt. Like we’d been meant to

fit like this all along, and the universe was only just now correcting its mistake.

The bond hummed—deep, low, satisfied.

Like this was where I was always supposed to be.

His hand curled slightly against my ribs, and I let my own fall to rest lightly over his back. Not holding him. Not yet. But anchoring him.

And in that moment, with his heartbeat pressed to my chest, I felt… complete.

And I knew—in the way the bond pulsed gently between us—he felt it too.

I woke up too warm.

Too close.

Too... entangled.

And very much, very inconveniently, turned on.

I groaned softly, immediately squeezing my eyes shut again, willing my body to sort itself out before my brain finished realizing just how close Harry bloody Potter was. Still tucked into my side. Still breathing slow and even, his arm slung loosely across my stomach like it belonged there.

Which—apparently—it did now.

Brilliant.

I shifted slightly, hoping maybe the change in position would help, but the movement only made it worse.

Fuck.

And I knew, immediately, it was going to be a problem.

Harry was still pressed up against me, one leg draped over mine, arm slung low across my waist, fingers curled just under the hem of my shirt. His face was tucked into the curve of my neck, lips barely grazing my skin with each breath.

And fuck me—his skin was warm. His scent was worse. Like soap and sleep and something sweet I hadn’t let myself want.

I stared at the ceiling, jaw clenched, trying not to move. Because if I did, I knew I’d shift just enough for his thigh to press where I really, really didn’t need pressure right now.

The bond wasn’t helping either. It was purring. Content. Buzzing low in my chest like it knew what was happening and was very pleased with itself. I hated it.

I should’ve gotten up before him. That was the plan. Quiet, early, controlled. But I hadn’t accounted for the utter softness of him in sleep. The way he gravitated toward warmth. Toward me.
I swallowed hard. My hips twitched. Nope.

Absolutely not.

I wasn't about to stand up and parade around the flat with this situation going on in my trousers like some hormonal sixth-year. Especially not with Potter watching, smug little eyebrow raised, probably ready with some half-assed quip that would only make things worse.

He stirred again. Groaned. His thigh shifted over mine.

I closed my eyes, counted backwards from ten, and considered the logistics of permanently living in this bed.

This was fine. This was manageable.

If I just stayed here. Motionless. Breathing slow. Thinking about literally anything except the way Potter’s hand had just splayed a little lower across my stomach—

“Bloody hell,” I whispered to no one.

The bond thrummed, cheeky and aware.

And all I could do was pray he didn’t wake up yet. Or if he did, that he’d have the decency not to notice how I’d completely fallen apart just from having him this close.

Of course. Of course the universe would make it worse.

Because just when I thought I had everything under control—breathing steady, hips locked down like a vault, mind reciting fucking Arithmancy tables—

Harry groaned.

Low. Rough. Sleep-roughened in a way that slid down my spine like honey and hit every single nerve I didn’t have defenses left for.

His hand shifted.

Then moved.

Fingertips dragged slowly—absentmindedly—over the fabric of my shirt, tracing the edge of my ribs, sliding up toward my chest like he was entitled to be there. Like I wasn’t on the verge of complete magical and physical collapse.

I went still. Rigid. Holding in a breath like it might stop the Earth from spinning.

He was still mostly asleep. I knew that. It was obvious in the lazy way his hand moved, in the way he exhaled against my neck like it was just another dream and I was some pillow he’d gotten far too friendly with.

But his hand kept moving. Up. Across.

I felt it everywhere.

The bond surged, electric now, responding to every inch of contact with a delighted hum. Magic threaded hot and high through my core like it was chasing his touch, like it wanted more.

My back arched—barely—but enough. Just enough to betray me. My hips twitched in instinct before I could stop them, pressing up against his thigh, and fuck, that was a mistake.

I cursed silently. Bit the inside of my cheek. Tried to shove the heat back down.

It didn’t work.

Harry let out another sleepy sigh. Then—

“Mmm… warm,” he mumbled into my throat, like I was his blanket. His fingers flexed across my chest, resting there now, possessive and lazy.

I was going to die.

Right here. In this bed. Of accidental sensual cuddling.

If he kept touching me, I was going to lose every last bit of composure I had spent a decade building. I’d snap. Or combust. Or—Gods forbid—moan like an absolute wanker in his arms.

And then he’d never let me live it down.

I couldn’t even push him off. Not without waking him up fully and making things worse.

So I laid there.

Stiff as a broomstick. Sweating. Starving. Suffering.

All while Potter nuzzled against my neck and mumbled something about how soft I was.

“Merlin save me,” I whispered, eyes wide, staring at the ceiling like it had answers.

It didn’t.

The only thing it gave me was a perfect view of Harry fucking Potter plastered against my side, rubbing my chest like a sleep-drunk boyfriend.

He stirred again.

And this time, it wasn’t just a lazy shift in his sleep.

It was purposeful.

His lashes fluttered against my collarbone, and his brow furrowed like waking up was a battle—one he was clearly losing with obscene sensuality. His hand splayed wider across my chest, fingertips flexing once—twice—before dragging down slightly, catching on the hem of my shirt.

Then came the voice.

Low. Gravelly. Sleep-warm in a way that did unspeakable things to me.

“You stayed.” He looked at me, enrapture—like I’d just rewritten the sky.

“Why’re you so tense?” he mumbled, hand brushing over my collarbone, breath hitting my neck like a sin. “S’almost like you’re trying not to breathe.”

I was trying not to breathe.

Because if I did, he’d notice the hard line of my cock pressed up against his thigh.

Harry’s leg moved. Shifted again. Dragged across me.

I twitched. Full-body, back-arching, traitorous twitch.

He noticed.

Of course he did.

His eyes blinked open fully now, dark lashes sweeping up to reveal those green eyes—still hazy, still sleepy, but unmistakably awake. They dropped immediately to my face. Then lower.

Then lower.

I saw the exact second realization dawned.

I wanted to vanish. Evaporate. Commit a Disillusionment Charm on my entire soul.

He didn’t move his hand.

He didn’t stop touching me.

Instead—Merlin above help me—he grinned.

Not wide. Not mocking. Just that soft, lopsided, infuriatingly endearing smile that meant trouble.

“You alright, Malfoy? You’re shaking.”

He knew what he was doing to me. I know he does.

"You're evil."

"But I haven't done anything..." he grinned, "Yet..."

I made a noise that might’ve been a growl or a sob.

His grin deepened. His hand—still on my chest—slid just slightly. Just enough to make my skin burn.

"Want me to stop?"

"Yes."

"You sure?" He whispered, tracing his hand on the edge of my jaw, pulling my chin towards him ever so slightly. "You're not exactly radiating restraint."

“I will hex you” I hissed.

"Then do it. Or admit you don't actually want me to stop."

That bloody bond flickered between us. Want and need sparking like fireworks

He leaned in. Just an inch if that, letting our noses touch.

"Thank you...for staying" I blinked. I don't know what I was expecting but it was not that.

And the bond?

The bond was singing.

Pleased.

Alive.

Hungry.

I was so very, very fucked.

Chapter Text

I was already slipping before the dream even started.

The room was quiet—too quiet. Fire burned out. Cold air creeping in like regret. I think part of me knew I wasn’t safe the second my eyes closed.

But it didn’t stop the dream.

Didn’t stop the screams.

Didn’t stop them.

It was fog first. Then pain. Then Draco.

Draco, bloodied, on the ground. Wandless. Screaming.

They had him.

I couldn’t see their faces—just the voices, sharp and cruel, echoing off every stone in that
horrible, endless place.

“You chose him?”

“You let this one live?”

“You’ll watch this time.”

“NO—don’t touch him—stop—STOP—”

The words tore out of my throat. My limbs moved like they were buried in cement. I couldn’t get to him. Couldn’t stop it. He was begging, screaming, and they laughed.

“Please—he didn’t do anything—hurt me instead—don’t hurt him—”

I saw him look at me through the blood. Through the pain. And he was scared.

And it was my fault. I’d chosen him. And now they were going to make me watch.

“Draco—no—don’t make me watch—”

The bond was tearing apart inside me. Screaming. Bleeding. I couldn’t breathe.

I couldn’t—

“Don’t take him—I chose him—I CHOSE HIM—”

That’s when I heard him.

Not the torturers.

Not the voices.

Draco.

Real. Solid. Now.

“Harry. It’s not real. You’re dreaming. You’re here, you’re safe.”

I gasped awake, chest heaving like I’d just surfaced from drowning. The bond roared in my ribs. Draco’s face hovered above mine—real, pale, terrified.

I grabbed him.

Not on purpose. Not consciously. But I clung to him like he was the only thing tethering me to reality. My fists curled in his jumper. My breath hitched against his shoulder.

“I saw them,” I rasped. “They were torturing you. And I couldn’t stop it. They said it was my fault. That I let it happen.”

The words spilled like poison. I couldn’t stop them.

“I begged them to stop. I told them to take me instead. I meant it.”

He didn’t pull away. He didn’t say anything cruel. He didn’t say I was weak.

And that almost broke me more.

“I didn’t mean to choose you,” I whispered. “But I did. I do. And I’d do it again.”

His voice was quiet. Steady. Grounded.

“I know,” he said.

“I didn’t ask you to.”

The bond flared between us, hot and electric—but not painful. Just honest.

Then, like the breath had been knocked out of me, I said the one thing I didn’t mean.

“Why are you still here? Leave. I don’t want you here.”

But Merlin I did.

I just couldn’t say it. Couldn’t admit how badly I needed him to stay. How much it would
destroy me if he did leave.

The bond knew. It always knew.

And he—he didn’t move.

“I’m not leaving you,” he said. Like it was the easiest truth in the world.

And I broke. Quietly. Slowly. Into sleep again.

“Draco…” I mumbled, not even awake. “Please.”

Please stay.

Please don’t let me fall.

I don’t remember much after that. Just warmth. Just calm. Just him.

And then—

A bed.

The shift of sheets.

A body. Close. Familiar.

I felt him before I registered it. That soft hum in the bond, easing down like a warm blanket.
Draco. In bed. With me.

I rolled toward him before I could stop myself. Buried my face in his shoulder. My arm draped across his stomach like we’d done this a thousand times.

The bond sighed with relief.

And I…

I felt whole.

I woke to heat.

Not just the warmth of the blankets or the fading terror of my dream, but him.

Draco. Still here. Still pressed close. Still breathing slow and even like I hadn’t just cracked open my nightmares and handed him every bloody piece.

I didn’t move at first. Just listened to the soft rhythm of his chest against mine. My arm still slung across his stomach. My leg still hooked over his.

I remembered the moment he slid into bed. The way the bond quieted like it had been waiting for him to give in. I remembered the way he stilled when I touched him, and the way he didn’t pull away.

So I didn’t play dumb.

I didn’t pretend to be asleep.

Because if he was going to lie there all rigid and saintly, clearly struggling not to combust, the least I could do was enjoy it.

I let my fingers shift against his chest. Just slightly. Just enough to make him twitch.

Good.

He was breathing funny now. Sharp. Controlled. Which made me wonder just how on edge he really was. How close to breaking.

I let my hand slide up again, fingertips grazing the curve of his ribs under the edge of his shirt.

He tensed.

Then went perfectly still.

The bond flared between us—sharp, electric, needy. It surged so hot I nearly gasped, but I held it in, let the magic hum under my skin like a secret.

I shifted closer, nudging my thigh a little more into his.

He cursed under his breath.

And it lit something in me.

I buried my face in the crook of his neck, let my lips brush against his skin with every breath.
Warm. Purposeful.

“You stayed,” I whispered, voice low and honest.

He didn’t respond.

So I upped the pressure—just a little. My hand flattened over his chest, thumb brushing his collarbone. I felt his heartbeat stutter under my palm.

“Why’re you so tense?” I murmured. “S’almost like you’re trying not to breathe.”

Still nothing.

Except the bond. Oh, the bond was screaming. Pulling, aching, purring.

I moved my leg again. Slow. Deliberate. Dragging it along his.

And that was it.

His breath caught. His hips jerked, barely—but I felt it.

I smiled against his throat. A small, wicked thing.

“You alright, Malfoy?” I said, far too innocently. “You’re shaking.”

“You’re evil,” he muttered, voice strained and sharp.

“I haven’t even done anything yet.”

He let out a strangled sound that might’ve been a growl or a sob. I couldn’t tell. And I didn’t
care. Because for the first time in days—weeks—I didn’t feel like I was drowning.

I felt powerful. Anchored. In control. Because for once, the roles were flipped.

I could make him breathless.

“Want me to stop?” I asked quietly.

Silence. Heavy. Thick.

Then—

“Yes.”

My stomach flipped.

“You sure?” I whispered, letting my hand trace the edge of his jaw now, thumb brushing
lightly under his jaw grabbing his chin lightly, pulling his face to look at me. “You’re not exactly radiating restraint.”

“I will hex you,” he hissed, eyes finally opening, silver and wide and wrecked.

“Then do it,” I challenged, smirking now. “Or admit you don’t actually want me to stop.”

The bond between us coiled tight, magic flickering in the air like static just waiting to spark.

He didn’t answer.

But he didn’t move away either.

And Merlin, I wanted him.

Not just the body. The breathless tension. But the vulnerability. The way he stayed. The way he let me touch him and didn’t run.

So I leaned in. Just a little.

Just enough to let our noses brush.

And I whispered, “Thank you… for staying.”

Draco blinked. Whatever he'd expected me to say—it wasn’t that.

His mouth parted, words caught on the edge.

But the bond said it for him.

Want. Ache. Stay.

And I would.

I would stay.

For him.

Chapter Text

"Thank you… for staying."

His voice was soft. Too soft. Like he knew how much weight it carried and didn’t want to risk it breaking the air between us.

I didn’t answer.

Not with words, at least.

I held his gaze for a beat longer than I should have. Then I slipped out from under the sheets, the warmth of him peeling off me like second skin. The bond hummed low between us—calmer now, but not settled. Never settled.

“I’m going to shower,” I muttered.

He didn’t reply.

But he didn’t look away, either.

The ensuite wasn’t far—just across the bedroom, a space I usually treated like sanctuary. The door was always shut. Locked. Safe.

Not today.

This time, I walked up and nudged it open—wide. Not just a crack. Not just careless.
Intentional.

Enough that from the bed, he could see. Everything.

And I let him.

I peeled off my shirt slowly, the cotton catching for half a second on the bandage at my arm,
tugging the fabric over skin still pink and raw. It dropped to the floor in a silent heap, and I didn’t hide myself.

The air hit me cold—but my skin burned with it

Scars caught the early morning light—stark against pale skin. Pale crosshatchings over my ribs, the angry red lines on my forearms, the still-mending grooves where I’d pressed too hard, just last week.

The Mark wasn’t a Mark anymore. Just a mess of ridges—some sharp, some faded, all of
them ugly.

But they were mine.

And now they were his to see.

I didn’t flinch. I didn’t rush. I let my fingers linger at the waistband of my sleep pants before tugging them down, revealing even more. More damage. More honesty.

The whole ruin of me, on display.

Let him look.

Let him understand.

Let him want it anyway.

I stepped into the shower, turning the heat up so high it nearly blistered. The steam burned
hotter than I meant it to. Scalding. It slid over my skin like punishment, and I let it.

The water hit my shoulders hard, relentless. It trailed down my back, over every ridge, every scar, like it was mapping them. Naming them.

The one across my ribs from the Shrieking Shack—Petrificus gone wrong. The jagged pair on my hip from a hex I couldn’t block fast enough. The faint ones on my thighs—those were mine. The newer ones too.

I braced my hands on the tiled wall, letting my head fall forward.

The heat should’ve melted everything. But I still felt cold. Always cold.

I’d left the door open—on purpose. Not just for him. For me. Because some part of me wanted him to see. Not for sympathy. Not even for comfort.

I just didn’t want to be the only one who knew anymore.

The water ran red at first. Not because I was bleeding now—but because some wounds never closed properly. The new slices were shallow. The kind that burned when water touched them. The kind I pretended didn’t mean anything.

But they did.

They always did.

I ran a hand through my hair, slicking it back, and caught my own reflection in the fogged mirror across the room.

Barely visible—but I knew what was there.

Bones and bruises.

Pale skin with ghosts painted on it.

I hated mirrors. Always had. They told the truth in a way I never could.

I closed my eyes.

Breathed.

Tried to block out the bond—but it was there. Curling low in my chest. A hum that wasn’t
angry. Just... watching. Soft. Like it was holding its breath.

And I knew—knew—he was still lying in that bed, wide-eyed, watching that open door like it was about to swallow him whole.

Let it.

Let him feel this.

Let him feel me.

My fingers curled against the wall, knuckles white. My chest heaved, water sluicing down my
spine like fire, and I felt the scream behind my teeth like it wanted out.

But I didn’t scream.

I just breathed. Ragged. Raw.

Because this was what survival looked like now.

Not grace. Not pride.

Just me. Naked. Scarred. Breathing anyway.

And if he still wanted me after this—after seeing this—

Maybe I wouldn’t have to hide anymore.

Not from him.

Not from myself.

The water slowed to a trickle. My hands lingered against the tile longer than necessary. I
didn’t want to turn the knobs yet—not because I wasn’t finished, but because I was.

I had nothing left to scrub off.

But I still wasn’t clean.

I turned the water off with slow, deliberate precision. Each twist of the knob intentional. Like a spell. Like theatre. Like I wanted someone to be watching.

And I did.

Steam clung to my skin like a second layer, and I let it. Let it roll off my shoulders and frame me like smoke. My movements were slow—performative—as I stepped out of the shower, dripping and unapologetically bare.

I didn’t reach for a towel right away. I stood there for a moment, letting the water bead and run down every mark. Every scar. Every raised welt that told a story I hadn’t dared voice.
I wanted him to see it all. Wanted him to feel like he was intruding—but unable to look away.
When I finally moved, it was fluid. Like I knew I was being watched. Like I wanted to be. I reached for a towel and dragged it across my chest—not to dry off, but to tease the moisture from my skin just enough to stop dripping. I wrapped it low around my hips, slow enough that the fabric clung to the curve of my back, to every visible ridge and shadow.

Then I dropped it.

On purpose.

No hesitation.

And stepped into a pair of black briefs.

Tight. Minimal. Barely there.

I didn’t bother with a shirt.

Didn’t bother with shame either.

I was done hiding.

I walked out of the bathroom like I hadn’t just bled in the shower. Like my soul wasn’t stitched together with trembling fingers. Like I wasn’t shaking.

I walked into the bedroom and found him—

Harry.

Absolutely unraveled.

Sitting upright in bed, back against the headboard, knuckles white around the duvet that had slipped to his lap. His pupils were blown, hair an even worse mess than usual, and his mouth—slightly open. Dry. Like he’d forgotten how to close it.

He was staring at me like I’d just walked out of his most depraved dream.

And maybe I had.

“Morning,” I said, voice low, just the edge of rasp still clinging to it. I tilted my head. “You’re staring.”

He blinked once. Twice. His throat worked like he was trying to swallow me.

“I—” His voice cracked. He cleared it. Tried again. “You, uh—left the door open.”

I smiled. A slow, dangerous, pointed smile. “Did I?”

The bond thrummed, nearly vibrating between us now. Hot. Starving. Coiled like a wire pulled too tight.

I crossed the room, sauntering—yes, sauntering—to the dresser, deliberately turning so he got a full view of the lines down my back, the curve of my hip, the way the briefs hugged just right.

I could feel him trying not to breathe.

Could feel his pulse in the bond.

And I wasn’t going to let him look away.

Not anymore.

I opened the dresser drawer like I wasn’t hyperaware of his gaze searing into the back of my skull. Like I didn’t feel the exact moment his eyes dropped lower. Like I didn’t hear the shift in his breath, the barely-there hitch of someone on the edge of something they didn’t have the words for.

I bent slightly—unnecessarily, I’ll admit—to dig for something that didn’t exist. I wasn’t
planning on putting anything else on. I wasn’t dressing. This wasn’t dressing.

This was warfare.

And I was winning.

I straightened slowly, rolling my shoulders as I did. My skin still dewed from the shower, catching what little light filtered through the curtains. The marks on my arms and chest were in full view now—sharp lines, older scars, and those that were still pink and healing. I didn’t cover them.

I wanted him to see what it meant to survive.

I turned back toward him, the dresser forgotten, and sauntered toward the bed. Each step
deliberate. Smooth. Predatory.

He was still frozen in place—his eyes wide, jaw slightly slack, fists clenched so tight in the sheets his knuckles had gone white.

I stopped at the edge of the bed.

Tilted my head.

Raised a brow. “You alright there, Potter?”

He blinked, but nothing came out. Not a word. Not a sound. Just a panicked, desperate breath like he was trying to anchor himself and failing.

I took another step forward. Close enough now that his knee brushed the edge of mine through the duvet.

The bond snapped tight—a live wire between us. Thrumming. Buzzing. Daring me to lean closer.

So I did.

Just enough.

Just until I was hovering—barely an inch between us, heat radiating like I’d cast Incendio in the middle of the room.

“Cat got your tongue?” I murmured, voice pitched low and sinful.

His mouth opened again like he might answer, but nothing came out. Not until—

“You’re evil,” he rasped, and it sounded like a confession. Like prayer. Like a man breaking.

And I?

I smiled.

“You have no idea.”

And then I turned—walked back toward the kitchen like nothing had happened.

Like I hadn’t just left him trembling in his own bed, eyes glazed, need strung so tight it was practically screaming through the bond.

And I made damn sure to sway my hips just a little more as I left the room.

Because if Potter wanted to play dangerous games?

Well, darling—I was the danger.

Chapter Text

“Thank you…for staying.” I meant it. Every syllable burned, but I needed him to know. That it wasn’t just gratitude. It was grounding. That his being there saved me from falling further. And it was real.

He lay there for a few seconds. Then, without a word, stood up. “I’m going to take a shower.” His voice was neutral, easy. But the bond shifted beneath it—smoothed on the surface, yet restless underneath.

I missed him in the sheets the second he left them. The warmth he left behind was fading too fast, replaced by a strange ache that buzzed at my sternum. The bond wasn’t spiking—it was... humming.

There was something in the way he moved—calculated, slow, intended. He felt... charged. Like he was walking on purpose. Like he knew exactly what he was doing.

Then he reached the bathroom door.

The door eased nearly closed—just enough to suggest privacy, not enough to hide a damn thing. From where I sat in the bed, I could see clear through. Every step. Every deliberate movement. He left it open for me. This prat. And yeah, I looked. How could I not? He started with his shirt. Fingers grazing the hem, dragging the fabric up agonizingly slow. His shoulder blades flexed, pale and sharp beneath marred skin. The movement was graceful. Intentional. Like he was peeling away armor. Layer by layer.

For me to see.

And When I did.

My breath caught.

Scars. So many of them.

On his back, like whip lines and burns. Across his ribs, thin and pale like memories carved into him. A patchwork of things that never healed right. Raised. Jagged.

But it was his arms that undid me.

Specifically his left.

Where the Dark Mark used to be.

Or—where it tried to be.

Because what remained of it was not Voldemort’s. Not anymore. It had been mutilated.

Sliced through, torn up, burnt out—destroyed. Not in some grand symbolic act. No. It was violence—desperate, punishing, personal. It looked like he’d tried to carve the shame off his bones and couldn’t stop once he started.

And through the bond—I felt it.

The pain, yes. A dull, old thing. But also the hatred. For what it had been. For what he’d allowed. For himself.

He stepped under the water, and the steam filled the space, curling along his body like smoke.

I couldn’t look away.

Blood swirled with the water. Not fresh. But not old either.

From last night?

From before bed?

From the moment I’d felt that spike in the bond and hadn’t known what it was?

My stomach twisted.

I should’ve gone to him.

Fuck, I should’ve gone to him.

But he hadn’t let me. And I didn’t push. Because I was a coward too.

I saw him raise his hands—rake fingers through his hair, neck arched, back curved just slightly. A dancer’s pose. A lover’s silhouette. It was art and grief all in one frame.

And I ached.

Not just for what I saw.

But for what he didn’t know I felt.

For what he never meant to give me—this intimacy. This vulnerability.

He probably thought he was showing off. Being a tease. A cocky, unbothered, barely-clothed wanker.

And maybe he was.

But beneath that—buried inside it—was a boy I hadn’t known existed. A boy with too many scars and not enough hands to hold them.

And now I’d seen every single one.

He stepped out of the shower, dripping, towel slung lazily over his shoulder, still-wet hair clinging to his forehead, and nothing on but those same black briefs that should be illegal.

And bloody hell, he was beautiful.

Not in spite of the scars. But because of them. Because they were his, and he was still here. Still breathing. Still choosing to stand in front of me like he wasn’t utterly wrecking my soul by existing.

He didn’t look at me.

Just walked across the room like he hadn’t cracked my chest open with the sight of him.

And the bond?

The bond snapped.

Tight. Heated. Buzzing so loud in my ears it might’ve been screaming.

My hand pressed to my chest like I could contain it somehow.

But the only thing it whispered was:

Now you know.

And the worst part?

I didn’t think he ever wanted me to.

He walked toward me, water still sliding down the dip of his spine, and gave me that fucking smirk.

“You alright there, Potter?”

I couldn’t speak. Wouldn’t, even if I was hexed to.

“Cat got your tongue?” he asked, cocking his head slightly.

I choked on a laugh—if you could call it that.

My voice was wrecked. “You’re evil.”

He grinned. All teeth and sharp delight. Like he’d won something.

Then—like a final blow—he turned and walked off.

Just walked into the kitchen like he wasn’t still half-naked and dripping and a walking sexual crisis with a tragic backstory.

He just… walked away.

Further and further.

Like he didn’t just shatter something in me.

Like I wasn’t going to follow.

And oh, I was.

Because I had so much to say about it.

But I needed to breathe first.

Or I might actually combust.

Chapter Text

This is going to be fun.

I have him right where I want him—hanging on to my every movement.

There’s rustling behind me, then some pitter-patter across the dark tile floor from our carpeted bedroom.

Bingo.

Turning around, I learned that he was running after me because he slammed into the bare skin on my chest. He came up just a few inches shorter than me—which I find adorable—as he looked up at me with tension etched on his face.

“Something to say, Potter?”

“No,” he said in a flat tone, trying to convince me of something I could already feel through the soul bond.

It was a strong pull—not just a light hum anymore—this time laced with Potter’s arousal from what I’d just put him through.

“You sure? You look like you do, actually.”

“Oh, I’m sure I don’t. Not verbally, at least.”

I started backing into the kitchen, letting him feel power and dominance over me as he walked forward until my ass hit the counter.

He smirks, thinking he’s going to win this.

This’ll be fun.

The bond is radiating through me and around us, bringing us closer—if that’s even possible in our current position. It's soaring through my whole body. And I mean my whole body.

Harry starts grinding into me slowly. We moan in sync, my dick twitching at the contact.

“Now it's you who looks like he has a lot to say,” he says, running his finger over my bare chest. “That was evil, what you did back there.”

I lean in closer, whispering next to his ear, “Oh baby, that was only the beginning of what you deem ‘evil.’”

Taken by surprise, he yelps as I grab him by the hips, lift him, and place him on the counter.

I don’t waste a second. Not anymore.

Except—I pause. Pulling back just an inch from taking what’s mine and mine alone.

Harry leans in, our bodies pressed tightly together, the bond sending fireworks through and around us.

“Draco…” he whines, protest, need, desperation, and want all present in his eyes as he looks up at me through those long lashes. Merlin, that’s hot.

I grab his jaw—firm but gentle enough to keep him from looking away—keeping my eyes on his.

“Are you sure?”

He nods.

“I need the words. Baby, use your words.”

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, sir.”

That’s all it takes.

I move in quickly, taking his lips with mine. He moans into me—and I lose all control.

My hand finds his neck, applying light pressure, feeling his pulse under my fingers.

Tilting his head to the left, I trail kisses up and down his neck. I can feel his cock twitching through his boxers, and I know he feels mine through my briefs.

“Off. Take it off. Now.” I whisper breathlessly, the bond pooling low in my stomach.

Potter yanks off his shirt. I pause to take him in.

He’s so fragile and vulnerable, squirming where I have him trapped between me and the counter, with nowhere to go.

“Drop,” I say huskily, and he obeys without hesitation.

“Good boy,” I say, pulling his hair to make him look up at me with those big, green, shining doe eyes—all focused on me. Solely me.

You’d never guess the conflict we had earlier today, considering our current position.

“Remember this morning? I let you have that power over me. Don’t forget that.”

Harry nods.

“I need words, love.”

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Perfect. Now be a good boy and suck.”

Harry wraps his hand around my dick, looking up through those green eyes. He starts licking from where his hand stops all the way to the tip, tasting the pre-cum leaking out in anticipation.

“Harry…” I moan. This is a whole new level.

For years I imagined this, but I never thought I’d be here—especially not under these circumstances.

He moans, sending vibrations through me as he takes me in whole.

It doesn’t take long before I’m on edge. Grabbing his hair, I quicken the pace. He gags on my dick—and Merlin, it’s heavenly.

He grabs my hips, sliding his hands up and down my thighs, sending me over the edge.

With my cock still in his mouth, I feel my cum shoot back into his throat, mixing with his saliva.

“Fuck, Harry,” I groan, pulling out and bending down to kiss him—tasting the mixture of my release and his spit.

I wrap my hand under his jaw to lift him up.

“You’re so bloody perfect.”

A darker blush forms over his already flushed face.

“Do you think you deserve something in return?” I whisper in his ear, my hand still on his neck.

“Yes, sir,” he moans.

I nip his earlobe, moving down to the base of his jaw. His dick keeps twitching against my thigh.

“No, I don’t think you do.”

He whimpers in protest. Good. I want to hear him beg.

“But—”

“No. No buts. You know what I need from you. That is… if you were listening.”

“Please?”

I don’t respond, still kissing his neck. My hands roam lower, teasing his nipples, earning soft moans.

“Please, sir.”

That’s all it takes.

I reach down, jerking him off slowly, earning instant gratification.

I drop to my knees, taking him in, running my hands up to his ass, earning a deep, breathy “Draco…”

Merlin, that was hot.

I can tell he’s close. After a few minutes of sucking and massaging his ass, I move a finger closer to his hole.

The moment I touch it, he erupts—cum spilling into my mouth as he rides out his high.

Chapter Text

The halls are too bloody loud. Ginny is walking in front of me, her steps seemingly ten times louder. The sounds reverberated from everyone yelling to each other across the hall.

My ears are ringing. Nothing like a spell misfire—worse. It's this low, suffocating hum, like the castle itself is pressing in on me. The walls feel closer than they were a second ago.

Someone laughs too close to my right ear. I flinch, my bag slipping off my shoulder, dragging down my arm, reminding me of the Snatchers restraining me in the Malfoy Manor.

Malfoy Manor.

The rope strangling my chest, face pressed to the damp stone while Hermione screams out in pain.

And him.

Draco.

Standing off to the side.

Watching. Just watching.

My breathing stutters as the hallway twists around me and it’s too loud again.

I’m trying to focus, trying to breathe, but the memory clamps down tight, like a hand over my mouth, like the ropes clenched over my chest.

I squeeze my eyes shut. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about him.

But I do.

His mouth.

His hands.

His voice — low, confident, whispering filth that made me melt hours ago.

And now I want to scream.

Not because I regret it.

Because I don’t. That’s the worst part.

I gave that part of myself to someone who once watched me bleed on his family’s floor and did nothing.

How fucked is that?

“Harry.”

My eyes snap open.

There he is. Draco. Just a few feet away. Concern written all over his face like we’re something real. Like he has the right.

The soul bond pulses faintly between us. I want to rip it out.

“I’m fine,” I mutter, adjusting my bag, brushing past him before he can touch me again—not my wrist, not my thoughts, nothing.

His expression shifts—hurt, confused.

Good.

Let him be confused. Let him wonder why I don’t melt for him right now, why my eyes won’t meet his.

I’m remembering, that’s why.

I’m remembering the look in his eyes when Bellatrix carved into Hermione’s skin.

I’m remembering the way he didn’t stop them from tying me down.

And I don’t care how sweet his breath was against my neck this morning, or how gently he kissed me when I begged for more.

Right now, I hate him a little.

And I think he knows.

I don’t respond and start walking to Advanced Potions.

His presence lingers behind me, As though the bond splits me like it did back then—back in that manor, where he stood still while I bled, and now his pain seeps into me like it belongs here, like it always has.

We take our usual seats, because of course we do.

I pretend not to notice when he hesitates before sitting beside me, or the way the soul bond gives a subtle tug against us.

I focus on the cauldron. The bubbling. The steam curling upward in the neat spirals. Anything but him.

But the professor keeps calling on me. I think my name. Probably a question.

I’m drifting. The scent of crushed belladonna hits my nose and suddenly I’m on the floor of the Malfoy Manor again.

Rope. Blood. Screams.

Cold stone.

His face.

I blink. My vision has gone soft at the edges, my stomach tight with something worse than nausea.

My hands are trembling. I slide them under the desk. I can’t breathe right now. My body is increasingly heavy.

Then — contact.

Fingers brushing mine.

His fingers.

A light, deliberate touch.

The soul bond jolts like static through my palm.

Too real. Too intimate.

I snap my head to the side before I can stop myself, eyes locking with his for just one second.

It’s enough.

The haze clears, just a little.

My breathing starts to even. My grip on the desk loosens.

I hate that it helps.

I hate that he helps.

I hate how steady he looks, like he knows exactly what just happened inside my head — and worse, like he feels it too.

I turn back to my cauldron. My hands are still shaking, but I keep them to myself this time.

I push my stool back and stand.

Someone says my name—probably the professore but I don’t care and keep walking out of the class.

Now the corridor is too quiet now, footsteps echo. My chest is still tight, heart thundering in my chest with seemingly no end.

“Harry.”

I hear his voice behind me, sharp with tension.

Footsteps. Fast.

Of course he followed.

I won't stop walking.

“Harry, just—”

No.

I’m not some delicate fucking thing. I don’t need people tiptoeing around me like I’ll crack open. I’m not fragile. And he doesn’t get to act like I am now.

The corridor twists toward the next wing, and I take the sharp turn too fast. My shoulder knocks the stone wall. I don't slow down.

Behind me, his footsteps falter.

He could catch up, but he doesn’t. Maybe he gets it.

Maybe he doesn’t.

Doesn’t matter.

We’re still paired for Unity Bonding—the Ministry’s bright idea for post-war house reconciliation. Every week: forced magical proximity, eye contact, empathy drills. A soul bond wasn't enough, apparently.

I reach the classroom early. The door is open. Inside, cushions are arranged in neat circles on the floor, charm-lit candles flickering jaggedly across the decorum warmly.

I choose the farthest possible cushion. Sit with my back straight, jaw tight, hands clenched in my lap. Just waiting for him to come in after I pushed him away, even though I shouldn’t have.

The room smells like mint, rain, and parchment.

It’s the potion for today’s lecture—some Ministry-approved blend meant to represent clarity, emotional openness, shared memory. Unity, bottled and burning at a slow simmer.

But it’s him.

That’s the problem.

It smells like him.

Like the breeze that used to blow through the Slytherin common room windows during spring exams. Like the crisp pages he always carried under one arm, annotated to hell. Like how he smells when he’s close enough for the bond to hum between us like a live wire.

Too familiar. Too sharp. Too much.

The bond shifts in my chest. Subtle, but steady.

He’s here.

I don’t look at him when he enters. I don’t need to.

The bond does the looking for me.with every footstep, every breath, every inch of space between us and how fast it’s closing.

I clench my hands in my lap as Malfoy sits down next to me only glancing at me for half a second and looking at the professor about to start going through today's lecture.

The potion hangs in the air, filling my lungs and I know he can feel it too.

Then his hand lands lightly on my thigh.

Just above my knee. Just long enough to make it clear that it’s not a mistake.

I flinch.

The bond flares—sharp and sudden—then coils in on itself. I feel it like a lurch in my stomach. His reaction hits me through it. First confusion. Then heat pooling in my lower stomach.

Anger.

His hand is gone now.

Like it never touched me.

But the heat it left behind sinks straight into the bond, curling there like blame.

He’s angry.

I can feel it, low and sharp and sudden. A cold flush through the bond that tightens in my chest.

And for a second, I let myself believe it’s all for me.

That he’s furious I pulled away. That he regrets touching me at all.

But the bond doesn’t lie the way people do.

It’s not rage — not really. It’s confusion. Hurt, masked as control. Rejection, laced in restraint.

He doesn’t understand why I won’t look at him.

Why the only part of me he’s allowed to hold now is memory.

The professor’s voice floats across the room:

“Now hold your partner’s gaze. Don’t look away.”

I breathe in the potion again. Mint. Rain. Parchment.

Every part of me wants to turn my head and leave.

But I don’t.

Slowly, I lift my eyes.

His are already on me.

Sharp. Pale. Burning in a way that has nothing to do with want.

By the time I make it to Advanced Transfiguration, the potion’s scent is still in my throat.

Mint. Rain. Parchment.

I try not to think of him.

I fail.

I sit near the window—not our usual seat. The light’s too bright, but it keeps me distracted. Or tries to.

The bond is quiet now.

Not gone. Just… dimmed. Pulled tight like a thread that’s been knotted too many times.

It’s not demanding. Just there. Steady. Waiting.

I keep my eyes on the front. On McGonagall. On anything that isn’t the space behind me where I know he’s sitting.

I don’t have to see him to know he hasn’t stopped watching me.

He always watches when he’s confused. Or hurt. Or when he’s thinking too much and not saying enough.

Professor McGonagall starts in on elemental restructuring—transmuting energy into solid form.

I try to care. I even transfigure my matchstick. Once.

But my hands ache.

So I stop.

There’s a pressure just under my ribs.

Low. Dull. Familiar.

Guilt, maybe.

Or the bond.

Or both.

I keep thinking about this morning—how easy it was to fall into him. How natural it felt, like we’d done it before. Like we were meant to do it again.

And then I remember how I walked out of Potions like the walls were on fire and refused to look at him during bonding class, like he hadn’t just held me together the night before.

He touched my thigh.

Not possessively. Not even like he was owed something.

Just… gently.

And I pulled away from him like he’d burned me.

The worst part is, he didn’t even flinch.

I haven’t turned around. Not once.

But I feel him there.

And I’m not resisting it as hard anymore.

That’s the part that scares me.

By the time I make it to Advanced Transfiguration, the potion’s scent is still burning through my lungs, making it hard not to think of him.

McGonagall partners us. Of course she does.

Draco doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t argue.

Just walks straight to the seat beside mine and sits down like we haven’t been avoiding each other all day.

Like I didn’t flinch when he touched me.

Like I didn’t shut down the bond so hard I felt it recoil.

He doesn't even look at me.

He sits perfectly straight, wand on the desk, eyes fixed forward. Composed. Controlled. Cold.

The bond nudges at the edge of my thoughts, tentative, like it’s asking if things are okay.

They’re not.

I can’t stand the silence.

So I fill it with something worse.

“Don’t look at me like you care. You’re only here because the bond makes you.”

He doesn’t blink.

Doesn’t move.

So, naturally, I push harder.

“You're not built for this, Draco. You don't know how to care. You never did. If you think last night meant something—”

I stop myself. Not because I regret it. Because it’s already done.

He doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t even acknowledge me.

Just flicks his wand in one elegant, mechanical motion — perfectly transfiguring the element on the table into solid silver, clean as air.

Not showy. Not smug.

Efficient.

Then he leans back in his chair, arms crossed lightly. Casual. Or the best imitation of it he can manage.

No expression. No crack.

He might as well be made of stone.

But something in the bond goes… flat. Like it’s been pressed down, buried under something weighty and final.

He doesn’t wait for the class to end. He’s gone the second we’re dismissed, walking out without a glance.

And the worst part is — he looked exactly the way he used to before the war.

Unbothered. Untouchable.

Like I never mattered at all.

Draco’s not at lunch.

Fuck.

I poke at the edge of it, just to see if it’ll respond.

It doesn’t.

I stab a fork into my food and try not to look like I’m waiting for someone who was never going to sit at this table.

Hermione watches me. She’s too smart not to notice. Ron’s quiet beside her, unusually still, which means he noticed too.

I break first.

“I was cruel,” I say, mostly to my plate.

Hermione doesn’t ask what I said. She knows me well enough to understand the how is probably worse than the what.

“What were you trying to do?” she asks softly.

I shrug. “Push him away, I think.”

“Why?”

I pause. The answer isn’t clean. Not even in my own head.

“Because he’s too close,” I finally say. “And I don’t know what to do with that.”

Ron clears his throat. “You mean close like… emotionally… or something more?”

I don’t answer.

He whistles low under his breath. “Right.”

Hermione shifts in her seat, dropping her voice. “Harry, did he hurt you?”

I snap my head up, frowning. “No. It’s not like that. He was—”

I stop. Swallow.

“He was kind. Actually.”

Ron’s face twists in confusion. “So… you hurt him?”

I rake a hand through my hair. “Yeah. I did.”

There’s a beat of silence between us. The noise of the Great Hall keeps on as if nothing’s wrong.

Students laugh. Forks scrape. Life goes on.

“I said he wasn’t capable of caring,” I mutter.

Hermione blinks. “You don’t believe that.”

“No,” I say. “But part of me wanted it to be true. Because if it wasn’t… then I’d have to admit I wanted him to care. And maybe I even needed him to.”

Ron shifts awkwardly. Hermione reaches across the table, fingers brushing mine.

“Harry,” she says gently. “That’s not a reason to destroy someone.”

I nod. I know. I know.

The bond stays quiet.

And for the first time since it formed, I wonder if I’ve actually managed to break it.

But something deep in me twists — heavy and sharp — like the silence means more than just distance.

Like something is incredibly wrong.

Like, I should be moving.

Looking.

Finding him.

But I don’t.

I sit in the noise of the Great Hall, pretending I don’t feel it.

Pretending I’m not waiting for him to feel it too.

Chapter Text

I’m still glowing. Literally, I think. The bond’s been humming all morning like it’s drunk on the sweet magic of previous events.

His hands. His voice. The way he says yes, sir like he meant it.

It’s pathetic how light I feel. Not even Potter’s usual storm-cloud brooding can touch me today.

Not after that.

For the first time in… Merlin, maybe ever… I don’t feel haunted.

I feel wanted. Maybe even trusted.

I’m walking to Potions when it starts.

Faint at first — a tight coil in my chest, like the bond’s shifting too fast. The pressure builds. Hot. Unsteady.

Panic.

Not mine.

Harry.

Fuck.

I move faster.

The corridor hums louder with every step, and I know that he’s just around the bend. I can feel the bond pulling toward him like a current I couldn’t fight if I wanted to.

He’s unraveling.

I turn the corner.

There he is.

Fuck.

Eyes squeezed shut, jaw tight, backpack sliding down his arm like he’s underwater. I can feel him trying to breathe.

He’s shaking.

He’s stuck

And I’ve never wanted so badly to be touched like a lifeline.

“Harry.”

His eyes snap open. Wide and wild and—Merlin, no—already retreating.

I take a step forward, hand halfway lifted, heart in my throat.

He looks at me like I’ve betrayed him. Like I’ve burned him. Like every inch of warmth I gave him this morning was just more rope he never asked for.

The bond pulses between us — confused. Uncertain.

“I’m fine,” he mutters, not making eye contact, brushing past me like I’m nothing.

Not his partner.

Not his anchor.

Like he didn't choose me when no one was looking.

And I stand there, useless, watching him walk away, wondering how the bloody hell I ever thought we were building something real.

His presence pulls ahead of me—just a few paces—but I feel him like a bruise, still warm under my skin.

The bond tightens between us. Not painfully. Just… insistently. Like it remembers the way we used to fit together. Like it’s trying to remind me we still do.

I trail behind him into Potions, every step soaked in silence that wasn’t there this morning.

We take our usual seats. Of course we do.

He won’t look at me. Not since earlier.

And maybe that’s fair. Maybe it’s not.

I glance at him, but his eyes are fixed on the cauldron like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

He’s pale. Too still. Shoulders hunched like he’s bracing for a blow that hasn’t landed yet.

The bond tugs gently between us. It doesn’t hurt—it aches. Like he knows he’s pulling away. Like begging me to pull back, but I don’t.

I sit closer than I probably should in this moment.

I watch his hands tremble, his breathing laboured.

He’s not fine. I can feel it.

He is called on again and doesn’t answer.

All I can do is watch him unravel.

Belladonna.

I see it on his face before I can feel it in the bond.

I should’ve done something. I should’ve moved.

I can’t breathe.

And neither can he.

His hands disappear beneath the desk, shoulders curling in on themselves.

So I do the only thing I know how to do.

Fingers to fingers—just a brush. Light. Careful.

A silent, deliberate touch. Not a claiming touch. Not pushing. Just letting him know I’m here for him now.

The bond jolts between us—hot and electric. Alive.

His head turns sharply.

Our eyes meet. Only for a second.

But it hits us and sticks.

He steadies. Barely, but enough.

His grip loosens and he ever so slightly relaxes.

Then he looked back toward the cauldron and I knew I lost him again.

I sit there, hand still burning, like I’ve just been shut out of something sacred.

He stands and just leaves.

No words uttered and no second glances.

Just walked out like I didn’t feel him crack and pull away from me.

I wait a few seconds before taking off to follow him.

The corridor is dim and echoing as our footsteps mingle across the halls

“Harry.”

My voice is tight, too sharp around the edges but he doesn’t stop.

I jog a little, closing the gap between us. “Harry, just—”

He cuts me off without even speaking.

Like my voice means less than the echo behind it.

He rounds the corner too fast and hits the wall but keeps going.

I could push harder. I could catch up.

But I don’t

Because I reached for him. And he flinched

Because I touched him gently, and he ran.

Because I tried

And now I don’t know if I’m allowed to try again.

We’re still paired for Unity Bonding.

I almost don’t go.

I make it all the way to the corridor, then double back twice.

My hand hovers on the doorframe longer than I’d like to admit.

By the time I finally step inside, everyone’s already seated. The candles are flickering low.

Then I smell it.

The air curls warm around me — familiar, too much, too fast.

Treacle tart, cinnamon, vanilla.

My breath catches.

Amortentia.

Bloody brilliant.

The Ministry’s idea of an empathy exercise — make everyone choke on the scent of what they want most, then sit them beside the person they’ve been avoiding all week. All day.

All morning.

It smells like him.

Treacle tart, the stupid dessert he’d stuff into his mouth like he was starving. Cinnamon, sharp and warm like the fire that always clung to his skin after a match. Vanilla — subtle, steady — the scent that’s always buried in his clothes, in his sheets, in the breathless moments when he’s asleep and doesn’t know I’m still awake beside him.

I can barely see through the potion-thick air and the bond tugging at my chest like a thread being pulled too tight.

He doesn’t look back.

Of course he doesn’t. I shouldn’t expect it anymore.

I walk the slow steps across the circle and lower myself onto the seat next to him.

He’s sitting stiff-backed, hands clenched in his lap. Like he’s bracing. For me. Or for the memory of me. I don’t know anymore.

All I can feel is the bond humming faintly under my skin — not warm, not welcome. Just there. Like it always is when he’s trying not to think about me.

The potion’s scent clings to the edge of my senses. It settles behind my teeth. It tastes like longing.

I glance once at him, just to be sure he’s real.

He flinches before I even move.

Still, I reach out.

My hand settles gently on his thigh. Just above the knee.

Soft. Measured. Intentional.

He jerks like I’ve burned him.

The bond flares—hot, startled—and then recoils so fast I feel sick.

His silence is louder than anything he could’ve said.

I pull my hand back. Slowly. Carefully.

Like if I pretend it didn’t happen, it won’t break me.

It doesn’t matter.

He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t speak.

Just keeps breathing like I’m not there

Like I wasn’t the one who held him steady when the world blurred and he couldn’t breathe.

The professor’s voice cuts through the tension. “Now hold your partner’s gaze. Don’t look away.”

For a moment, I want to rub.

Then he turns.

Our eyes meet.

And I break again.

Because he looks through me like I’m just another obligation. Like I’m only here because magic makes it so.

I don’t show it.

I stare back. Controlled. Cold.

Exactly what he expects from me.

But under all of it — the restraint, the performance, the space he’s forced between us — I feel the potion still blooming in my lungs.

Treacle tart.

Cinnamon.

Vanilla.

And I pray to Merlin that didn't smell like him.

By the time I sit down beside him, I’m shaking with the effort of not launching my chair across the bloody room.

McGonagall pairs us—because, of course, she does. Because some twisted part of this castle knows how to twist the knife.

I don’t argue.

Don’t flinch.

I just sit, like the bond hasn’t been a slow suffocation all fucking day.

He doesn’t look at me.

He sits stiff, jaw locked, arms folded like I’m the enemy again.

Like this morning didn’t happen.

The bond strains between us, trying to breathe in a space Harry keeps strangling shut.

I want to scream.

I want to slam my fist into the table.

I want to grab him by the front of his robe and make him see me.

But I don’t.

I sit straight. I place my wand on the desk.

I pretend I’m not coming undone.

Then he speaks.

“Don’t look at me like you care. You’re only here because the bond makes you.”

I freeze.

My jaw clenches so tight my teeth grind.

The room goes deathly quiet, except for the pounding in my ears.

He’s not done.

“You’re not built for this, Draco. You don’t know how to care. You never did. If you think last night meant something—”

He cuts off.

But it’s already too late.

He might as well have carved it into my fucking skin.

I don’t move.

Not because I’m calm — but because I am one second away from losing control, and if I so much as breathe wrong, I will burn this classroom down.

So I flick my wand.

Transfigure the material in front of me into perfect silver.

Precise. Quiet. Clean.

Because I know how to do that.

I know how to make things look easy when I’m dying inside.

Then I lean back. Arms crossed. Face blank.

He wants me untouchable?

Fine.

He wants cold?

I’ll give him fucking ice.

But the bond…

The bond goes flat.

Dead weight in my chest, like it’s finally giving up too.

And when McGonagall dismisses us, I don’t wait.

I’m out of the classroom before the last echo of her voice fades, the door slamming behind me harder than I meant.

I don’t look back.

Because if I do, I will crack.

And if I crack, I will never stop bleeding.

And the worst part is — I almost let myself believe he was different.

This morning, in that silence between his breathing and mine, I thought maybe we were something.

But now?

He looks at me like I’m nothing.

And maybe I always was.

The door shuts behind me and I lock it with shaking hands.

The dorm is too quiet.

Too still.

The air feels thick, like magic has turned sour in my lungs. I pace once. Twice. Then stop in the middle of the room and just—listen.

Nothing.

The bond is silent.

Not distant. Not faint.

Just gone.

And I know he’s still alive. I know that.

But I can’t feel him.

It’s like waking up and realizing your lungs have stopped working. Like someone cut the tether from my chest to his and let it drift away like it didn’t mean anything.

My knees hit the edge of the bed.

I sit. Elbows on thighs. Hands in my hair.

Breathing hard. Too hard.

What did I do?

No — I know what I did.

I let him close.

I let myself hope.

And now the bond is slipping away like it doesn’t want me anymore.

I feel it unspooling under my ribs, thread by thread, and I can’t hold on. I can’t hold on.

My fingers claw into the mattress.

“Stop it,” I whisper to nothing. “Stop it, stop—”

But it doesn’t.

It keeps unraveling.

And suddenly I can’t breathe.

There’s too much air in my lungs and none of it matters because he’s gone.

Not physically. But something inside me knows: this is the beginning of losing him.

And I can’t—

I can’t do that again.

I can’t survive being seen, being wanted, being kissed like I mattered — only to have it all ripped out of me without warning.

I stand too quickly and stumble back against the dresser.

There’s a sharp crack as something falls to the floor — I don’t even know what.

My wand? A picture frame?

Who cares?

The panic crawls into my throat and clogs every spell I try to whisper.

I press a hand to my chest. Hard.

Trying to feel it.

The bond.

His presence.

Anything.

But there’s just me.

And the walls.

And this horrible, empty space where he used to be.

I can’t do this again. I can’t.

Not after the Manor.

Not after the war.

Not after finally believing I could want someone without it destroying me.

I can’t take it anymore.

I find out it was my wand and snatch it from the floor, quickly running to the bathroom and locking it.

I was doing so good. And then Potter had to go and ruin it. And he knows too.

I want the hurt somewhere I can see.

I want it loud, not just echoing around in my head like this.

My breath is ragged now.

Chest heaving.

Vision gone blurry.

The bond is still quiet.

And that’s what does it.

That silence. That cold.

Because if Harry really wanted to reach for me, he could.

And he isn’t.

So maybe this is all I was ever meant for. Pain and silence. Wanting and being unwanted.

I roll up my sleeves and stare at my mutilated scars only Harry has seen.

Harry.

I bring my wand up and make slashes ever so slowly watching the blood slowly leak out and drip onto the floor.

I go over old and new ones. Some in short dashes, others in deep gashes if I don’t feel it well enough.

So tired.

I hit a couple too deep and spell a charm to keep the bleeding to a minimum but it’s still everywhere. I need to remember to clean that before bloody Harry Potter gets up here from classes.

I accio bandages I keep hidden for situations like these and carefully wrap it around my arms.

I quickly decided I’m done for the day and lay in our bed quickly falling into a deep slumber

Our bed.

Chapter Text

I don’t remember lunch, other than the conversation with Hermione and Ron.

I can’t stop thinking about it.

Just the way the bench felt cold beneath my hands and how quiet the bond stayed the entire time.

Like he’d turned away from me completely.

Like I deserved it.

The rest of the day drags.

Classes blur together — people talk at me, professors call my name, parchment gets passed around — but I don’t take in a word of it. I scribble answers that don’t matter, nod like I’m listening, wait for something in the bond to twitch, flare, move.

Nothing.

He’s not ignoring me. He’s just… not there.

And it shouldn’t bother me the way it does.

By the time the final bell rings, I’m itching to move. To hit something. To fly.

Quidditch.

Shared practice with Slytherin. My favorite thing, obviously.

Except… I don’t dread it the same way I used to.

Not since he started showing up.

And now I catch myself watching the sky before I even change.

Just to see if he’s already there.

Just to feel that flicker of something across the bond that means he’s close.

Nothing.

I’m one of the first to arrive at the pitch.

The sun’s already dipped low behind the stands. There’s a chill in the air that clings to my skin even through my jersey, but I welcome it.

The rest of the team files in around me. I hear Malfoy’s name once — a casual mention from one of the Slytherin Beaters. “Guess he’s skipping.”

I laugh it off. Shrug.

But something tightens in my chest.

We take off. Practice begins. I fly.

Hard.

I’m faster than usual. Sloppier too.

The wind stings my eyes and my hands ache from gripping the broom too tightly. I dive harder than necessary. Push into turns like I’m trying to leave something behind on every lap.

Still no Draco.

Not in the sky. Not on the ground.

Not even a flicker in the bond.

And it’s that silence, more than anything, that sets my teeth on edge.

Because I don’t know if he’s shutting me out…

Or if he’s hurting and hiding it.

Or if I’ve finally broken something between us that won’t mend with time or apologies.

I take another lap.

Harder.

Faster.

The pitch blurs at the edges.

The chatter of teammates fades into wind.

The ache in my chest flares sharp — regret, guilt, confusion, all tangled into something that burns.

And then—

CRACK.

Something snaps.

Pain bursts white-hot behind my left temple.

The world pitches sideways.

Someone’s shouting — but it’s already too far away.

I see the sky tilt. Then the stands. Then—

Black.

THIRD PERSON POV:

The wind went still as Harry’s body hit the ground.

It didn’t bounce.

Didn’t even flinch.

Just collapsed — broom splintering beneath him in a mess of blood, fabric, and silence so sharp it cut through every player on the pitch.

Someone gasped.

A whistle shrieked late — confused — more habit than direction.

Then the chaos began.

Boots thundered against turf as teammates dropped from the sky, brooms clattering to the grass around them. Ron was the first to reach him, heart slamming so hard he could feel it in his throat.

“Harry—”

His voice cracked.

Harry didn’t answer.

Didn’t move.

His eyes were closed, lashes stuck together with sweat and something darker. Blood had begun to fan across his temple, glinting against the fading evening light. It pooled beneath his hairline and stained the collar of his jersey, crimson soaking into the threads with quiet insistence.

“He’s not waking up,” Ron said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Madam Pomfrey arrived seconds later — robe flaring behind her like a warning flag. Her wand was already in motion, eyes darting across Harry’s body with practiced precision, but even she paled when she saw the angle of his head.

“Unconscious. Deep head wound. The temple’s split — fracture likely. Skull’s unstable. I need compressive stasis on the cranial bleed — now.”

The charm buzzed in the air.

A glow wrapped gently around his skull, pulsing with golden warmth, but it did little to disguise the rising tension in her face.

“He’s lucky he’s still breathing,” she muttered, almost to herself. “One inch lower and—”

She didn’t finish the sentence.

Ron stood, shaking. His hands were still red from catching Harry’s head before it slammed fully into the pitch. Hermione appeared at his side, mouth open, eyes wide and unblinking.

A stretcher floated down beside them, summoned without a word.

“Carefully,” Pomfrey instructed, guiding the lift. “Don’t tilt his head. We need to keep the pressure steady.”

Around them, the crowd thickened at the edges of the stands — hushed and unmoving. No one laughed. No one whispered. Even the Slytherin team looked shaken. One of the Beaters had gone pale beneath his helmet.

“Did you see what happened?” Hermione asked, voice sharp.

“No one’s sure,” someone mumbled. “There was a Bludger—maybe Nott got too close—”

“It wasn’t an accident.” Ron’s jaw was clenched. “That wasn’t a fucking accident.”

But no one said anything more.

And Harry—

Harry stayed silent.

Limbs slack. Face pale.

Blood slips down from the gash at his temple, catching in his lashes before trailing to his jaw. His broom spins out nearby, still circling like it hasn’t realized he’s no longer on it.

The stretcher is summoned, but it hesitates.

Wavers in the air like something is resisting.

Pomfrey’s wand circles faster, sharper.

“Move,” she mutters, forcing the spell into place.

The magic jolts — then flattens out again.

A tremor passes through the pitch. Not a sound.

Not a wind. Something else.

A pulse. A snap. Then silence.

Pomfrey’s brow knits. “Something’s interfering…”

But she doesn’t finish the thought. She never gets the chance.

Because the air folds in on itself.

Not like wind. Not like spellwork.

Like something ancient snapping taut—then cutting loose.

The bond pulses through the space around them, once, like a live wire in a storm — sharp, vibrating with too much.

And then—

Nothing.

No hum. No tug. No residual heat.

Pomfrey’s magic wavers mid-spell. The stretcher jolts again. Her lips part like she wants to ask a question, like she’s just felt something she doesn’t understand.

But she says nothing.

Ron flinches. Hermione turns sharply toward Harry’s still body like she felt it too.

Even the wind holds its breath.

For a moment, it’s like the field forgets to move.

Draco, wherever he is, might feel it.

The absence. The sudden, blinding hollow that floods in where the bond used to press warm against the inside of his ribs.

Or maybe he doesn’t feel anything at all.

Maybe that’s the worst part.

Then, slowly, the stretcher rights itself. Pomfrey stabilizes the spell, her voice low, even, controlled again.

No one speaks.

The soul bond — the one that had burned through every inch of him just hours ago — now barely flickered at all.

A tether.

Faint.

Fading.

And somewhere across the castle, deep in the dungeons, a boy sat bolt upright in bed, breath stolen from his lungs.

He didn’t know why yet.

Didn’t know how.

But something inside him screamed:

Harry.

Chapter Text

I jolt awake like I’ve been cursed.

Chest tight. Breathing all wrong. My fingers are twisted in the bed sheets, trying to escape the drowning feeling.

And it’s too quiet.

Not the room. But inside.

The bond.

It’s…It’s not there.

There’s no gentle hum under my ribs, running through my body. No warmth in the back of my mind. Not even the low ache of distance I’d started to get used to.

There’s just nothing.

I sit up too fast, the air catching in my throat.

I just have to reach him. Reach for him

No flicker.

No Harry.

“Fuck”

I press a hand over my heart like I’ll feel it there. Some signs. Some proof I didn’t just loose everything while I was sleeping.

I could’ve been there for him.

But it’s buried now. Distant. Silent. Like someone dropped a wall between us thick enough to swallow magic whole.

I drag a hand through my hair. My fingers are shaking.

It’s not supposed to vanish like this. Not unless—

No.

No, I don’t even let myself finish the thought.

I’m already moving, shoving the covers off, standing too fast.

I wasn’t supposed to fall asleep. I only meant to lie down. Just for a minute. Just until I stopped feeling like the bond
was a knife against every bone in my chest.

And now it’s just gone.

I reach for it again, desperate, reckless.

Still nothing.

Not a flicker. Not a pulse.

It feels wrong. Like magic pulled away from me on instinct, like something snapped, but no. No. I’d know if it broke.

Wouldn’t I?

I grab my wand. My shoes. I don’t know where I’m going yet, but I have to move. Sitting here is worse. It feels like I’m waiting for confirmation I’ll never come back from.

I don’t know what I’ll do.

But I’m halfway to the door when I hear it—footsteps, too fast, uneven on the stone.

Then her voice.

“Malfoy—”

I stopped so suddenly that I nearly lost my footing.

Hermione rounds the corner, breathless, wild-eyed, her hair a mess from wind or panic or both. She looks like she ran the length of the bloody castle to find me.

My stomach drops.

She doesn’t need to speak. Not really.

I already know.

But she says it anyway.

“It’s Harry. He—he was hit during practice. Bludger. Head-on. It was targeted—intentional. He’s unconscious. They think—Merlin, it’s bad.”

My ears ring.

“What—where—”

“Hospital Wing,” she chokes out. “Madam Pomfrey sent word for me to find you. She thought—she thought the bond might’ve—” She doesn’t finish.

She doesn’t need to.

The silence in my chest. The nothingness where he should be.

It makes sense now.

Too much sense.

I don’t wait for another word.

I bolt.

Down the corridor, heart pounding so hard it’s all I hear. My wand clutched so tightly it digs into my palm. I don’t know what I’ll find when I get there—

I just know I have to get there.

Because if he’s—

No.

I run faster.

Because I’ll be damned if the bond goes quiet and I don’t fight to bring him back

The stone corridors blur around me.

My shoes slap hard against the floor, echoing off the walls like the sound’s chasing me. Torches flicker past in streaks of gold and shadow. Every stair take feels like I’m climbing through fog, my legs too slow and my thoughts fast.

The castle shifts under my feet. Too wide, too long and I swear it’s never taken this much time to cross from our dorms to the Hospital Wing.

Why does it feel like everything’s tilting?

I grip the banister too tight while turning a corner, nearly causing me to slide on the step, almost twisting my ankle but I can’t stop.

Can’t stop.

My lungs burn, but it’s nothing compared to the silence in my chest. The bond used to flicker like static under my ribs, even when he was just a room away.

Now? Nothing.

I’ve never felt this empty.

I take another corridor. Pass a pair of third-years who flatten themselves against the wall when they see me coming, probably startled by the look on my face. I can’t blame them. I barely know what’s written there. Rage? Fear?

Something worse.

He was fine. Hours ago, he was fine.

And now he might—

No. Don’t think it.

The portraits turn their heads as I pass. Some mutter under their breath. One of them says, “Slow down!” and I almost hex the canvas on instinct.

The stone grows colder underfoot the closer I get to the infirmary wing. A wind blows through the long corridor near the high windows, rattling the old glass. I don’t know if the chill’s from that or from whatever’s carved its way inside my chest.

I round another corner—too fast—and nearly crash into the far wall.

A memory hits.

Him, doing the same. Rounding a bend and hitting the stone when he didn’t want to stop. Didn’t want to hear me.

I push harder.

Because I can’t let this be the end of that.

Because I need to see him breathing.

Because I need to feel something in the bond again—anything.

I finally reached the last hallway.

The one that leads to the Hospital Wing.

But I stopped short.

The doors are still closed.

There’s light glowing from beneath them. Shadowed shapes moving behind the frosted glass. Voices I can’t make out.

I slam through the Hospital Wing doors hard enough that they crash against the walls. The bang echoes across the sterile room like a spell misfired, like a warning shot. Like a scream.

Ron jolts up from a chair at the far end.

He’s the only one here.

I don’t see her. I don’t see Pomfrey.

I only see the bed.

The one near the windows, half-pulled curtain. A figure too still. Too pale.

My feet move before I think. I’m crossing the room in seconds.

Ron takes a step forward. “Malfoy—”

“Don’t.”

It rips out of me, low and sharp and cracking at the edges.

I don’t have the room for his voice. Not when the bond’s still silent. Not when Harry’s body lies there with bandages wrapping his head and bruises blooming like ink across his jaw.

Limbs slack. Face pale.

Like he’s not in there anymore.

Like he might not come back.

And something inside me breaks — vicious and sharp — like glass shattering in my lungs. I want to scream. I want to crawl into his chest and shake the breath back into him. I want to take his place. Merlin, I would. Without thinking.

Without blinking. Because how do I live in a world where he's just—absent? Where the silence isn’t just a punishment, but a promise?

How do I hold this stillness and not come undone?

It’s not supposed to end like this. Not like this. Not with me watching him fade while the bond unravels between us like a severed thread.

I was supposed to protect him.

And I didn’t.

I failed.

Like a candle gutted of flame.

And in that stillness, something inside me screams.

Not loud — not in sound — but in sensation.

Like my magic doesn’t know where to go without him. Like my bones are confused about how to hold me up. Like my heart’s still beating but no longer convinced it should.

Because that’s him. That’s him in the bed.

And I can’t feel him.

And I don’t know what that means.

I don’t know if he’s slipping away or if I’ve already lost him.

I don’t know how to exist if this — this tether between us — has finally snapped.

Because if the bond is gone, then maybe the rest of him is too.

And I don’t want to breathe if he isn’t.

“Harry…” I whisper. I don’t know if it’s for him or for me.

The door crashes open again behind me, and I hear her voice before I see her.

“Draco—”

Hermione.

Her shoes scuff against the floor as she rushes in, chest heaving, a stack of medical parchment clutched tight to her side.

But she stops when she sees me.

Sees me standing like a ghost beside the bed, fists clenched, jaw tight, shoulders drawn like a bowstring about to snap.

No one says anything for a beat.

No one dares.

Because in this moment, it’s not about house lines or war scars or whatever-the-fuck I’m supposed to be.

It’s about the boy in the bed.

The boy I felt hours ago, humming in my veins, laughing without sound, melting under my touch.

The boy who’s silent now.

And I don’t know what to do with that silence.

I don’t know how to breathe through it.

I’d beg, if I thought it would help. I’d fall to my knees. I’d rip the magic from my chest and give it to him if it meant he'd open his eyes.

So I just stand there.

Waiting.

For a flicker. A pulse. A miracle.

Something. Anything.

The door swings open again — slower this time, but no less jarring.

Madam Pomfrey steps in, wand already drawn, robes rustling like urgency.

She doesn’t speak right away. Doesn’t even seem to see me or Hermione. Her entire focus narrows to the bed. To him.

She crosses the room in a brisk stride and begins casting. Diagnostic charms flare one after the other, blooming soft blue, sharp red, dull grey.

Then — a pause.

Her lips purse.

A low hum of concern vibrates in her throat, and my stomach caves in on itself.

Hermione steps forward. “Madam Pomfrey—?”

The matron lifts her eyes. Serious. Tired.

“His condition is severe.”

My knees nearly buckle.

She continues, voice firm. Steady, but not cruel.

“He’s suffered a direct blow to the temple — the force of it fractured the orbital bone. He’s concussed, yes, but more concerning is the swelling we’re seeing along the left temporal lobe. The trauma disrupted several neural pathways. He hasn’t woken yet, and his magical core is…” She hesitates, “unstable.”

“Unstable,” I repeat, voice cracking. The word lands like stone in my chest.

Hermione’s voice cracks. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” Pomfrey says quietly, “that his body is trying to repair faster than it can. He’s burning through magical reserves too quickly. If it continues…
it could cause core collapse. Permanent damage. Or worse.”

I stop breathing.

“He’s hanging on,” she adds, softer now. “But only just.”

The room tilts sideways. My hand shoots to the wall to keep myself upright.

“I’ve done what I can for the moment — numbing spells, internal stabilizers, protective wards around the skull. But we’re in a waiting game now.”

A pause. A beat too long.

“He needs rest. And strength. And—if it’s there—something to hold onto.”

My eyes drop back to Harry’s still form.

His face is too pale. His lips, bloodless. The bond — quiet.

I want to scream.

Pomfrey looks between us, something unreadable flickering in her eyes.

Then she turns and begins recording his vitals onto parchment, murmuring incantations to stabilize the ward.

I barely hear her.

Because all I can think is:

He needs something to hold onto.

And I don’t know if I’ve already let go.

The room quiets again once Pomfrey disappears behind the curtain.

Just me, Potter, and the sound of something steadily ticking in my chest that used to be a bond.

I sink into the chair beside his bed.

He’s still pale. Still breathing. Barely.

I rest my elbows on my knees and drag my hands down my face, nails pressing hard enough into my skin to remind me I’m still in it. Still awake. Still failing him.

I don’t realize she’s still here until Hermione speaks, voice soft from the edge of the bed.

“You know, he’s obsessed with you.”

My head lifts too fast. “What?”

She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t soften it.

She just says it again, quieter this time. “He is. Has been. For a while now.”

I blink, swallowing against the tight ache climbing my throat.

Hermione pulls up a stool from the side wall and sits. Folds her hands in her lap. “He’s always done this when he’s scared,” she says. “Pushes people away to see if they’ll come back. It’s not fair. But he does it anyway.”

“I don’t—” My voice cracks. I try again. “He’s not scared of me.”

“He’s not scared of you, Draco,” she says gently. “He’s scared because of you.”

My chest pulls so tight I think it might cave in.

She keeps going. “He’s never wanted anyone like he wants you. He doesn’t know what to do with that.”

I glance back at him.

So still.

So silent.

“I touched him and he flinched,” I whisper. “He looked at me like I was nothing. Like I’d never mattered.”

Hermione’s voice breaks a little too, like it hurts her to say it. “That’s because he didn’t think he deserved it. You. This.”

I shake my head, but she just reaches out and places her hand lightly on my arm.

“Draco,” she says. “He’s in love with you. He’s just a complete idiot about it.”

That pulls a sharp, half-laugh out of me, bitter and raw.

“I don’t know what to do.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” she replies. “Just… be here. He’ll find his way back to you. He always does.”

I turn my hand over under hers, just to feel something human again.

And I look at him, lying there so quiet and unreachable.

And I hope she’s right.

I hope to hell she’s right.

I wait until she leaves.

Hermione, with her quiet comfort and knowing looks — she gives me one last glance before the curtain slips back into place, soft as a sigh.

Then it’s just us again.

Just me and him.

And the awful quiet.

And that’s when I fall apart.

It doesn’t look like much — not at first.

My jaw clenches. My throat works around nothing. My hands hover over his blanket but won’t land. Can’t. Because if I touch him and there’s still no flicker, I might scream.

I breathe in once. Twice.

It shudders out of me like something cracked.

“Fucking hell, Harry,” I whisper, and my voice sounds nothing like mine.

I stand.

I pace once. Twice. My hand drags through my hair and then fists into it, yanking hard at the roots because I need something to hurt.

I can’t sit still. I can’t do anything.

I want to throw something. Smash the potion vials lined neatly along the shelf. Rip the curtain down and scream until they throw me out.

I want to crawl into that bed and press my chest to his and beg whatever’s left of the bond to come back.

But I don’t do any of that.

I just slide back into the chair.

And I cry.

Quietly.

Like my body doesn’t know how to do it out loud.

Tears slide down my cheeks and drop to my collar. I don’t wipe them. I don’t even blink them away.

Because this is it.

This boy — the one who argued with me like it was a language, who touched me like I was something good, who looked at me like I was the only real thing left after the war — he’s everything.

Everything.

And now he’s lying here, unmoving. Unresponsive. Unbound.

And I don’t know if he’s coming back.

“I didn’t get to tell you,” I whisper, voice hoarse.

“I was going to. After practice, maybe. Or tomorrow, if I could stand waiting that long.”

I press my forehead to the edge of the mattress, fingers curled in the blanket so tight it leaves crescents in my skin.

“I was going to tell you I love you.”

The words fall between us like ash.

No reaction. No flicker.

Just a silence so complete it feels like punishment.

“I think you knew,” I murmur. “I think that’s why you ran.”

Another breath. Another still nothing.

“But I meant it, Potter. I fucking meant it.”

It’s barely more than air, barely more than grief in the shape of sound.

But something shifts.

Just enough.

A twitch.

There — deep beneath the stillness of the bond, like a thread drawn tight in sleep — a flicker.

So faint I almost miss it.

Not a pulse.

Not warmth.

But a brush — featherlight — like something turning over in the dark.

My breath catches mid-sob.

I lift my head.

He doesn’t move. His eyes stay closed. His hands slack.

But the bond—it's there. Faint. Fractured.

But there.

“Harry?” I whisper, half hope, half prayer.

Nothing changes. No miraculous awakening. No gasp. No dramatic lurch forward into consciousness.

But the thread tugs again — softer now, like a heartbeat muffled under too many layers of grief.

It’s the smallest thing.

And still, I break all over again.

Because I know that feeling like I know my own magic.

Because I know him.

And somewhere in there — wherever he’s gone, however far he’s drifted — he heard me.

He heard I love you.

And something in him stirred.

I press my palm gently to his hand, not to wake him — just to anchor him.

“Come back to me,” I whisper, voice thick, shaking.

And for the first time since I walked into this room, I believe he might.

Chapter Text

It doesn’t feel like dying.

It feels like waiting.

Everything is white and strange — not light, not dark. Like the inside of a thought I haven’t had yet. The world is soft around the edges, a room with no corners, air with no weight. I try to breathe, and it feels like dreaming through water.

I don’t know how long I’ve been here. Maybe minutes. Maybe days.

There’s no pain. No fear

Just the knowing.

That something is missing.

That someone is.

A voice breaks in the far distance. Soft and rough around the edges, like parchment burned at the corners.

“Harry…”

Draco.

The white space.

I turn — or think I do — and something shift in the space around me. I’m standing in a version of the Room of Requirement, maybe. Or the Gryffindor common room, blurred by too many memories.

But no one is here.

Except me.

I reach for something but I don't know for what. And instead of the bond, I find a memory.

Not one I chose.

But one that chose me.

I’m eleven again, sitting stiffly on a stool in Madam Malkin’s, robes half pinned and itching at the collar. I’m so small compared to now. Haven’t even bought my first wand yet.

And he walks in.

Sharp chin, pale hair, drawling words like he owns the world.

I hate him.

Even then, before the houses, the war, before everything, I noticed the way his eyes caught the light like ice. The way he looked at me, unknowing and curious, and something in my chest shifted.

I didn’t know what it meant back then.

I just remember thinking his name fit him perfectly.

Draco.

Even the way it sounded in my head felt like trouble.

The white space

Second year. Dueling club.

He sneers across from me, wand already half-raised before Lockhart can even finish exploring. We’re meant to perform, but he lunges like he means it, sharp and fierce and glittering.

I block too fast.

We’re both panting by the end, faces too red, too close. I catch the edge of something in his expression. Challenge, pride…something else I never dared to name.

I feel it now.

Third year. Buckbeak. The slap. His voice taunting me in the corridor.

He made it so easy to hate him.

But that day, I watched him limp away from the forest, clutching his arm with an exaggerated care, and all I could think was. Why do I care at all?

The memory melts like steam into another.

Fourth year. The Yule Ball. He’s on the far side of the room, laughing into someone else’s shoulder, robes perfect, hair slicked back too tight. I’m supposed to be watching Cho. I’m not.

That night, I lie in bed and imagine what it would be like to make him laugh like that. To be the one he’s pretending not to look for.

The bond tugs — soft now.

Like it knows.

Fifth year. A hex in the corridor. I knock him off his feet in front of his friends. His lip is bleeding.

He calls me a freak. A coward. Something worse.

But when I turn the corner, I feel sick. Not proud.

Because I saw it in his face — the flash of hurt under the fury.

The way his hand lingered at his side like he didn’t know how to reach out.

I never told anyone how badly I wanted to go back.

To ask if he was okay.

Sixth year. The bathroom.

The Sectumsempra.

God.

There’s blood. Too much. My spell. My wand.

He’s crumpled in the corner like I killed something sacred.

And I did.

Even Snape’s screams couldn’t drown out the way I whispered his name.

The guilt never left.

Not after that.

And now here, in this strange half-place, I feel that memory open like a wound.

But this time I don’t run.

This time I walk toward it.

Because it was always him.

It was him on the train and in the corridors and at the top of the tower and in every stupid argument and near-death experience that made me feel like I was alive.

It was always him.

And when I hear his voice again — this time so real it shakes the ground beneath me — I don’t stop.

“I love you.”

The bond snaps to life.

A flare of gold so sudden I stagger with it. It sears up through my ribs and latches to my chest like a brand that finally knows where it belongs.

The white around me tears open, a seam in the fog.

I don’t hesitate.

I run.

Because he’s waiting.

Because he feels me again.

Because the bond has always known what I couldn’t say until now.

That I’ve loved him through everything.

Even when I couldn’t admit it.

Even when I didn’t want to.

And now—

Now I’m coming back.

For him.

For us.

For every “I love you” I never said.

The light fades again.

The golden seam rips itself shut behind me.

I try to follow — to force it open — but it’s gone.

And I’m back in the white.

Quiet. Weightless.

Alone.

But something’s changed.

The bond isn’t gone anymore.

It pulses, soft and rhythmic, like a heartbeat through fog. Weak — like it's straining — but there.

It’s enough to keep me anchored.

I curl around it, hands pressed to nothing, like if I hold it tight enough I won’t lose him again.

Because I remember now.

I remember what it means — what he means.

Not just the mornings we couldn’t get out of bed or the way he touched me like I was something worth keeping.

It’s the fight in him. The fire. The way he argues like it’s a love language. The way he listens when no one else does.

It’s the way he never looked at me like I was broken. Even when I was.

Even when I still am.

And now — now he’s on the other side of this. Breaking. Calling for me.

I feel it.

I hear it in every ragged breath he takes beside my bed, in the way he whispers my name like it’s a curse and a prayer all at once.

Harry.

Sometimes I think I feel his hand in mine.

I think he’s crying.

God, Draco, please don’t cry.

Please don’t think I meant to leave you.

I’m just… stuck.

Caught somewhere between what was and what I’m afraid to come back to.

Because what if I wake up and it’s all gone?

What if he doesn’t forgive me?

What if he looks at me the way I looked at him today?

No.

No, I can’t stay here.

I won’t.

I reach for the bond again.

This time, it feels warmer. Closer. Like his magic is threading through mine, knitting something frayed but still whole.

I cling to that. To him.

To us.

Time doesn’t exist here. Not really. Just sensation.

So I stay in it.

In memories of his laughter — the real kind, the one he tries to hide when he thinks no one's watching.

In the way he says my name when he's angry, and the way he whispers it when he's not.

In the look he gave me that morning — the one that felt like promise.

That’s what I hold on to.

Not the pain. Not the blood.

Him.

Because if I let go now, I don’t think I’ll find my way back again.

The white shifts again.

Soft as breath. Heavy as sleep.

It doesn’t hurt here — not really — but there’s this ache, deep in my ribs, like something I forgot to carry with me. Like someone I left behind.

Draco.

His name echoes in this place, even when I don’t speak it aloud.

It follows me.

I walk. Or maybe I float. Or maybe this place isn’t meant for feet or bodies, only memory.

And the bond hums again — stronger now.

It pulses beneath my skin like a lifeline, each beat calling me closer to something I can’t quite touch.

Then—

A corridor. I know it. Twisting stone, sconces flickering.

Third floor. Late at night. Sixth year.

I’m hiding behind a tapestry.

He’s pacing outside the Room of Requirement, muttering something about Potter under his breath. His hair’s damp with rain. There’s ink on his sleeve.

He doesn’t see me.

But I remember this. The night I almost reached for him. The night I didn’t.

I press my hand to the wall and try to stay there — to make the memory last — but it ripples and shifts.

And suddenly—

Madam Malkin’s.

Eleven years old.

The tape measure snakes around my arms while he speaks beside me — that voice, already sharp, already proud.

He doesn’t know who I am yet. I don’t know who he is, either.

But I remember feeling it.

That tug. That strange magnetism.

He offered me his hand, then pulled it back.

Just like I did. For years.

The scene falls away again.

I try to call it back — the Room, the shop, the train, anywhere — but I land in nothing.

A fog. Dense. Soundless.

Until—

“Don’t go. I know you’re in there, Harry.”

“I can’t do this if you’re not…”

“Only you would haunt me like this.”

Draco’s voice. But this time it’s not a memory.

It’s now.

His voice is closer than it’s ever been, full of cracks he doesn’t show anymore. It’s like he’s speaking through the bond itself, threading his magic into mise like a whisper I can finally hear.

I try to respond. My mouth won’t work.

“You stubborn, heroic, idiot. If you wanted my attention, you had it the second you said my name like it meant something.”

The ache in my chest blooms. Bigger. Hotter. Sharper.

He’s right beside me.

He’s holding my hand. I feel it now.

His thumb brushes over my knuckles.

“Come back.”

The bond flares. A golden light, blazing through the fog.

I can’t follow it all the way yet. But he’s there.

I move toward it.

Step by step.

Because I know he’s waiting for me.

Not just him.

Home.

Chapter Text

It’s been two days.

Forty-eight hours of pacing floors, of not sleeping, of sitting so still beside him I thought I might turn to stone.

Two days of listening to the quiet thrum of the hospital ward, the gentle rustle of linen, the click of Madam Pomfrey’s heels — and the godforsaken silence of the soul bond, dimmed so low it’s like trying to hear a heartbeat underwater.

He hasn’t stirred. Not once.

But his hand is warm.

So I haven’t left.

Not for meals. Not for sleep. Not even when Granger tried to coax me with tea and reassurances.

Because if I leave and he wakes up, and I’m not here—

I can’t risk it.

I won’t.

And somewhere in the stillness, I break.

I don’t know when the tears start…

Maybe it was the silence. Maybe it was the way he looked — like he wasn’t there anymore. Like someone had emptied him out and left nothing but skin and scars behind.

But suddenly I’m shaking.

My knees hit the side of the bed and I fold forward, head bowing low over his hand as I grip it like it’s the only thing tethering me to earth.

“Harry,” I whisper, voice raw. “You don’t get to do this.”

My throat burns. I can’t swallow around it. I squeeze his fingers and they don’t squeeze back.

“I swear to Merlin, if you die on me—” My voice cracks and I don’t finish. I can’t.

So I lean closer.

And I kiss him.

Just once.

Soft. Shaking. The kind of kiss that never expected to be returned, only remembered.

I pull back, brush the hair off his forehead, fingers trembling so hard I can barely feel them.

“You absolute bastard,” I whisper. “You can't leave me.”

His hand is still warm. That has to mean something.

The bond twitches — not a flare yet, not a fire — but a thread. A flicker.

My breath hitches.

“Harry?”

“Don’t go. I know you’re in there, Harry.”

“I can’t do this if you’re not…”

“Only you would haunt me like this.”

Then—

He twitches. Just the smallest movement. His fingers shift in mine.

The bond pulses — stronger now. Like it’s found something to hold on to.

“Oh gods—” I let out a half-sob, half-laugh. “You stubborn, heroic, idiot. If you wanted my attention, you had it the second you said my name like it meant something.”

I press my forehead to his hand, holding it against my cheek like I’ll die without the contact.

And then the words pour out before I can stop them.

“I was eleven. You walked into Madam Malkin’s in that horrible oversized shirt, and you didn’t even look at me like I was someone to fear. Not like everyone else did.

You were stubborn and rude and terrible, and I knew — even then — you were going to ruin me.”

I smile through the tears, barely blinking as I stroke his knuckles with my thumb.

“You called me out. You said no to me. Nobody ever said no to me. Not like that. And I hated it. And I—Merlin, Harry—I loved it.”

I laugh softly, breath catching. “And then I spent the next six years pretending you didn’t crawl under my skin and build a nest there. I called you names. I challenged you. I watched you, every single bloody day like a fool, and I thought… maybe, one day…”

I swallow. The words get harder now, softer.

“But then the war came, and I ruined everything. I stood on the wrong side and I let you bleed, and it never stopped echoing. Not even when you touched me again. Not even when you forgave me with your hands and didn’t say a word.”

The bond glows beneath my skin now — dim, but present. It’s there. Steady.

“I didn’t deserve the way you looked at me. I don’t now. But gods, I need it.”

I shift closer. Curl my fingers gently into his.

“Please, Potter. I’m not asking for redemption. Just wake up. Let me try. I love you. I’ve loved you since you sat next to me at that first Ministry debriefing and insulted my handwriting like nothing had ever happened between us.”

A sharp pulse flares down the bond — bright and sudden.

He twitches again.

And for the first time in two days, I let myself believe he’s coming back.

Back to me.

I don’t let go of his hand.

Not even when my fingers cramp. Not even when my vision goes blurry from blinking too hard, too fast, trying to keep the tears from falling again.

Because if I let go, the bond might fade again.

And I can’t survive that twice.

“You know,” I say softly, my voice wrecked, “you were always the thing I could never touch. The golden boy. The bloody chosen one. I hated you for it. Thought if I hated hard enough, I could stop caring.”

I glance at his face. His lashes don’t flutter. His mouth doesn’t move. But the bond — it pulses.

A throb, like a heartbeat.

“You were always brilliant, Potter. Even when you were being an insufferable, reckless nightmare. You walked through fire like it was nothing, like the rest of us should’ve been able to do it too.”

My laugh is thin. Brittle.

“And I did everything I could to pretend I wasn’t watching. That I didn’t know your laugh. Or the way you always looked to your left first when you were lying. Or how your fingers twitched before you cast something powerful.”

I reach up and gently trace the curve of his brow, brushing his fringe back.

“You were it. You’ve always been it. And I was too much of a coward to admit it.”

My throat clenches. I try to breathe, but it doesn’t work right.

“Until it was too late.”

I lean in, whisper now a ghost between us.

“Except… maybe it’s not.”

I press my forehead to his temple, the bond buzzing faintly beneath our skin.

“Please come back. Not because I need it. Not because I’m broken without you. But because we’re not finished.”

I pull back, just enough to see his face again. Still unmoving. Still soft with sleep or coma or… no. Not that. Never that.

“I want to fight with you over laundry. I want to charm your shoes to sing. I want to read in the same chair while you steal all the bloody blankets. I want years, Harry. Not memories.”

The words crack at the edges now.

“I want the version of you that snorts when he laughs too hard. The one who gets far too competitive over chess and calls me princess when I win. I want the you that kissed me in the astronomy tower and forgot to breathe.”

The bond flares again. Sharper this time.

Like it heard me.

Like he heard me.

I take a shaky breath. “You’re still here. I know it. You always find your way back.”

Another beat. Another breath. Another slow, burning silence.

I press another kiss to his temple. Linger there. Like the bond can be poured into him through skin-to-skin. Through faith. Through love.

“Come home,” I whisper into his hair.

And wait.

Just a little longer.

I barely notice the door open.

It’s Hermione. Of course it is.

She’s the only one who doesn’t knock. She just enters, like she has every right to be here — and maybe she does. She’s the closest thing he’s ever had to family.

She doesn’t speak at first. Just stands in the doorway with a wrapped meal tray in her hands and an exhausted softness in her eyes.

“Draco,” she says gently. “You need to eat.”

I shake my head. Not looking. I’m not looking away from him.

She steps further into the room, places the tray on the table near the bed. “You haven’t slept in over a day. Poppy says you’ll make yourself sick.”

I shrug. My voice is hoarse when I finally answer. “Doesn’t matter.”

She sighs. “He wouldn’t want you to—”

“I don’t care what he’d want,” I snap, more harshly than I mean to. My hand tightens around Harry’s, guilt flooding my chest the moment the words are out.

She flinches but doesn’t leave. Just sits slowly in the armchair across the room, quiet, steady. The kind of presence that waits rather than pushes.

“I know you’re scared,” she says after a long beat.

“You don’t know anything,” I whisper, brushing a thumb over Harry’s knuckles.

Ron comes in next, awkward and uncertain in the way only Ron Weasley can be. He lingers near the doorway, rocking on his heels. “You look like shite, mate.”

I don’t bother responding.

He nudges the tray with a toe. “At least drink something.”

I ignore him.

Hermione murmurs something to Ron — something soft and quiet — and he sighs before slipping back out.

Only then does she stand again, careful not to come too close. “We’ll be in the corridor. Just for a bit.”

I nod. She’s kind enough not to make me say thank you.

When the door closes, the silence returns. Not empty — full.

The kind of silence that wraps around the bones. Heavy with magic. With waiting.

I bring Harry’s hand to my lips again. Close my eyes. Let myself breathe the same space as him.

“I’ll stay here,” I whisper. “Even if you don’t wake up today. Or tomorrow. Even if it takes a bloody year.”

The bond pulses weakly.

“And when you do… I’ll be right here.”

Always.

Time stops meaning anything.

The window tells me it’s morning. Then afternoon. Then dark again.

But I don’t move. I just sit. Hands locked with his. Eyes fixed on his lashes, his lips, the rise and fall of his chest — each breath a prayer I pretend not to make.

The others stop trying, mostly.

They still check in — a rotation of quiet knocks and softer voices. Granger brings tea. Poppy mutters diagnostics under her breath. Weasley leaves a sweater once, folded on the chair. It still smells like smoke and wood polish.

But I don’t leave.

I conjure my own blanket. Transfigure the stiff chair into something softer, curl into it with my knees to my chest, head against the side of Harry’s bed like I’m fourteen again and hiding from the world in the Slytherin dorms.

I count his freckles.

I memorize the rhythm of his pulse when Poppy reactivates the monitor charm.

Sometimes I talk to him.

Not confessions, not anymore — those are already out. I gave him everything. From the robes at Madam Malkin’s to the hallway fights to the fucking Room of Requirement where I wanted to kiss him more than I wanted to breathe.

Now I just ramble.

I tell him what classes he missed. Who lost points for their house. How it rained once, and I thought of him immediately because he always said

Quidditch in the rain was the best kind — and I hated that I agreed.

I try not to cry again.

But it comes in waves. Quiet, ragged, stubborn.

Grief isn’t tidy. It’s not poetic. It’s ugly and raw and lives under your skin like splinters.

The worst part is the bond.

It’s there. I swear it is.

But so faint I sometimes think I’ve imagined it. It pulses now and then — a flicker, a twitch — like it’s struggling to stay anchored in a storm.

And gods, I want to believe he’s fighting.

That he hears me.

That somewhere in whatever haze he’s trapped in, he knows I haven’t left.

That I won’t.

I reach for his hand again and just hold it there. Gently. Thumb brushing over the soft inside of his wrist like that can bring him back faster.

“I miss you,” I whisper.

“I know you’re in there.”

The candle on the bedside table flickers low.

I don’t sleep.

Not yet.

Because if he wakes — when he wakes — I want to be the first thing he sees.

It’s sometime after midnight.

The room is hushed, lit only by the low burn of a single candle floating near the far window. The Hospital Wing is still. Even the castle feels like it’s holding its breath.

I must’ve dozed off in the chair again, my head tucked awkwardly against the mattress, Harry’s hand still folded in both of mine like I’m afraid he’ll vanish if I let go.

Then—

A twitch.

So slight I think I imagined it. His fingers shift again, firmer this time — curling around mine.
I jolt upright. “Harry?”

My voice is barely a whisper, hoarse from days of not speaking above a hush. My heart slams in my chest.

He stirs.

Not like before — not involuntary muscle memory — but stirs. A low sound slips from his throat, broken and rasping.

“Harry,” I say again, louder now, hands gripping his tighter. “Come on. Please. Wake up—”

His eyelids flutter.

My breath stops entirely.

He blinks once. Twice. Struggles. His lips move before sound follows. I lean close, closer, desperate.

And then—he breathes it.

“Draco…”

It’s not a gasp. Not a question.

A name, like an anchor. Like it’s the only word he remembers.

I don’t realize I’m crying again until one fat tear lands on his cheek.

“I’m here,” I whisper, fierce and cracking. “I’m right here.”

His eyes barely open, green glass glazed with exhaustion, but he sees me.

He sees me.

Then his lips part again. Rough. Barely audible.

“I love you too.”

The breath punches out of my lungs.

“Harry—”

But his lashes lower. He’s already falling back asleep, this time soft, steady — not slipping into some unreachable abyss.

Just… sleeping.

The bond flares warm in my chest, not a spark anymore, but a small fire—quiet, but real.

He’s here.

He’s back.

And I don’t let go of his hand for the rest of the night.

Chapter Text

Waking is strange.

Like being pulled gently through honey-thick silence. Like light filtering through water.

There’s weight in my limbs. Aches I can’t place. But none of it matters because—

He’s here.

Before I open my eyes, before I remember where I am, I feel him.

Draco.

The bond hums like a lullaby under my skin — tired, yes, but there. Holding. Reaching.

And him. He’s so close I can feel the brush of his magic against mine, cautious and careful, like he’s afraid touching me too hard might break something.

It’s warm.

Not fire-warm. Not fever-warm. But the kind that lingers behind a closed door when someone waits up for you. Familiar. Patient.

My fingers twitch. He’s holding my hand. Or maybe I’m holding his. I don’t know which started it.

I just know I don’t want it to stop.

There’s a sigh, sharp and small — like he hasn’t breathed in hours.

God, he’s really here.

I blink. Everything is bright and unfocused, but the shape of him… the feel of him…

I know him. In every sense.

Not just the boy who kissed me like I was something fragile and fought with me like I wasn’t.

But the way he feels through the bond — stitched into me with too many nights of shared silence, of tension that held and broke, and held again.

My mouth is dry. My throat aches like I swallowed gravel. Still—

“…Draco…”

It scrapes out low and ruined, but he hears it. I feel the way he freezes — like that single sound might undo him.

And I want to say everything. Everything I should’ve said before he ever had to doubt.

But I only get out one more thing.

“Love you too.”

It’s quiet. Frayed at the edges. Not a grand gesture, just a truth that’s been waiting years to be spoken aloud.

And it lands like a promise.

His magic surges just a little, like a star flaring in my chest.

I want to stay. To look at him. To smile.

But sleep tugs again, heavier this time. I fall into it willingly, because now it doesn’t feel like an escape.

It feels like a return.

And his hand is still in mine.

That’s all I need to keep breathing.

Time slips sideways.

Could be minutes. Could be hours. Could be the length of a single breath stretched across forever.

When I surface again, it’s slower.

Softer.

My fingers curl slightly — the barest shift against skin that’s always waiting. Still there.

Still him.

There’s a hum, low and broken, and I think it might be me. It barely escapes my throat, but it’s enough.

He moves.

I feel it before I hear it — the sudden hitch in his breath. The subtle shift in the bond, from guarded to aching. A thumb brushes the back of my hand in
steady strokes, grounding me like he always does.

Then darkness tugs again.

I don’t fight it. Not yet.

The next time I wake, it’s to murmuring.

Faint. Frantic. Like someone trying not to cry and failing quietly.

“…you stubborn arse—if you ever do that again, I swear—”

I can’t open my eyes.

But I can breathe better. The heaviness in my chest has ebbed, just enough to let the world in through the edges.

He’s still holding my hand.

Still tethering me with whispered rage and affection and everything in between.

My mouth doesn’t move. My body barely stirs.

But I feel it.

That low thrum between us.

The bond, stronger now. Threaded with silver light instead of smoke.

And I think — no, know — he feels it too.

His magic presses close, brushing against mine like a kiss to the temple.

Like relief. Like hope.

Sleep claims me again.

But this time, it doesn’t drag me under.

It lets me rest.

And when I wake next — whenever that is — I’ll have more to give.

More words.

More strength.

More of me.

Because he never stopped being here.

And I think, maybe, I’m almost back.

There’s a shift in the dark.

Not loud. Not bright.

Just… warmer.

The kind of warmth that wraps around the bones, low and steady, like the echo of someone’s hand resting against your cheek even after they’ve let go.

I don’t open my eyes yet. They feel heavy, stitched with sleep. But I don’t need sight to feel him.

He’s there.

I feel it in the way the air moves beside me — soft, controlled, too still to be sleep.

And the bond hums. Low and constant. A steady pull, like a heartbeat I’d forgotten was mine.

My fingers twitch again, more deliberate this time.

Not enough to speak.

But enough to say I’m here.

His grip responds in kind — tightening gently, reverent. A thumb brushing back and forth along my knuckles. Again. And again.

Like a prayer.

I hear him breathe out, shaky and wet with something that might be tears. Or laughter. Or both.

I try to speak. Try to form something around the thick weight in my throat.

It comes out as a low murmur, half-formed, but I feel the way he leans closer.

Like he heard it anyway.

“Harry?” His voice cracks, rough and low like he hasn’t used it in hours. Or like he’s been whispering my name into the quiet too many times to count.

I think I smile.

Not with my mouth, not yet.

But somewhere deeper.

He stayed.

He always stays.

And I think if I can just gather a little more strength, a little more breath—

I’ll be able to tell him that.

Soon.

Not now.

But soon.

It’s darker this time when I wake.

Thicker.

Like the castle itself is asleep.

The candles are burned low. Shadows pool deep in the corners of the room. The hum of the world is quieter here — softer — as though it’s holding its breath just to let me find mine.

I don’t know how long it’s been.

Five hours? Five days?

Time drips like honey around the edges of my thoughts. Slow. Sweet. Surreal.

But I can feel him again.

He’s here. Still. Always.

Draco.

His head is bowed against the edge of the bed, one cheek pressed to the blanket like he meant to rest for a second and never moved again.

His hand rests over the dip of my lower stomach, fingers curved there like a seal. Protective. Possessive in a way that makes something in me ache — but not from pain.

From the impossible, overwhelming relief of knowing he never left.

I turn my head slowly, carefully, like the world might splinter if I move too fast.

And I look at him.

His hair’s a mess — flattened on one side, soft and disheveled where sleep claimed him. Lashes so pale against the dark under his eyes, like he hasn’t

slept properly in days.

And still beautiful.

Still Draco.

I lift my hand. It trembles a little, weak with sleep, but I don’t stop.

I slide my fingers into his hair.

Gentle. Slow.

And he stirs.

Breath hitching. Shoulders tensing.

Then—

His eyes flutter open.

Unfocused at first.

Then they find me.

And in the dim, shifting candlelight — I see him.

Really see him.

He looks wrecked.

Hair flat and sticking out at odd angles. Face pale, too drawn. But it’s his eyes that get me — rimmed red, lashes clumped from old tears that dried and new ones that haven’t fallen yet. They’re glossy now, already welling again. Like just the sight of me awake is enough to undo him.

Gods, how long has he been like this?

He blinks slowly, like he doesn’t trust what he’s seeing.

Then—soft. Barely there.

“Hey.”

His voice cracks in the middle of the word. Fractured and real.

And my chest squeezes so tight I forget how to breathe.

I don’t speak yet. Just thread my fingers deeper into his hair and keep looking at him like I can stitch us both back together with a glance.

Then I whisper it — quiet, rough-edged, full of something that’s more feeling than sound.

“Hey.”

My smile is small. Barely a curve. But it touches my eyes first — warm and aching and full of him. Like looking at the only thing in the world that makes sense.

Draco doesn’t move much, just shifts slightly, pressing his cheek a little closer to Harry’s side like it’s instinct. His fingers splay wider over Harry’s stomach, the pad of his thumb tracing a slow, rhythmic circle over the thin fabric there.

Harry keeps running his hand through Draco’s hair, combing it gently back, letting his nails graze lightly along the skin of Draco’s scalp. He feels him exhale — long and shaky, like he’s been holding his breath for days.

“You stayed,” Harry murmurs, his voice rough and a little broken from sleep and something heavier.

Draco huffs a laugh, soft and uneven. “Course I did.” His thumb keeps moving, slow and sure. “You think I’d leave now? After everything?”

Harry’s hand stills for a second, fingers curling lightly in Draco’s hair. “Didn’t know if you’d want to.” His tone isn’t bitter — just honest. Small.

Draco’s eyes shut for a moment, lashes dark against skin that still looks too pale. “You absolute idiot,” he breathes. “I haven’t wanted anything more in my entire life.”

Harry swallows. His chest aches, but not from pain—not exactly. He leans his head just a little closer to Draco’s. “Missed you.”

“I missed you,” Draco says without hesitation, barely louder than a whisper, and it lands like a vow between them.

The silence that follows isn’t empty. It hums — steady and warm — like the bond threading itself slowly back together. Like magic curling around something fragile and precious and real.

Harry’s fingers move again, slower now, softer. “Feels like I’ve been gone a long time.”

“You’re here now,” Draco says. “That’s all I care about.”

And for a while, neither of them says anything more.

Just hands moving, hearts aching, and the bond pulsing between them — quiet, but strong.

Chapter Text

I’ve stopped checking the time.

It doesn't matter anymore. All that matters is the space between breaths — his and mine — and the fragile rhythm that threads them together.

Harry stirred a few times.

The first was barely a whisper of movement. His fingers twitched beneath mine, and I nearly leapt out of my chair.

The second time, he made a sound — a soft, broken hum that caught in the back of his throat. I held my breath like the world might shatter if I moved.

Each time he reaches toward waking, he pulls me with him. I don’t speak. I don’t even breathe wrong. I just stay close. Hand in his. Watching the lines of his face for any sign that he’s still fighting to come back to me.

I haven’t left this room.

Not once.

They’ve tried to make me — Weasley, Granger, even Pomfrey with her persistent tuts and threats of calming draughts — but I don’t care.

He’s here. That’s all I need.

And maybe it’s selfish, but I can’t bring myself to sleep far from him. I can’t bear the thought of missing it if he wakes again, really wakes, and I’m not the first thing he sees.

Eventually — I don’t know when — exhaustion wins.

My head drifts forward, cheek brushing the blankets near his side. My hand stays over him, curled possessively across his lower stomach, fingers resting where I can feel the faintest rise and fall of breath.

Just to be sure.

His skin is warm beneath my palm. Steady. Alive.

And that’s enough to lull me into a fragile sleep.

The last thing I remember before the darkness takes me is the weight of his presence beneath my hand… and the hope that maybe, this time, he’ll reach back.

I shift, carefully, slowly — like too much movement might break the spell of this moment.

My body aches from how I’ve slept, slumped over the side of the bed, arm draped across him like I could keep him here by sheer force of will. But I don’t care. None of it matters, not when he’s awake. Not when he’s looking at me like that.

I sit up just enough to be level with him, my hand slipping from where it rested on his stomach to gently wrap around the one still threaded in my hair.

Our fingers tangle, soft and sure.

The other hand, my right finds its way into his hair now. I run my fingers through it slowly, smoothing it back from his forehead the same way he’d just done to me. His eyes flutter slightly, like the touch soothes something deeper than skin.

“You scared the hell out of me,” I whisper, thumb brushing just behind his ear.

His gaze holds mine — sleepy, unfocused, but present. Warm. Like he knows. Like he remembers everything, even if he can’t say it yet.

His hand twitches in mine, like he’s trying to say, I’m sorry. Or maybe I missed you too.

I lift our joined hands to my lips and press a kiss to the back of his knuckles. The skin is warm. Alive.

It feels like a miracle.

“I stayed,” I murmur, voice cracking again, softer than before. “I didn't leave. Not once. I couldn't.”

He blinks slowly — no words, just the faintest pressure of his thumb brushing against mine.

“I talked to you,” I admit, a broken laugh catching in my throat. “You didn’t answer, obviously, but… I think I needed to say it all anyway.”

Harry blinks slowly — then his fingers curl more tightly around mine.

“I did,” he whispers. His voice is hoarse, barely audible, but it carves through me like lightning. “I heard you.”

My breath catches.

“I wanted to answer,” he goes on, voice trembling. “I just… I couldn’t. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Draco.”

His eyes brim with tears, one falling silently down his cheek.

I don’t think. I just move.

My hand rises, catching the tear with the back of my knuckles. I brush it away gently, like even that sorrow doesn’t belong on him.

“Shh,” I whisper. “No more of that. You came back. That’s all I need.”

He closes his eyes, a soft breath shuddering out of him.

“You’re here,” I murmur again, pressing my forehead against his. “That’s enough. That’s everything.”

And I mean it — with everything in me.

Because he is.

He’s everything.

A gentle knock echoes on the door, barely a courtesy before it creaks open. Madam Pomfrey enters with practiced steps, her robes trailing behind her like a storm just held at bay.

Draco stiffens but doesn’t let go of Harry’s hand.

“Oh, thank Merlin,” she breathes when she sees Harry awake, a rush of restrained relief softening the sharp lines of her face. “Mr. Potter, you gave us all quite the scare.”

Harry blinks slowly toward her, eyes still heavy with exhaustion but undeniably awake.

“He’s still very weak,” Draco murmurs, voice hoarse, thumb stroking over the back of Harry’s hand. “He’s only been up a few minutes.”

Madam Pomfrey nods briskly, already flicking her wand through a series of diagnostic charms. Faint colors shimmer and spiral above Harry's chest, soft and slow.

“Vitals are stabilizing,” she mutters to herself, eyes scanning the data mid-air. “No cranial swelling. Magical core is low but recovering. The soul bond…” She pauses, glancing

between them, the gold glow shimmering faintly around their joined hands.

Still present.

Still tethered.

Her eyes linger there for just a breath longer than necessary. “It’s holding,” she says quietly. “Better than I expected.”

Harry shifts a little, his free hand instinctively reaching toward Draco, even as his eyelids flutter with exhaustion.

Madam Pomfrey tuts under her breath, though there’s no real scolding in it. “He’ll need rest. Food. Fluids. But he’s out of immediate danger.”

Draco exhales like he’s been holding his breath for days.

“Stay as long as you need,” she adds more gently, gathering her notes and charms. “Just… don’t let him talk too much yet.”

Then she’s gone again, soft-footed as she came, the door clicking closed behind her.

Draco turns back to Harry, fingers threading through his hair again, heart finally beating in rhythm with something other than fear.

Harry shifts, just slightly, as if testing the air in his lungs. His lips part, voice dry and ragged.

“Dray…”

Draco leans in immediately, brushing his fingers through Harry’s fringe, thumb still tucked around Harry’s hand. “Shh.” It’s not sharp, not a warning — just a whisper laced with warmth and trembling relief. “Not yet. You don’t have to.”

Harry blinks up at him, and there’s trust written in every tired flicker of his eyes.

He nods — barely — and lets his body settle again, hand tightening just slightly in Draco’s as he breathes out a soft sigh.

Draco lowers his forehead gently to Harry’s, pressing their skin together like a promise.

“You’re safe now,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

The bond pulses between them — slow, warm, steady — like a heartbeat shared.

Harry’s eyelids drift closed, lashes fluttering once before going still. His breathing deepens, evening out with each exhale.

Draco watches him a moment longer before sliding down beside him, careful not to disturb anything but unable to let go of his hand.

He presses his face into the pillow beside Harry’s, arm still draped protectively across his stomach, their hands tangled between them.

The room is quiet again.

But this silence feels different now.

Not empty.

Not afraid.

Just full — of everything unsaid, and everything still to come.

And finally, they sleep. Together.

Chapter Text

It’s strange, being awake for so long again.

My thoughts feel clearer than they have in days, like someone finally cracked a window open in my head and let the fog out.

The pain is manageable now — dull and constant, but distant, like background noise I’ve learned to ignore. Madam Pomfrey still hovers, muttering charms and checking my reflexes, but I know what she’s not saying. I know I’m healing.

Today is the last day.

She confirmed it this morning, gentle hand on my wrist, smile just a touch too relieved.

“You’ll be back in your own room tonight, Potter. And no flying for at least two weeks.”

I didn’t answer right away. Just let the words settle over me like fresh linens.

Back in my own room.

But not alone.

Because he’s still here.

Draco hasn’t left since the night I woke up. Even now, he’s curled in the armchair, long legs tucked up under him, eyes closed, chin resting against his fist. His robes are wrinkled, hair a mess. He looks exhausted.

But he’s still here.

My fingers twitch with the need to reach out.

It’s easier, now. The movements. The breathing. Everything comes without as much effort as it did days ago. I can sit up on my own, hold down food, speak in full sentences without rasping.

But I haven’t said much.

Because most of what I want to say… is still too big.

Too much.

The bond hasn’t stopped humming since I opened my eyes.

Sometimes it’s quiet. Barely there.

Sometimes it burns — especially when he touches me.

And I know he feels it too. I can see it in the way he looks at me, like I’m something lost and found all at once.

Pomfrey finishes her final scan just before sunset and nods. “All right, Mr. Potter. Let’s get you back to your room. Slowly.”

I nod and glance at Draco.

He’s already moving before I speak.

By the time I’ve swung my legs off the bed, he’s at my side. Not hovering — just… present. Steady. His hand ghosts near my lower back, not quite touching, like he’s still afraid I’ll shatter if he’s too much too soon.

I look up at him, and his eyes meet mine with that quiet, wrecked softness that makes it hard to breathe.

“I’ve got you,” he says simply.

And he does.

Every slow step out of the hospital wing, every quiet breath, every flicker of pain I try to swallow — he’s there for it.

The halls are half-empty, our pace slow and careful. I lean on him more than I want to admit, but he doesn’t mention it. Doesn’t say a word, just keeps one hand curled loosely around my wrist, thumb brushing the edge of my pulse like a promise.

By the time we reach our room, my limbs are trembling with the effort, and my head feels light.

But it’s ours.

Our room.

He opens the door for me, doesn’t let go until I’m seated safely on the edge of the bed. His hand lingers in mine as he kneels in front of me, brushing sweat-damp hair from my forehead.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

I nod.

Then, quieter, “Better now.”

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath since the hospital wing, and his thumb brushes across the back of my hand again. Then he stands — not quickly, just in that graceful, practiced way of his — and wordlessly begins fluffing the pillows behind me.

“Lie back,” he murmurs, tapping the edge of the pillow with two fingers. “Your legs are shaking.”

I want to protest. I want to say I’m fine, that I can sit up on my own, that I don’t need—

But I don’t say any of that.

Because his voice is too gentle. Too full of something warm I still don’t quite know how to hold.

So I do as he says.

He guides me down carefully, hand behind my shoulder, fingers light but steady. When my head hits the pillow, I let out a slow breath, muscles unclenching one by one.

The room is quiet. Safe. Ours.

And he’s still moving.

He disappears for only a moment — into the small kitchenette off to the side — and I hear the quiet clink of glass, the soft hiss of running water. He comes back with a mug in one hand and a folded cloth in the other.

“Drink,” he says, offering the mug like it’s some kind of sacred gift. “You barely touched anything at lunch.”

“Wasn’t hungry,” I mutter, but I take it.

It’s warm. Mint and something else — lemon, maybe. It smells like comfort.

“I know,” he says, settling onto the bed beside me. “But you’ve got to rebuild your magic. You scared the hell out of everyone. Especially me.”

He says it like he’s trying to sound casual.

He fails completely.

His hand finds mine again as I sip, thumb tracing lazy circles against my skin. After a few minutes, he reaches over and presses the cloth — damp and cool — to my forehead. I sigh into it. It feels divine.

“Too much?” he asks softly.

I shake my head, eyelids heavy. “No. It’s perfect.”

He stays like that for a while. Just sitting beside me, taking care of me without asking for anything in return.

Eventually, he shifts. Stands just long enough to pull the blanket up around me, tucking it beneath my arms like I’m something worth keeping warm.

Then he returns to his place beside me, sitting cross-legged now, still watching. Still here.

I look at him — really look — and something in me aches.

Because he looks just as wrecked as I feel.

But instead of voicing it, I reach for his hand again and squeeze.

His expression softens, lips twitching like he’s fighting a smile.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers again.

And I believe him.

Because he stayed.

Because he’s still here.

Because he always will be.

I shift just enough to rest my head against his thigh, the blanket still pulled snug around my chest. His fingers thread through my hair without hesitation, slow and deliberate, as though grounding me is second nature now. Maybe it is.

He doesn’t speak. Just strokes. Comforts.

I close my eyes, breathing in the familiar scent of him — clean linen, cinnamon, and something warmer that’s just him — and feel myself melting into it. Into him.

“You should sleep,” he murmurs.

I shake my head. “Don’t want to miss this.”

His fingers pause for a second. “Miss what?”

“This,” I say again, eyes half-lidded. “You. Here. Like this.”

There’s a beat. Then his voice, barely a whisper:

“Potter, I’ve been right here. Every day. Every second.”

“I know.” My lips curve faintly. “But I wasn’t.”

Draco’s hand stills in my hair, then lowers to cradle the side of my face.

He swallows hard, and I hear the emotion catch in his throat before he even speaks.

“I didn’t know if you’d come back.”

“You called me back,” I whisper.

He bows his head, presses a soft kiss to my temple. “Still. I never want to do that again.”

I turn slightly, cheek brushing his leg, and let my hand drift to where his rests on the blanket. I cover it with mine. Hold it.

“I’m here now,” I murmur. “Not going anywhere.”

His breath hitches.

“I’ll hold you to that,” he says, a little choked.

“You’d better,” I say through a sleepy smile.

We sit like that for a long time.

The soft hush of our room, the flicker of candlelight across the walls, the steady rhythm of his touch grounding me as surely as the bond hums quietly between us.

No more pain. No more silence.

Only warmth.

Only us.

The bed is too cold.

That’s the first thing I notice. Not cold-cold — just… empty.

The warmth that’s been beside me every night since I came home is suddenly gone, and my body knows it before my mind catches up. The sheets are rumpled but untouched where he should be.

I blink slowly. The light in the room is soft, slanting through the curtains, but something about it feels wrong.

I shift, sluggish and sore, heart picking up speed in my chest.

“Draco?”

No answer.

I sit up, breath already hitching, the haze of sleep giving way to something tighter, sharper — fear.

The bond is quiet.

Still there, but pulled back — like it’s waiting. Or worse, fading again.

Panic claws at my throat.

He wouldn't leave. He wouldn’t.

Would he?

I push the blanket off, shaky fingers gripping the edge of the mattress as I try to stand, legs trembling beneath me.

“Draco?” Louder this time. Rougher.

The bathroom door swings open with a soft click — and there he is.

Hair damp, a towel slung around his neck, a fresh shirt half-tucked into pajama bottoms. Eyes wide.

“Harry—” His voice cracks, panic flashing across his face as he moves fast, faster than he should with wet feet on tile. “Hey. Hey, I’m right here.”

He drops to the edge of the bed, hands already cupping my cheeks, eyes flicking over me like he’s checking for damage.

“I was just in the shower. I’m sorry — I didn’t mean to scare you—”

“I woke up and you weren’t—” My voice breaks, brittle and childlike.

“I know. I know, love.” He leans in, brushing his forehead to mine. “I felt it. The bond—I felt you panic.”

My fists twist in the front of his damp shirt. “I thought—”

“I would never,” he breathes. “Not after all this. Not after you. I’ll always be here when you wake up. Always.”

His arms wind around me, drawing me against his chest. His skin is warm. His scent — soap and something so him — pulls me back from the edge.

He presses a kiss into my hair, then the curve of my temple.

“Lie back down,” he whispers. “I’ve got you.”

And this time, when he slips beneath the blankets beside me, his arm drapes across my waist, grounding and sure. I turn into him, burying my face in his collarbone, breathing him in like air.

The bond hums — warm and quiet and whole.

And I let myself believe it. Believe him.

He came back.

He always will.

The next time I wake, it’s slower.

No panic. No cold.

Just warmth.

Draco’s arm is heavy around my waist, his breath soft against the back of my neck. We’ve shifted in the night — I must’ve turned over — but he’s still here, pressed up behind me, as steady and constant as his heartbeat against my spine.

I hum quietly, eyes still closed, content to just be for a moment.

His fingers twitch against my stomach, and I feel him stir behind me.

“Mornin’,” I murmur, voice rasped with sleep.

“Mmm,” he replies, low and gravelly, voice still half-caught in a dream. “You’re warm.”

“You’re clingy.”

“Shut up.”

I smile.

He doesn’t move to get up, not like before. He only shifts enough to press a kiss to the back of my shoulder, lips lingering longer than necessary.

“Stay,” I say quietly, before I can even think the word through.

His arms tighten.

“Wasn’t going anywhere,” he breathes, then lifts his wand from the bedside.

A flick. A whispered charm.

And in the next second, a tray shimmers into view at the foot of the bed, steaming softly — tea, toast, eggs, something that smells like cinnamon.

I blink.

“Did you just summon breakfast?”

Draco lifts his head just enough to glance at me, the corner of his mouth tugging into a soft, lazy smirk. “Did you really think I’d leave this bed? You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re… perfect,” I say before I can stop myself, and maybe it's the sleep still clinging to me, or maybe it’s the truth I've been holding onto too tightly — but he freezes, just for a beat.

Then that smirk falters, softens.

And he kisses my shoulder again — slower this time. More sure.

“Eat, Potter,” he whispers, brushing his fingers gently through my hair. “And then you’re staying right here. Doctor’s orders.”
“You’re not a doctor.”

“I’m your everything,” he mutters, matter-of-fact, as he grabs the tray and settles it between us.

And I let him feed me toast with one hand while the other never leaves my hip.

Chapter Text

I don’t know how long I stay curled around him like this. One arm wrapped loosely across his stomach, my hand resting just above his hip. His fingers are still curled around mine — faint, unconscious.

But it’s real.

He’s real.

Even after everything.

Even after the silence that nearly broke me in half.

The worst part was not seeing it happen. Not knowing. One moment I was asleep, dreaming of him safe and warm beside me. The next — nothing.

No tug. No warmth. No ache.

Just a blank space in the bond, as if the cord between us had been snapped and no one had the grace to tell me why.

I remember that moment better than I should. Waking to it. A void where Harry used to be. A coldness I’d never felt before.

And the terrifying part?

For one heartbeat, I thought he’d rejected me.

That he chose to cut me off.

I didn’t even have time to spiral. Not properly. Because Pomfrey was already calling for me — or Hermione was. I don’t remember.

I only remember running.

Shoes scraping stone, breath burning in my chest, shouting at portraits to get out of the way. And when I reached the Hospital Wing…

Gods.

I’ve never been afraid like that.

Not when the Manor burned. Not during the trials. Not even when the war ended and I didn’t know where I’d fit in the world that came after.

But Harry—

Harry lying still, pale, unmoving.

That was a fear that gutted me. Is gutting me. Even now, days later.

Even now, with him here in my arms.

My hand shifts from his hip, trailing gently up his side — over ribs too sharp from missed meals, over fabric too thin, too medical, too unfamiliar.

And I press my palm flat against his chest.

Just to feel it.

That soft rise and fall.

Proof.

Proof that he came back.

That he’s trying to come back.

“I didn’t see it happen,” I whisper. “I didn’t see you fall. And that’s what kills me.”

I pause, my voice catching, breath hitching like I’ve run too far too fast.

“I should’ve known,” I say, quieter now. “Should’ve felt it stronger. Should’ve—done something.”

My thumb strokes the curve of his wrist. His hand twitches again.

I press a kiss into the crown of his hair and breathe him in — that soft, subtle scent that smells like skin-warmed parchment and something impossibly Harry.

The bond curls faintly around us. Not loud. Not desperate. Just present. Like a hand resting over mine.

And maybe that’s enough. For now.

HARRY POV

I wake slowly — like drifting toward the surface of warm water, every movement lazy, limbs heavy.

It’s quiet.

Dim, too. The windows are shaded in soft grey. No sunlight streaking across the walls, just that muted hush of early morning or maybe late evening. Time doesn’t make much sense yet.

Draco’s arm is slung over my waist, fingers curled slightly in my shirt. His head rests against my ribs where he must’ve fallen asleep again, breath warm and steady against my side.

And for a moment — for the first real moment since everything — I feel… safe.

But then I shift.

Just enough to really notice the way his arm fits over me — not just its weight, but the feel of it. Of him.

And that’s when I see them.

Scars.

Everywhere.

Some old, faded to pale lines. Others newer. Red. Raw. Angry. I don’t recognize a lot of them.

And it hits me like a fist to the sternum.

Fuck

I’d been in a bed, unconscious, while Draco… while he—

“Oh,” I whisper, voice cracking as it slips out of me. My hand shakes as I run it gently down the length of his forearm, counting every wound I don’t remember. My thumb brushes over one just above his wrist, and it looks fresh. Self-inflicted, maybe.

He didn’t sleep. He didn’t eat. He just stayed.

And he hurt.

Because of me.

Because I was too reckless. Because I didn’t see the bludger. Because I didn’t listen.

A thick, hollow ache settles in my chest, low and echoing.

I did this.

And not just the bruises. Not just the bond going quiet.

The pain behind his eyes. The dark circles. The new marks.

I caused all of it.

What kind of person does that to someone they love?

What kind of person lets the one they love fall apart just to hold them together?

My throat tightens as I try to breathe around it. Tears slip down before I can stop them, hot and helpless. One lands on his temple, and he stirs just slightly, still asleep.

“I’m so sorry,” I choke out, barely audible. “I’m so—Merlin, Draco, I didn’t mean to—”

My voice breaks entirely, and I press my face into his hair, into the crook of his neck, curling toward him like he’s the only thing keeping me together. Because he is.

Because even now — after everything — he’s still here.

Still choosing me.

Even when I wouldn’t have.

Even when I wouldn’t have chosen myself.

I press my thumb to one of the scars near his wrist, feather-light, barely a touch. But I can feel the heat of it. Still healing. Still raw.

I trace it once. Twice.

His skin flinches.

I freeze.

Then—

A soft sound, low in his throat. His brow twitches against my temple. And slowly, like he’s swimming up through molasses, his body stirs.

The arm around my waist tightens first. Just slightly. Then his fingers shift near my hip like they’re remembering how to hold me.

I don’t move. I don’t breathe.

He shifts again, sluggish, and his face turns into my hair. I feel his breath warm at my temple, uneven from sleep.

Then, hoarse and muffled against my skin:

“Harry?”

It’s not a question of presence. It’s a question of real. Of now. Like he’s been half-dreaming this whole time and isn't sure if I’m still here or just another cruel echo.

I nod into his shoulder, voice trembling.

“Yeah. I’m here.”

He exhales shakily, and I can feel it all—the start of awareness, the pain, the tension he never got to let go of.

His hand moves, brushes mine—and that’s when I realize I’ve still got my fingers over the scar.

He goes still. Rigid. The bond stirs again, sharp-edged and fragile.

“I didn’t—” I start, but my throat catches. “I didn’t know. I didn’t think you’d—”

His hand curls over mine, stopping the motion. Holding me there.

“I felt like I was losing you,” he whispers, voice frayed and shaking. “And I didn’t know how to survive that.”

A sob rips from me before I can help it.

I bury my face in his collarbone and cry.

Not from pain. Not from fear.

But from love. From the impossible weight of being loved this much by the person I never thought would look at me twice. From knowing I hurt him and he stayed. From knowing he still will.

He cradles me tighter. Stronger.

His thumb rubs gentle, comforting circles along the edge of my ribcage, like it’s all he knows how to do.

And maybe it is.

Because he doesn’t say anything else.

He just holds me.

Draco doesn’t ask me why I’m crying.

He just keeps holding me.

His hand stays over mine, right where I’d touched the newest scar, like he needs to remind me it’s not something shameful. Like he’s trying to tell me without words that he’s still here—that I didn’t ruin it. That I never could.

The bond warms softly between us. Not sharp or overwhelming. Just present. Gentle.

His nose brushes the crown of my head, and he exhales again—shaky, but less brittle this time.

“I didn’t mean for you to see them,” he murmurs, barely audible. “I forgot I wasn’t alone.”

I shake my head against him.

“I’m glad I did.”

He stiffens. Not in anger—more like surprise.

“Why?” he whispers.

I shift, just slightly, so I can look at him. My hand slides from the scar to his chest, resting right over his heart.

“Because it means you stayed.”

His lips part, but nothing comes out.

I brush my thumb over the soft fabric of his shirt. “You stayed, even when I was gone.”

“I would’ve waited forever.” It slips out of him in a rush—quiet and honest and completely without hesitation. “If that’s what it took.”

The air stills between us. He blinks down at me like he’s not sure he actually said it aloud.

“You would’ve?” I ask, not because I doubt him, but because I think he needs to say it again.

His jaw flexes. His throat works around the emotion.

“I love you,” he says again, firmer this time. “And not just because of the bond. Not just because we survived something together. I love you because you make me feel like I’m… someone better. Someone worth—” His voice breaks, and he looks away. “Worth being loved back.”

I don’t even realize I’m crying again until his fingers wipe at my cheek, soft as silk.

“You’re worth everything,” I whisper, and I mean it with my entire body.

He leans forward and presses our foreheads together.

We breathe.

The bond hums between us, low and golden, wrapping around our hearts like a ribbon tugged tight.

“I’m terrified,” I admit, eyes closed. “Not of you. Just… how much I want this.”

He nods. His thumb strokes my ribs again.

“Me too.”

We stay like that—tangled together in the half-light of early morning, hearts raw but open, words like threads mending between us.

It’s not healed. Not fully.

But it’s something.

Something warm. Something honest.

Something ours.

Chapter Text

I wake up to the sensation of breath—warm and steady—against my throat.

It takes me a moment to realize I’ve shifted in the night. My head is nestled beside his, our limbs tangled beneath the blanket. My arm is still wrapped around him, my palm resting low at his waist, like muscle memory.

I don’t open my eyes at first. I just lie there. Letting myself have him.

Because he’s here.

Alive and with me.

Not just breathing, but warm. Present. No longer caught somewhere between worlds, his magic screaming silence through the bond.

And then I feel it.

A brush of fingers over my arm. Soft. Curious. Hesitant.

A pause.

Then slower, more deliberate fingertips ghosting over skin they shouldn’t see. Not like this. Not uncovered. Not scarred.

I freeze.

Because I know what he’s feeling.

I know what he’s feeling.

My skin prickles beneath his touch as he trail gently over each mark. Too many, too fresh, too loud. I want to move. I want to pull away or laugh or lie or bury my arm beneath the blanket.

But I don’t.

I stay still, like if I don’t acknowledge it, maybe he’ll stop.

Maybe he won’t look too closely.

Maybe I won’t break.

But of course he notices the newest one—still pink, still angry, still aching beneath the gauze-thin edge of my sleeve. His thumb brushes over it once. Then again.

A third time, slower.

And it burns.

Not from prain.

But from shame.

I inhale sharply, the sound catching in my throat before I can swallow it down. My brow twitches, and I can feel my body waking without my permission.

My arm tightens around his waist reflexively.

And then I hear it—his breath hitching, his voice soft, cracking.

“Oh.”

He’s seen it and knows.

I want to vanish.

I want to crawl back into the numbness that held me together while he was unconscious.

But instead, I shift. My forehead pressing into his hair as the truth sits between us like something sacred and ruined.

“Harry?” My voice barely works. It’s not really a question. More like a prayer.

His answer is a tremble. “Yeah. I’m here.”

The bond flutter between us. Shaken. Fragile. Raw.

I can feel it all in that moment, the guilt pouring off of him, the love wound tight in his chest, the panic softening into grief.

My hand finds his, still resting, fingers curled too gently around something I can’t hide. I don’t pull away.

“I didn’t—” he starts, but the words don’t come. His voice catches and dies.

My grip tightens. My voice is rough when I manage it. “I felt like I was losing you.”

It’s all I can say. All I can give.

Because I did.

I lost him—if only for a few days—and it tore something open in me I hadn’t realized was still vulnerable.

He lets out a soft sob, curling into my chest like I’m the only thing keeping him from shattering.

I bury my face in his hair and hold him like I’ll never get the chance again. My thumb strokes the side of his ribs. I don’t know if it helps. I just know I can’t stop.

He cries for a long time. Not loudly. Just brokenly.

And I let him.

I don’t ask why. I don’t ask him to stop.

Because he deserves this—this release, this truth, this love he’s been carrying all alone.

I press a kiss into his hair, letting my hand rest over his again

His fingers, still tracing against the scars.

Still touching it like he’s memorizing something he never wanted to know.

“I didn’t mean for you to see the,” I whisper.

He goes still.

“I forgot I wasn’t alone.”

He shakes his head, breath ragged against my throat. “I’m glad I did.”

I flinch. “Why?”

His hands leaves my arm and slides slowly to my chest. Flat against my hear.

“Because it means you stayed.”

I can’t speak or move.

I just stared at him like he’s turned the whole bloody world upside down. Because he means it. Because somehow, despite everything, he still sees me—not just the damage. Not just the mistake.

Me.

“I would’ve waited forever,” I say before I can stop myself.

And it’s the truest thing I’ve ever said.

His voice is barely there. “You would’ve?”

I nod. “I love you.”

The bond pulses between us—low, warm, sure. Like it’s echoing the words back in gold.

“I love you because you make me feel like I’m someone worth…” My throat fails. “Worth being loved back.”

He’s crying again. Softly this time. Quiet and open and unafraid.

“You’re worth everything,” he says, and there’s no doubt in it.

No hesitation.

He pulls me close again, foreheads pressed, breath shared.

We don’t speak for a long time.

We just breathe.

And the bond—quiet for so long, once fractured by fear and silence—flares between us now like a living thing. It hums low in my chest and then swells, bursting through the seams of everything I thought I’d buried. A golden thread winding tighter, brighter, fuller than it ever has. It doesn’t demand or plead—it simply exists. Solid. Unshaken. Ours.

It wraps around our hearts like it always belonged there, like it never left.

And for the first time since that horrible, aching silence… I believe we’re going to be okay.

Chapter Text

It’s just past noon when we start.

The sun sits high and lazy over the castle, soft light slanting in through the windows like it forgot how to be harsh.

For the first time in weeks, our door stays open. Just a crack — wide enough to let the quiet in. Wide enough to remind us that this room isn’t a hiding place anymore.

Harry’s sitting cross-legged on the bed in yesterday’s jumper, wand between his teeth as he uses both hands to pin a sketch of a shelving layout against the wall. His hair is a mess. He hasn’t shaved. His socks don’t match. And somehow, I’ve never loved him more in my life.

“I think if we move the desk,” he says, muffled around the wand, “you’ll have more space for your books.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You want me to have more space?”

“Well, I’ve been told I have a tendency to hoard cursed artifacts.”

“You kept a piece of Voldemort in your sock drawer.”

He snorts, pulling the wand free and flashing a grin at me over his shoulder. “And look how well that turned out.”

Gods, he’s insufferable. And radiant.

I glance at the bookshelf — crooked and ugly and far too narrow for the life we’ve both been dragging behind us. With a flick, I banish the top layer of dust, then flick again to vanish the whole bloody thing altogether.

“Wow,” Harry deadpans. “Ruthless.”

“You have no taste.”

“I have impeccable taste,” he says, already setting the wand back in his mouth to mark something else on the wall.

It’s so ordinary. So painfully, achingly normal — standing here discussing furniture while the bond flutters lazily between us, content. Not glowing. Not urgent. Just there. Like breath. Like a heartbeat.

But underneath the quiet, my thoughts start to shift. The guilt is small right now, but it hums at the base of my spine. I can feel it growing in the corners of the room, hiding behind every gentle touch and unfinished sentence.

Because we’re pretending. Just a little.

Pretending that this is easy. That he didn’t almost leave. That I didn’t nearly break myself waiting.

By two o’clock, the floor is covered in rolls of parchment and spare nails from Merlin-knows-where. Harry’s summoned a dozen different shades of paint swatches from some enchanted catalogue he got from Hermione, and I’m holding up a green so pale it’s almost silver.

“I don’t hate this,” I admit.

“You mean you love it.”

“I mean I might not hex it.”

He throws a crumpled paper ball at my head.

We eat lunch on the floor — sandwiches he magics into existence with a small flourish that makes the crusts curl with pride. I don’t have much of an appetite, but I eat anyway. I can feel him watching me when he thinks I’m not looking.

The bond tugs faintly at my ribs.

You’re not alone, it says.

You’re still here.

By late afternoon, we’ve transfigured half the room. The new shelves float in place, wide enough for both our books. There’s a new rug beneath the bed — soft, thick, charcoal — and we’ve replaced every frame with ones that match, lined in brushed silver or soft gold. It’s the kind of room you build when you’re planning to stay.

We sit near the window around five, backs against the wall, Harry’s shoulder bumping mine.

“It feels lighter,” he says.

“What does?”

“The air. The space.”

I nod once. “It’s not haunted anymore.”

He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t argue. Just reaches over and links our fingers together, and it’s so natural that I don’t realize I’ve stopped breathing until I have to remind myself to start again.

We don’t speak for a while. Outside, the sun begins to dip toward the hills. Shadows stretch across the floor, climbing the walls with a kind of reverent patience. Everything’s quiet. Everything feels earned.

That should be enough.

But it isn’t.

Because even as we sit side by side, hands intertwined, I can’t stop seeing the marks he found. The way his fingers trembled when they brushed over the newest one — still pink, still healing. I hadn’t meant for him to see. I’d been so careful. But grief makes a mess of even the most disciplined people.

I shift slightly, fingers tightening around his.

“What is it?” he asks without looking.

I don’t answer right away. I can’t. My throat’s too tight.

He turns to me, eyebrows knit, and I know he knows. The bond flares — too honest, too warm — and I want to run from it.

Instead, I say, “It wasn’t about hurting myself.”

His lips part slightly. His grip tightens.

“I didn’t want to… it wasn’t—” I break off. Try again. “It was the only way I could feel anything that wasn’t losing you.”

Silence.

Then he leans his forehead against mine, and his breath brushes my cheek.

“I know,” he whispers. “I felt it.”

A pause.

“I hated that you had to.”

And maybe that’s the worst of it — not the pain, not the fear, but the knowing that he carried my ache with his own.

“I wanted to be strong for you,” I murmur, voice cracking. “I wanted to be the one who—who held it together.”

“You did,” he says fiercely. “You were.”

The bond bursts between us like it can’t be contained — too much warmth, too much pain, too much us. It spills out in every direction, wrapping around my chest, sinking deep beneath my ribs. I feel him — truly feel him — in every inch of my skin.

And I believe him.

Maybe for the first time.

Because the ache doesn’t pull me under this time. It holds me up.

By nightfall, the room is glowing.

Not with spells. Not with grand gestures or flickering wards. Just candlelight — dozens of them, hovering in corners and flickering softly on the windowsills. Harry had insisted on it, wand in hand, summoning one after another like he was afraid of the dark settling too close.

Now the shadows move gently across the walls, golden and warm, wrapping around us like a second blanket.

The bed is freshly made. The shelves are full. Our tea cups rest on the small tray beside the bed, half-empty and still steaming faintly.

And Harry’s leaning against me.

Head on my shoulder, fingers loosely looped in mine, legs stretched out and tangled with my own under the duvet we picked together. His breathing is slow. Even. The kind of soft rhythm that makes everything else go quiet if you let it.

I could sit like this forever.

He sighs, nuzzling closer. “I don’t want today to end.”

“Then don’t let it,” I say.

Simple. Like it’s that easy. Like we could press pause and let the rest of the world wait while we figure out how to be whole again.

And maybe… maybe it is that easy.

At least for tonight.

Because he’s here. Because I can feel the curve of his smile against my shoulder. Because the bond hums gently beneath my ribs, not demanding or sharp or wild — just present. Settled. Like it knows we’re okay. Like it believes it, even when I can’t.

Harry shifts, murmuring something unintelligible before letting his head drop fully into the space between my neck and shoulder. I think he’s already falling asleep.

I should move.

I should make him lie down properly. Make sure the pillows are fluffed, that he’s tucked in just right. That he has enough water, that his scar balm is near, that—

His hand squeezes mine gently, and I stop thinking.

Because gods, I’ve missed this.

Not just him awake. Not just him alive. But this — the weight of him pressed against me, the easy way he lets himself be soft now. The way he trusts me enough to fall asleep like this, heart bared, breath slowing in time with mine.

My chest aches.

Not painfully. Not sharply. Just… full.

I breathe in the scent of his hair, of the candle wax melting nearby, of parchment and linen and something that is undeniably, unshakably Harry.

And for a while, I just let it wash over me.

I don’t know how to be okay yet. I don’t know how to forget what those days felt like, when his voice was just an echo in my head and I didn’t know if I’d ever hear it again. But I know this: he’s here. He’s warm. He’s mine.

The guilt still stirs — low and familiar. It always does when I’m still for too long. A whisper of, You should’ve done more, curling in the corners of my mind like smoke. But tonight, it doesn’t strangle me.

Tonight, Harry’s heartbeat is louder than the guilt.

Tonight, I let my eyes drift closed with his hand still in mine.

And tonight, for the first time in a long, long time…

I let myself sleep.

Not out of exhaustion. Not because I passed out from grief or worry or sheer magical depletion.

But because I want to.

Because I can.

Because there’s a boy in my arms who looked death in the face and came back to me.

And gods help me… I think we’re going to be okay.

Harry stands across the room.

His back is turned, his shoulders stiff — too still for comfort. His hands are pressed flat against the windowsill like he’s holding himself there, like he might float away if he doesn't.

I watch him. Quietly. Carefully.

There’s something wrong with the light. It’s golden, soft, pouring through the windows in that perfect afternoon way — but it doesn’t touch him. Doesn’t reach his hair, his shoulders, the line of his neck. Like even the sun is hesitant now.

“Harry?” I ask. My voice catches halfway through his name.

He doesn’t turn.

My chest tightens. I cross the space slowly, each step careful, like I’m walking into something fragile.

When I’m close enough, I reach out. My fingers almost touch his shoulder.

And then—

“Can I help you?” he asks, tone brisk. Flat. Empty.

I freeze.

He turns to look at me, and my breath shudders in my lungs.

There’s no recognition in his eyes.

None.

Just polite confusion. The same way someone might look at a stranger who wandered into the wrong compartment on the train.

“Harry,” I say, weaker this time. “It’s me.”

“I know who I am,” he says, tilting his head. “But who are you?”

The world stutters.

I open my mouth, but the words get stuck in my throat. They won’t come. They never come. The bond — the one that’s always there, even faintly — it’s gone. Silent. Hollow.

I take a step back. My legs feel numb.

He follows me with his eyes but doesn’t move. Doesn’t reach. Doesn’t try.

“You should go,” he says softly. “Whoever you are.”

The room starts to dim around the edges, like the air’s collapsing in on itself. The windows blacken. The walls fall away.

And he stays.

Just standing there. Looking at me like I’m nothing.

Nothing at all.

My knees hit the floor. I don’t even feel it. My lungs can’t seem to remember how to draw breath. I reach out blindly, pleading.

“Please,” I whisper, throat torn raw. “Please don’t forget me.”

But he’s already fading. Step by step, turning into smoke.

And I can’t hold smoke.

Not with these hands. Not when they’re shaking. Not when I’ve already lost him once.

Not again—

“Draco—!”

A voice, sharp and frantic, rips through the dark.

My eyes snap open, and I’m gasping before I even understand why.

The ceiling is spinning above me, the room too bright, too real.

And Harry’s hands are on my shoulders. Holding. Anchoring.

He’s kneeling on the bed in front of me, curls mussed from sleep, worry carved into every line of his face.

“I’m here,” he says, voice cracking with urgency. “I’m here. Merlin, Draco, you were—shit—you were screaming.”

I don’t realize I am still shaking until he pulls me into his arms.

I bury my face in his chest and breathe like I’ve been underwater for hours. The bond slams into me, full and bursting — too much, too fast, like it’s been waiting to crash back in.

I clutch at his shirt like it’s the only solid thing left.

“I dreamed you forgot me,” I rasp, voice breaking. “You looked at me like I was no one. Like I was nothing.”

His arms tighten instantly. His breath stutters against my temple.

“I could never forget you.”

I want to believe it. I do.

But the fear is still clawing under my skin, still sinking its teeth into all the soft, healed places.

“I wasn’t in the dream,” I whisper. “Not me. Not the one you know. It was like the bond never happened. Like we never happened.”

Harry pulls back just enough to take my face in both hands. His thumbs brush away something damp on my cheeks I didn’t realize was there.

“You’re real,” he says. “And I know you. I love you. I promise, there’s nothing in this world — no curse, no charm, no broken memory — that could take that from me.”

I shake my head, unable to speak. The nightmare’s grip is still curled around my throat.

So he does the only thing that makes sense.

He kisses me.

Slow. Deep. Anchored in something steadier than words.

It’s not about heat. Not about hunger.

It’s about tethering.

His lips are soft, sure. His fingers never leave my face. And the bond — gods, the bond sings now. Like it was waiting for this exact moment to burst through the seams.

When he pulls back, I’m still shaking.

But I’m breathing again.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, pressing his forehead to mine.

The words settle into my bones.

And this time, when I fall asleep again, it’s with his arms around me and the bond warm at the base of my spine.

And no one forgets.

Not this time.

Not ever.

Chapter Text

The first thing I feel is warmth.

Not just the warmth of blankets or the distant sun bleeding through the curtains — but him. Wrapped around me. Quiet. Steady. Real.

Draco.

His arm is slung across my waist; fingers curled instinctively against my shirt like he’s been holding me in his sleep. His breath is slow against the back of my neck — warm and rhythmic — a soft, unconscious tether to the world I almost didn’t come back to.

For a moment, I don’t move.

The bed is still. The air smells faintly of candle wax and him — linen and cinnamon and something darker, something grounding. His legs are tangled with mine beneath the covers, and our skin brushes at every shift of breath, every slight twitch of muscle.

I exhale slowly. The kind that comes from your whole chest, like the body letting go of something it forgot it was holding.

Because he’s still here.

Because I’m still here.

Because the bond, faint and warm beneath my ribs, is humming again — soft and slow and sure.

I turn slightly, careful not to wake him. Just enough to see the curve of his mouth, the sweep of pale lashes against freckled cheek, the way the early light makes his skin glow with something too soft for words.

His fingers twitch as I move, and his arm tightens almost instinctively — like his body knows before his mind catches up.

Then — voice rough with sleep, so low it barely exists:

“Don’t move yet.”

A pause.

I swallow. “I thought you were asleep.”

“I was.” His voice hums against my spine. “But you’re warm. And you’re breathing. And I—” He doesn’t finish the sentence. Just exhales against the back of my neck.

His nose brushes my skin. I feel the tiniest tremor run down my spine — not fear. Not exactly. Just… anticipation. My body, remembering something we haven’t quite gotten to yet. Something that’s hovered between us for weeks now.

My voice is a whisper. “We should get up soon.”

“I know.”

But neither of us moves.

His hand slides slightly against my stomach. Not purposeful. Not inappropriate. Just present. But it leaves a trail of heat behind that curls in my gut, low and slow and dangerous.

“I dreamt you kissed me,” I murmur, not sure why I say it.

Draco hums. “Was it any good?”

I laugh — quietly, like I’m afraid to break the moment. “It was better than good.”

He shifts then — just enough that his forehead presses gently to the back of my shoulder, lips brushing bare skin through the fabric of my shirt.

“Maybe next time,” he says, voice like crushed velvet.

The bond pulses — not hard, not overwhelming. Just there. Just warm.

My heart does something complicated behind my ribs.

We lie like that for a long time.

And even when the sun fully claims the room, we don’t speak again.

We just breathe.

Together.

By the time we’re dressed, the sun is high and bright, spilling golden streaks across the floor. Our room feels quieter than it should — like it’s watching us leave for the first time in days.

Draco’s standing near the door, hands tucked into his sleeves, posture composed. Too composed.

He hasn’t said much since breakfast — just little things. “You should eat more.” “Brush your hair.” “I’ll hex Weasley if he says anything stupid.”

But I can feel it.

The nerves curled just beneath his skin like static. The way he’s scanning the hallway before we’ve even opened the door. Like someone might take this from him if he isn’t careful enough.

I reach for the doorknob — and his hand finds mine.

Not a full grab. Not even a proper touch. Just the soft brush of fingers across my knuckles. Enough to say: Wait. Don’t go without me.

I look over.

His eyes meet mine — pale and unguarded in the morning light. He swallows once, like he’s trying to find the version of himself he wants to be in front of the world.

I let our fingers link.

Tightly.

His shoulders drop.

Then he nods once, like we’ve cast some kind of wordless spell, and I open the door.

The halls are half-full, voices echoing off the high stone walls. A first-year rounds a corner and nearly drops their cauldron when they see us. A group of Ravenclaws stop talking the second Draco walks past.

He doesn’t flinch. But I see the flicker in his jaw — the tension of being seen again. Not just as Malfoy, not just as the one with Potter, but as someone who doesn’t fit where he used to.

I stay close, shoulder brushing his every few steps.

He doesn’t look at me.

But his hand never lets go.

It’s strange, how fast people forget that we nearly lost each other.

Stranger still how quickly they accept us — or at least pretend to. Like this is normal. Like we haven’t been remade in the dark, in silence, in beds and hospital wings and breathless rooms where the bond pulsed louder than any apology.

Someone says my name as we pass.

Draco flinches this time. Barely.

I tighten my grip.

His fingers curl back instantly.

And just like that — the tension shifts.

From nerves to something else.

Something sharper.

Something pulling.

We reach the library before either of us speaks again.

The moment the door shuts behind us, I feel his fingers slip away. Not harshly — just with purpose.

I look at him.

He’s staring down the rows of books like they’re a battlefield.

And under his breath, almost too low to hear:

“I hate how they look at you.”

I blink. “Who?”

He meets my gaze. Something stormy behind his eyes. “Everyone.”

A beat.

Then, quieter: “I hate how they look at us.”

I step forward, slow.

He doesn’t move.

Our chests nearly touch now — one heartbeat apart, maybe two.

“I don’t care what they see,” I say.

His eyes drop to my mouth.

And for a second — one suspended, breathless second — I think he’s going to close the distance.

But then—

“Hermione’s watching,” he mutters, eyes flicking over my shoulder.

I don’t turn.

I just smile.

“Let her.”

She’s already waiting in the corner of the library, tucked between shelves, a stack of books beside her that I’m sure she doesn’t actually need.

Hermione stands the moment she sees us — eyes wide, hands twisting the sleeve of her cardigan like she doesn’t know what to do with them.

Draco stiffens at my side.

I squeeze his hand once, quick and sure.

He lets go before she reaches us, retreating behind a wall of posture and expensive restraint.

But Hermione?

She doesn’t hesitate.

She crosses the room in three long strides and throws her arms around me with the kind of quiet desperation that doesn’t need words.

Her body’s small, but the hold is fierce — all tight arms and trembling breath. The scent of parchment and peppermint tea clings to her sweater. Her voice, when it finally breaks through, is soft and shaky.

“You absolute idiot.”

I smile into her shoulder.

“Missed you too.”

She pulls back, eyes glassy, mouth twitching like she’s trying very hard not to cry.

Then she looks over my shoulder.

Her gaze lands on Draco.

And everything stills.

Draco straightens. Chin up. Eyes blank.

I step aside.

Let her see him.

He doesn’t speak. He never does in moments like this. But his hands are fidgeting at his sides — fingers twitching like they miss mine.

Hermione stares for a long time. Not judging. Not harsh.

Just… seeing.

Draco starts to turn — already halfway into his own version of a retreat.

But then she moves.

Crosses the last few steps and reaches up — not slowly, but gently.

And pulls him into a hug.

Draco freezes.

Like fully, physically still — like she’s just cast a full-body Bind.

Hermione says nothing at first. Her arms are around him, light but firm. His breath catches like he’s never been held like this before. Or maybe he has — but not like this. Not in forgiveness. Not in grace.

Then she whispers, barely audible:

“Thank you for bringing him back.”

Draco’s jaw flexes.

I see it — the way he blinks too fast, the breath that catches sharp in his chest.

He doesn’t hug back.

But he doesn’t pull away either.

And that’s enough.

When she finally lets go, she steps back and smooths her cardigan, like she hasn’t just cracked something open in both of us.

Draco’s voice is low, wrecked.

“I didn’t— It wasn’t just me.”

She looks at him for one long second. Then at me. Then back.

And she nods.

“I know. But you stayed.”

A pause.

“And he needed that.”

Draco doesn’t answer.

But he looks at me — like he’s asking if she’s right.

I nod.

“I did.”

And the bond pulses between us — just once.

Enough to say: I still do.

We sit with her a while longer.

There’s small talk. Books. Ron’s latest letter. Neville’s new attempt at cultivating whisper-flowers. Things that don’t matter but fill the space like breath.

But even while they talk, Draco’s fingers brush mine beneath the table.

Not a full hold.

Not yet.

Just touch.

Warm and unspoken.

And when I glance over?

He’s already looking at me.

The Great Hall is louder than I remember.

Not in volume — in presence. In eyes. In the way heads turn just a little too quickly when we step through the doors, like no one wants to admit they were watching. But they are. All of them.

Draco walks half a step behind me.

Not hiding.

Just… calculating.

I can tell by the way his gaze flicks across the room. By the way his hand brushes the edge of his wand holster once — just once — before slipping into his robe pocket like it was never there.

My fingers itch to reach back for him.

To take his hand again.

But I don’t.

Not yet.

We sit near the far end of the Gryffindor table — Hermione on one side of me, a polite buffer. Draco on the other.

He doesn’t touch the plate in front of him.

I glance sideways. He’s staring straight ahead, elbows tucked in, back painfully straight.

There’s a smear of pink at the corner of his mouth — the kind of softness he never notices. I want to lean in and wipe it with my thumb. I want to—

“You’re staring,” Hermione says under her breath.

I blink. “What?”

She smirks. Doesn’t look up from her toast. “You’re doing that thing again. The he’s breathing and I’m in love with it thing.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re imagining things.”

She hums. “He just adjusted his seat because your knees touched.”

I glance down.

We are touching. Barely. A brush of cloth to cloth, shin to shin beneath the long wooden bench.

He hasn’t moved away.

Not yet.

And when I shift — subtle, unnoticeable to anyone watching — I let my leg press just a little firmer into his.

He still doesn’t move.

But he swallows.

Hard.

I watch him out of the corner of my eye as he finally reaches for his water.

His fingers tremble.

Only slightly. Only enough for someone who knows him to notice.

And then—

“Alright, Malfoy?” a voice calls from down the table.

It’s Seamus. His tone isn’t cruel. But it’s… loud. Curious. Watching.

Draco freezes with his hand halfway to his glass.

I want to hex someone.

But before I can speak, he says — perfectly level:

“I’m sitting at a Gryffindor table, drinking lukewarm pumpkin juice, and resisting the urge to throttle the Irish. So yes, Seamus. I’m thriving.”

Laughter breaks out around us. Nervous. Light.

Hermione snorts into her tea.

And Draco?

He exhales.

Not a smile. Not yet. But close.

He still doesn’t eat much.

But halfway through the meal, I slide a slice of toast from my plate onto his.

He glances down.

Then up.

He doesn’t thank me.

He just takes a bite.

And under the table, his knee presses harder into mine.

Not by accident.

Not anymore.

By the time we leave the hall, his fingers find mine again.

Not soft.

Not tentative.

Claiming.

And my body?

It sparks like kindling.

The moment the door closes behind us, the hush settles in.

It’s not cold, not empty — just different. Like the room exhales with us, like it knows the walls can finally relax again now that we’re back.

Draco moves first.

Drops his robe onto the end of the bed, toeing off his shoes with neat, deliberate care. His movements are clean, practiced — but too careful. Like he’s buying time.

I don’t speak.

I just watch him.

How his fingers linger at the collar of his shirt. How he pauses at the top button like he forgot how to undress without an audience.

Like he knows I’m watching.

And maybe he does.

Because when he finally looks up, his eyes catch mine and hold.

We don’t say a word.

We don’t need to.

I start to change too — slower than necessary. My shirt slides over my shoulders and I can feel his gaze trace every inch of skin it leaves behind. Not greedy. Not heavy. Just... present.

I turn to fold it.

He doesn’t look away.

We move around each other like magnets — orbiting the bed, brushing close enough to touch but never quite crossing the line.

His knuckles graze my wrist when he reaches for his wand on the bedside table.

I turn into it.

Not dramatically. Not deliberately.

Just enough.

Our hands touch.

Bare skin on bare skin.

He flinches like it burns.

Or maybe like it soothes something he didn’t realize was aching.

I don’t pull away.

And neither does he.

The room is dim now — candles flickering low, window cracked open to let in the scent of rain. Everything is golden and soft and heavy.

Draco sits on the edge of the bed.

One hand on the blanket.

The other curled uselessly in his lap.

I step between his knees.

Close.

Close enough to count the flecks of gold in his irises.

He looks up at me — and something breaks just slightly in the space between our breaths.

“I thought today would be harder,” he whispers.

I lift a hand. Brush my fingers through the soft curve of his hair.

“It still could be.”

He lets out a low sound — not quite a laugh.

“You’re insufferable.”

“You love that about me.”

I see it — the twitch of a smile. The catch of his breath.

And then, softer than anything:

“I do.”

For a heartbeat, we hover in it.

In that heat, in that distance-too-close.

My hand is still in his hair.

His fingers find the edge of my shirt again, where it rides low on my hip.

He doesn’t tug.

Just rests them there.

Testing.

Waiting.

I lean down, forehead brushing his. Close enough to kiss. Close enough that everything in me wants to.

“Not yet,” he says — voice low, hoarse.

“Okay,” I breathe.

And I step back.

Not far.

But enough.

We slide into bed quietly.

The tension hasn’t gone.

It’s just changed shape.

He faces me this time — eyes open, close enough to touch.

Our hands meet beneath the blanket.

Fingers interlace.

And when I press the softest kiss to his knuckles, he exhales like that alone might undo him.

“Sleep,” I whisper.

“I can’t.”

“Me either.”

The bond pulses between us — low, slow, molten gold.

And we don’t move.

We just lie there.

Not sleeping.

Not touching more.

But holding the fire steady.

Waiting.

The room is quiet.

Not the kind of quiet that feels empty — the kind that’s heavy. Breathless. Filled to the corners with everything we haven’t said.

We’re lying face to face now, our hands still laced under the blanket, legs just barely tangled. Not enough to cross the line.

But close.

So close.

Draco’s eyes are open. Unblinking. Watching me like I’m a spell he’s still trying to unravel.

“You’re staring again,” I whisper.

His voice is just above a breath.

“You look different like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like you know I’m not going to leave.”

I flinch.

Not because it hurts.

But because it’s true.

I don’t know what to say to that.

So I let the silence answer.

Draco shifts — just a fraction — and the brush of his knee against mine is the loudest thing in the room.

“Do you think we’ll ever go back?” he asks softly.

“To what?”

He shrugs, eyes tracing the curve of my cheek like it’s safer than looking me in the eye.

“Normal. School. Worrying about things that aren’t life or death.”

I turn his hand over in mine. Run my thumb along the inside of his wrist, right where the skin is softest.

Where that new scar lives.

He watches me touch it.

He doesn’t stop me.

“I don’t want to go back,” I say after a moment. “Not if it means forgetting this.”

His eyes flick up. Sharper now. Hopeful and terrified at once.

“This?”

“You.”

Draco’s breath catches.

Like the word hurt and healed him in the same breath.

The bond hums.

Low. Liquid. Not demanding.

Just ready.

I shift closer. Barely.

His nose brushes mine. His lips part like they want to ask something — beg for it — but no sound comes out.

And then—

“Harry,” he says, almost breaking on it.

Just my name.

But it lands like a promise.

I whisper back: “I know.”

We don’t kiss.

We don’t strip the last of our clothes.

We don’t touch the way we’re both aching to.

We just lie there, burning so quietly it’s a miracle the bed doesn’t catch fire.

And when I finally close my eyes, I feel his thumb brush the inside of my wrist once more — just once — before his hand curls back into mine.

I fall asleep like that.

With his breath on my cheek.

The bond warm at my spine.

And his name etched behind my ribs like something sacred.

Chapter Text

The Things We Let Burn

The first thing Harry becomes aware of is warmth.

Not just the warmth of the blanket or the lingering body heat from sleep — but Draco. The solid press of him, the steady thrum of his magic coiled near and quiet under Harry’s skin.

It’s not humming like it did during the worst of it. It’s not reaching. It’s settled now, content to rest in the space between them like something with a pulse of its own.

Harry doesn’t open his eyes at first. He just… exists in it.

Draco’s arm is draped loosely over his waist. Their legs are a mess of tangled limbs under the blanket — one of Draco’s calves slotted between

Harry’s. His fingers are curled gently at the hem of Harry’s shirt, not gripping, not desperate — just there. Holding fabric like it holds him back from drifting too far.

Outside, the castle stirs. Distant footsteps. Morning owls. Wind brushing against stone.

But none of it touches them here.

Not yet.

When Harry finally blinks awake, the first thing he sees is Draco’s face.

Soft. Open. Unprotected.

Draco sleeps like someone who only just learned how to.

His mouth is parted slightly, breath ghosting warm against Harry’s chin. His lashes flutter once — twice — before pale grey eyes meet green in the hush of morning.

Neither of them moves.

They just look.

Like they’ve been waiting for daylight to make this feel real.

“You didn’t run,” Harry murmurs, voice still thick with sleep.

Draco doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away.

“No,” he says quietly. “Not this time.”

A long pause.

“Didn’t even think about it?”

Draco hums, thoughtful.

“Only a little. But you were holding onto me like a fucking blanket.”

Harry laughs under his breath — the sound low and breathy, stirring Draco’s hair. His hand comes up, tentative, brushing a thumb across Draco’s cheekbone.

“Can you blame me?”

Draco tilts his head into the touch.

“Not even a little.”

The silence that follows is heavy, but not uncomfortable. It’s warm with everything unspoken — things too soft for daylight, too honest for pride. The bond curls lazily between their ribs, like it’s listening.

Harry shifts, sliding impossibly closer until their bodies are flush — chest to chest, hips brushing.

He could stay like this.

Gods, he wants to.

“I dreamt you kissed me,” he murmurs.

Draco’s eyes flick to his.

“Was it good?”

“Better than this, actually.”

Draco smirks. “Rude.”

“Then prove me wrong.”

And there — in the quiet of the morning, with the sun warming the backs of their necks and magic coiled low and easy beneath their skin — Draco

leans in and kisses him.

Soft.

Measured.

A question and an answer all at once.

Harry exhales into it, one hand sliding up to cup the back of Draco’s neck, fingertips threading through the fine hair there. Draco presses closer — not greedy, not rough. Just committed. Like this kiss is a promise he’s been dying to keep.

When they part, their foreheads stay together.

Breaths mingling.

The heat between them slow and simmering.

“Still think the dream was better?” Draco asks, voice rough.

Harry swallows hard. His thumb brushes the edge of Draco’s lower lip.

“Not even close.”

They don’t rush.

They don’t tear each other’s clothes off.

They just lie there, tangled in each other, letting the moment unfold like something sacred — slow and patient and utterly theirs.

Harry presses another kiss to the hollow beneath Draco’s jaw. Draco lets out a sound — not quite a moan, more like a breath he forgot to hold back — and buries his fingers in the back of Harry’s shirt.

“You can stay,” Harry whispers. “All day. If you want.”

Draco kisses the corner of his mouth, then rests his forehead to his temple.

“I don’t want anything else.”

The rest of the castle can wait.

Breakfast can wait.

The world can fall apart for all they care.

Because in this moment, in this bed, in this borrowed warmth and gentle breath — they aren’t just healing.

They’re choosing to.

Together.

It’s sometime past midmorning.

Neither of them has moved far from the bed — not because they’re lazy, but because they’re anchored.

Draco is sitting now, back propped against the headboard, legs stretched long under the covers. The blanket’s pooled around his waist. One of Harry’s hands rests there absently, thumb brushing a slow arc across Draco’s hipbone where skin peeks from under his shirt. It’s nothing — and everything.

Harry lies sideways, half curled against Draco’s ribs, head tucked just beneath his shoulder.

They’re not speaking much.

But they’re touching.

Not frantic. Not possessive.

Curious.

Harry shifts, his palm sliding up over Draco’s stomach. The movement is idle at first — fingertips tracing lazy circles, exploring the way muscle tenses beneath softness. Draco’s shirt rides higher with every pass, and neither of them seems to care.

“I didn’t know,” Harry murmurs, voice low.

“Didn’t know what?”

“That you were… so soft here.”

He presses his hand flat across Draco’s stomach.

Draco lets out the smallest huff of breath — not quite a laugh, not quite a protest.

“Years of stress and anxiety. Very luxurious.”

Harry hums, clearly unimpressed.

“You’re allowed softness, you know.”

Draco goes quiet at that.

His hand moves — slow, unsure — until his fingertips skim along Harry’s jaw. He traces it like he’s memorizing the line, then brushes the pads of his fingers down the curve of Harry’s neck, stopping just above his collarbone.

The touch is light.

Too light.

Harry shifts into it.

“You can touch me.”

Draco meets his eyes, startled.

“I am.”

“No,” Harry says, sliding his hand up Draco’s chest. “You’re asking permission without saying it. You don’t have to.”

Draco’s fingers pause. Then… trace again — bolder now, down the length of Harry’s throat, skimming the hollow at the base.

“I’m trying not to mess it up,” he admits.

“You won’t.”

“I want it to be slow.”

Harry’s breath hitches.

“Me too.”

The space between them folds in.

Harry lifts up slightly, shifting until he’s straddling one of Draco’s thighs, the blanket slipping lower. Their shirts ride up in different ways — Harry’s bunched at the back, Draco’s loose around the collar. They don’t fix it.

Draco’s hands find Harry’s waist, then slide slowly up beneath the hem of his shirt, palms warm against bare skin. He pauses just under Harry’s ribs.

Harry doesn’t stop him.

In fact — he shudders.

“Draco—”

“Yeah?”

“It’s okay if it scares you too.”

Draco exhales. Then leans in, lips brushing just beside Harry’s mouth.

“Terrified.”

“Still want to?”

Draco presses their foreheads together.

“Every second.”

Harry kisses him — and this time, it’s not light.

It’s deep. Lingering. Tongues brushing, teeth grazing. Draco gasps into it, pulling Harry closer with a grip tight around his waist.

They don’t push it farther yet.

But the need is there now — alive between them like a living thing.

And when they break apart, breaths ragged and foreheads pressed together, Harry runs his fingers through Draco’s hair and says:

“Tell me when.”

Draco nods.

And says, simply:

“Soon.”

The room is quiet.

That kind of stillness where the air feels aware — like the castle itself is holding its breath for them.

They’ve moved slowly. Gently. Every moment a question asked with hands instead of words.

Draco sits cross-legged at the center of the bed now, posture careful but open. Harry kneels in front of him, close enough that their knees touch.

Neither of them is smiling. Not out of nerves — but because this feels too important for grins.

Their eyes stay locked as Harry reaches forward, fingers brushing just beneath the hem of Draco’s shirt. Not pushing. Just feeling the give of fabric, the way it clings slightly to warm skin.

“Can I?”

His voice is barely more than breath.

Draco nods once.

“Please.”

Harry lifts the shirt slowly.

Not like it’s an obstacle — but like it’s something sacred being unwrapped.

The fabric pulls up, over ribs, over chest, and then over shoulders. Draco raises his arms without hesitation, letting himself be seen. By the time the shirt clears his head, Harry’s already pressing a kiss to the hollow of his throat.

Draco shudders.

His skin is pale in places Harry hadn’t touched before. Lined with faint scars — some new, some impossibly old. But what gets Harry most is the tension.

He can see it now — the way Draco holds himself tight, like he’s used to being seen through the lens of judgment. Like he’s waiting for some reaction.

But it never comes.

Because Harry is only looking. Really looking. The way you do when you’ve been in love for a while, but your hands are finally allowed to catch up.

“You’re so—” Harry swallows. “—fucking beautiful.”

Draco’s breath catches.

Not because he doesn’t believe it.

Because maybe he does — finally.

Draco exhales, then lifts Harry’s shirt without prompting.

There’s no rush. His fingers are steady, tracing as he goes — along the ribs, across the line of Harry’s abdomen, over the faded scar just below his heart. He presses his lips there without thinking.

Harry trembles.

His shirt joins Draco’s on the floor, forgotten.

Now it’s skin to skin. Warmth to warmth.

Draco reaches out, one hand tracing slowly along Harry’s arm, all the way up to his shoulder, then down the slope of his spine. His touch is reverent — more like worship than desire. And when his fingers rest at the waistband of Harry’s pajama bottoms, he doesn’t push.

He waits.

Harry places his hand over Draco’s.

“Together,” he whispers.

Draco nods. “Together.”

They move like a dance — slow, deliberate, each watching the other as layers come off.

Harry helps Draco with his pants first, eyes never leaving his. The fabric slips low over narrow hips, exposing the curve of bone, the indent at the base of his stomach. There’s tension in Draco’s jaw — not shame, but something close. Harry presses his palm there.

“Still with me?”

“More than ever.”

Then Draco returns the touch.

Fingertips at Harry’s waistband. A pause.

Harry nods.

And the fabric slips down.

There’s nothing frantic. No grabbing. No tugging.

Just… unveiling.

Two bodies learning how to say I trust you without sound.

When they’re both bare, neither moves to cover up.

They just sit there, facing each other, letting it settle.

This vulnerability.

This bravery.

This choice.

Draco reaches out first, fingertips ghosting over Harry’s thigh. Harry leans in, lips brushing Draco’s cheek, then his jaw, then lower.

It’s not about sex yet.

It’s about being seen.

It’s about saying, I’m yours, in the quiet between each breath.

They’re still.

Still naked, still facing each other, still wrapped in the soft hush of candlelight and breathless reverence.

But something’s changed.

The air has grown thicker. Warmer. Like it’s folding in around them. Like the walls themselves know what’s coming and have decided to hold it close.

And underneath it all, the bond begins to stir.

Not in the background this time.

Not soft.

It flares — low and golden and slow, unfurling beneath their skin like smoke with weight. Like sunlight through honey. Like want.

Harry is the first to move.

Not suddenly. Not urgently. Just… leaning in.

He kisses Draco with intention this time — deeper than before, slower than need, more deliberate than curiosity. A kiss that speaks instead of asks.

One that says I’m not just ready — I’m choosing this.

Draco melts into it.

Hands on Harry’s thighs. Mouth opening under his. The kiss doesn’t feel rehearsed — it feels lived in. Like something they’ve dreamed about and only now believe they’re allowed to have.

Harry shifts, gently pushing Draco backward until his spine hits the pillows. He hovers above him, elbows braced beside his head, one hand brushing a slow line along Draco’s jaw.

Draco’s breath is coming faster.

His legs part slightly around Harry’s hips, drawing him down into the space that now belongs only to them.

The bond pulses.

Golden. Heavy. Thick.

It floods their lungs, their skin, their ribs — two magics intertwining, not chaotic, not wild. Just… inevitable.

Draco gasps against Harry’s mouth.

“It’s—” he swallows. “It’s everywhere.”

“I know,” Harry breathes. “It’s okay.”

Draco’s hands slide up Harry’s back. One finds his neck. The other tangles in his hair.

“No, I mean—” He breaks off, voice shaking. “I can feel you. Everything. Your fear, your want, your—your love, and it’s so much and—”

He stutters.

His whole body tenses, not in rejection — but in overwhelm.

Harry immediately stills.

The bond shimmers, adjusting — sensing — waiting.

“Do you want to stop?”

“No,” Draco says, fast. Too fast. “I want this. I do. I just—” he closes his eyes. “I need a second.”

Harry kisses his forehead.

Then his temple.

Then rests their foreheads together, whispering,

“Take all the time you need. I’m not going anywhere.”

They lie like that for a minute.

Breathing.

Letting it settle.

Letting the bond cool from a blaze to an ember, but never dim.

Draco opens his eyes again.

They’re glassy.

Not from fear.

From trust.

“Touch me slowly,” he says, voice barely audible.

Harry’s chest tightens.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Of course.”

And then — the touch shifts.

Not teasing now. Not just exploratory.

Devotional.

Harry’s hand trails from Draco’s jaw to his chest, fingertips following the faintest curve of his collarbone, then lower. Over sternum. Over the heartbeat he’d almost lost.

He presses his lips there.

Draco arches into it.

The bond pulls tight.

A slow ache building between them, not demanding more — but promising it’s safe to go there. When they’re ready.

Draco whispers,

“I’ve never let anyone see me like this.”

“You’re not seen,” Harry says, kissing the corner of his mouth. “You’re worshipped.”

And this time, when their bodies shift again — skin to skin, hips brushing, gasps catching in each other’s mouths — Draco doesn’t hesitate.

He leans in.

It starts with silence.

The kind of silence that’s full of permission. Of promise. Of yes.

Harry hovers over Draco now, bodies bare, hearts open, breath catching between kisses. The bond is golden and low, weaving like ribbon under their

skin — not demanding, just present. Like it knows this is the moment they’ve both been waiting for.

Not the heat.

Not the sex.

The surrender.

Draco’s hands run slowly down Harry’s back, pausing at the dip of his spine. His thumbs sweep in careful circles there, like he’s anchoring them both.

He looks up, eyes wide and glassy.

“You don’t have to be perfect,” he whispers.

Harry lets out a shaky breath.

“Neither do you.”

And with that — they move together.

Their mouths meet again, slower this time, deeper. Not hungry, but hungry for each other. Draco sighs into the kiss, tilts his hips just enough for friction to spark between them.

Harry groans — a low, broken sound, forehead dropping to Draco’s shoulder.

“Merlin, you feel—”

“I know,” Draco breathes. “I know.”

Harry presses kisses to every inch of Draco’s skin he can reach — shoulder, neck, sternum, the soft skin just beneath his ribs. He lingers at the fading lines of a scar and kisses it like it matters. Like all of Draco matters.

Draco shudders.

“You make me feel—” He breaks off, hands sliding into Harry’s hair. “Like I’m allowed to want.”

“You are,” Harry says fiercely. “You are.”

Draco’s breath hitched the moment Harry shifted over him — not out of fear, but something softer. Something sacred. His fingers curved along Harry’s jaw, eyes catching in the candlelight, pupils wide and wanting.

Harry kissed him like a promise — deep, warm, tasting of reverence and fear and want. And when he pressed closer, skin on skin, magic sparked between them like the first strike of a match. The bond thrummed golden, gentle, as though giving them its blessing.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” Harry whispered, his voice thick, eyes searching.

Draco didn’t answer with words — just lifted his hips, guiding Harry in with one shaking hand between them. The sound that tore from both of them was raw. Choked. Like something inside had finally cracked open.

It wasn’t fast.

It wasn’t frenzied.

It was slow — achingly so — like time itself had bent for them, folding inward around this one tethered moment.

Harry moved with care, with reverence, every thrust a soft ache drawn deeper into the space they’d carved between their bodies. His hand pressed to

Draco’s chest, feeling the frantic beat beneath his palm — not to hold him down, but to anchor him there. Present. Here.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered again, forehead resting against Draco’s, breath shared.

Draco nodded, gasping into Harry’s mouth as they moved together — hips meeting, falling into a rhythm that wasn’t urgent, but necessary. His hands trembled where they tangled in Harry’s hair, pulling him down, closer, needing him pressed against every inch.

Their bodies spoke in ways they never had with words — in every sigh, in every roll of hips, in every clumsy, desperate kiss that tasted like forever. The bond flared brighter with every motion, like golden silk wrapping tighter around their ribs. Every thrust made Draco shudder, not just with pleasure, but with relief — like he’d been waiting to be found for years.

Harry buried his face in Draco’s neck, gasping against his skin. “Gods, you feel—” He didn’t finish. Didn’t need to. Draco felt it in every movement, every breathless sound that slipped from Harry’s lips.

Draco arched, breath broken, voice cracking as his hands clutched at Harry’s back. “Don’t stop—”

“Never,” Harry rasped. “Not leaving. Not again.”

The words didn’t feel like reassurance.

They felt like truth.

Like magic itself.

The room was glowing now — their bond casting quiet light across the walls, wrapping them in warmth as they moved, slower and slower, closer and closer. The magic inside them was humming like a second heartbeat, one that existed between their ribs, not in them but of them.

And then—

Draco shattered first.

His body tensed, breath catching, eyes squeezed tight as his back arched off the mattress. The sound he made wasn’t a cry — it was a release. A prayer answered in the form of touch.

Harry followed seconds later, buried deep, his voice breaking on Draco’s name like it was something holy. Their magic flared, wrapping around them like a shield, sealing the moment in something too big to name.

And then — stillness.

Not silence.

Stillness.

Their breaths tangled, foreheads pressed together, chests rising and falling in sync as if their hearts had finally remembered the same rhythm. Draco’s hands trembled where they curled around Harry’s shoulders, and Harry didn’t move — not yet.

Because this wasn’t about release.