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The mornings at Malfoy Manor were always oppressively quiet. Draco stood in front of the enormous mirror in the washroom, staring at the purplish bruise of a hickey just below his collarbone, his expression grim.
It was left by Harry last night. Almost every night left one.
Harry was like an tireless beast, repeatedly crushing and reassembling his body and will until Draco no longer had the strength left to cry out.
He tried to recall when everything had spiraled out of control. Perhaps it was the second week of seventh year, that afternoon when he first noticed Potter’s gaze toward him had changed.
At that time, Voldemort had already died under Harry’s Expelliarmus. The wizarding world was immersed in the frenzy of reconstruction and victory. As a Death Eater family member and former Death Eater, Draco should have been sent to Azkaban, but it was Potter—the damned Savior—who testified for him in the courtroom, saying the Malfoys had been coerced, saying Draco had lowered his wand and not killed Dumbledore.
Those words allowed Draco’s father to narrowly escape the Dementor’s Kiss and be sentenced only to house arrest.
Was Draco grateful for this? No. He was merely confused—confused as to why Potter would do such a thing. He had even gone to confront that scarhead about it, and Potter’s answer was: “Because you deserve a second chance, Malfoy.”
How righteous. How hypocritical.
Draco had sneered at the time and walked away.
In the following Hogwarts life, Potter always seemed to appear around Draco. Harry watched him with those direct, burning eyes. Every time Draco met Harry’s gaze, Harry would blush and smile brightly, but Draco saw it as mockery, as provocation.
The Savior who could speak eloquently in front of all the students would actually blush just from making eye contact with him.
This discovery stirred something strange in Draco’s chest. He couldn’t quite name the feeling—something like bubbles continuously rising from the bottom of his ribcage.
“Potter is staring at you again,” Pansy whispered in his ear while leaning on the sofa in the common room, her tone suggestive. “Seriously, Draco, what exactly did you do to him?”
“I didn’t do anything,” Draco replied, flipping through his Potions textbook and deliberately keeping his voice nonchalant. “Maybe he finally realized how ordinary he is and started worshipping pure-blooded wizards.”
Blaise Zabini poked his head up from another sofa, wearing that smile Draco wanted to punch. “Is that so? To me, his eyes look like he’s staring at a chocolate cake.”
“Then he must have a death wish. Potter can be such a dog sometimes. And Blaise, no one would mistake you for mute if you kept quiet.”
“I’m just curious,” Blaise raised his hands in surrender. “How do you plan to handle him? After all, you already have a complete collection system—Thomas Davies from Hufflepuff, Ryan from Ravenclaw, and that Ravenclaw girl who slipped you a love letter in Potions last week. What was her name again?”
“That’s not important,” Draco said indifferently, turning another page.
It wasn’t fair. Draco knew exactly what kind of person he was—he enjoyed the attention, enjoyed people being obsessed with him, enjoyed everyone watching him while he didn’t have to stop for anyone. He embraced Thomas Davies in the Shrieking Shack, walked with Emily Ryan by the Black Lake, flirted with those who sent love letters, and then lost interest after a week. Everyone knew the Malfoy heir was a fickle bastard, yet they still flocked to him.
Because Draco Malfoy was captivating. That was part of why he could still hold his head high with pride after the war.
But Potter shouldn’t be on that list. Potter was his mortal enemy, the person he hated most, the culprit who had confined his father to Malfoy Manor with nowhere to go—yet he was also the saint who had saved the Malfoy family from disaster. Draco should hate him, should continue trading hexes with him, should reflexively sneer whenever he saw Potter’s face.
Not lie awake in his four-poster bed after closing the dormitory door, staring at the canopy and replaying over and over the first genuinely non-hostile thing Potter had said to him in the corridor: “You look good today, Malfoy.”
That was the first real contact without enmity.
Draco had a obsessive pursuer who watched him with a sticky, malicious gaze and frequently cornered him.
He had been blocked in a corner for three days. That seventh-year Hufflepuff boy, Billy Sharpe, was like an inescapable shadow—always “accidentally” running into him at corridor turns, staring at him through bookshelves in the library, sitting across from him at the Slytherin table during dinner, appraising him with a gaze that made Draco’s stomach churn.
“Malfoy,” Sharpe’s voice came from beside his ear, deliberately lowered and cloying, “why are you still here? I thought we agreed to go to the Astronomy Tower tonight.”
Draco ignored him and quickened his pace toward the entrance hall. His heel hit the edge of a stone step and he nearly fell.
“We didn’t agree to anything,” Draco’s voice was tighter than he wanted. “Stay away from me, Sharpe. Otherwise—”
“Otherwise what?” Sharpe stepped closer from behind. He was a head taller than Draco, built like a combination of Crabbe and Goyle. His thick fingers waved in front of Draco’s face. “Call your father? He’s trapped in Malfoy Manor with nowhere to go, poor Mr. Lucius.”
Draco’s lips pressed into a thin line. He couldn’t panic. He couldn’t show weakness. He was a Malfoy, he was—
Sharpe suddenly grabbed his wrist.
That hand clamped around Draco like a vise, dragging him toward the Forbidden Forest. The force was terrifying; Draco stumbled. It was raining outside. His school robe became heavy with water as he was practically hauled forward.
“Let go—!” Draco’s voice sharpened as he desperately tried to yank his hand back. Sharpe’s fingers didn’t budge; instead, they tightened, the joints making a faint cracking sound. Draco reached for his wand with his other hand, but Sharpe was faster—he pinned both of Draco’s wrists with one hand and clamped the other over his mouth.
“Don’t scream,” Sharpe’s hot, damp breath sprayed against his ear. “Do you want everyone to see? The proud little Malfoy heir, being treated like this by me—”
Draco bit his hand.
He bit down hard, teeth sinking into the soft flesh of the palm. The taste of rust spread instantly in his mouth. Sharpe grunted and released him.
Draco seized the moment to stumble backward, his back slamming into the stone wall. He gasped for air, his eyes already red, but he refused to let the tears fall.
He raised his wand.
“Obstructi—”
Sharpe punched his wrist. The wand flew from his grip, bounced twice on the wet stone floor, and rolled into the rain.
Draco’s heart sank to the bottom.
Sharpe advanced another step. There was no anger on his face—only a bone-chilling, inevitable smile. One hand braced against the stone wall above Draco’s head, blocking his only escape route, while the other pinched Draco’s chin, forcing his head up.
“You look pretty when you cry, Malfoy.” Sharpe’s fingers tightened; Draco felt like his jawbone might shatter. “Stop struggling. Save your strength. Later you’ll—”
A red light sliced through the rain, striking Sharpe’s body precisely.
Sharpe fell like a stone, smashing onto the drenched stone slabs and splashing water everywhere.
Draco leaned against the wall, his legs so weak he could barely stand. His heart pounded violently; his ears roared with the rush of his own blood. His vision blurred with black spots from oxygen deprivation and fear. He saw someone running toward him through the rain—black hair, glasses, Gryffindor robes soaked dark red.
Harry Potter.
“Draco!” Potter rushed to him. Rainwater streaked his glasses; his green eyes held a terror Draco had never seen before. His hands landed on Draco’s shoulders, scanning him up and down again and again, as if checking every inch. “Did he touch you? Did he hurt you? Are you bleeding? Whose blood is this?”
Draco opened his mouth but no words came out. His lips trembled. His whole body trembled.
Potter’s expression darkened further. He yanked off his own cloak with rough urgency and wrapped the still-warm fabric around Draco’s shoulders. The inside of the cloak carried Potter’s body heat—damp yet warm—seeping through Draco’s soaked uniform onto his freezing skin.
“Put it on,” Potter’s voice was hoarse. Rain poured down his black hair, dripping from his glasses like tears tracing his face. “You’re soaked.”
Draco clutched the edge of the cloak. He didn’t refuse, but he felt it was charity—just like in the courtroom. His face was deathly pale, his hands still shaking. Red marks from Sharpe’s grip remained on his wrist. As he gripped the warm cloak, his eyes burned.
“Potter,” he finally found his voice, but it didn’t sound like his own—too hoarse, trembling on the verge of breaking.
“Yeah.” Potter didn’t look at him. He bent down to inspect the unconscious Sharpe, nudging the boy’s face aside with his foot to confirm he was out cold. The motion was coldly efficient, brutally decisive in a way that felt foreign to Draco.
“You…”
“Draco,” Potter straightened and turned back to him. The heavy rain drenched them both. Potter’s hair clung to his forehead, revealing the lightning-shaped scar. His green eyes burned unnaturally bright in the downpour, like enchanted flames—scorching and focused, enveloping Draco entirely.
“If anything happens in the future, you can rely on me.”
He stepped closer. So close that Draco could see the raindrops clinging to his eyelashes. Potter’s lips were turning purple from the cold, but his voice was warm, carrying a temperature Draco couldn’t understand—something almost certain.
“I don’t want you getting wet again. I don’t want you scared. I don’t want you lonely.”
Draco’s grip on the cloak tightened.
The rain was loud. The corridor echoed with their ragged breathing and distant thunder. Draco leaned against the stone wall. Potter stood before him. Sharpe lay at their feet like discarded trash. Draco’s heartbeat shifted from fear into something else—something he feared even more, completely uncontrollable, like a bursting flood swallowing him whole.
His tears finally fell.
Potter had appeared at the moment Draco least wanted anyone to see him. Potter had taken off his own cloak and wrapped it around him.
Potter had said, “I don’t want you getting wet again. I don’t want you scared. I don’t want you lonely,” with an expression that carried more weight than any spell.
Potter saw his tears and paused. Then he reached out and gently brushed a tear from Draco’s cheek with his thumb.
“It’s okay now,” Potter’s thumb lingered on his cheekbone, light as a feather. “Draco.”
Draco closed his eyes. He felt as if some immense, irresistible force had pulled him off the ground. It wasn’t falling—it was rising, ascending to a place he had never been, where there was no pain, only tenderness.
Draco thought he might have been unable to resist Harry from the very beginning.
After that, Potter seemed to have flipped a switch. He began appearing around Draco frequently, wearing that serious expression that made Draco deeply uncomfortable. Did Draco want cake? The next day, an exquisitely packaged cake would arrive. Was Draco being chased by Peeves and splashed with ink in the corridor? Harry would rush over and pull him to safety before anyone else could react…
Why is he being so good to me? Draco asked himself night after night, tossing and turning. This wasn’t normal. Potter wasn’t normal. He should avoid him. He should curse him away with the vilest words. He should—
But he didn’t.
“You’ve been spending a lot of time with Potter lately,” Blaise said one evening in the Slytherin common room, watching Draco flip through an old Charms book. There was a hint of concern in his voice.
“Who said that?” Draco didn’t look up. “I just stopped avoiding him like before.”
“You spent two hours alone with him this afternoon.”
“He was teaching me Animagus transformation.”
“You two are mortal enemies. Why would he teach you?”
Draco looked up. A flicker of panic flashed in his grey eyes before he quickly suppressed it. “Maybe because I’m the smartest one.” He paused. “Besides, Potter seems different now. He used to only show off on the Quidditch pitch, but now he has insightful views on magical theory. Did you know his understanding of Transfiguration even surpasses—”
“Merlin,” Blaise interrupted, looking at him with unprecedented seriousness. “You like him.”
“I don’t.”
“You’re defending him. You used to only defend us.”
Draco’s lips pressed into a thin line. He wanted to argue, to list a hundred reasons why Blaise was being ridiculous, but the words stuck in his throat like bitter wormwood he couldn’t swallow.
He didn’t like Potter. He was just slowly, uncontrollably, like a tree uprooted by a storm, being pulled into Potter’s orbit.
This realization terrified him enough to want to run.
But it was already too late.
The rumors started at the Hufflepuff table. Someone claimed they saw Potter and Malfoy kissing outside the Room of Requirement on the eighth floor. Then a Ravenclaw swore they saw them holding hands at the Owlery. All of it was false—Draco and Potter hadn’t kissed, hadn’t held hands, and had barely even walked side by side in the corridors more than a handful of times.
But Potter didn’t deny it.
“Me and Malfoy?” Potter raised an eyebrow in Potions class in front of the entire room, a smile Draco couldn’t decipher on his face. “Take a guess.”
“Potter!” Draco shot to his feet, nearly knocking over his cauldron. “What nonsense are you spouting?”
“I’m not spouting nonsense,” Potter’s gaze swept over him unhurriedly. That look sent a fine layer of goosebumps down Draco’s back. “I’m just letting them guess, Draco. Guessing isn’t the same as fact.”
But what followed exceeded Draco’s imagination. Potter added fuel to the rumors in an almost casual way, like a skilled storyteller feeding a bonfire. He called Draco by his first name in public, chose only Draco as his dueling partner in the Dueling Club, and told a Daily Prophet reporter in an interview that “Draco is a very special person.”
Draco was driven to distraction by these tactics. He publicly denied it more than twenty times—to Pansy, to Blaise, to every concerned face in the Slytherin common room. He even wrote a letter to his mother one night explaining “There is no relationship between me and Potter”—but when his denials reached Harry Potter’s ears, the other boy merely smiled and shook his head, saying in a voice only Draco could hear:
“What are you afraid of, Draco?”
Draco’s heart skipped a beat.
He was afraid of too many things. Afraid that Potter was sincere while he himself was unworthy. Afraid that his own frivolous games would one day backfire. Afraid that admitting any fondness for Potter would mean losing all control—in Malfoy family teachings, surrendering one’s heart was the most fatal weakness.
So Draco did what only a coward would do.
He found a boyfriend.
Theodore Nott.
The Nott family was an ancient pure-blood line, but their involvement in the Death Eater cause hadn’t been as deep as the Malfoys’, and they suffered less backlash after the war. Theodore was different from the others—he never flattered Draco, never tiptoed around trying to read his mind. He simply sat quietly in a corner of the library reading, occasionally nodding at Draco.
Draco started talking to Theodore during a late-night encounter in the library. At first it was only to distract himself from Potter, but Theodore’s calm and rationality brought him a strange sense of peace. Two weeks later, under the starry sky, Theodore asked if he wanted to date officially. Draco agreed.
When he said yes, Potter’s face filled Draco’s mind. He hated himself for being such a bastard, hated himself for using Theodore—that black-haired, quiet, innocent boy who had done nothing wrong except possess eyes that weren’t quite as green.
The news spread faster than Draco expected.
The afternoon Potter found out, his face looked terrible. Draco sat at the Slytherin table and could feel Potter’s gaze like a poisoned blade stabbing at him from the Gryffindor side. He didn’t turn around. Instead, he deliberately leaned closer to Theodore and said loudly enough for others to hear, “Theo, will you accompany me to Hogsmeade later?”
Potter’s glass beaker shattered. Shards cut into his palm; blood dripped through his fingers onto the floor. Yet he seemed to feel nothing, staring fixedly in Draco’s direction.
Professor Slughorn rushed over in panic to treat him. Only then did Potter look away, lowering his head to wipe the blood on his fingers with a tablecloth. In that instant, Draco caught a glimpse of his expression—like magma seeping through cracks, scorching and dangerous.
Draco felt a bone-chilling cold.
That night, Theodore ran out of his dorm, face pale. He only said one thing: “Potter came to see me. He said I should break up with you.”
“Did he threaten you?” Draco grabbed Theodore’s shoulders.
Theodore was silent for a long time, then lowered his head. “He said if I didn’t leave you, he would have the Ministry re-evaluate the Nott family’s position during the war at the next wizarding qualification review. Draco, I have no choice. My parents… I can’t let them suffer because of me—”
“I understand,” Draco released him. His voice was eerily calm. “I’m sorry for dragging you into this, Theodore. I’m sorry.”
Theodore looked at him with a complicated expression, opened his mouth, then closed it. Finally he said softly, “Do you really not know why he did this?”
Draco didn’t answer. He knew. He had known from the beginning. He had only been running, and the end of the road had already been blocked by Potter.
After breaking up with Theodore, Draco locked himself in his dorm for two full days. Not because he was heartbroken—he felt only guilt toward Theodore, not love—but because he finally realized one thing: there was no escape.
On the third day at dusk, when Draco emerged from his dorm, he found Potter sitting on the floor outside the Slytherin common room entrance, a paper bag on his knees, his black hair messy as if he’d been through an explosion.
“This is the treacle tart you like best from Hogsmeade,” Potter stood and handed him the bag, his voice so hoarse it was almost inaudible. “You always had owls deliver it when you went with Pansy and the others. I thought you might… want some.”
Draco looked at the bag, then at Potter. The boy had heavy dark circles under his eyes, cracked lips, as if he hadn’t eaten or slept for days. That pale hand trembled uncontrollably.
“I can’t go to Hogsmeade anymore,” Draco said. “Nott’s parents had their qualifications blocked by the Ministry because of me. The entire pure-blood circle is saying I used Theodore and then dumped him. No one wants to come near me.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” Potter stepped closer. “I did it. All of it.”
Draco’s head snapped up, meeting those green eyes. There was no guilt, no apology in them—only a near-devout, twisted focus. Harry suddenly said, “I did all this for you. Do you see how much I care about you?”
“You’re insane,” Draco’s voice shook.
“Maybe,” Potter said softly.
Then he kissed Draco.
Right at the entrance to the Slytherin common room, in front of everyone passing by, Potter gripped the back of his head with one hand and wrapped an arm around his waist with the other, kissing him fiercely and desperately, as if trying to crush him into his bones. Draco struggled at first, pushing at his chest, kicking his shins, but Potter was far stronger than he imagined.
Draco’s teeth ached from the impact. His lip was bitten open; the taste of rust spread between their mouths. He wanted to cry out in pain, but Potter gave him no chance. The arm around his waist tightened, as if it would snap him in half.
Only when Draco began desperately slapping Potter’s back did Potter finally release him.
“Be with me, Draco,” Potter pressed their foreheads together, breathing ragged. “Stop running.”
Draco should have refused. His reason screamed no. His instincts blared alarms—this person was wrong, his gaze was wrong, his mind was wrong, everything about him was wrong. But Draco’s knees went weak. His lips still carried the sensation of Potter’s teeth. His heart beat too fast, too fast, drowning all the warnings in the roar of blood.
He nodded.
It was the biggest mistake of his life.
The first week together was sweet. Or rather, a carefully crafted illusion. Potter took him to the Astronomy Tower to look at the stars and said his eyes were more beautiful than any of them. Potter read The Quibbler articles about them under the willow by the Black Lake, laughing until he was bent over when he reached “the century’s romance of the wizarding world,” his green eyes curving into crescents. He looked so normal, so wonderful.
Draco let his guard down.
Then cracks began to appear in the second week.
“What did you say to Blaise today?” Potter suddenly put down his fork at dinner on Wednesday, his expression darkening.
Draco was drinking pumpkin juice and paused. “What?”
“Blaise Zabini. You spoke with him alone for at least eleven minutes after Transfiguration.” Potter’s voice was flat, like the sea before a storm. “What did you talk about?”
“First-year Transfiguration tutoring. Blaise is the head of the tutoring group. He asked if I wanted to—”
“You shouldn’t be alone with him.”
“What?”
“I said,” Potter’s gaze pierced into Draco’s pupils like two needles, “you shouldn’t be alone with other men. Especially Blaise Zabini. Everyone knows you used to be close.”
Draco set down his juice and looked at Potter like he was a stranger. “Are you jealous? Blaise and I are just friends.”
“I don’t need you to have friends,” Potter said, his tone as calm as stating the weather. “You only need me.”
That sentence made the hairs on Draco’s back stand on end. He suddenly remembered how last week Pansy had only touched his arm and Potter’s face had turned as terrifying as Voldemort’s. How he had spoken a few words with Michael Corner in the common room, and the next day Michael had mysteriously gotten food poisoning and ended up in the Hospital Wing.
But these were still small cracks, not enough to collapse the dam. The final straw that broke Draco came when he realized he was being followed
That day he went to the Potions storeroom for dried nettle and felt a gaze at the end of the corridor. He whipped around— the corridor was empty. But Draco had grown up in Malfoy Manor; he knew the feeling of being watched. This wasn’t sneaky peeping. It was something darker, like a hunter locking onto prey, merely wrapped in the guise of “concern.”
Every day after that, Draco felt that gaze. On his way to the library, on the way to the washroom, even when he woke in the middle of the night—Potter’s gaze was everywhere, like an invisible net sealing off every escape route.
What was worse was that Potter didn’t even try to hide it.
“Where did you go?” This was Potter’s most frequent question. Every day, every hour, every few minutes—if Draco disappeared from Potter’s sight for more than ten minutes, Potter would appear before him with an expression of “I’m just worried about you,” but his eyes revealed everything.
“I went to the toilet, Potter,” Draco said through gritted teeth. “Do you want to check if I was making out with someone in there?”
Potter didn’t respond to the sarcasm. He simply stood there, staring at Draco silently, as if saying—Why are you speaking to me in that tone?I’ve been so good to you. I’ve done so much for you. How dare you?
Draco began to lose sleep. He lay in bed staring at the canopy, his mind filled with Potter’s increasingly dark green eyes. He thought of how beloved Potter was in public—the smiling, friendly Savior who helped first-years pick up dropped textbooks—and the huge contrast with the silent, tense person who seemed one second away from breaking his wrist when they were alone.
No one would believe him. Draco thought in despair. If he said Harry Potter was a control freak, a paranoid, a—
He couldn’t even finish the thought in his own mind. Because his private diary had mysteriously disappeared from under his pillow for three days and then reappeared untouched. Because one day his wand suddenly stopped obeying him, and when he took it to Ollivander, he was told “someone placed a very subtle tracking charm on it.”
Draco had no proof it was Potter. But he didn’t need proof. He knew.
The final straw fell on a rainy night.
Draco was talking with Gabrielle Davies in the common room—yes, the Hufflepuff girl Blaise had mentioned, but Draco had long stopped flirting with her. They were only discussing their Herbology essay. When Potter pushed open the door, rain dripped from his cloak. His face was pale, lips pressed tight, those green eyes blazing with something eerie.
“Go back to the dorm,” Potter said to Draco, tone brooking no argument.
Gabrielle shrank back in fright. Draco didn’t move. He had had enough—of the constant surveillance, of every breath needing approval.
“I’m talking to someone, Potter.”
“I said, go back to the dorm,” Potter stepped forward. His soaked cloak left a wet trail on the carpet. “Now.”
Gabrielle practically fled from the common room.
“You scared her,” Draco stood, trying to keep his voice steady. “Potter, we need to talk. You’re being—”
“I’m being what?” Potter’s voice suddenly softened into something that made Draco’s blood run cold. “Haven’t I been good to you, Draco?”
“Good to me? You’re stalking me!”
“Stalking?” Potter tilted his head. The motion reminded Draco of something—something dangerous that shouldn’t belong to the Savior
“I’ve told you many times. I’m just concerned about you. This castle is full of dangers. Too many people want to hurt you. You’re too kind, Draco. You can’t see people’s true intentions.”
“I can see them clearly,” Draco’s voice finally trembled. “I see them very clearly right now.”
Potter’s pupils contracted. The fireplace in the common room suddenly crackled loudly. Firelight cast shifting shadows across Potter’s face, making his expression look like both a smile and a sob.
“You can’t see clearly,” Potter whispered. “But it’s okay. I’ll see for you. I’ll always stay with you, Draco. Forever.”
That night, Draco broke up with him.
When he said the words, Potter was reading him notes from Advanced Potion-Making. Potter’s voice cut off as if someone had grabbed his throat. The room fell into a silence so profound it terrified him. Draco could hear his own heartbeat—not relief, but fear.
“What did you say?” Potter put down the book and looked up at him.
“Break up,” Draco repeated, clenching his fists to stop his voice from shaking. “I want to break up with you, Potter. I can’t continue like this. You’re too—”
“Too what?” Potter stood. He was half a head taller than Draco. Looming over him with no expression on his face—that blankness was more frightening than any rage. “Too in love with you? Too concerned about you? Too afraid of losing you?”
“This isn’t love!” Draco finally shouted. “This is control! Possession! It’s—”
“There’s no difference,” Potter interrupted.
In that moment Draco saw something—a deep emptiness rooted in Potter’s bones like tentacles. Those green eyes held no light. None at all. As if something vital inside had shattered, or had never existed.
“You should leave,” Potter turned away, back facing him.
Draco practically fled the room.
He thought it was over. He thought Potter would be angry for a few days, then slowly accept reality under Granger and Weasley’s persuasion and return to his normal Savior path.
He was wrong.
The next evening at dinner, Draco sat at the far end of the Slytherin table, trying to look completely unaffected. Pansy asked worriedly what was wrong. He said lightly, “Nothing, I just broke up with Potter.” Even he thought it sounded fake. Blaise glanced at him from across the table, opened his mouth, then pushed a plate full of chips toward him instead.
Draco pretended to eat. Pretended everything was normal. Pretended he didn’t feel Potter’s gaze burning through the back of his skull from four tables away.
Then Potter came.
He walked through the entire Great Hall under the eyes of all four houses, stopping in front of Draco. In his hand was a cup of water—a perfectly ordinary cup with no markings.
“Drink this,” Potter placed the cup in front of Draco. His voice wasn’t loud, but in the suddenly silent hall every word rang like thunder.
Draco looked up at him. Potter’s face wore an expression he had never seen before—not anger, not sadness, but a strange, almost humble calm, like the final quiet moment before a storm.
Under the cup was a piece of parchment. Draco pulled it out. There was only one line:
“Tonight at 7, Room of Requirement. Come, or don’t. Your choice.”
Draco looked at the words, then at the cup of water. He didn’t know why he drank it. Maybe because his throat was dry from not eating. Maybe because too many eyes were watching. Maybe because the words “your choice” felt like mockery—he had never truly had a choice.
The water was cold, but it burned his throat going down.
He went.
He told himself he didn’t have to go, told himself he could stay in the dorm pretending to sleep, told himself there were countless reasons not to step into that room. But he went anyway. When the door to the Room of Requirement appeared before him, Draco even felt a kind of relief—finally, it would end, no matter how
The sound of the door closing behind him was soft, but Draco felt as if he had heard a death sentence.
The room had no lights. Only the dim glow from the fireplace. Potter stood before it, his black silhouette outlined by the flames like a Rembrandt painting. He heard Draco’s footsteps and turned.
“You came,” he said. His voice was so gentle it raised every hair on Draco’s body.
Draco stood at the doorway and didn’t step forward. “Say what you want to say, Potter.”
Potter said nothing. He took one step, two, three. Draco instinctively retreated, but his back hit the cold wooden door. No escape. Potter stopped right in front of him, lowering his head until their noses nearly touched.
“Why did you leave me?” Potter’s voice seemed to come from very far away.
“I thought we made it very clear,” Draco turned his head away. “You suffocate me, Potter. Your need for control—”
The rest of the words were cut off. Not by Potter’s lips—Potter didn’t kiss him. Potter reached out, two fingers pinching Draco’s chin and forcing his face back so he had to look into his eyes.
Those green eyes were empty.
No—they were too full. Full to the point that only Draco’s reflection remained. Nothing else.
“You suffocate me,” Draco managed to say while his chin was held. “You leave me with no freedom, no privacy, no—”
“Do you need those things?” Potter asked softly.
“Of course I do!”
“Why?” Potter released his chin. His fingers moved upward, brushing over Draco’s cheekbone, the corner of his eye, the stray hair on his forehead. Each touch was light as a feather, yet it made Draco tremble all over. “Isn’t having me enough, Draco? I can give you everything. Everything you need.”
“I don’t need the kind of ‘everything’ you give!” Draco shoved him hard, stumbling back two steps. “Potter, listen to me. You need help. Your state isn’t right. You should go to Granger, to Weasley, to Madam Pomfrey—”
“You left me,” Potter wasn’t listening. He just repeated the words, his voice hoarse. “You left me, Draco. You left me.”
He advanced toward Draco. Slowly. Inexorably, like the tide. Draco’s back hit the door again. The lock clicked shut from the outside.
He knew he couldn’t get out. This realization hit him like a bucket of ice water, bringing terrifying clarity.
“What exactly do you want?” Draco’s voice trembled but he tried to stay calm. “You lock me in here, and then what? Can you keep me here forever?”
Potter stopped half a step away. He lowered his head; black hair fell across half his face, hiding his expression. Then Draco heard a sound he had never heard before—a sound like a young animal whimpering, coming from Harry Potter’s throat.
That sound twisted Draco’s heart. He shouldn’t feel heartache. He should feel fear, disgust, should keep fighting—but that sound was like a dull knife stabbing precisely into the softest part of his chest.
“I just want you to stay by my side,” Potter said.
Draco closed his eyes.
Then Potter moved.
Draco didn’t even see how he did it. The next second he was slammed against the door. Before the dull pain in his back could register, Potter had bitten down on his lip. Not a kiss—a bite. Teeth sank into the soft flesh of his lower lip with enough force to devour him. Draco whimpered in pain and tried to turn his head away, but a hand had already gripped the back of his skull, fingers buried in his blond hair, holding him immobile.
Draco began to struggle. He pushed hard at Potter’s chest, but Potter’s body was like a wall. He kicked Potter’s shins; Potter didn’t even flinch, as if he felt no pain, and instead pinned Draco’s legs more firmly. Draco finally freed one hand to reach for his wand, but Potter was faster—both wrists were seized in a grip like metal. The joints made an agonizing creaking sound.
“It hurts!” Draco finally couldn’t take it. A scream forced its way out through his bleeding lip. “Potter, you’re hurting me— it hurts!”
The hand holding him jerked back as if burned.
Draco gasped for air. His lips were covered in blood. Tears had somehow flooded his face. He slid down a little against the door, looking at Potter—
Potter’s face was full of remorse. Those green eyes that had been feral moments ago suddenly became wet and fragile, like a child who had done something wrong. He reached out to touch Draco’s face. Draco turned away. The hand froze in mid-air, then slowly dropped.
Draco thought he would stop. He thought Potter had finally realized what he was doing, had regained some sanity, had finally—
Then he saw Potter pull something from inside his cloak.
Silver light. A blade.
It was a small knife, silver handle, long and sharp blade. Firelight reflected off it with a chilling gleam.
Draco’s blood froze. “Potter,” his voice sounded like it came from far away. “Potter, put the knife down.”
Potter didn’t. He gripped the handle and pressed the blade against his own neck. The moment the cold metal touched skin, he flinched slightly, but didn’t stop. He pressed harder—
A thin line of blood seeped out, first pink, then bright red. Drop after drop slid down the blade and onto the front of his robe.
“No!” Draco lunged forward and grabbed the hand holding the knife, his voice torn. “What are you doing?! Put it down! Are you crazy?!”
Potter didn’t resist. He let Draco grab his hand, but he didn’t lower the knife. He simply stood there like a tree about to fall, black hair hanging over his eyes, blood flowing down his neck and soaking his collar.
“Why did you leave me?” His voice was so hoarse it was nearly inaudible. Each word seemed squeezed out with all his strength. “Draco, why did you leave me?”
“Put the knife down first!” Draco almost screamed. “We can talk about anything. Just put it down—”
Potter’s hand pressed harder. The blade sank a little deeper. More blood flowed.
Draco’s voice caught in his throat. He looked into Potter’s eyes—those eyes held only him.
Why?
“Draco,” Potter said, the knife steady against his own neck. “Two choices. First, we get back together, like before. Second, you leave me.”
The corner of his mouth curved slightly. It made every pore in Draco’s body scream.
“Then you can guess,” Potter’s voice was light as a breeze, “whether I poisoned the water you drank at dinner.”
Draco’s mind went blank. Then thoughts exploded like bursting water droplets. The cup of water at dinner. He had drunk it without any defense, without even casting a detection charm.
Because Potter had done it in front of everyone, so he felt safe? Or because deep down he still held an inexcusable shred of trust in the Savior who had saved the entire wizarding world?
“What did you say?” Draco’s voice shook. “You poisoned my water?”
“Guess,” Potter repeated, tilting his head to look at him. Blood beads rolled down his neck and dripped onto the floor with soft plops. “Of course, if you choose to leave me, I will slit my own throat with this knife.”
Draco stared into those green eyes, trying to read any confirmation. But they were like two bottomless wells. He couldn’t tell if Potter was telling the truth, and that “not knowing” was the most terrifying part—he had no way to gauge how far this person called the “Savior” had twisted.
But he could be certain of one thing.
The most important lesson Malfoy survival taught him: always choose the option most beneficial to yourself.
“Put the knife down,” Draco said. This time his voice was much calmer. “We’ll get back together.”
Light suddenly returned to Potter’s eyes. He lowered the knife and let it slip from his hand. It clattered to the floor.
He stepped forward. Draco didn’t retreat. Potter cupped Draco’s face with both hands, thumbs wiping away the tear tracks. His touch was gentle, as if handling porcelain
“I knew it,” Potter lowered his head, pressing their foreheads together. His voice carried a satisfaction that made Draco’s skin crawl. “You would come back. You always come back, Draco.”
Draco closed his eyes. He felt Potter’s fingers slowly tracing his eyebrows, nose, cheekbones. That hand was still stained with blood from his neck—warm and sticky, leaving dark red marks on Draco’s skin.
He wanted to vomit.
He should have run the first time Potter looked at him that way. He should have realized—Potter was wrong—when Potter testified for him, gave him his cloak, appeared again and again at his weakest moments.
And Draco Malfoy, who once prided himself on being the smartest Slytherin, had made the stupidest mistake at the most critical moment.
He had let Harry Potter fall in love with him.
And Harry Potter’s love was a maze with no exit.
Draco didn’t want to recall much of what came after.
He didn’t want to recall how Potter would suddenly appear whenever he spoke alone with Pansy, silently questioning with those green eyes: What are you saying that I can’t hear? He didn’t want to recall how Potter would open his family letters after he received them, reading every word his mother wrote in a tone of “I’m just checking for danger.” He didn’t want to recall how Potter had cursed his diary so that every time he wrote something, Potter would reply in the same ink the next day.
He didn’t want to recall how, the first time Potter did that to him, the last thing he said before Draco lost consciousness was “You’re mine, Draco. Always.” He didn’t want to recall waking up the next day covered in marks Potter had left, each one like a brand, while Potter watched his body with the gaze of someone appreciating art. His parents had told him sex was happy, pleasurable—but all he felt was nausea, despair, and pain.
He didn’t want to recall how Potter had pointed a camera at him one night, the flash illuminating his terrified face and naked body, then softly said, “Just a memento, Draco. You’re too beautiful.” Those “mementos” were kept in a pouch inside Potter’s cloak, like Voldemort’s Horcruxes—never to be lost.
He didn’t want to recall these things. But he recalled them every day. Because besides these, there was nothing left in his life.
His friends no longer dared approach him. Pansy only nodded from afar when they passed in the corridor. Blaise lowered his head and pretended not to see him. Even Crabbe and Goyle had learned to automatically avoid him when he appeared. Because they feared the person standing behind him—that black-haired boy with green eyes who smiled and greeted them, but whose gaze always returned to Draco in every unguarded moment.
And that black-haired boy with green eyes was currently reaching around from behind Draco to place a cup of hot tea on the table in front of him.
“You got up a bit early,” Potter’s voice came from above his head. Warm breath brushed his ear. “I thought you would sleep longer.”
Draco didn’t turn around. He sat at the breakfast table in Malfoy Manor—yes, Malfoy Manor; Potter wouldn’t even leave this place alone—staring out at the grey sky. His grey eyes held nothing.
“Were you too tired last night?” Potter sat down beside him. His palm covered Draco’s hand on the table, fingers intertwining, thumb drawing circles on the back of his hand. “I should have been gentler. I’m sorry.”
Draco didn’t answer. All he heard were chains—layer after layer, coil after coil wrapping around his ankles, wrapped in velvet, soaked in his own tears, then locked shut by Potter with the gentlest voice.
Potter lifted his hand, turned it over, and pressed his lips to the palm. Green eyes looked up at Draco, reflecting his image—the boy with a pale face, dark circles, and cracked lips.
Potter smiled.
It was the most beautiful smile Draco had ever seen.
It was also the most terrifying.
“We’ll be together forever, right, Draco?”
Draco looked into those eyes, at their intertwined hands, at the sky outside the window—so vast, so blue, yet he could never walk out again.
He closed his eyes.
“Yes,” he said, his voice as light as a sigh. “Forever.”
For Harry Potter, this was truly the best possible ending. He had obtained everything he pursued. He had used every means, and in the end, he had locked his beloved Draco by his side forever. No one could separate them. No force could destroy this bond. His paranoia, his control, his possessiveness—all the traits that should not belong to the Savior—had ultimately given him the treasure he desired most.
Harry Potter was happy.
And that was enough.
Wasn’t it?