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Chapter Text

Draco could have left him. He should have left him. The bloody idiot was going to get them both killed. All they had to do was find that blasted unicorn. That was all. But of course nothing is ever that simple when you’re doing anything that involves Harry-Bloody-Potter.

“ Would you hurry up!” Potter hisses through his clenched teeth. Draco stumbles forward as they race through the dark underbrush of the Forbidden Forest.

He’s running as fast as he can given that he can hardly see in the dark of the Forrest. Even with the moonlight. The trees are choking it out. The large canopy above them shrouds them in darkness. The reaching fingers of each bare branch seems to be barring down at them. He curiously wonders if the trees will scoop them up and gobble them whole.

“I am going as fast as I can!” He nearly screams back in frustration.

The roaring in his ears has drowned out his own words however. All he can hear is that incredibly disgusting slurping sound and the cackling laughter that followed. The flashes of silvery blood pooling underneath soft, white fur stains the backs of his eyelids as he follows the bumbling Chosen One ahead of him.

“Do you even know where you’re going?” Draco whisper-yells as they crash through another bramble of undergrowth until they’re both pressing against a hollowed out tree.

The night creatures are silent as the two boys pant heavily next to one another. Draco’s robes are torn at the bottom. A slight sneer curls his pink lips at the thought of having to explain to his mother why he will need a new set of robes so late in the school year.

She won’t be pleased. Not that she ever truly is.

“I… no…I…”

“Words, Potter. I know you have them in that thick skull of yours. Use them for Merlin’s sake!” Draco huffs. The cold night air stings his cheeks and his hot breath leaves puffs of white clouds next to Potter.

“I have no idea where we are. I just…,” he gulps for air that’s too cold. Draco understands that feeling. Its though his breath has been stolen as soon as it leaves his chest. Leaving it to feel tight and stinging. “Did you see him? It was like Professor Quirell had… had a monster on the back of his head!”

Draco furrows his brows downward. He hadn’t seen any of that. He hadn’t seen their absolute abysmal Professor of Defense. All he saw was a nose-less monster with silver, metallic blood coating his hardly noticeable lips.

“We need to go back,” Draco puffs out as he tries desperately to catch his own breath.

“Go back? Go back to where Malfoy!” Potter hisses between his teeth. “Back to a school where a teacher is a monster? A monster who drinks unicorn blood? A school filled with people who won’t believe a word we tell them?”

Draco sniffs.

“Exactly, Potter. But it won’t be me they won’t believe, it will be you. And when my father hears about this I am sure Professor Quirell will be booted out of the school faster than a Hippogriff during mating season.”

“You…you believe me?” Harry sputters as he tilts his head upwards to lean against the harsh bark of the tree. Maybe he was too embarrassed to look at him after stuttering out such a question. Draco wasn’t sure. “Your father, King of The Death Eaters, he’s going to do something wonderful like that.”

Draco turns fully to look at Potter. He can hardly make out his profile in the dark. But the unmistakable glint off his too round glasses and the tangle mess of hair has always been easy for Draco to find. He could map out that profile in his dreams. Trace it with just the tiniest bit of memory.

If only things had been different. If only he hadn’t done whatever it was that made Potter not like him. Harry Potter was meant to be his absolute best friend. He dreamt about it his entire life. Looking at the young boy now, Draco’s cheeks sting pink at the memory of the rejection, he tries to stuff it all down.

Just like everything else.

Draco swallows thickly and tries to do his level best to not agree with Potter though. Because agreeing with Potter felt like a betrayal to everything Draco Malfoy knows.

“So what do you suppose we do then? Hide away in this hallowed out tree until the world turns out all better for you?”

The beat of silence between them was answer enough.

Then, out of nowhere, a voice so shrill it makes Draco’s shoulders curl inward, and the fine hairs along the nape of his neck stand on end, trills out from between the trees.

“I really don’t think staying in my tree is the best option for you Moon-Bright.”

Draco can’t help it. He instinctively shifts his body closer to Potters.

“Whose there?” Potter hollers. His Gryffindor bravery taking over as he tugs at Draco’s robe and pulls him behind him.

Looking down Draco can make out the faint line of Potter’s wand. The tip glowing painfully bright in the night as a Lumos is cast wordlessly.

Draco decides now is not the time to think of that. Or how obnoxious it is that even as a firstie Harry-Bloody-Potter could already do wordless magic.

Life can truly be a cruel mistress sometimes.

“I go by many names,” the voice whispers through the tree leaves. “But you, my Storm-Bringer, may call me Drys.”

“My names Harry. Harry Potter,” the boy next to Draco says. All Draco can do is roll his eyes and try not to mock the way he says his name.

And he calls Draco a self important twat.

“I know,” the whispery voice muses as the few remaining tree leaves rustle in the night. “That’s the problem though isn’t it my little storm? Everyone knows who you are. But the real question is; do you?”

“Do I know what?”

Draco scoffs as he tugs on Potters robe sleeve.

“Potter,” he hisses at him. Trying and failing to grab his attention.

The boy just shrugs him off. He has always just shrugged Draco away. Always turning away from him. Ignoring him at every moment. Dismissing him. Rejecting every single thing Draco could ever offer him.

Draco decides he doesn’t have the mental capacity to decipher what that might mean. Not now anyways.

Tonight? When’s he tucked safely back in his dorm room and his roommates aren’t pestering him about his horrifying jaunt through The Forbidden Forest. Then he might lay and stare up at his canopy. Replay every single moment of this moronic adventure with the one person who has ever told him no besides his parents.

The one person he wished more than anything would have told him yes.

“Who you are? Do you know?” The whispering voice echoes around them.

The quiet that follows seems to echo with an even louder ring than the whistling wind. It makes chills run down his spine as that same wind turns it’s attention to Draco.

“Draco Malfoy knows exactly who he is,” the wind titters as if it knew something he did not.

“Of course I do. I am not a block head like Potter,” he tilts his very aristocratic nose up into the air. “My father had me reciting the family line since I was four. I know exactly what it means to be a Malfoy.”

The wind laughed.

It wasn’t a kind laugh. It was a laugh Draco abhorred hearing. It was a laugh that mocked him. It was the laugh adults gave to children who said something amusing.

“You have no idea what being a Malfoy truly means. But you will. One day your name will be the thing that ruins you Moon-Bright. It will tear you down and rip you a part. Until all that’s left is a pretty little shell.”

A tremble runs through Draco’s hands at her words. The words didn’t feel like a jest or a sneer someone would say when he spouted off too proudly about who he is. It was a sad sort of warning that left a hollow pit in his stomach. A warning that tugged at the back of his brain and lodged itself there.

“What do you know?” Draco spits out instead. “My Father—“

The whispery wind cut him off.

“Yesssss,” the wind seems to hiss. “Your Father. He will be the one to watch out for my beautiful Moon-Bright. He will be the one that betrays you. No matter how pure your blood is. No matter how pretty your words or manners. How very traditional those actions are. All that denying you’ll end up doing. It won’t mean anything in the end. Not when he comes to your towering garden gate demanding to be let in. Not when he sees what I already do.”

Draco gulps. His pale throat bobbing as his silver-grey eyes look up into Potters furrowed green ones.

“What does any of this have to do with anything?” Potter demands in that Gryffindor way of his.

“Everything little storm. Because without the moon by your side you surly won’t survive. He’ll hunt you down. He’ll take away everyone you love. Until only you and him are left. Then you’ll be the one who looses. Even when you win. The cost maybe just a bit too much for The Chosen One. The Moon will crumble and the tides will turn. Drowning everyone in its path.”

Draco tugs on Potters sleeve again. This time with enough force to dislodge him and bring their bodies flush together.

“We need to get out of here,” Draco whisper-yells at the younger boy. “The wind or trees or whatever are talking to us. We’ve been dosed or cursed. We’ve gone mad. We need to go back!”

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” Drys teases in a nearly bored tone. “Returning won’t mean anything good for either of you. Maybe not at first. But in the end… well you’ll see. Best to let the storm wash everything clean, if you know what I mean.”

“I don’t. I have no idea what you mean! You’re talking in bloody riddles! I am not in Ravenclaw! So what do you suppose we do then? Run away and join the circus? I won’t go back to The Dursley’s.” Potter shouts. His chest heaving and his shoulders shaking as his quick to wick anger fills him up.

Draco didn’t really know what a circus was. He had an idea since it was mentioned in a book he read once in his families library. Something about muggles wearing ridiculous clothes and a giant tent.

Nevertheless, the way Potter spat the names of the muggle family he was living with (Draco had over heard the Weasley twins talking about them and no, he wasn’t going to even consider thinking about what that may mean), it didn’t seem to be any love lost there.

“No,” the wind hums amused. “Nothing good has ever happened there has it Storm-Bringer?”

Even in the dark Draco can see the angry flush racing up the back of Potters neck.

“No, returning wouldn’t be good for anyone. Only thing to do is go forward. It’s the most logical track.”

Draco’s heart thuds slowly as he grips hard onto Potters wrist just below where he had been clinging to on his robe. The words the spirit spoke cause a prickle of fear to run down Draco’s spine. His hands shake at what the implications of those words might mean for the two lost boys.

The wind picks up then. The branches creaking and swaying from the power of it. A moan of sorts seems to ping all around them as Potter turns to press himself to the front of Draco’s body. As though, through will alone, he can try to shield him from whatever was coming next.

Just like the valiant Gryffindor that he is.

It makes Draco want to gag.

Sadly; all Draco can do is grip Potters robes and clench his eyes shut tight. He focuses on the feeling of the bark against his back and the heavy panting of Potters breath as they cling to one another.

“Forward my beautiful Moon-Bright and strong Storm-Bringer. Go forward towards a future that you can have.”

Then, just as quickly as it began, it stops. The small clearing is silent as the forest reverts back to how it was before the voice, Drys, spoke to them.

“What in the bloody hell—“ Potter half finishes his sentence. Leaving it open-ended as he pants just an inch away from Draco’s face. He can feel the other boys body tremble from the fear of it all. The nice, simple, smell of Hogwarts school soap clinging to him even under the smell of the forest.

Draco doesn’t dare breath it in.

“I don’t know. Like I said poison maybe? Dinner gone bad? That wizard may have thrown a curse at us? Logical things. Normal, understandable things…not, not whatever that was,” Draco closes his eyes as tight as he can before he leans forward.

His forehead unconsciously connects with Potter’s as they both try to calm their racing hearts and uneven breaths.

“We’re lost aren’t we,” Potter mutters out eventually in a voice so low and unsure that it’s gone and made Draco’s heart cinch together in an unfamiliar way.

“It doesn’t matter if we are,” Draco stubbornly declares. “We have magical signatures. We can cast the red fire works charm Hagrid showed us. This is a school. They’ll find us.”

Potter nods as he considers Draco’s words. He is right. This is a school. A big, fancy wizarding school and they wouldn’t let two children as important as Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter go missing for long.

The media would have a field day. Albus Dumbledor would be cast out of the school faster than he could say Lemon Drops. His Father would make sure of it.

“We will be perfectly fine,” Draco reassures him or himself, he isn’t quite sure. All he knows is that things weren’t the same as they were before.

Something had changed.

In the end; it took them quite awhile to pull away from one another. Each boy desperately clinging to the other in some weird sense of comfort. Comfort neither had ever expected to find in the other. Though this wasn’t a normal situation to say the least. Not for the pair of twelve year olds.

“We won’t speak of it,” Draco finally says as they pull apart. “This whole thing. We won’t tell anyone. Not that anyone would believe The Wind told us our cryptic futures.”

“Right,” Potter nods in agreement as he looks off into the direction of where the voice had been. His teeth coming down to worry away at his bottom lip.

“Do you think—“ Potter cuts himself off and shakes his mess of raven hair.

“No,” Draco narrows his eyes. “Hiding in the woods isn’t something a Malfoy can do. I highly doubt it’s something you could do either.”

“But—“

Draco shakes his head this time. The action dislodges his perfectly gelled hair. Was Potter insane? They just can’t give up their lives. Draco’s family has plans for him. Big plans! He couldn’t just abandon them. For what reason anyways? A creepy voice in the trees warned him about some unknown horrors of the future.

Please, the portraits at home gave him more cause for concern than that.

“I am going to check it out,” Potter says with a stiff back and a determined look on his face.

“What!” Draco scrambles after him. “What for? We need to shoot some sparks off and get back to school! We have classes and warm beds waiting for us!”

Potter doesn’t listen. He never listens to Draco. He just clomps his way through the little clearing towards the other side. A bundle of trees marring his path. But Potters thin frame squeezes through and with a loud, put about huff, Draco follows.

“I won’t be left behind so I can be eaten by feral werewolves or whatever giant monsters Hagrid has been keeping in here,” Draco mumbles as he pushes low hanging branches away in an attempt to keep close to Potter.

“Do you hear that?” The boy ahead of him whisper-yells over his shoulder as he picks up the pace.

Draco gulps. The tinkling sound of laughter and music doesn’t bring any good feelings to Draco. He doesn’t need to know what or who might be out here celebrating. Not after a unicorn had been murdered. Not after some creepy wind lady foretold their dooms.

Potter doesn’t seem to get that memo though. He just marches forward. His wand at the ready and his stance low as he creeps forward.

“What do you think you’ll be able to do if it is a monster Potter? We’re first years! We don’t know anything other Lumos for crying out loud!”

“Hush would you? If you’re scared then just stay here until I get back,” the boy challenges.

And It is a challenge. Draco knows it is.

“I am not scared,” he spits back as he pulls his own wand out. “I am just not a bloody pillock who thinks he’s made out of pure Felix Felicis.”

“I have no clue what that even is,” Potter says as he gives him a confused look over his shoulder.

Draco sighs.

“I am gonna die aren’t I? Right here in the middle of The Forbidden Forest. This is where the Malfoy line ends.”

Potter stops and blinks owlishly at Draco before rolling his eyes so hard Draco is absolutely positive they’ll be stuck there forever.

“You’re such a drama queen,” Potter grouses before turning back towards where the sounds are coming from.

They hunker down to stay hidden behind a few rather impressive looking shrubs. A veiled attempt at sleuthing. Though Draco hasn’t ever been one to sneak around forests before. The manor? Absolutely. He knew all the best spots to listen in on his fathers meetings.

But here? In the middle of a dark forest in the middle of the night? Draco would rather be doing anything else.

“I am not dramatic!” Draco furiously defends. “My mother says I am just pragmatic. It’s not my fault I—“

Draco is abruptly cut off when they seem to magically fall through the last bush and land in a heap at the edge of a small village.

A village in the middle of a forest that’s supposed to be only filled with man-eating things and the like.

But this, Draco instantly recognizes, isn’t just any village either. This one is filled with Nuckelavee.

“What. The. Actual. Hufflepuff.” Potter stammers as he looks at the elvish looking people.

Draco gives him a quirked eye at the attempt at slang.

The people before them though are made of long, lean bodies that seem to flow effortlessly as they move about the smallish village. Their bodies are so light and hallow looking as they lift baskets and pour wine into goblets. Their hair a dark black. So black it almost seems to disappear into the night. It is nothing though, not when compared to the glittering paleness of their skin. Like starlight caught in human form. They seem to glow.

A large fire blazes in the center of the town. People of all sizes dance, laugh and drink merrily as soft music plays nearby.

What was shocking to both Draco and Potter was the fact that the elvish-looking people, the Nuckelavee, Draco was sure that’s what they were. Weren’t the only ones in attendance.

Centaurs, half-transformed werewolves, a goblin or two and what looked like a hag even seemed to linger towards the back-end of the party.

It was a mod-podge of dark creatures that Draco had only ever read about in stories. He was both fascinated and terrified.

“We should go,” Draco murmurs as he reaches for Potter’s wrist once again. But the boy pulls away and steps forward.

“Don’t…don’t you feel that?” He asks with a mystified voice.

Draco could feel it. The pull of the dark magic that hung heavy in the air. The sickening sweet scent of power. Its deliciously overwhelming and yet… it felt so much like home.

He feels the hairs on his arm stand on end. His body electrified by the raw power swimming all around them. It envelops them in its warm embrace, not cold, not harsh, but warm.

“It feels so different,” Potter whispers as he reaches forward. As if the magic around them was a physical thing. “It’s not cold or harsh. It’s not blinding.”

Draco nods even though he knew Potter wouldn’t see him. Draco comes from a dark family. A family whose blood is as saturated with this magic as every creature here.

“It’s because it’s dark magic,” Draco finally answers as he moves to stand next to the baffled boy.

Potter’s face twists into a look of unbelievable disgust. Draco is quick to mirror him. His lip curling upward into his trademark sneer.

“Don’t be so high and mighty oh Chosen One. Your purity won’t be ruined. I am sure you’ve only ever heard the horror stories about how only terrible wizards turn out dark. How only those in Slytherin follow in The Dark Lords path.”

One thing Draco has learned since meeting Harry James Potter is that he’s quick to anger just as he’s quick to throw up his righteousness.

“It’s true isn’t it?” He spits folding his arms across his concave chest.

Draco shrugs.

“Yes, but just because something is dark doesn’t mean it’s bad. Look at your precious Hagrid. He’s part dark creature. He’s automatically considered a dark wizard even if he doesn’t practice it. But there are people who are considered light wizards and witches who could be considered just as bad as you’re saying dark wizards are. Just because something has a part of something in it, doesn’t mean all of it is. Just like the scar on your forehead. A dark mark that will forever be tied to you. But the world doesn’t see it as dark. They see it as a symbol of hope.”

“But that’s because I am not a dark wizard! I haven’t hurt anyone!” He nearly screams. Draco’s eye shift to the growing crowd of supernatural creatures who have finally spotted them.

“No, but one day you will. Everyone hurts someone eventually. It’s really quite childish of you to think that you won’t,” Draco huffs as he turns to face the Nuckelavee.

“Hello,” he says to them with a straight back and cool demeanor. A facade he has long ago perfected.

A persona that has been literally beaten into him from the time he could walk.

Don’t let them see any weakness Draco. You’re a Malfoy and Malfoy’s can never be weak.

His fathers cool voice washes over him as he looks at the dark creatures around him.

“We’re lost,” he says honestly. “Can anyone here point us towards Hogwarts?”

A murmur rushes through the crowd. Nuckelavee are ushering children inside twinning cottages that seem to be made from the root system of large, ancient trees than actual building materials. The hag has pressed herself back into the darkness from which she came. The wolves pace the forest edges with agitation. The centaurs look miffed at the two human children before them. Unhappy we’ve interrupted their celebrating.

An older woman moves forward. Her hair is long and winding. It drags along the forest floor and is styled with twists and braids. Pretty stones, in-laid silver cuffs, help keep the heavy mass from her face. But the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth betray her age.

Draco gulps.

Nuckelavee can live thousands of lifetimes. To show age means she older than these woods probably.

Draco forces his fidgety hands to still as he faces her.

She gives them both a careful once over, her moonstone eyes are so pale against her already pale face that they look empty and yet full of so much life all at the same time. A reflection of what the world used to be.

“I see a few of our brothers have come home,” she smiles widely at them. Two rows of sharp teeth gleam brightly at him.

Draco doesn’t dare move.

“I am sorry,” he says a bit confused. “But we aren’t from here. While we are lost—“

He doesn’t get to finish as a team of centaurs burst through the trees and foliage to their left. The leader, a stunningly blue male with white blonde hair, rushes into the camp. Their clattering hooves and wild manes have Draco’s eyes bulging. He hadn’t ever seen a centaur in person. The colony that had once lived in his families park hadn’t resided there in centuries.

“Firenze,” the old nuckelavee says as her eyes slowly move from the two boys before her. The centaur, Firenze, just stares open-mouthed at the two lost human children.

“Firenze,” she calls again. This time catching the centaurs attention.

“It has happened again my lady,” his voice is soothing and holds a softness that spoke of other worlds and much more fantastic dreams.

“Did it live?” The woman sighs as the centaur shakes his head. His white blonde tail flicking in agitation.

“The mongrel escaped. The half human is looking for him. But cannot find him. He is looking for these two as well.”

The old woman’s eyes flick back towards the two boys. The wind whistles and whips around everyone in a strange sort of way. As if acknowledging something neither boy knows anything about.

“How did you come to be here?” The woman says instead as she turns her attention back to the two twelve year old boys.

“You’re gonna think us mad. But the wind, Drys? I think that’s what they called themselves. Told us too…”

Potter trails off as both boys look wide eyed as the small crowd begins to murmur. A few lift their hands upwards towards the sky as if in prayer.

The elder raises her hands to silence the crowd and refocusing her attention to both Draco and Potter.

“Drys is the name of the tree nymph who calls this forest their home. If anything, they were speaking to you through the trees,” the elder Nuckelavee says as she moves closer to them. A small, gentle smile graces her pale lavender lips. “She has guided you to us for a reason. Here you will learn, grow and be safe until it is time.”

A beat of silence stretches as the crowd goes silent. Draco can feel Potter’s eyes on him as they let that sink in.

“We…,” Draco begins before clearing his throat. “We can’t stay. We have responsibilities. People who are probably worried about us. We can’t stay hidden in the woods.”

The elder woman’s eyebrows furrow at his words.

“But this is fate,” she says as if that would solve anything and everything. Draco grits his teeth as he begins to loose his patience. They really can’t stay. No weird tree lady is going to convince him otherwise.

“I don’t—,” he begins again before the woman whirls around to look at the blue centaur.

“Firenze,” she says in a tone very reminiscent of Professor McGonagall. “What do the stars say to you? Is the wood nymph right?”

The centaur peers upward. His Snow White mane stark against his blue body as he reads the stars above. His eyes go blank as words spill from his too human lips:

In the twilight of the broken age,
When stars weep silver and rivers forget their names,
Two shall rise—sons not of blood, but of fate.
One shall bear the howl of the wild storm—
Storm-Bringer, the Knight, valiant and righteous,
His heart a tempest, duty burning bright within him.
The other, Moon-Bright—born beneath feathered skies,
A Dragon veiled in silver light,
Wings of fire and shadow folded close.
Bound beneath the sacred runes of the Nuckelavee,
Whose skin is night and whose hands weave ancient words,
They walk paths shadowed and intertwined,
Linked by the aether-thread no blade can sever.

He pauses then. He face working through a multitude of emotions so clearly shown upon his features. Until his eyes widen and then fall sadly back towards the two young boys before him.

“The fates give two paths, My Lady:”

The Knight, with Dragon by his side, shall be champion—
No nobler cause than a bond that bends storms and fire.
But should the Knight betray the Dragon’s trust,
Victory will come with a ruinous cost:
The Dragon’s wings clipped, pride broken beyond repair,
And no true change shall rise from bitter ruin.
For alone, the Knight is but a man in armor,
And a Dragon scorned is a beast lost to fury’s depths.
Together, beneath the watchful eyes of Eulah,
Whose bracelets hum with spells old as the stars,
They shall learn the language of runes and spirit,
Ink their bond in stone, magic, and breath.
Not for glory. Not for crown.
But for love, reborn—light and storm remade into legend.
Let the stars bear witness,
For the world shall not forget their names—

Draco gulps and his hands sweat as the centaur finishes the prophecy. He knows he’s The Dragon in this story. Just as he was the moon in the crazy ladies prediction not minutes before. A different tale but the same story.

If they don’t work together Draco will be the one who suffers the most.

He will be the one who looses.

He can tell, without even looking at his raven-haired partner that he’s chewing hard on his bottom lip. Trying to determine what the right thing to do is.

But Draco knows. A leopard can’t change his spots anymore than a Dragon can change its nature. They will have to go back.

“Then it’s settled then,” the elder claps her hands together and a faint purple light springs out from between her fingers. “Our brothers are to remain here with us.”

“Wait, no—“ Harry moves to step forward. To stop the woman from doing whatever it is she has in store for the boys.

But it’s too late.

Her magic is raw. A bursting thing that melts and grows all at the same time as it weaves its way around everyone. Lilac vines reach out and criss-cross all around them as it slowly seems to knit itself together. As it grows, so do the vines, intertwining and weaving together to create a beautiful purple mosaic above them.

Until Draco blinks and a lite purple shroud covers the entire village.

Draco gulps again as he realizes that they’re trapped.

“Keeping us here isn’t going to go well for you,” he’s says as he reaches for Harry once again. The idiot is still looking at the formidable magic that now acts like their prison bars.

Draco shakes him a bit and he gives him a wide-eyed look. So full of wonder and awe that it nearly makes Draco give up his stance on leaving.

Potter would do well here. He would be safe. He thinks to himself as the harrowing words ring like funeral bells in his head over and over again.

“I think Moon-Bright you’re entirely wrong on that point,” she turns away from them and with sweeping arms towards the crowd before her saying with an amused hum, “And welcome home.”

Chapter Text

“This is Eulah,” the older woman waves a hand and a girl who looks to be in her early twenties, but Draco was sure was probably closer to 1002, stepped forward.

Her hair is considerably shorter than the elder next to her. It brushes just above her breasts and has tiny braids all throughout her thick mane. Metal looking twigs and leaves are delicately interwoven into the braids. Giving her a wild look.

Her eyes, though not the same shade as her older counterpart, are a bit darker. They still shine bright, but cast a wispy sort of hue across the iris. Her lips are fuller. A dark plumb color that could only be found with the application of a berry lip stain if Draco wasn’t mistaken.

Pansy had stained both their lips with berries once when they were four or five. Having found a wild bush of them on the outskirts of his families gardens.

She was shorter too. Her figure no-less willowy than the rest, though her angles were softer and not nearly as harsh as some of the others.

She looked kind.

“Eulah will help you settle in. She will make sure you have everything you need while you are guests in our home. We are far apart from the human world for a reason younglings. Make sure you respect that.”

She whirled around without giving them a second glance. A few others followed her. But Eulah stayed rooted to the spot until the majority of the villagers had dispersed.

“Right-o,” Eulah spoke as she clapped her hands together. It was then that Draco noticed how dirty they were. Her hands looked as if she had dipped them into ashes. Making her pale skin stand out even further.

“We have a small cruive just towards the back of the village. It’s used for storage mostly. But I am sure you can just move that stuff out. Use what ya need. I’ll show you to it first, then go gather something’s from the others. Like sleep mats and the like.”

Her eyes were wide and so ghostly bright. It made Draco shiver. She looked like a great big water beast waiting to strike them down.

Potter gulped next to him as he reached out to squeeze Draco’s fingers.

Draco didn’t squeeze back.

“We… I think there has been a bit of a mix up?” Potter said in a tone that sounded as if he had asked a question instead of demanding to be heard.

Draco scoffed.

“No,” Eulah replied with a sweet smile. Her pointed teeth hidden behind her full, berry-stained lips. “The Nymph never makes mistakes. You’re here for a reason.”

“But we have homes! Families!” Draco sputters at her. “You can’t hold us prisoner here! Do you have any idea who we are?”

Eulah laughed.

Her laugh sounded like a bird-song. A pretty melody that lured hunters from the trail head to their untimely deaths.

Draco finally squeezed Potters fingers back. Though his was less for reassurance and more as a warning.

“We can not undo what has been done pretty princeling. Once the magic has been set and the intentions brought to life. Only death can undo what has been done or until the time is right.”

Draco swallowed roughly. He felt how raw his throat was. How the bit of liquid dragged its way downward, pulling his spirits along with it.

“How will we be safer here? We don’t even know where here is? You think this is the best thing for us. But you don’t know what’s out there! You don’t know what’s coming for us!” Potter finally snapped. His chest heaved against his robes. A fire burned through him and burned bright through those emerald green eyes of his.

He looked half crazed.

He looked just like Draco always thought he would.

For a moment; Draco thrown back to years before. His little body tucked tightly against the window seat in the small library on the third floor that over looked the side fountain. There he would read the stories of Harry Potter: The Boy Who Lived.

He would be the bravest person. Draco had known. He would be virtuous. He would be righteous. He would stand against everything wrong in this world.

He would stand between him and his parents. And maybe even the albino peacocks that roamed wild on the property.

Harry Potter wouldn’t just be the savior of the wizarding world. He would be Draco’s too.

He shook his head as the distant feelings disappeared. The hope that still clung to his childish heart ached to detach itself from his longest dream.

Maybe it was because Harry Potter was all those things. He just wasn’t them for Draco.

That knowledge had been the hardest one to bear. Never meet your heroes and all that rubbish.

He let out a tired sigh.

Draco maybe a lot of things. But he always knew how the world worked. He knew how to get the things he wanted (for the most part) and he knew that they wouldn’t be going anywhere. At least not tonight.

Tomorrow; after some much needed rest, they would regroup and make a plan. Tonight though? Tonight they needed to rest.

“Potter,” Draco interrupted. Potter was still going strong on his tangent on how this wasn’t right. That he wouldn’t allow them to keep two, twelve year olds prisoner like this.

“Potter!” Draco says again. Finally grabbing the other boys attention.

His wild green eyes burned brightly against the fire that blazed hotly behind Eulah.

“I am tired,” Draco whinged with a put out little sigh. “We can figure this all out in the morning yeah?”

Potter stood stock still as he looked at Draco. His fiery indignation had set color to his face. It gave it a rather healthy glow that had Draco clenching the back of his teeth tightly together.

“Let’s rest for now,” Draco said again with a slower tone. “We will rest and tomorrow we will figure out a better plan.”

Potter seized himself upward as he sucked in a tight breath and thought through what Draco was saying to him.

Harry Potter might be lots of different things. Roguish on the cusp of brutish if he was being honest. But common sense in harried situations wasn’t something he ever seemed to be lacking.

He heard about what had happened during the Halloween feast and he’d seen Potter in the air. He could think quick on his feet when he wanted.

“Alright,” he finally agreed as he pulled away from Draco. His hands went up to pull his robes tighter around him.

Even towards the end of May, it was still a bit too chilly for even Draco, who lived his entire life in a drafty old manor.

“Aye!” Eulah cheered with that same smile that covered her teeth. “Just follow me. We will get you sorted.”

She turned towards where she pointed earlier. Draco looked over at Potter who opened his mouth to speak. But Draco shook his head and followed Eulah.

They could speak once they were safely tucked inside their new abode.

Draco had spent many summers (especially the one before his first year at Hogwarts) studying spells he might learn in his first year. He read everything he could get his hands on in his parent library.

He knew a few spells they wouldn’t learn well into their fourth or fifth years. But he didn’t know if he would be strong enough or could remember the wand work.

He sighed heavily as his tired limbs trudged behind the humming Eulah. Her whole body swayed to the mystery song she hummed as she all but skipped past rows of homes.

Each one held more than one pair of curious eyes that peeked behind curtains and doorways.

It made Draco’s skin itch. When he cast a glance behind him he noticed it was also bothering his unusually silent partner. He hadn’t really expected Potter to follow him silently.Since the moment they met everything with him had been met with a fierce challenge. It almost surprised him.

But he had to admit the evening had been taxing. The night was filled with more adventure than Draco Malfoy ever thought he would truly experience in his lifetime.

No matter how often he would dream about doing otherwise.

At the end of a row of small thatch and beam cottages a small, barely standing shack stood. Draco felt his stomach turn at the sight of it.

The thatch on top hardly existed and the door was hanging precariously on its hinges.

“Absolutely—“

“It’s fine,” Potter interrupted an arm coming to stop whatever was about to come out of Draco’s mouth.

Draco huffed before turning up his nose in obvious disgust. It didn’t matter if they lived the rest of his life on the run, he was a Malfoy and Malfoy’s had standards.

“This is a shack,” Draco said instead.

“Yes,” Eulah grinned. “We don’t die often. So there aren’t any extra cottages open. But I am sure with a wee bit of care and work this old thing would turn into a fitting place to stay in for a bit.”

Draco scoffed again as the elf swung the door open. There was no light inside. But the dirt, cobwebs and whatever else might be lurking was paramount.

He wasn’t even going to acknowledge the smell.

“Do you think we could have some, um basic things?” Potter asked as Draco sucked in a tight breath, as something small, skittered across the dirt worn floor.

“Oh!” Eulah blushed. A blue thing that traveled directly into her cheeks. “Yes, of course! How silly of me. You don’t have a thing. I’ll go ask some of the others to gather you all some stuff up.”

She whipped around to leave before quickly stopping and turning back to them. Her skirts swirling around her calves and the metal trinkets tied about her jostling.

“Why don’t you both start clearing out the junk. Just leave it out front. You can keep whatever you like and then we can see about hauling it out in the morning.”

With a solid, sure nod of her head, she turned to leave. Potter put both hands on his hips as he surveyed the small room.

“This won’t be too bad. Bigger than my room at The Dursley’s,” he murmured to himself.

“Bigger?” Draco scoffed with a sneer. “This isn’t even the size of my wardrobe. Let alone my lavatory! And speaking of which where is the bathroom oh great and mighty Chosen One? Or are we supposed to run naked in the rain once a month and do our business in the woods?”

The snap of Draco’s words were like lashes against Potter as he stood there. His face was the color of raspberries in late spring as he considered what Draco said to him.

“I…I hadn’t thought of that…” he trailed off as the red blush deepens further. He hasn’t realized or considered many things of that nature. Harry Potter has and probably would always just continue to do without.

Not that anyone as self important as Draco Malfoy could ever consider Harry Potter’s home situation. Harry knew it would mean that the sniveling little prat would then have to consider someone besides himself.

And that would never happen.

“Of course not,” Draco huffed as he crossed his arms and looked for anymore scurrying guests. “But next time you decide to launch us head first into something, maybe take a bit and think it through.”

Draco’s eyes moved from a dark corner back to Potter’s embarrassed face. Normally, if they were still back within Hogwarts safe walls, Draco would take this opportunity and run with it. But they weren’t at Hogwarts. They weren’t anywhere known to wizarding kind as far as he knew.

So instead he let out a heavy sigh.

“Well,” Draco said expectantly, “get on with it then.”

“Get on with what?” Potter furrowed his brows in confusion as the heat of embarrassment slowly began to leave him.

“Get to moving this junk out! I am not sleeping in a dirty, trash filled shack tonight. Especially, just because you decided to once again shove your nose into something you didn’t need to know about.”

“What…. This is gonna be your space too! I am not doing it by myself you poncy git! Just because you’re a little princeling who’s never done anything ever doesn’t mean you’re not going to help with all of this.” Harry nearly yelled he was so furious. He honestly didn’t know how Malfoy always did it. He had an unnatural talent at making Harry feel like the smallest, most worthless person in one second and the angriest the next.

Malfoy’s lip curled upward at the accusatory words. He did things on his own just fine! Sure, he had house-elves, but they didn’t practice piano for hours or could speak seven languages! The work he did was different. He was a Malfoy after all and physical labor wasn’t on his lists of to-dos. And if he was being honest with himself, he hoped it never would be.

“I do not care,” Malfoy sniffed as he folded his arm across his bird-like chest. “I am not going to dirty myself by doing manual labor in the middle of the night. I have standards.”

“Standards…” Potter hummed as he placed his hands on his hips. He thought about that long and hard.

Then with a clever twist of his mouth he pulled his wand from his pocket inside his robes and quietly whispered wingardium leviosa at a pile of dirt and what he assumed was dried, crumpled something.

“Yes!” Malfoy replied with his too sharp nose tilted upward and away from Potter. A very reminiscent move of his fathers. “It isn’t even my fault where here. It honestly is all of your fault Potter. Sticking your nose in things that you shouldn’t! I am surprised Dumbledore hasn’t expelled you yet! I mean… a Troll honestly.”

Malfoy was off on a tangent now. His words of indignation growing and refueling his anger all over again.

“Oi! Malfoy!” Potter interrupted before flicking his wand over to the aristocratic boy by the doorway. “Looks like here we’re just the same! Two boys covered in dirt!”

Malfoy’s mouth hung open as bits of dried…whatever it was that had been building up on the floor of the little shack, covered all over him.

“HOW-“ his words cut off as the door behind him opened wide and Eulah stepped in. Her arms full of basics the two boys would need for the night.

Eulah stopped and looked between the two. Her eyes wide at their pink, angry faces and a small turn of her mouth when she saw the young blonde one covered in dirt.

“I see we are settling in quite well,” Eulah laughed lightly in hopes to clear the tension.

“Sorry,” Harry whispered as he immediately scrambled to take the heavy burden from the elf in front of him.

“This isn’t even worth calling a shack. You can’t honestly expect us to sleep here. If my father—“

“I am sure it’ll be fine. Malfoy… he’s just not used to roughing it out like the rest of us,” Harry interrupted before the pompous prat beside him could embarrass them further.

Because Harry knew, kindness only stretched so far, and never long enough. So with a quick swish of his wand he cast a quick cleaning charm. Something that Hermonine had to teach him time and time again when he got jam on his white collard shirt in the mornings.

Then he gently sat the items on the ground before turning to look at the other two people in the room.

Draco’s face was set, as it ever was, in that horrible sneer of his. But Eulah had eyes open wide in wonder.

“Is that a magic stick?” She asked. “I’ve only heard of em before. That when humans lost their connection to natures magic they had to find someway to reconnect to it. So y’all have those magic sticks right?”

Her cheeks turned blue from excitement. The only sign of a blush on her too faire skin. Harry couldn’t help but blush in return. She was stunning in a way that set her far apart from any girl he had ever seen before.

The only one who ever come close to looking as unique as her was Draco. Harry would rather die than admit that out loud. It was always so frustrating to know that Draco was every horrible thing he had hoped to not run into when he first arrived to Hogwarts.

“Yes,” Draco answered with a heavy sigh. “Though I am unsure if that history is actually how it happened. But we call them wands. They’re made from some of the oldest trees and inlaid with magical bits of magical creatures. Mine for example is; ten inches long, made of hawthorn wood, and has a unicorn hair core.“

Eulah hummed again in that pretty little tune of hers.

“We use magical woods to make our binding bracelets,” she said motioning to an enteric looking wooden ring around her wrist. “We choose the wood from a selection at our naming day ceremony. It helps us navigate through life until we find the one in which will bind us together for the rest of our lives. It is said that the pair that matches, the bracelet will sing a song for only the two to hear.”

Her face turned sad as she looked at her bracelets. A dark thing that looked more like a shackle than something that was supposed to be one’s compass.

“Hawthorn is a unique choice,” she continued with a sigh. “ A contradictory wood, it is full of paradoxes as the tree that gave it birth, whose leaves and blossoms heal, and yet whose cut branches smell of death. I would suspect you are a person who has a conflicted heart. A heart that wants to do good things but will eventual cave to the madness of destruction around you if you do not find your binding partner.”

Draco shuffled on his feet at her words. It was very similar to what he was told about his wand at Olivander’s this past summer. A wand that could do great things or bad. A flexible wand.

Draco cleared his throat.

“What ominous insight,” Draco hummed as he clasped his fidgeting fingers together.

Eulah smiled, not catching onto Draco’s sarcastic comment, though Harry definitely did.

“Um…,” Harry cleared his throat. The history of his wand always made him feel uneasy. “Mine’s eleven inches long, made of holly, and has a phoenix feather core.”

Eulah’s eyes sparkled before giving her opinion on the importance of Holly.

“Holly is rare here. We rarely find a holly tree in our midst. But traditionally it’s considered protective, it works most happily for those who might need help overcoming their angry emotions. At the same time, holly also is needed because the owner will be engaged in some dangerous and often spiritual quest. They’ll need all the help they can get. I think currently, only one of our members wears a holly bracelet.”

Harry blushed at her words.

“Well if that doesn’t sound like The Chosen One, I don’t know what does,” Draco quipped.

He let out a tired sigh.

“What about your bracelet?” Harry prompted as he tried to turn the conversation. Eulah blushed a bit bashfully as she held her wrist outward.

A beautiful, wooden bracelet dangled from her slim wrist. It was dark as pitch and covered in weird ruins all over it.

“It’s special you see,” she all but whispered. “The wood is from the mountains to the east of here. My great grandmother brought it back here on one of her travels. Way before we had to hide away in our forests. Before man took the world.”

Both boys stared at it in awe. The bracelet was thick and sturdy. The ruins, carved delicately across the band, look familiar to Draco. Though at the moment he couldn’t place it.

“It’s very unique,” Draco hummed as he continued to inspect it. “Not many people with wands have ebony either.”

“Yes,” she nodded her head. “That is why I haven’t found my match yet they say. My bracelet sings for no one. Not here anyways.”

She continued to fiddle with it. Before shaking off her obvious melancholy to give the two boys a bright smile.

“Ebony; is power, beauty, elegance and protection to anyone it chooses. Ebony I have found carries a loyalty most fierce and never forgotten.”

Draco hummed at her assessment. Wand lore wasn’t something he had ever been particularly keen in. Not that his father would have allowed much time for its study. Not when running an estate like theirs or having a future that would guide the wizarding world was more paramount.

“Well,” the elven woman sighed as she moved towards the door. “I best be off. It’s quite late and I am sure tomorrow things will be quite exciting for you both. I’ll see what I can find from a few of the others.”

Chapter Text

The air inside the shack had grown unbearably close, thick with smoke and something sharper: tension.

Harry slammed a wooden plank onto the floor with more force than necessary. The loud crack echoed off the rough walls.

“You can’t just decide everything yourself, Draco! We’re supposed to be working together, remember?”

Draco’s jaw clenched, and he turned sharply from the hearth. “And you think I’m the one taking control? Maybe if you stopped second-guessing every bloody thing I say, we’d have made progress by now!”

“At least I’m not pretending to know everything,” Harry snapped, fists curling at his sides. “You’re so used to barking orders at everyone—you don’t know how to work with someone. Just a spoiled, rich prat who wouldn’t know a hard days work if it bit him in the arse!”

Draco’s lips twisted into something between a sneer and a grimace. “And you’re used to charging ahead like a noble idiot. Can’t imagine why I wouldn’t want to hand over the reins to Gryffindor’s golden boy. It’s not like those muggles you lived with didn’t treat you like the savior of the world, huh!?! Just let you do whatever you wanted whenever you wanted to didn’t they!”

The words lingered like smoke, hanging in the heavy silence that followed. Neither moved. Neither backed down.

Harry’s gaze dropped to the worn wooden floor. Without thinking, his foot jabbed at a loose plank, sending it clattering free. He exhaled sharply, a flash of something raw and fierce in his eyes.

“Fine, you think you know so much?” He said, voice tight. “Back at the Dursleys… I lived in a cupboard. Not a room—an actual cupboard under the stairs. Dark, cramped, freezing cold in the winter. Blistering hot during the summer. They didn’t see me. Like I was nothing. Like I didn’t matter. A freak that should have died with his parents.”

He swallowed hard, voice dropping to a bitter edge. “And now, out of nowhere, I’m supposed to be some kind of hero. Some great savior. Defeating this Voldemort—someone I didn’t even know existed until I got to Hogwarts. How am I supposed to make sense of any of this? Who am I supposed to trust when all I ever knew was being told I wasn’t worth anything to the people who should’ve cared?”

Draco’s expression darkened, eyes narrowing. “You think your problems are worse?” he snapped, stepping forward. “My parents… they expect nothing less than perfect. If I fail, or even question them, it’s not just cold looks or scolding. It’s punishments. Beatings. Threats to cut me off from everything—the house, the money, the family name. I’m trapped by their rules and their pride. I can’t just walk away like it’s nothing.”

His voice dropped, rougher now. “They want me to be the perfect heir, to follow their path without question. But sometimes I wonder if I’m just a pawn in a game I didn’t ask to play.”

The room fell silent for a moment as the weight of their confessions hung between them.

Outside, the leaves stirred gently in the wind, a soft rustling that felt almost pointed, like the forest itself was listening.

The shack was crude but theirs. Built with whatever had been gathered years ago—logs from fallen trees, rocks warmed by sun and moss, thatched with broad leaves. Nestled deep within the forest where magic swirled unseen but constant, it stood forgotten and hallow.

Harry sat heavily on a roughly hewn stool and wiped sweat from his brow. “This place… It could be something, you know? Not just a hideout. A home.”

Draco didn’t answer right away. Instead, he knelt by the hearth and struck flint against a steel shard, coaxing stubborn sparks onto a tuft of dry moss. “Maybe. But only if we stop trying to burn each other down in the process.”

A beat of quiet. Then Harry’s lips twitched. “That was almost poetic, Malfoy.”

Draco glanced at him, pale brows arched. “Don’t get used to it.”

The truce hung precariously, but it held.

They moved in near-silence for a while, settling into the rhythm of shared labor. Harry cleared the dust-caked corners of the shack, stacking stones for a better made hearth. Draco fashioned a makeshift shelf out of scavenged branches and a bit of old rope, his hawthorn wand guiding the knots with stubborn precision.

Outside, the moon filtered through the thick canopy above, casting shifting patterns across the forest floor. Insects hummed softly. People still murmured about. The world moved slowly here, like it had forgotten humanity, the prophecies, the names carved in stone.

Later, as twilight painted the sky in deep purples and grays, they heard footsteps—light, careful, human.

Harry tensed and reached instinctively for his wand.

But it was only Eulah.

She emerged from behind the barely hanging on door, barefoot as always, her intricate braided hair catching the moonlight. In her arms was a woven basket, cradled like something sacred.

“I brought something,” she said simply, stepping over the threshold.

Draco arched a brow but said nothing. Harry rose to help her.

She set the basket down near the fire. “The others… they wanted to help. These are supplies—what we could spare.”

Inside the basket, bundles of herbs tied with thin vine sat beside dried fruit, flatbread wrapped in cloth, a small sealed jar of what smelled like honey, and a carved wooden box filled with fine bone needles and crystal slivers.

Harry let out a low whistle. “This is… more than we expected.”

“You’ll need it,” Eulah said, her gaze serious but kind. “The forest tests you. The bond you carry will test you more.”

Draco examined one of the crystal shards. “And what do we do with these? Eat them?”

“Sleep with them near the fire,” Eulah answered cryptically. “They listen. They remember. Just like the land.”

Harry glanced at her. “You’re not going to explain, are you?”

She smiled faintly. “You’ll learn more by living it than by hearing me speak.”

Draco crossed his arms, but the usual sarcasm in his voice was dulled. “So we’re the experiment now.”

“No,” Eulah replied gently. “You’re the seed. Whether you take root is up to you.”

And with that, she turned and vanished into the trees, leaving only the scent of herbs and quiet behind.

That night, as the fire flickered low and cast warm light on the new supplies, Harry and Draco sat across from one another, exhaustion etched into their faces. But something had shifted.

A kind of beginning.

Over the next few days, the shack transformed.

They lined the walls with fresh moss and twigs packed with clay. Draco found old cloth in a hollowed log and cleaned it with careful spells, hanging it like a curtain across the only window. Harry made shelves from pine branches and used wildflowers to ward off the musty smell.

Each task brought them closer to something like rhythm. Not friendship—not yet—but understanding. A grudging respect that softened into something more when they weren’t paying attention.

“Where’d you learn to do all of this?” Draco asked as Harry showed him how to weave vines for rope.

Harry shrugged. “Watched the neighbor tie garden fences when I was a kid. Picked things up.”

Draco grunted, fumbling with the knot. “You make it look easy.”

“It’s not,” Harry said with a smile. “But you’re not half bad.”

For once, Draco didn’t argue.

Harry didn’t look up when he spoke next. “I didn’t really have much else to do, back at the Dursley’s. Got good at sneaking into the kitchen without getting caught… sometimes I’d manage to grab a potato or carrot before they noticed.”

Draco snorted, shaking his head. “Sounds miserable.”

“It was.” Harry’s voice was quiet, but there was a trace of something harder beneath it. “But it taught me how to keep going, even when things are crap.”

Draco leaned back against the wall, rubbing a small bruise on his forearm from where he’d caught it on a nail earlier. “Back home, if I don’t do what they want, I get punished. If I try to step out of line, I’m reminded pretty quickly who’s in charge. It’s like living with a storm always ready to blow.”

Harry glanced up, eyes meeting Draco’s. “We both know what it’s like to live trapped—just different kinds of cages.”

Draco’s gaze softened, but his voice remained steady. “Maybe that’s why neither of us knows how to just… let go.”

A silence settled between them, comfortable this time. Harry finally pushed the root aside and stood, stretching his arms overhead. “We should make a bed. I’m not sleeping on the floor again.”

Draco smirked. “You’d better start getting used to roughing it.”

Harry grabbed a bundle of moss and some broad leaves from a corner. “This will do for now. We can build something better tomorrow.”

For once, as they laid beside one another Draco didn’t feel full of indignation. He almost felt resigned to his fate. The more he learned about Harry Potter, the more his mind seemed to twist and turn. He had more questions than answers as he stared at the side of brunettes head. He wouldn’t ever say he was sorry. Malfoy’s didn’t apologize. He hadn’t known about the muggles and how they truly treated him.

That first day, lost in the woods, thinking about how the weasley twin’s had spoken about Potter’s muggle relatives made more sense now. Maybe, they really weren’t that different. Maybe Draco had been dreaming of the wrong things when he was a small child. Maybe the things he had been dreaming about all along weren’t exactly what he thought they were.

With a sigh, he closed his eyes and tried to not think about it. His mind and body were already too exhausted from everything that had been going on the last few days. He knew that the hardest moments came at night.

The silence. The dreams. The memories.

Twice Draco had woken gasping, hands clenched in the rough blanket like claws. Harry would hear him but say nothing, just shift closer to the fire.

Sometimes Harry would sit awake, staring at the ceiling, lost in shadows and the weight of names and expectations.

But the forest held them, quiet and patient.

On the second morning, Harry found a small sprig of lavender placed beside his bedroll.

He didn’t mention it. But he smiled.

On the third day, Eulah returned—not with a basket, but with a bundle of thin books wrapped in cloth.

“These are from before,” she said softly, handing them over. “The time before wands and towers. Before Hogwarts. Liora will want to speak with you later today. To go over this and more with you, now that you’ve had a few days to settle in.”

Draco took them, flipping through pages filled with unfamiliar runes, pressed leaves, sketches of plants and stars. “This… is beautiful.”

Harry peered over his shoulder. “Is this… wandless magic?”

Eulah nodded. “Not all of it works the same way. But much of it still speaks true.”

She stepped back, eyes lingering on them both. “You’re starting to listen. That matters.”

Then she vanished again, leaving only the faintest outline in the leaves.

But Draco knew that these books, they were more than just something to pass the time with. They held the answers he needed to find away out of these woods and back home.

Chapter Text

The village seemed alive with an ancient pulse, a heartbeat beneath the moss-covered roofs and glowing lanterns. Harry and Draco had spent the day moving through its strange paths, eyes wide with wonder and growing unease. Now, as twilight deepened, they found themselves seated beside a crackling fire under the watchful gaze of Liora—the village elder.

Unlike the youthful and ethereal Eulah, who had been tasked to care for them day-to-day, Liora carried the weight of centuries. She had been the first among the villagers to hear the prophecy spoken in the flickering shadows—spoken the same night the boys were brought here, lost and uncertain. It was a burden she bore with quiet resolve, knowing that guiding these two boys through the unknown would be her sacred duty.

Liora’s eyes, sharp and pale as frost, fixed on Harry and Draco with a gentle but unyielding intensity. “The prophecy is no longer just words,” she said, voice steady as the forest’s own rhythm. “It is a path you walk, whether you like it or not. I am here to help you understand it—and to teach you the power you will need.”

Harry glanced at Draco, both sensing the gravity in her tone.

Liora lifted her wrist, revealing a band carved from dark wood, etched with runes that seemed to shimmer in the firelight. “These armbands are not mere ornaments. They are conduits of our oldest magic—magic that requires no wand.”

Draco’s brows knitted. “Wandless magic? I thought that was impossible.”

“A rare art, forgotten by most,” Liora said with a faint smile. “But here, it is the lifeblood of our people. Your armbands will bind you to this power, channeling the strength of the earth, wind, fire, and water.”

Eulah stepped closer, her voice softer but earnest. “It will not be easy. You must learn to feel the magic within you, not control it with a flick of a wand but become one with it.”

Liora nodded. “Tonight, we begin with the basics—awareness. Close your eyes and listen. Feel the forest breathe around you, the hum beneath your skin. That is the first step.”

Harry shut his eyes, breathing deeply. The forest noises—the rustle of leaves, the distant call of an unseen creature—grew sharper, more alive. Draco mirrored him, a flicker of concentration crossing his face.

“Good,” Liora praised. “Magic is language. Not words, but feeling. When you learn its language, your armbands will sing with power.”

The boys opened their eyes to the feeling of a pulsing glow that shifted faintly in time with their heartbeat.

“For the bond to be forged, you will need more than power,” Liora continued. “You will need trust. Respect. And the strength to stand united against the darkness that approaches.”

Draco’s voice was low but firm. “And if we fail?”

“Then the prophecy’s warning comes true. The Dragon’s pride will be broken, and the Knight will stand alone against ruin.”

Harry felt a chill at the thought, but beneath the fear was a growing determination.

Liora’s gaze softened. “Tonight, you begin a journey of discovery—of magic, of yourselves, and of each other. There will be pain. There will be sacrifice. But through it, your bond will be forged—not for glory, not for power, but for a love reborn.”

Eulah stepped forward, handing each boy a small bowl filled with glowing fruit. “Eat. Strength comes from within and without.”

As Harry and Draco ate, the forest seemed to close around them, shadows deepening but no longer threatening. Instead, a strange peace settled over the clearing.

Liora spoke again, her voice dropping to a reverent whisper. “You must know the history of these armbands. Long before wands became the norm, our ancestors forged their magic through these bands of wood—each chosen carefully from the heart of a tree that called to the soul of the bearer.”

She tapped her own armband gently. “Different woods hold different qualities. Ash, known for courage and protection. Willow, for healing and growth. Oak, for strength and endurance. The right wood will find you, and you will know it when it hums against your skin.”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat at the idea of having something so intertwined just for him and him alone.

“But the magic grows stronger still,” Liora continued, “when the wood is inlaid with parts freely given by magical creatures—tokens of trust and sacrifice. Phoenix feathers for renewal, unicorn hair for purity, dragon scales for power.”

Draco’s eyes widened. “Dragon scales? That sounds… dangerous.”

“Only if taken by force,” Liora said firmly. “Here, we honor the creatures, and they lend us their gifts willingly. Each band is also inlaid with with our crystal silvers or Moon Tears. These help you connect your magic to the earth. The bond with the earth and its magic deepens through this sacred exchange. The armband becomes a living thing—part of you, and you part of it. The ruins adjust and are added magically over time. Each one having a special meaning to the wearer.”

Eulah knelt beside them. “Your armbands will not only connect you to the magic of the earth but also to the spirits of these ancient beings. They will guide you when you falter.”

Harry looked down at his bare wrist, suddenly aware of a future he was hopefully to be apart of one day. For it was not just magic—but a whisper of something older, a legacy flowing through him.

Liora’s gaze was steady. “Tomorrow, we will begin your lessons in earnest. Tonight, rest with the knowledge that soon you will carry the strength of the forest—and the trust of the creatures who will freely give you their gifts. Once the binding ceremony begins it can not be stopped. Once the forest has seen you for what you are, you must enter the Whisperwood alone, and return with the branch meant for you. Only the trees know which one is yours.”

“Sounds very poetic,” Draco said, folding his arms. “What if the forest decides we’re not worthy of a stick?”

Liora chuckled. “Then it will give you something worse than a stick. But it will give. The Whisperwood always answers, even if you don’t like the shape of the reply.”

Harry was frowning now. “What happens after we find the branch?”

“You bring it back here. For three nights, you carve it with your own hands. I’ll guide the ritual, help you uncover the runes that belong to you—but the marks must be made by you alone. Then we seek out the crystal that matches your core, and, if you’re lucky, a creature relic will appear.”

Draco blinked. “Relic?”

Liora’s eyes gleamed. “It could be anything. A feather from a creature you’ve dreamed of since childhood. A drop of water caught from moonlight. A sliver of bone from your bloodline. Magic remembers. It knows what you’ve lost and what you’ve kept hidden.”

The air in the cottage thickened. Harry sat up straighter, voice lower now.

“And… the singing?”

For a moment, Liora said nothing. She looked between them, eyes catching firelight like ancient stone.

“If your band sings,” she said quietly, “it means the bond is greater than self. It means the aether-thread has begun to stir.”

Draco’s expression was unreadable. “And if it sings for someone else?”

Liora inhaled slowly. “Then your fate is shared. The song ties two paths together. Not just magic, but spirit. It’s rare. Powerful. And not always kind.”

They were quiet for a long moment, the fire the only sound in the room.

Harry looked toward the window, where frost had begun to creep across the glass in lacework shapes. “When?”

“When the frost touches the crocus roots,” Liora said. “Two moons from now. The forest will call you. You’ll need to be ready with your questions.”

Draco tilted his head. “Why questions?”

Liora smiled, sharp and soft all at once. “Because the forest will ask them back.”The fire crackled as the stars blinked awake overhead. Between them, the boys sat quietly, the weight of the prophecy and their future settling deeper into their bones.

The journey ahead was long, and the bond they would forge would shape more than their own fates.

It would shape the future itself.

Days turned into weeks.

Harry built a table from thick bark and twine. Draco learned to summon sparks of fire using only dry stone and breath, from one of the books Eulha had given them, the spellless flame flickering like starlight.

Draco found he didn’t mind getting dirt under his nails. Harry began to hum while he worked.

They laughed more. Argued less.

One night, while they were lying beside the fire, staring at the rafters, Draco spoke softly.

“Do you think… this could last?”

Harry turned to him. “Do you want it to?”

Draco was quiet for a long time. “I think I’m scared it will.”

Harry reached out, fingers brushing Draco’s.

“Me too.”

On the eve of the new moon, Eulah brought a bundle of feathers and leaves strung with crystals.

“Hang this above the fire,” she said. “It will catch your dreams and show you what must be faced.”

They did as she asked.

That night, they dreamed of wolves and stars, of corridors lined with light, of each other.

And when they woke, tangled in the same blanket, neither pulled away.

It wasn’t perfect. There were still flares of temper, harsh words, silences that stretched too long. But they always returned to the fire. To each other.

Their shack, once a place of survival, became something else. A haven. A home.

And as the leaves began to change and fall golden to the forest floor, Harry turned to Draco one morning and said:

“We built this.”

Draco, holding a steaming mug of pine tea, gave a crooked smile. “Yeah. We did.”

And for the first time in either of their lives, the world felt like something they could choose.

Chapter Text

The forest around the shack was silent save for the crunch of dry leaves beneath their boots, but inside, the tension was anything but quiet. Harry’s hands clenched at his sides, eyes burning with frustration as Draco leaned lazily against a moss-covered tree, his usual smug expression sharpening into something colder.

“I still can’t believe you really think people like your family are… superior,” Harry said, voice low but fierce. “After everything, you still buy into that blood purity nonsense?”

Draco’s lips curled in a sardonic smile. “Nonsense? It’s reality, Potter. The pureblood families built this world. We keep it running. You think mudbloods and half-breeds just got lucky surviving? They owe everything to us.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “Don’t say that word! Owe? They owe nothing! Your family? My family? No one’s owed a damn thing. People are people, Draco. Not titles or bloodlines.”

Draco shoved off the tree, pacing with sharp, precise steps. “You’re naive. The world isn’t fair. Some of us were born with power and privilege. You think I wanted it? You think I asked for my family’s legacy? I hate it. But it’s the truth I have to live with.”

Harry shook his head, anger flaring. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? You accept the truth that keeps you trapped. I don’t care what blood you have. I care about what you choose to do. You act like being born pureblood means you’re better, but all I see is someone scared to break free.”

Draco stopped and looked at him, something raw flickering behind his eyes. “You think it’s that easy? Walk away from everything? From the expectations, from the threats? My family’s power isn’t just about pride—it’s survival. If I step out of line, I lose everything. Maybe even my life.”

Harry’s voice softened, but his gaze stayed fierce. “Then what? You throw away your conscience to keep that ‘power’? Do you want to lose yourself to their darkness, Malfoy?”

Draco scoffed, but it lacked its usual edge. “You sound like some blasted hero from a storybook, Potter. Not everything is black and white.”

“It’s not,” Harry admitted. “But I believe in fighting for what’s right. Even if it’s hard. Even if it means standing alone.”

For a long moment, they stared at each other, the gap between them filled with years of pain, misunderstanding, and unspoken fear.

Finally, Draco broke the silence. “Maybe one day you’ll understand that sometimes, doing the ‘right thing’ means sacrifices you’re not ready to make.”

Harry swallowed hard, the weight of those words settling deep in his chest. “Maybe. But I won’t stop trying.”

Draco’s eyes softened just a fraction, a flicker of something almost like respect passing through. “Neither will I.”

A voice cut through the tension—a young woman stepped into the clearing, her dark eyes bright with curiosity. “You two always sound like you’re about to tear the forest down,” she said with a teasing grin.

Draco’s gaze flicked to her, a flash of recognition. “Nessa,” he said grudgingly.

“And this is Harek,” she added, nodding toward a broad-shouldered man emerging from the trees, bow slung over his back and a knowing twinkle in his eye.

Harry glanced at the man, who gave a nod of greeting. “Thought you could use a guide in these woods. Though Liora’s magic keeps you contained to a small area, that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t learn what you can from where you can go.”

Nessa crossed her arms, eyes locking with Draco’s. “You’re still struggling with wandless magic, aren’t you?”

Draco scowled. “I’m managing.”

“Sure you are,” Nessa teased. “But I’ve got that old spellbook you’ve been eyeing. I can help you unlock it—if you’re ready to learn properly.”

Draco glanced at Harry, who was watching the exchange with interest. Harry hadn’t so much as glanced at the book and seemed to be making strides quickly. He had more magic is his stupid, stubby finger than most people had in their entire bodies. It was infuriating.

“And you,” Nessa said, turning to Harry, “need to learn how to survive out here. Harek’s the best hunter we’ve got. He can teach you how to track, trap, and live off the land.”

Harek gave a slow, approving nod. “The forest’s tricky. It doesn’t give up its secrets easily, but it’s not impossible.”

Harry smiled, grateful. “I’m ready.”

Draco’s smirk returned, sharper than before. “Looks like you both need more help than you thought.”

Harry laughed, the sound breaking the tension. “Maybe. But I’m not giving up on either of us.”

Nessa glanced between them, her smile softer. “Good. Because there’s more to surviving out here than magic or fighting. You need to understand the land—and each other.”

Draco muttered under his breath, “Sounds like a lot of work.”

“Welcome to our world,” Nessa said with a wink.

Draco had first crossed paths with Nessa several weeks ago, when curiosity had drawn him to the edge of the village. Unlike the rest of the villagers, she carried an unmistakable spark—a sharp mind wrapped in a youthful defiance that mirrored his own. She didn’t care for pureblood politics or ancestral pride—she cared only for mastery and knowledge. Over time, those whispered lessons had grown into a tenuous alliance. If she had been a student at Hogwarts, he was sure she would be placed in Ravenclaw.

Draco found Nessa where he usually did—leaning against an ancient oak, her nose buried in that battered spellbook. “Back for more magical mysteries, or did you just get lost?” she teased.

“Funny. I thought I was the expert,” Draco said.

“Expert? You’re barely past fumbling. But I suppose I should be patient with the pureblood prince trying to learn from a nobody village kid.”

“Careful,” Draco warned, though his tone was lighter.

One afternoon, she handed him the spellbook and pointed to a complicated series of gestures. “Try this. It’s a binding charm, no wand. You need focus.”

Draco frowned but complied. At first, nothing happened. “Don’t expect miracles,” she said. “It’s all about patience and focus. Something you’d know if you weren’t so busy thinking you’re better than everyone.”

He gritted his teeth but couldn’t deny the truth in her words. Slowly, their conversations became a mix of snide remarks and genuine guidance.

“You realize your magic’s better when you drop the attitude?” she said one evening.

“I’ll consider that when you stop sounding like a bloody tutor.”

Meanwhile, Harry met Harek by the stream, gutting a fish with practiced ease. “You lost?” Harek asked.

“Not exactly,” Harry said. “Just trying to figure out how to live out here.”

“You don’t look like the type who’d survive long in these woods without help.”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed that about myself. I think that’s why Nessa wanted us to work together.”

“Name’s Harek. Hunter. Tracker. Survived a bite or two.”

“Werewolf bite?” Harry asked as he peered up at the man, three long claw marks raked across his face up into his hair. Harry had seen images of turned wolves in some of the books Hermonie had shared with him their first few weeks at Hogwarts. He had been absolutely enthralled with the fact that werewolves, dragons and unicorn were real.

Harek nodded. “Doesn’t kill you if you’re lucky. Just changes you.”

They shook hands. “I’m Harry.”

“Good to meet you, Harry. The forest isn’t kind.”

Over weeks, Harek would teach Harry how to track, move silently, and respect the land. One night, he handed Harry a worn hunting knife. “Try not to lose this. And don’t go charging after every noise like a madman.”

“No promises.”

“Just remember—respect the forest, and it might respect you back.”

They talked about the bite. “Ever think about what it means?” Harry asked.

“Means I’m still me. Just a different version. That’s life.”

Draco, of course, found the whole ordeal repulsive. “You reek of pine and animal death,” he said one evening.

“Better than whatever potion you’ve been melting down your sleeves.”

“It’s a cleansing balm. And at least I haven’t been rolling in moss with a feral dog.”

“Harek could probably hear that.”

“Let him. I’m sure he’s busy howling at the moon.”

Despite the banter, the truth sat between them. They hadn’t fully forgiven each other, but others had entered their lives—Nessa with her insight, Harek with his guidance, and the forest with its quiet rhythms.

One night by the fire, Harry asked Harek, “You think the forest will give us a second chance too?”

Harek’s eyes glinted. “That depends. You both still carry too much fire. Fire’s good—but it has to be aimed.”

Harry looked down. “I’ll aim it.”

Nearby, Draco whispered a spell that shimmered in the air—drawn not from a wand, but from will. And somewhere in the forest, the old trees listened.

Chapter Text

The air had turned sharper overnight. When Harry stepped outside that morning, frost glazed the wooden porch of their little shack like spun sugar. His breath curled in visible puffs, and the low-hanging sun filtered through the leafless trees, casting long shadows on the brittle earth. Winter was on its way—an ancient, inevitable force in the Highlands.

Inside, Draco was already layering the spare blanket over his shoulders as he stirred the coals in their modest hearth. “This shack was not built for December,” he muttered.

Draco groaned as he poked at the embers of their fire. “Why is it colder inside than it is outside?”

“Because our windows are basically holes,” Harry replied through chattering teeth.

A knock came at the door. Eulah stood wrapped in a cloak the color of stormy seas, her arms laden with rough spun wool, rabbit pelts, and bundles of dyed thread. “You’ll both be dead before Solstice if you don’t learn how to dress for this weather. Time to make yourselves useful.”

Draco blinked at the pile she dumped on the table. “You brought… homework?”

“I brought warmth, boy,” she said with a smirk. “Stitch it right, and you might live to see spring.”

They spent the day learning by firelight, Eulah’s hands deft and quick as she guided them. Harry struggled—his seams were crooked, his thread snapped. Draco, on the other hand, took to it with surprising ease.

“You’ve done this before,” Eulah said, examining Draco’s even, invisible stitches.

He paused. “Not exactly. But… my mother—Narcissa—she was always particular about how things looked. Our house had embroidered linens, monogrammed everything. She didn’t make them herself, of course, but I watched. A lot.”

“She sounds like a queen,” Eulah said gently.

“She was,” Draco murmured, not looking up. “In the way a flower is. Her name—Narcissa—it’s a flower, you know. White, delicate. They bloom even in the cold.”

Eulah smiled. “Then she’d be proud to see you making something beautiful with your hands.”

Draco wasn’t sure about that. Though he loved his mother in that obscure way all children loved their mothers, he wasn’t sure she would be proud of what he was doing now. Sitting here with dark creatures, using his hands to do labor more fit for servants and spending his days with none other than Harry Potter.

Outside, the temperature continued to drop. Snow began to fall just after midday, fine and dry like sifted sugar. Harek arrived as twilight fell, draped in furs and carrying a sack of dried meat and heavy canvas.

“Storm rolling down from the west,” he said, shaking snow from his shoulders. “Won’t hit full until morning, but you’ll want everything sealed tight tonight.”

Harry peeked out the door. “It’s already freezing.”

“This is nothing,” Harek said. “What’s coming could crack pine. You’ll need to trap your body heat. Layers, lads. Not just one thick cloak. Trap air between.”

They worked until fingers stiffened and Eulah forced them to stop. By then, Harry had managed a passable wool tunic, and Draco had sewn fur lining into a long outer cloak. Harek showed them how to lash the seams with sinew for wind protection, then used a thick pine resin to seal the boots Nessa had helped them patch.

By nightfall, the wind had risen, howling low like a distant wolf. They huddled inside as snow beat softly against the walls.

The fire crackled, but it wasn’t enough. Their breath still misted in the air.

“We’re going to freeze,” Harry muttered, pulling the blanket tighter around himself.

Draco eyed him. “You’re shivering. Come here.”

Harry blinked. “What?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Body heat, Potter. Surely even you’ve read a survival book. Unless you want your limbs to go blue?”

Harry hesitated, then shuffled over, blanket still wrapped around his shoulders. They settled awkwardly at first, back-to-back, then slowly shifted until they were shoulder to shoulder. Draco’s cloak—thicker and longer—draped over both of them like a tent.

The silence grew warmer, companionable. The fire popped softly.

“You smell like pine and sheep,” Harry said, muffled against Draco’s arm.

“You smell like wet dog and embarrassment,” Draco replied, but there was no venom in it.

Harry shifted, careful not to break the fragile warmth between them. “You ever think about it?” he asked softly. “Hogwarts.”

Draco was quiet for a moment. “More than I want to admit.”

Harry gave a small, breathy laugh. “Yeah. Me too.”

There was a pause, the kind filled with old memories—echoes of enchanted ceilings, the scent of old books, the clatter of cutlery in the Great Hall.

“I used to hate the holidays,” Harry said. “Back at the Dursleys. But at Hogwarts, I had wanted to stay behind just so I could see the castle in winter. The trees glittering in the Great Hall… everything warm and glowing.”

Draco exhaled slowly. “I would have left for the holidays. Back to the Manor. It was—opulent, cold. I didn’t know I missed Hogwarts until I couldn’t go back.”

He paused. “I miss the noise. The moving staircases. Even the bloody ghosts.”

“Even Peeves?” Harry asked, half-smiling.

Draco chuckled. “Especially Peeves. At least he was honest about being a menace.”

They fell into silence again, lulled by the wind and the hiss of the fire. Then Draco said, more quietly, “Sometimes, I dream I’m back there. In the library. Or walking the corridors at night, pretending I wasn’t hoping to run into you.”

Harry turned to look at him, startled.

Draco blinked. “Not like that. I mean—well. Maybe like that. I don’t know. It was… complicated.”

Harry looked down at the blanket tangled over both their legs. “Yeah. I guess we both made it complicated.”

A longer silence.

“I wonder if we’ll ever go back,” Harry said, voice barely above a whisper.

Draco didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was hoarse with something unspoken. “I don’t know if we’d still belong.”

The words hung in the air like frost.

But Harry turned toward him fully then, eyes catching the glow of the fire. “I think we’re just figuring out who we are. Maybe… maybe we’ll belong somewhere else now. Maybe even here.”

Draco met his gaze. “Here? In a half-frozen shack with a werewolf hunter and a crone who makes us sew our own pants?”

Harry gave a breath of laughter. “It’s not Hogwarts, but… I think I’m starting to like it. Like us.”

Something flickered in Draco’s eyes. “Yeah. Me too.”

A pause.

“…Thanks,” Harry added. “For… this. All of it.”

Draco didn’t answer right away. He reached out instead, pulling the cloak tighter around them, his hand brushing Harry’s briefly.

Outside, the storm whispered across the treetops.

Inside, the two of them stayed close—two boys who had once been enemies, now warming each other by the fire while winter slowly claimed the world beyond.

Harry woke first, tucked beneath the heavy patchwork quilt. The hearth’s embers glowed faint orange, and he could hear the steady drip-drip of melting icicles outside. Beside him, Draco was still asleep, curled toward the heat source that was Harry. Their legs were tangled. He didn’t move.

The light filtering through the crooked window was different—brighter, softer. He slipped from the bed, careful not to disturb Draco, and tugged on one of the wool-lined tunics Nessa had helped them sew just days before.

He opened the door, and the breath was knocked from his lungs.

Snow.

Thick, powdery snow blanketed everything—the trees, the stone path, the thatch roofs of the other cottages barely visible through the white haze. The forest had been transformed overnight into something ethereal and untouched, like a page from a fairy tale.

Behind him, Draco stirred. “Why is it so bright—oh.”

He joined Harry at the door, rubbing his arms. Then he blinked at the landscape. “It’s… beautiful.”

Harry turned to look at him. “Yeah. It is.”

“I meant the snow,” Draco said quickly.

Harry smirked but said nothing.

“Are you going to make us food or what?” Draco asked, bumping his shoulder into Harry’s as he pulled the tunic tighter around him. “You’re the survival expert.”

“I’m the barely-passable-with-a-pan expert.” Harry stepped back inside. “But I’ll try not to kill us with porridge.”

The fire was reignited, and with some flour, dried berries, and an old iron pot, Harry managed to make something loosely resembling a sweetened oat cake. Draco raised an eyebrow but ate it, muttering, “Better than whatever they served in the Great Hall on Tuesdays.”

By the time they finished, the snow had deepened—fluffy and inviting.

“We could just… go out,” Harry said, surprising himself. “Have a walk. Or a snowball fight. You know. If you’re not scared I’ll destroy you.”

Draco narrowed his eyes, slapping the book he had been trying to understand closed. “Please. I’m practically bred for snowball warfare.”

The cold hit like a slap when they stepped outside, but it was crisp, not cruel. Their boots crunched through the powder as they ran. Snowballs flew. Harry took one to the back of the head and retaliated with a barrage of three. Draco slipped and fell dramatically into a drift, laughing, his cheeks flushed.

At some point they collapsed beside each other in the snow, breath fogging, arms stretched wide like they were trying to make angels without meaning to.

Draco turned to him. “We missed a lot, didn’t we? Being kids. Being… like this.”

Harry looked up at the gray-white sky. “Maybe. But we’re getting some of it back now.”

A distant voice called from the trees—Nessa’s. “You two look like idiots! Don’t freeze your arses off!”

They laughed.

Harek appeared beside her, cloak dusted in snow. He gave a gruff nod. “Storm passed, but there’s more coming. You’re lucky this one was just a dusting. Real winter’ll bite.”

Draco called back, “Then teach us how to bite it back!”

Harek chuckled, a deep, wolfish sound. “Aye, that’s the spirit.”

Harry watched their makeshift little world—villagers trudging to check on neighbors, the laughter of children already building snow figures, smoke curling from every chimney.

“Think this could be home?” he asked.

Draco nudged a pile of snow onto his leg. “Maybe. Not like we would have a choice in the matter either way.”

It had happened so fast.

One moment, Draco had been running along the edge of the river, boots crunching over a thin crust of snow. He’d been hiding from Harry as the snowball fight had turned more into a childish game of hide and seek. So he had sprinted to the edge of their boundary set by Liora all those months ago. Right against the rivers edge. Where hard ice had formed across the top of it. He was out of breath, cheeks pink from the stinging of the winter air and a small huff of a laugh left him as he heard Harry yelling out to him in the distance.

He hadn’t been expecting it. He hadn’t even really thought about what he was doing to be honest. He just turned and stepped where he shouldn’t. The ice beneath him cracked with a sound like the earth splitting open.

He hadn’t even had time to scream.

The freezing water swallowed him whole. Panic turned the world into a flurry of bubbles and icy claws that dragged him under. His limbs refused to move properly — every muscle locked up, heart pounding in his ears. He clawed for the surface but couldn’t find which way was up. Just dark and cold and pain.

Then — arms. Rough, strong arms pulling him back into the world.

The cold didn’t stop, but the darkness lifted.

When Draco opened his eyes, coughing and shivering, he was on the snowbank, half-curled over and soaked through, skin blue at the edges. Harek knelt beside him, hair soaked, coat discarded, hands pressed against Draco’s chest, muttering something between a spell and a prayer.

“You alright?” Harek’s voice had broken through the storm. “Draco, look at me.”

Draco blinked. “You—why—”

“You stopped breathing.” Harek’s voice was quiet but firm. “Don’t do that again, not everything is a game.”

Draco didn’t remember much after that. Just warmth against his cheek where Harek had pulled him into his coat, a fire flickering somewhere nearby. The sting of heat returning to his hands. Someone drying his hair with care far more gentle than he expected.

He didn’t speak of it after. Not to Harry. Not to Nessa. Not even to Harek.

But the image stayed with him — Harek, soaked and kneeling, mouth grim with worry, saying nothing of gratitude or repayment. Just steady and there.

Later inside the cottage, it was warm and dim, flickering firelight casting golden patterns on the stone walls. The stew simmering on the hearth smelled faintly of garlic and parsnips, something Nessa had brought over in a basket along with—much to Draco’s surprise—a ball of dark green yarn and a pair of mismatched knitting needles.

“She said we should learn useful winter skills,” Harry said, trying not to laugh at the skeptical look on Draco’s face. “Like not dying of exposure.”

“You think knitting’s going to save your life?” Draco asked, lounging on the bed, lazily flipping through the spell journal Eulah had gifted them.

“It might keep my neck warm. Which is basically the same thing.”

Harry sat cross-legged near the fire and began his attempt at knitting. His tongue poked out slightly as he tried to remember the motions Nessa had shown them. Over, loop, pull through… wait, no. That’s… not right. The yarn snarled almost immediately.

Draco snorted from the bed. “Is it supposed to look like a strangled puffskein?”

“Shut up,” Harry muttered, wrestling with the needles. “It’s abstract.”

“It’s tragic.”

“It’s going to be a scarf,” Harry insisted, tugging at a particularly rebellious loop.

Draco rolled over, resting his chin on his folded arms. “That color reminds me of something.”

Harry glanced down. The dark green yarn shimmered slightly in the firelight. “Reminds me of your mum, actually. Narcissa. Like the stalk of the flower.”

Draco blinked, thrown for a moment. Then, softly: “She always wore green in winter. Said it reminded her that even in the coldest months, something could still grow.”

Harry paused his brutal tangle of yarn, looking over at him. “That’s… kind of beautiful.”

Draco shrugged one shoulder, brushing it off, but his voice was quieter. “She’d hate how I look now. All patched-up and sun-worn. No silk robes or house elves. Just… this.” He gestured vaguely at the rustic room, at the stew, at Harry.

Harry stared at him for a beat. “I think she’d be proud. You’re surviving. You’re learning to live. That’s not nothing.”

Draco met his eyes, something soft passing between them. “She might like the scarf. If you survive finishing it.”

Harry grinned. “You’ll be the first to wear it, if I do.”

“Merlin help me.”

Later, as the storm picked up again outside and the wind howled through the trees, they sat side by side on the bed, wrapped in the quilt, Harry’s “scarf” resting like a limp sea creature between them. Draco finally reached over and began picking out the tangled knots, muttering under his breath about hopeless Gryffindor fingers.

They didn’t need to speak much. The fire crackled. The stew steamed. And somewhere in the quiet rhythm of wool and breath, it felt like the kind of peace neither of them had ever known at Hogwarts.

Maybe the scarf would be hideous. But it would be theirs.

Chapter Text

In the Gryffindor common room, the fire crackled steadily, trying in vain to dispel the heaviness that had taken hold. Hermione Granger sat on the floor, her back resting against a plush armchair, books spread around her in a haphazard semicircle. She wasn’t reading. She was staring into the flames.

“You think they’d let us know if they found anything?” Ron asked from the couch. He hadn’t moved much in hours.

Hermione sighed. “Not unless they had something concrete. The Prophet is already twisting the story. They’d want facts before making it worse.”

Dean Thomas looked up from a chessboard he shared with Seamus. “My mum says the Ministry’s involved. That they’re keeping it quiet so people don’t panic. Two high-profile boys vanish in the middle of the year? Makes the school look weak.”

Seamus scoffed. “Makes Dumbledore look weak. People are saying it everywhere.”

Neville Longbottom, sitting nearby with Trevor perched sleepily on his knee, added quietly, “I dreamed of Harry the other night. He looked… peaceful. Not trapped or scared. Just… far away.”

Hermione’s head snapped toward him. “What kind of dream? Was he trying to say anything?”

Neville shrugged. “Not really. But I remember snow, and pine trees. And something silver flying above him.”

Ron rubbed his eyes. “That’s not helpful, mate. Sorry, but dreams aren’t going to bring him back.”

Hermione frowned. “No. But they’re something.”

A rustle interrupted the heavy air as a copy of the Daily Prophet fell into the common room through the portrait hole. Someone must have fetched it late. Seamus opened it.

“Here it is again—front page: ‘Chosen Vanished: Potter and Malfoy Missing, Feared Dead?’” he read aloud. “They’ve got Rita Skeeter poking around.”

Ron stood abruptly. “I can’t read that tripe again. I’m going to the kitchens. Anyone want anything?”

No one answered.

In the Hogwarts staff room, a soft conversation hummed beneath the ticking of an enchanted wall clock. Minerva McGonagall sat stiffly at the long table, a cup of tea cooling beside her.

“He should have told us if they were in danger,” she said firmly. “Two boys do not disappear without some sign.”

Flitwick offered a gentle, placating gesture. “Albus may have suspected something, but we don’t know the full story.”

“Nor will we,” came Snape’s voice from the corner. He stood with arms folded, half-shadowed, his expression unreadable.

Pomona Sprout tapped her teacup with a spoon. “I’ve added more calming droughts to the greenhouse stock. Some of the younger ones are having trouble sleeping.”

“That’s the least of our problems,” McGonagall muttered.

Snape lingered by a shelf lined with old potion flasks. His gaze fell on a pale green scarf tucked beside a stack of student essays. No one saw the flicker of something—pain, perhaps—cross his face.

Dumbledore had not joined them. He remained in his office, consulting maps and ancient texts. Fawkes had not sung in days.

The next morning in the Great Hall, owls swept in with their usual chaos, dropping letters, packages, and newspapers. A shriek broke out at the Ravenclaw table as a howler exploded in blue flame, shouting a mother’s fury at the school’s lack of protection.

Hermione folded the newest Daily Prophet in front of her. The headline read: “Malfoy: Traitor’s Son or Prisoner of a Darker Plot?” The photograph showed Draco Malfoy at the last Quidditch match, his face tense, eyes darting.

✨ The Daily Prophet ✨
Special Edition – December Issue
 “Wizards Vanished: The Potter-Malfoy Mystery Continues”
 By Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent
HOGWARTS CAST INTO SHADOW AS TWO OF ITS BRIGHTEST VANISH WITHOUT A TRACE
It has been over three months since the inexplicable disappearance of Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, and Draco Malfoy, sole heir of one of Britain’s most influential pure-blood families. As snow blankets the hills of Scotland and students huddle closer in the Great Hall’s warmth, whispers of conspiracy, scandal, and sorrow echo through the wizarding world.
Headmaster Albus Dumbledore has remained tight-lipped, offering only cryptic assurances that “all is being done.” But sources within the school suggest tension is growing.
FAMILIES LEFT IN TURMOIL
At Malfoy Manor, the once-pristine reputation of the household has become as brittle as the frost on its windows.
Lucius Malfoy, emerging from the Ministry last Thursday, gave the following statement:
“If the Headmaster cannot keep his wards secure, then perhaps it is time for others to step in. My son is not to be made a casualty of Potter’s presence.”
Legal pressure on the school is mounting, even as rumors suggest Narcissa Malfoy has taken ill from the stress. A family source whispered, “She’s barely eating. The garden is dead. She just stares out the window…”
On the other side, the Muggle relatives of Harry Potter have offered nothing. One neighbor from Privet Drive claimed, “They said he was trouble. Always was. They were glad when he disappeared.”
HOGWARTS: A SCHOOL IN GRIEF
Inside sources confirm the castle is “quietly panicked.” The Gryffindor common room is dimmer, and the Slytherin dungeons colder than ever. Whispers of ancient pacts and magical anomalies circle like ghosts.
“There’s something wrong with the castle,” one Third Year muttered. “Even the ghosts feel it.”
MINISTRY SAYS ‘STAY CALM’ – PUBLIC SAYS ‘DO MORE’
While Acting Minister Barty Crouch Sr. insists Aurors are searching every corner, critics say efforts are “symbolic at best.” Calls for stronger magical protections and wider search spells have grown louder. Meanwhile, wizarding families clutch their children tighter.
“First it’s Potter. Then Malfoy. Who’s next?” wrote one reader from Cardiff.
As the world speculates, Hogwarts waits.
🕯️ Malfoy Manor

Far from Hogwarts, Malfoy Manor stood quiet beneath a blanket of heavy snow. Its white peacocks had been penned away; even their mournful cries were stilled. Inside, the air was cold in more ways than one.

Lucius Malfoy paced in the drawing room, a half-drained tumbler of firewhisky in hand. His voice was steel as he dictated a letter to the Board of Governors.
“We entrusted Draco to that school. He was meant to be safe. If Albus Dumbledore cannot account for my son’s whereabouts, then the Ministry will.”
He paused only to glance at Narcissa, who sat silently by the frosted window. A vase of wilted narcissus lay untouched beside her. Her hands remained folded, her expression glassy.
“It was snowing that night,” she said softly. “He didn’t have his scarf.”

Hermione sighed as she sat her copy of the Daily Profit down and looked toward the head table. Dumbledore wasn’t there.

None of them noticed the fine layer of frost crawling across the windowpanes.

The manor was so quiet, even the wind outside seemed to hold its breath.

Narcissa sat in the Winter Room, a sun-room lined with glass panes now fogged by frost. Snow clung to the windows like ash, soft and unrelenting. Her favorite garden, once lush with white blooms, lay still beneath the weight of winter. Not even the narcissus flowers had survived the cold.

She had not left this room in two days. 

From the far side of the manor, she could hear the measured fury of Lucius’s voice—each syllable sharp, clipped, weaponized. He was in his study again, pacing, writing letters to the Board, to the Ministry, to anyone who would listen.

“If the boy has been taken—if Potter’s cursed blood has infected his judgment—then it is not only Dumbledore who is to blame,” Lucius hissed, as though the portraits of his ancestors could deliver him a solution. “We should have never allowed this foolish obsession of his to continue.”

A book slammed shut. A decanter shattered.

Narcissa flinched.

She did not get up.

Her fingers tightened slightly around the end of the wool scarf she had been knitting—a faint silver and pale blue, the beginnings of a Slytherin winter piece she had meant to send with Draco after Christmas. He had always been cold, even in the warmest rooms. Her boy.

Her beautiful boy.

“Draco never took his scarf,” she whispered to no one. Her voice was hoarse from lack of use. “He left it on the foot of his bed. He never forgets.”

The house-elf, Tully, approached silently, holding a tray of untouched tea. Narcissa didn’t glance at it.

Lucius’s voice rose again from down the hall.

“I warned them. I warned everyone. And still they let those half breeds and mudbloods into that school, duel together, wander the corridors like they owned the place—like they were something to be watched and feared.”

“Not feared,” Narcissa murmured. “Understood.”

Snow tapped at the windowpane like the ticking of a cursed clock.

She stood, slowly, her movements elegant but hollow, and walked to the glass. She touched it, her fingers pale and thin. Outside, the frost-covered hedges seemed like gravestones, and the sky above was grey with the threat of another storm.

Behind her, Lucius finally stormed into the room.

“Cissy,” he barked, his voice sharp enough to draw blood. “The Prophet is painting us like ghosts. You must speak to someone—say something! We will not be seen as passive victims—”

“I don’t care how they see us,” she said quietly.

Lucius stopped.

“I care where our son is.”

Her eyes did not leave the window. She could almost see Draco there—twelve years old, dragging his school trunk down the garden path, wand clutched too tightly in nervous fingers. She could almost hear his voice, telling her to stop worrying.

“I’ll be fine, Mother. I have to go.”

He had always wanted to prove something to the world. Maybe now he had.

Lucius stood in the center of the room, helpless against her silence.

She finally turned to him.

“I don’t want to fight the school, Lucius,” she said, her voice as cold as the air between them. “I want to find our son.”

And for the first time in weeks, he didn’t have a response.

Chapter Text

The morning winter light filtered through the thick canopy in lazy beams, dappling the snow covered forest floor where Harry and Draco stood side by side. The air was still, but there was an unmistakable tension, like the forest itself was waiting—watching. Somewhere in the distance, a bird called out sharply, breaking the silence.

Harry shifted his pack nervously. “Liora said it’s time, didn’t she? The binding ceremony—the whole armband thing. But how do we even start? I mean, where do we find the right wood? Or the crystals? Or whatever creatures we’re supposed to bond with?”

Draco’s hands were shoved deep in his pockets to combat the cold, and his eyebrows arched in that familiar, skeptical way. “You really expect me to just stumble across some magical tree and a crystal that sings to me? Like it’s that easy?”

Harry smiled faintly. “She made it sound… important. Like it’s a big deal. Coming-of-age stuff, only with ancient magic and all that.”

Draco scoffed, eyes flickering to the tangled forest ahead. “Yeah, well, coming of age sounds a lot like getting dragged through the woods in the middle of winter to pick out some fancy sticks and shiny rocks. I don’t know about you, but I’m not exactly feeling inspired.”

“Maybe the forest picks the wood,” Harry suggested, squinting as he studied the massive oaks and birches towering above. “Liora said the bands are made from the tree that calls to you. Maybe we have to listen.”

Draco snorted. “Great. So now we’re waiting for trees to whisper sweet nothings to us. What next? Singing squirrels?”

Harry laughed. “Don’t give me ideas.”

They started walking, the mossy ground soft beneath their boots. Draco kicked at the piles of snow, his usual impatience barely contained. “So, what about the creatures? We have to pick a guardian, right? Some sort of beast that bonds with the band?”

“Yeah,” Harry replied. “Liora said it’s part of the ceremony. The creature has to match your spirit somehow—like a reflection of who you are inside.”

Draco’s grin twisted. “If that’s true, then my creature’s probably a sarcastic crow with a wicked sense of humor.”

Harry shook his head, amused. “I’m guessing mine’s more like a loyal dog or something boring.”

“Please,” Draco teased. “You’re more complicated than a mutt.”

They moved deeper into the forest, the sunlight growing dappled and shifting with the wind. Harry felt a strange flutter of anticipation despite himself, while Draco’s sharp eyes scanned every shadow, every rustle.

“Whatever happens,” Harry said quietly, “this is our first real step. I don’t know what comes next, but it feels like… something important.”

Draco gave him a sideways glance, a faint smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “Don’t get too sentimental on me, Potter. I’m only doing this because it’s either that or wandering the woods forever.”

Harry met Draco’s gaze steadily. “Together.”

Draco sighed, then shook his head with a smirk. “Yeah, yeah. Together.”

And with that reluctant agreement, they plunged further into the forest—two boys on the edge of a ritual that would change everything. Liora’s magic seemed to flex and fold around them as it let the two boys wander. Never letting them get too far from the village, but still allowing them the space they needed to follow their own magics.

The forest around them was alive with a quiet magic, ancient and unyielding. Light filtered through the high canopy in shimmering waves, dappling the cold ground with  shadow. The air smelled of crisp snow and pine resin, mingled with faint traces of another snow storm brewing on the horizon. Every step Harry and Draco took felt heavier, charged with the weight of the moment. It wasn’t just a walk in the woods — it was a journey toward something sacred, something they both instinctively understood but had never spoken aloud.

Ahead, framed by towering oaks and graceful silver birches, stood two figures waiting patiently in the clearing. Liora’s face was serene, her deep green eyes reflecting the quiet strength of the forest itself. Beside her, a tall man with sharp features and long, white hair streaked with silver and gold regarded them with steady eyes. His presence was commanding yet gentle, like the promise of a coming storm that would renew rather than destroy.

“This is Aldric,” Liora said, her voice a soft murmur that seemed to blend naturally with the rustling leaves. “He is the second eldest among us, my heart-tied, and the channeller who will guide you through the Binding Ceremony.”

Aldric inclined his head in greeting. “Welcome,” he said, his voice low and resonant, carrying an echo of the deep woods themselves. “You stand on sacred ground today, in a place where many before you have forged bonds that shape fate.”

Harry swallowed hard, feeling the gravity of the moment settle like a stone in his chest. Draco’s expression was taut with focus, his dark eyes sharp and unyielding, though his fingers twitched with nervous energy.

“The first step is to select the wood for your armbands,” Aldric explained, motioning toward the towering trees surrounding them. “The forest does not offer what you desire, but what you need. Listen carefully — the right wood will call to you.”

The forest was humming with quiet life as Harry and Draco stepped deeper into the clearing, the weight of the moment pressing on their chests like a heavy cloak. Aldric stood tall and calm, his presence commanding but not overbearing. Beside him, Liora’s serene smile was a gentle anchor amid the swirling emotions.

“So,” Draco drawled, eyeing the towering oaks and silver birches around them, “I suppose we’re expected to get all mystical now and pick our ‘spirit wood’ or whatever. Should I start talking to the trees or just nod meaningfully?”

Harry shot him a sideways glance, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. “Maybe just listen. Aldric said the forest won’t offer what we want, only what we need.”

“Right,” Draco muttered. “Because when I think ‘need,’ I think ‘tree hugger nonsense.’”

Aldric’s dark eyes twinkled with amusement. “The wood will call to you if you quiet your mind. You might be surprised.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Quiet mind? You mean stop mentally yelling ‘This is ridiculous’ every five seconds? Fine, I’ll try.”

Harry stepped forward first, his fingers brushing the smooth bark of a pale ash tree. The tree seemed to shimmer faintly in the sunlight, its bark cool beneath his touch.

“This one,” Harry whispered, eyes closed briefly. “Ash. Strong, balanced, a bridge between worlds.”

Draco, of course, wasn’t going to be outdone. He stalked over to a sturdy yew tree, the dark red bark rough beneath his fingertips.

“Yew,” Draco declared with a smirk. “Endurance and protection, or so the lore says. Basically, the ‘deal with it’ tree.”

Liora chuckled softly. “Both excellent choices. The forest has spoken.”

Draco folded his arms, glaring mock-seriously at Harry. “So, Potter, what? Your tree’s going to magically keep you balanced when you inevitably lose your mind?”

Harry snorted. “Better than your ‘deal with it’ tree turning you into some grumpy guardian hermit.”

“Hey, I’ll have you know I’m a very charming grumpy guardian,” Draco said, feigning offense. “And I don’t lose my mind.”

“Not yet,” Harry teased.

Aldric stepped forward, his voice calm but carrying the weight of something ancient. “Now comes the choosing of your companions — not pets, not symbols. Spirits. Creatures of old magic, drawn to those they find worthy.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “And how do we choose them?”

“You don’t,” Liora said, a flicker of amusement in her voice. “They choose you — if they deem you ready.”

The forest hushed. Snow clung to every branch like held breath. Frost sparkled on moss and bark. The boys stood silent in the clearing as Liora scattered a handful of herbs and crystal flakes into the air. The scent of juniper and myrrh laced the wind.

Then, a low rustle came from the trees.

From the shadows beyond the clearing, a figure emerged — tall, lean, and ghostly pale. A thestral, black wings folded tight, stepped into the fading light. Draco’s breath caught, not in fear but reverence. The thestral stopped before him, lowering its skull-like head.

With a strange tenderness, it shed a single black feather, letting it drift into Draco’s outstretched hand.

Draco whispered, “You’re not what I expected.”

The thestral blinked slowly, then turned and vanished into the woods, leaving nothing behind but the feather in Draco’s hand — delicate, whisper-light, yet charged with silent magic.

“Some say it’s not death you must see, but the shadow it leaves behind,” Liora murmured. “Grief opens the eye as surely as loss does.”

Draco hummed. Thinking of the future he probably no longer had, nor wanted as he turned to look at the green-eyed boy beside him.

A moment later, the trees parted again.

This time, the creature that stepped forward was radiant, golden antlers glinting like starlight. A stag, tall and regal, its eyes intelligent and kind. Harry stood frozen in place, heart racing.

The stag bowed its head low before him, and with a sudden, almost reverent motion, one shed antler dropped to the forest floor. The creature met Harry’s gaze — ancient recognition passed between them — and then it turned and vanished like mist.

Harry knelt and picked up the antler, the weight of it grounding him. “It knew me,” he said quietly.

Liora’s voice was soft. “It always has.”

“The thestral and the stag,” Aldric said, his voice full of meaning. “Death and memory. Light and shadow. You’ve been seen.”

Next, they were led to a stone altar where crystals shimmered in the dying light. Draco reached instinctively for a piece of smoky quartz, dark and protective, thrumming with silent strength. It felt steady — like something that wouldn’t break even when he did.

Harry’s hand drifted to amethyst, glowing faintly violet, cool and clear to the touch. Its magic hummed in his palm like a heartbeat.

“These are your bindings,” Aldric said. “They will be worked into your bands, set beside what was freely given. Not trophies. Not tools. But truths.”

Harry looked down at the shed antler and gleaming amethyst, and something stirred in his chest — awe, fear, gratitude.

Draco turned his feather between his fingers and gave a small, unreadable smile.

Liora stepped beside them. “You carry power now. But it must be shaped. Carved with care. This is the work of truth and will.”

“You pick the crystal that calls to your spirit,” Aldric said.

Draco held up his smoky quartz and raised an eyebrow. “It’s basically my personality in rock form.”

Harry chuckled. “Healing and clarity for me, then.”

With the pieces gathered, Aldric led them back to the center of the clearing, where a fire had been laid out among the stones, the smoke curling skyward in soft spirals.

“Now you carve,” Aldric instructed. “Each rune, each line you inscribe is a part of your truth, your story. Choose carefully. Let your magic guide you.”

Draco grumbled under his breath as he began scraping the rough bark of the yew branch. “If I wanted to spend hours doing arts and crafts, I’d be at home with my mother.”

Harry chuckled, carefully inlaying his stag antler into the ash band, tracing delicate runes that spoke of renewal and growth.

“Not exactly what I expected,” Harry admitted quietly. “But it feels… important.”

Draco snorted. “I expected dragons and fireworks. Instead, it’s sanding wood and talking to trees.”

Aldric’s voice rose in the soft twilight, his chanting weaving through the clearing like a thread of old magic:
“Wood from the living earth,
 Creatures of spirit, breath and birth,
 Crystals born from deep within,
 Bind now the soul’s new skin.
 Sing now, bands of fate entwined,
 Threads of aether, hearts combined.”

The bands began to hum softly in their hands, a vibrating song that filled the silence.

Draco raised an eyebrow. “They’re singing now. Did I miss the part where I became some kind of elf pop star?”

Harry laughed softly, warmth blooming in his chest.

“It’s a good sign,” Aldric said gravely. “A sign that the bands recognize your bond, your strength.”

Draco gave Harry a half-smile, one eyebrow cocked. “So, Potter, what now? We sit around, hold hands, and wait for destiny to come knocking?”

Harry’s eyes shone with quiet resolve. “No. We fight it. Together.”

Draco’s smirk softened into something almost like hope. “Together, then. Even if it means embarrassing crafts and singing bracelets.”

A soft rustle behind them broke the moment as Eulah stepped into view, her arms full of small woven satchels. Her silver-blond hair shimmered in the firelight.

“Embarrassing or not, those bracelets will carry the forest’s breath now,” she said with a wry smile. “Be kind to them. They’ve taken a piece of you—and they’ll give it back when you need it most.”

Draco eyed her. “So they’re like emotional boomerangs?”

Eulah chuckled. “If boomerangs hummed when your feelings were unresolved and refused to leave you alone until you dealt with them—yes.”

Harry laughed, then glanced toward the edge of the clearing, where another figure was stepping from the trees. Harek emerged silently, his broad shoulders draped in a heavy fur cloak, his eyes sharp as a hawk’s.

“They’re ready?” Harek asked Liora and Aldric, his gaze lingering on Harry.

Liora nodded, and Aldric added, “The forest has spoken, and the binding begins now.”

Harek stepped closer to Harry, his voice low but steady. “That band of yours — it’s tied to strength born from stillness. Don’t just wield it as a weapon. Listen to it. Let it warn you before danger finds you.”

Harry straightened, surprised by the quiet weight in Harek’s words. “I will.”

Turning to Draco, Harek’s eyes softened slightly. “And you — thestral boy. Sharp, clever, but remember, clever alone won’t save you. Loyalty will.”

Draco arched an eyebrow. “Is that a threat or a compliment?”

“Consider it a lesson,” Harek replied with a faint smile.

From the edge of the firelight, a younger voice chimed in. “They did well.” Nessa stepped forward, tools tucked under one arm, a streak of charcoal smudged across her nose. “Not a drop of blood spilled on the wood. That’s rare — a good omen.”

Draco smirked. “Great. Now success means not bleeding. I can live with that.”

Nessa grinned. “I sliced my finger on my band. Bled into the elderwood, and now it nags me every time I lie.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “Wait, it knows when you lie?”

“It hums. Loud and clear. Like a scolding aunt,” Nessa said. “You’ll see. Your bands know you better than you expect.”

Eulah moved beside them, placing a warm hand on both boys’ shoulders. “Tonight, you’re no longer just lost boys in the woods. The forest, your magic, and your hearts have chosen you. Let that mean something.”

The fire’s glow softened around them as the embers cracked and the forest held its breath. The bands hummed faintly in their hands — a deep, alive pulse — the promise of ancient magic now woven with their own souls.

Harry flexed his fingers, feeling the gentle vibration ripple like a living thing beneath the wood and crystal.

Draco, not easily impressed, held his yew band close, turning it in his hand, squinting at the runes as if expecting them to start mocking him.

“If this thing really sings,” he muttered, “I hope it knows better tunes than that eerie elven lullaby we just heard. Right now, it sounds like a cat stuck in a haunted attic.”

Harry glanced over, grinning. “Maybe it’s tuning itself to your mood. You know, some kind of anti-snark defense.”

Draco rolled his eyes but said nothing more, his lips twitching in the hint of a smile. Despite himself, he was aware of the quiet power threading through the band — a latent strength he could almost feel weaving through his own magic.

Aldric stepped forward, his voice calm but weighty.

“The next phase is the binding — the joining of your spirit to the band. This is not simply an adornment or a token. It is a living extension of your soul, and it will amplify your magic beyond what you can now imagine. But it requires trust — in the forest, in the magic, and in each other.”

Draco snorted, folding his arms again. “Trust, huh? Sure, I trust you guys. What could possibly go wrong?”

Liora laughed softly, stepping closer with a small wooden bowl cradled in her hands.

“This,” she said, holding it out, “is the essence of the aether-thread. It is spun from the rarest strands of magic — delicate, yet unbreakable. It will bind the wood, crystal, and spirit creature together, weaving them into one.”

Harry peered curiously at the shimmering silver threads swirling inside the bowl. “So it’s like… magic glue?”

Aldric shook his head. “More than glue. It is a living bond. It will sing with the resonance of your heartbeats and your intentions.”

Draco snorted again. “Sounds like a lot of poetic nonsense to me.”

“Maybe,” Aldric replied dryly, “but poetic nonsense has saved more lives than brute force in this forest.”

Harry reached out and took the bowl, feeling the strands gently coil around his fingers like fine silk.

“So how do we do this?”

“You each place your band over your forearm,” Liora said, “and the channeller will guide the aether-thread through the bands, sealing the bond.”

Aldric moved behind them, his hands glowing faintly with a pale blue light. He began to chant in the ancient tongue, the syllables flowing like water and fire all at once.

Draco shifted uncomfortably but held his arm steady, watching the strands of aether-thread begin to lift from the bowl and spiral around the bands. The wood glowed faintly, the crystal inlays shimmering brighter.

“Feels like your horrible knitting nightmare,” Draco muttered, voice low.

Harry smirked. “Maybe that’s why it’s so powerful.”

The thread wrapped tightly, humming louder now, pulsing with a rhythm that matched their heartbeats.

Suddenly, the bands sang—clear, vibrant tones that rose and fell like a duet. Draco glanced sideways at Harry, surprise flickering behind his guarded expression.

“Okay,” Draco said quietly, “that’s actually kind of impressive.”

Harry’s smile was genuine now. “You’re not bad at this, you know.”

Draco scoffed. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Aldric’s chanting slowed, and the glow around the bands settled into a warm, steady light.

“The binding is complete,” Aldric announced. “Your bands and spirits are now joined by the aether-thread. This bond will guide you, protect you, and grow with you.”

Liora stepped forward, placing a hand gently on Harry’s shoulder. “Remember, the bond is not just power. It is connection — to the forest, to your creatures, and to each other.”

Draco glanced at Harry again, that usual scowl softening.

“Looks like we’re stuck with each other,” Draco muttered, half under his breath.

Harry laughed quietly. “Looks like it.”

As the sun dipped below the trees, the bands glowed faintly in the twilight — not just wood and crystal, but living magic, humming with promise, challenge, and an unspoken pact.

The firelight flickered softly against the rough wood of the shack as Harry and Draco settled onto the floor, their newly bound armbands warm and humming faintly around their forearms. Outside, the forest murmured its quiet song, branches rustling gently in the cold night.

Draco stretched one arm, flexing his fingers like testing a stiff joint. “I swear, if this thing starts singing in the middle of the night, I’m blaming you.”

Harry chuckled, rubbing his own wrist. “You’ll get used to it. Maybe it’ll even lull you to sleep.”

Draco snorted. “More like a warning to stay out of my room.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of the day settling in—a mixture of exhaustion and something harder to name. The ceremony had been intense, ancient, and oddly personal. More than the ritual itself, it was the realization that they were no longer just two boys forced together by circumstance—they were bound by something deeper.

Liora’s words echoed in Harry’s mind: The bond is not just power. It is connection — to the forest, to your creatures, and to each other.

Draco broke the quiet. “You feeling any different?”

Harry flexed his fingers again, closing his eyes briefly. “Yeah. Like there’s something just beneath the surface, waiting.”

Draco snorted, but his eyes were serious. “Same. Like this forest isn’t just trees anymore.”

A faint glow pulsed softly from their bands, synchronized and steady, as if the forest itself breathed through the wood and crystal.

“You think this means we’re really ready?” Harry asked, voice low.

Draco shrugged. “If being ‘ready’ means surviving your endless snark and my charming company, then sure.”

Harry smiled, the warmth in his chest growing. “Guess we’ve got to learn how to work with this… and with each other.”

Draco’s usual sneer softened into something like a smile. “Don’t get used to it.”

Harry laughed softly. “One day at a time.”

The night deepened around them, but inside the shack, beneath the humming bands and the crackling fire, a new chapter had begun. One forged in ancient magic, shared struggle, and the fragile hope that together, they could face whatever the forest—and their future—had in store

Chapter Text

It began with voices outside the cabin.

“—candles for each window, and holly in the doorframe—”

“—don’t forget the honey cakes! Last year’s were dry as kindling—”

“—can’t have Yule without gifts, even little ones. That’s not the point, but it matters.”

The wind carried the villagers’ chatter through the cracks in the wooden walls like smoke—soft, warm, familiar. Harry sat by the fire, pretending not to listen. He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. The windows were frosted, the hearth low, and outside the world moved on with its traditions and laughter, as if everyone knew exactly what to do when winter came.

Inside, the cabin was still. The boys had just returned from the bonding ceremony the night before, and something had shifted between them—not in a bad way, just… deeper. Quieter.

Harry sat with his legs tucked under him, mending a patch in one of his jumpers. Across the room, Draco was curled in the only proper chair, a book open in his lap, but his eyes weren’t moving across the page. They’d been sitting like that for a while, firelight flickering between them like a shared heartbeat.

Harry broke the silence first. “Sounds like they’re planning something.”

Draco didn’t look up. “The Yule festival, probably. Solstice is in a few days.” He flipped a page he hadn’t read. “Big deal in the old traditions.”

“Makes sense,” Harry said, his voice softer than usual. “It’s the darkest night.”

There was a long pause, during which the logs shifted in the hearth with a dull sigh. Then:

“Did you ever… celebrate it?” Harry asked. “Before all this?”

Draco leaned back, arms crossing loosely. “We celebrated something, I suppose. My mother made sure the house was… seasonally extravagant. Wreaths enchanted to glow, an ice phoenix in the foyer, charmed snow falling in the dining hall. Dozens of gifts under the tree.” He gave a small, crooked smile. “None of them ever quite felt like they were for me, though. Just… things. Expensive things. Sometimes I think my parents confused affection with Galleons.”

Harry hummed, not really surprised. “That sounds… lonely.”

Draco shrugged, like he hadn’t meant to say that much.

Another moment passed. Then Harry spoke again, not meeting Draco’s eyes. “I didn’t get anything.”

Draco frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean… nothing.” Harry’s voice stayed quiet, level. “At the Dursleys’. I didn’t get gifts. Not real ones. One year I got a used coat hanger and some socks. Another time it was a tissue. Just enough to say they didn’t forget me. But never enough to pretend they cared.”

Draco looked at him then. Really looked.

Harry wasn’t trying to make a scene. He didn’t sound angry or bitter. Just matter-of-fact. Like the cold truth of it had worn smooth with time.

“I used to watch Dudley open mountains of presents. I’d be in the corner—trying not to look too interested. They said it made me seem ungrateful. Like I didn’t know my place.”

Draco was silent.

Harry’s fingers moved idly against the wool in his lap. “I guess I just… got used to being left out of that sort of thing.”

The fire popped. Somewhere outside, children laughed, high and bright, muffled by the snow.

After a moment, Draco said, “That’s not going to happen this year.”

Harry looked up.

Draco’s voice was firm, almost sharp. “You’re not going to be forgotten. Not here.”

Something unspoken passed between them then—half a promise, half a challenge.

Harry gave a faint, uncertain smile. “Thanks.”

Draco returned it with one of his own. Smaller. But real.

The days before Yule crept in soft and silver, each colder than the last.

Snow had blanketed the clearing around their shack, quieting the world beneath a smooth sheet of white. Smoke curled gently from the crooked chimney, and inside, warmth had begun to take on a shape—intentional, almost ritual. Neither Harry nor Draco said much about Yule after that first talk. But both of them started doing things.

Small things.

Draco went to trade.

He didn’t tell Harry, just slipped out after breakfast one morning and returned with a bundled cloth bag smelling faintly of cinnamon and orange peel. When Harry asked what he’d been up to, Draco only shrugged and muttered something about “not wanting to sit around like a useless garden gnome all day.”

The bag, carefully hidden under Draco’s cot, contained three beeswax candles, a handful of dried citrus slices, and two sprigs of enchanted holly that shimmered faintly with gold-edged frost. He’d bartered for them using a polished riverstone and a silver fastener from one of his old dress robes—the only thing in his trunk that still smelled of Malfoy Manor. He hadn’t touched it since they’d arrived in the village. Giving it away had felt… right.

Harry, for his part, had begun to knit more often. Not just to keep his hands busy. Not anymore. He worked the yarn slowly, carefully, after Draco had fallen asleep or while the other boy was outside practicing wandless control with Nessa. The scarf was nearly finished—soft, forest green wool with thin streaks of silvery white. Harry didn’t have ribbon or wrapping paper, but he figured he could fold it carefully. Maybe leave it by Draco’s pillow.

He didn’t know what made him want to. Only that he did.

On the third day, Harry offered to join Harek on a trek into the deeper woods. “Need help finding a decent pine,” he said, voice casual, hands jammed in his pockets.

Harek gave him a look that saw through the words but didn’t call him out. “A tree, huh? For Yule?”

Harry scratched the back of his neck. “I just… thought it might be nice. Something small.”

The woods were quiet that day, layered in frost. They found a tree—not too big, just enough to stand proud in the corner of the cabin. Harry carried it back himself, cheeks red from the cold, his gloves dusted with snow. He set it up in a wooden stand, braced it with rocks, and sat on the floor beside it for a while, just staring.

That night, when Draco came in and saw it, he raised an eyebrow. “Subtle.”

Harry tried to smother a grin. “It’s got character.”

“It’s got lopsided branches.”

“It’s rustic.”

“It looks like a yeti sneezed on it.”

Still, Draco didn’t make it disappear. In fact, the next day, Harry caught him whispering to it under his breath, hands waving around, as faint twinkles of magic settled onto the branches like stardust. Harry didn’t say anything.

By then, the shack had begun to transform. Candles appeared in the windows. Dried fruit and berries hung from string across the rafters. Draco charmed pinecones to gleam like they’d been kissed by moonlight. Harry found a patch of wild mistletoe and tucked it above the door, hiding his blush when Draco noticed and gave a knowing smirk.

Neither of them admitted it. But they were building something—together.

Not just a celebration, but a home.

Draco had never spent this much time in a kitchen.

Correction—he’d never spent any time in a kitchen, really. He had grown up in a manor where meals appeared fully prepared on china, carried in on silver trays by house-elves who moved like ghosts. Food was just… there. Always. And always perfect.

But this—this was messy. Sticky. Entirely too warm.

“I think I’ve hexed the flour,” he muttered, scowling down at the bowl in front of him.

Nessa snorted. “You didn’t hex it. You just stirred counter-clockwise when I said clockwise.” She nudged the wooden spoon back into his hand and stood beside him at the worktable in the village’s communal kitchen. “Honey cakes are all about patience and intention. They don’t just taste good—they’re supposed to mean something.”

Draco gave her a skeptical glance. “So they’re emotional baked goods.”

“Yes,” Nessa said without missing a beat. “Exactly that.”

He looked down at the bowl again, at the thick batter and the smudge of flour on his cuff. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, his hair tied back with a bit of twine. He looked nothing like the boy he used to be—and that was the point, wasn’t it?

“I’m not doing this for the village,” he mumbled, scraping the spoon around the edge. “It’s just—Harry. He’s always the one doing things. Fixing things. Making things warmer.”

Nessa’s gaze softened, but she didn’t interrupt.

“I want to try,” Draco said, quieter now. “Just once, I want him to wake up and… and have something good waiting for him. Something someone made for him.”

She didn’t tease. Didn’t offer pity. Just nodded and showed him how to fold the spices into the batter with care, murmuring the blend like an old lullaby—clove, cardamom, nutmeg. Magic laced through the scent, subtle and old. Not the kind that made things explode or float, but the kind that stayed behind, lingering in the warmth of shared things.

They baked three small cakes in stone tins, each brushed with honey and wrapped in cloth to keep warm. One came out slightly crooked. The second cracked down the middle.

But the third?

Golden. Whole.

“You did it,” Nessa said with a grin. “Looks like the flour forgave you.”

Draco looked at the honey cake—his honey cake—and smiled, faintly. “He better like it,” he said, voice soft. “Or I’m feeding him the cracked one and telling him it’s rustic.”

Later that evening, after returning from a few hours gathering herbs and stones they could use to trade from the forest, Harry opened the door to their home and the scent hit him before he even reached the door.

Harry paused on the wooden path, snow crunching beneath his boots, arms full of pine boughs he’d traded for earlier that morning. The air was cold, crisp, and full of fire-smoke—and something else. Something sweet. Warm, spiced. Like clove and cinnamon wrapped in sunlight.

He blinked. His stomach growled.

The shack smelled… good.

Which was suspicious.

Very suspicious.

He nudged the door open with his foot, and was immediately greeted by a gust of warmth and the clatter of someone moving about inside. “Draco?”

There was a loud thump followed by an even louder swear word.

Harry stepped in, cheeks pink from the cold, boots leaving little puddles behind. “Did you hex the stove again?”

“No,” Draco’s voice snapped back, far too fast. “Obviously not. Everything’s fine.”

Harry stepped around the curtain and stopped short. Draco stood at the small table looking utterly guilty, a dish towel draped over something behind him, flour dusting his shirt, a smear of honey across his cheek like war paint.

Harry’s eyebrows rose. “You’re… cooking?”

“I’m not cooking,” Draco said, which would have been more convincing if the entire room didn’t smell like fresh-baked magic.

“Oh?” Harry dropped the pine boughs in their usual corner and peeled off his scarf. “Because it really smells like you’re cooking.”

“It’s nothing. Just… alchemy. Warming charms gone rogue. Don’t be nosy.”

“You’re baking.”

Draco lifted his chin, refusing to look at him. “Don’t flatter yourself. Not everything revolves around you.”

Harry grinned, heart warm in a way that had nothing to do with the fire. “So there’s a secret honey cake not meant for me hidden behind your back?”

Draco flinched. “It’s not behind my—! Oh, for—” He gave up with a groan and turned to yank the cloth down. One of the cakes sat on a wooden board, still steaming faintly, golden and cracked but clearly made with care.

Harry’s eyes softened.

“It’s not done,” Draco muttered, fiddling with the edge of the cloth. “It’s ugly, and I didn’t mean for you to see it yet, so if you could just pretend to be surprised on Yule morning, that would be great.”

Harry stepped closer, voice quiet. “You made this? For me?”

Draco didn’t answer right away. Then, grudgingly: “Yes. You absolute menace.”

Something settled between them, quiet and soft. Harry’s gaze lingered on the imperfect cake and the way Draco’s hands hovered like he was worried it would crumble if touched too hard.

Harry reached for a clean corner of the cloth and gently tucked it back over the top.

“I didn’t see anything,” he said.

Draco blinked. “What?”

“I’ll be surprised,” Harry said, smiling now, ears pink. “Promise.”

Draco opened his mouth to argue, but then stopped. His shoulders eased, just a little.

“Fine,” he muttered. “But if it tastes like rubbish, you’re still eating every bite.”

Harry chuckled. “Deal.”

Hours later after a dinner of re-hydrated meat and roasted veggies Harry sat near the fire light in one of their rickety chairs.

It was late.

The kind of late where the fire burned low and the world outside had fallen into that strange, heavy silence only snow could bring. Draco had gone to Nessa’s again — something about borrowed books and runes he refused to translate aloud. Harry didn’t ask. He was grateful, in truth, for the solitude.

He sat near the hearth, the scarf pooled in his lap, fingers moving slowly through the final rows.

It wasn’t perfect.

The wool having been gifted to him weeks ago — dark green, soft and warm, a shade not unlike Draco’s Slytherin tie from school. Harry had no real idea how to knit when he started. It had been a mess, at first: dropped stitches, uneven rows, hours spent cursing under his breath in the dark when Draco was asleep. But he’d kept at it. Quietly. Patiently. Stitch after stitch.

Now, it was nearly finished.

He held it up, letting the firelight catch the subtle texture. Not elegant. Not symmetrical. But his. His hands had made this. And he was giving it to someone who, somehow, mattered enough for that to feel terrifying.

He exhaled, resting the half-folded scarf over his knee.

He hadn’t meant to care this much. Not about a scarf. Not about a boy who used to sneer at him from across castle corridors. And certainly not about Yule — a holiday that had always passed like fog for him, empty and cold and wrapped in Dudley’s leftover presents.

He could still remember sitting on the stairs, small and half-starved, watching the Dursleys unwrap mountains of gifts while he got socks that weren’t even his size. “Be grateful,” Aunt Petunia would sniff. “You’re lucky to get anything at all.”

But this year…

This year, he wanted to give something. To create something.

He wanted to say something in stitches and softness that he couldn’t say aloud yet — not easily. Something like: You’re not who I thought you were. You’ve become something real. I see you.

He traced the last row, tying it off gently. Then tucked the scarf carefully into the bottom of his trunk beneath a folded jumper.

Draco would pretend to hate it, he was sure. He’d wrinkle his nose and complain about uneven ends or mismatched tension. But Harry hoped—no, he knew—that Draco would wear it anyway.

With pride.

And maybe just a little warmth that had nothing to do with wool.

Chapter Text

Harry woke to the unmistakable sound of swearing.
Not just any swearing — Draco’s swearing. It had a particular cadence, like each insult was being picked carefully from a polished library shelf, dusted off, and flung with impeccable diction.
He blinked groggily and sat up on his straw mattress, blinking against the early morning light seeping through the frosted window panes. The smell hit him next — sweet, toasted, and suspiciously like something had been left a few seconds too long near the fire.
Another muttered curse. Something about burnt bottoms and treasonous eggs.
Harry smiled.
He pulled on a jumper and stepped out into the main room of the shack, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Draco was standing over the hearth, flour on his cheek and an apron tied awkwardly around his waist. Several small cakes — honey golden and slightly uneven — sat on a wooden board beside duck eggs cracked into a pan that hissed as he added herbs.
Draco didn’t look up right away. He was frowning hard at the pan like it had personally insulted him.
“You’re awake early,” Harry said, voice still rough from sleep.
Draco jumped and spun around, eyes wide, then immediately composed himself into something more dignified. “You weren’t supposed to be up yet.”
Harry blinked. “You’re cooking.”
“I am attempting,” Draco corrected, flustered. “Don’t get used to it.”
Harry moved closer, looking at the cakes. “Those smell amazing.”
“They’re slightly underdone in the middle, and I burned two of them,” Draco huffed. “Nessa said they’d be easy. She lied.”
“I still want one,” Harry said, already reaching for a plate.
Draco swatted his hand away. “Not yet. Sit. You’re getting the full Yule breakfast, Potter.”
Harry blinked at the name — it had been weeks since Draco used his surname like that. There was something soft in the way he said it now, though. Fond. Familiar.
Harry sat at the small table they’d cobbled together from spare planks. The shack looked different today — brighter. There were small touches everywhere: candles traded from the village glowing in the corners, a little fir tree in the corner decorated with dried orange slices and pinecones, the walls strung with bits of ivy and ribbon. Draco’s doing, mostly. Though Harry had found the tree with Harek, cutting it down and dragging it back himself under the weight of snow and secrecy.
He hadn’t told Draco about the scarf.
Just as Draco hadn’t said anything about this.
It was… something.
When the food was finally ready, Draco brought it over with a dramatic flourish. “Your feast, kind sir.”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “Should I knight you for this?”
Draco smirked. “I already am royalty. I just happen to cook now.”
They both laughed — quiet, warm — and ate together in the flickering glow of candlelight.
When the plates were mostly empty and the fire crackled low, Draco grew uncharacteristically still.
Then, wordlessly, he stood and disappeared into the small side room. He returned holding a small parcel wrapped in deep green cloth, pressed and folded with absurd precision.
He placed it in front of Harry.
“For you.”
Harry blinked. “You—”
“Just open it,” Draco said quickly, ears turning a little pink.
Harry unwrapped the cloth and found a pendant nestled in a leather cord. It was simple, but elegant: a polished charm made from a dark silvery stone he couldn’t name, shaped not un-similarly to scar on his forehead with faint runes etched into its surface. When he held it, it felt warm to the touch — not hot, but comforting.
“I traded a few potions for it,” Draco said. “It’s… it protects against magical cold. And amplifies warmth. Like a ward. You’ll still need a cloak, but—well. It’s for winter. For now.”
Harry looked up, something catching in his throat. “It’s beautiful.”
Draco shrugged, looking away. “Functional, too.”
Harry hesitated, then got up and went to his trunk. He returned with a clumsily wrapped bundle — brown cloth, a bit of string. He sat back down and handed it across the table.
“It’s not fancy,” Harry said quietly. “But… I made it. For you.”
Draco opened it slowly, and the green scarf unfurled in his hands — rich forest tones, soft wool, the texture a little bumpy in places but woven tightly and with care. It was long, too — enough to wrap around twice — and smelled faintly like cedar.
“I stitched the last row and it—my magic, it did something. I don’t know how. But it started to glow for a moment. When I picked it up the next morning, it was warm.”
Draco didn’t speak right away.
Then, in the quiet, he reached for the scarf and wrapped it loosely around his neck, running a hand over the fabric like it was something sacred.
“I love it,” he said softly.
And Harry believed him.
They sat there for a while, letting the stillness settle between them like snow. Then a sudden clamor outside made them both look up — bells, laughter, voices calling in the cold morning air.
“The village,” Harry said.
“They’ll be lighting the Yule bonfire soon,” Draco replied, standing. “Come on. I want to walk with you.”
They dressed in cloaks and scarves — Draco wearing his new one, of course — and stepped outside into a world dipped in frost and firelight. The village square shimmered with lanterns and song, the bonfire stacked high with sacred wood and herbs, smoke curling into the pale winter sky.
Villagers greeted them with smiles, and Nessa shoved a warm roll into each of their hands as she passed, her cheeks rosy and full of cheer. Somewhere, a flute started playing. Children chased one another through snowbanks. And the fire roared to life with a collective cheer.
Harry stood close beside Draco, both of them glowing gently with the magic still clinging to their gifts. A flicker. A thread. A tether neither one of them could quite explain yet.
Draco leaned in and murmured, “Happy Yule, Harry.”
Harry smiled. “Happy Yule.”
The fire danced. The villagers sang.
And for once, Harry felt like he belonged to something — not by blood or prophecy, but by choice. A quiet, unexpected gift.
The light they carried between them — fragile and new — was enough to keep the cold at bay.
The sky above the village was winter-blue and soft as slate, stars just beginning to shimmer like frostbite on velvet. The Yule bonfire was already crackling high, sending sparks curling into the dusk as the crowd gathered in a loose circle around it. There was a hush in the air, broken only by laughter and the shuffling of boots in snow. Some people wore wreaths of evergreen. Others held candles, flickering against the wind.
Harry stood beside Draco, their shoulders brushing now and then. The charm Draco had gifted him pulsed with a gentle warmth against his chest, and the soft wool of Draco’s scarf was still damp with snow from the walk. The air smelled of pine, smoke, beeswax, and spiced cider.
Draco touched his arm, gently. “Come with me?”
Harry nodded and let Draco guide him a little away from the fire, to where the villagers had formed a smaller, intentional circle. Nessa was there, holding a bundle of dried herbs wrapped in twine. An older man with a heavy braid down his back — he reminded Harry of Harek, though less fierce and more like aged oak — raised a hand to begin the ceremony.
But Draco leaned close, speaking softly under his breath. “We’ll do our own part. Together. It’s what I read in the book Nessa gave me. It’s an old way. For two people who… want to protect each other through the dark.”
Harry’s breath caught. He just nodded.
Draco reached into the folds of his cloak and pulled out a small sprig of holly and a bundle of rosemary. “Holly to remember what’s passed. Rosemary for what we hope.”
They knelt together on the snowy ground, and Draco pressed a hand to the earth, closing his eyes. Harry mirrored him, unsure of the motions but trusting the intent.
“We thank the old year,” Draco whispered. “And lay it to rest.”
Harry thought of Privet Drive. Of the cupboard. Of blood on stone and how he used to wake up wondering if anyone even remembered his birthday.
He thought of Hogwarts. And Dumbledore. And all the things he was still learning to live with.
He whispered, “Goodbye,” under his breath. To all of it.
Draco lit a small flame in his palm — a flicker of wandless magic Harry still found astonishing every time — and they burned the herbs together, watching the smoke curl up into the dark. The scent of rosemary was sharp, clean, like something ancient and green and alive.
Then Draco reached for Harry’s hand.
“This part,” he said, voice lower now, “is for the light.”
Together, they stood and walked toward the main bonfire. As they approached, villagers stepped aside to let them pass — not with fanfare, but with reverence. Nessa offered them two candles — beeswax twisted with lavender and rose — and Draco gave a small bow of thanks.
They lit them from the bonfire, and the flames caught easily, glowing golden.
Draco looked at Harry. “You speak your own wish, then cast it into the flame. But it has to be true.”
Harry hesitated. “Out loud?”
Draco shook his head. “Just to the fire.”
Harry stepped closer. The warmth hit his face first, then his eyes. He thought about everything he had now — and how impossible it would’ve seemed, a year ago. A home. A friend. A scarf. A second chance.
“Let me stay,” he thought. “Let us stay together and become something better than everyone who came before us. Let us become someone worth staying for.”
He cast the candle into the fire.
Draco followed. He held his candle tightly for a moment longer, his expression unreadable. Then he murmured something Harry didn’t catch and let the flame fly.
The candles cracked as they were swallowed by the fire, sparks rising in a rush of heat and golden smoke.
They stood there for a long time, quiet. The villagers began to sing — not loudly, but with an ease that felt lived-in, voices winding around old words Harry didn’t know. But he didn’t need to. The sound itself was a kind of spell.
The night thickened, stars blooming overhead. Harry glanced sideways at Draco — the way the firelight traced his cheekbones, the quiet pride in his face, the way he stood steady beside him like he belonged there.
Draco turned to him, and without ceremony, reached up and adjusted the scarf around Harry’s neck — the one Harry had made first with clumsy fingers and half-learned stitches. Draco’s fingers brushed his skin for only a second.
“I’m glad we did this,” Draco said.
Harry swallowed. “Me too.”
He wanted to say more. He didn’t know how. But the night didn’t ask for words.
Around them, villagers danced and clapped, cider was passed, and bells rang on braided cords. But Harry and Draco stayed close to the fire, breathing in the warmth, the scent of evergreen, the smoke and flame and memory of light.
Together, they stepped into the longest night of the year.
And carried the light with them.

Chapter Text

It started with the cold.
Draco had been snappish all morning, rubbing his hands over the too-thin sleeves of his sweater, his breath fogging in front of his face with every muttered curse. The shack was quiet but not warm, and the tiny enchanted fire sputtered in its hearth like it, too, was fed up with winter.
Harry stirred porridge in the old iron pot with quiet patience. He didn’t speak—not yet. He could feel it brewing in Draco like a storm cloud ready to break.
A crackle of frustrated magic snapped in the air behind him.
“Bloody thing—why won’t it listen to me?” Draco hissed.
Harry turned in time to see Draco’s fingers spark again, the wandless spell misfiring. The piece of firewood he’d been trying to levitate instead jumped and smacked him in the shin.
“Merlin’s—!” Draco clutched his leg, growling through his teeth.
“Want some help?” Harry offered, careful to keep his tone light.
Draco whipped his head around, eyes sharp. “Help? No, what I want is my wand, not to sit here pretending I’m some half-trained hedge wizard who burns his fingers every time he lights a candle.”
Harry blinked. “You’ve been doing great. You even got the wreath to hang without rope.”
“Oh, marvelous, let’s all cheer because I can decorate like a village crone!”
Harry didn’t laugh. Draco noticed.
“You’re moody,” Draco snapped. “You get quiet like I’ve done something wrong every time I complain.”
“Because sometimes you say things without thinking.” Harry put the spoon down. “And it gets old.”
Draco threw up his hands. “Forgive me for not basking in the joy of frostbite and filthy water!”
“You’re not the only one cold, Draco.”
“I’m not the one playing forest savior with a—”
He stopped himself, too late.
Harry’s jaw clenched. “Say it.”
Draco hesitated, shame flickering in his eyes. But frustration pushed harder.
“Fine. You spend all your time with him. Like his word is law now. He’s a bloody werewolf, Harry. A half-breed dark creature. What exactly do you think he wants from you?”
Silence.
Draco’s breath fogged in the stillness. Then he saw it: the way Harry’s shoulders drew in, tight as a pulled bowstring.
“You don’t get to talk about him like that,” Harry said, low and shaking.
“He’s dangerous—”
“No.” Harry stepped closer, voice rising. “He’s tried. He’s protected us. You wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for Harek dragging you out of that frozen river, remember that?”
Draco flinched.
“He’s not perfect, but he’s kind. He teaches me. He listens. And you—” Harry stopped himself, chest heaving.
“I trusted you,” he said finally, voice breaking. “I thought you were better than that. I thought you finally changed from that stupid pureblood git who bulled everyone around him. But you haven’t changed at all have you? You’re just playing pretend until we’re rescued or-or something! I don’t— I can’t— I won’t let you pull me down just because you’re too scared to realize whats happening around you.”
And then he left.

The door slammed behind Harry, the echo ringing louder than Draco expected in the stillness of the shack.
He didn’t move at first. Just stood there in the center of the room, arms crossed tight over his chest like he could keep the heat in by sheer force of will. His breath was shallow, and he hated how fast his heart still pounded—not from anger anymore, but from shame. That twisted, creeping shame that always came after his words turned to knives in his mouth.
Draco sank down onto the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, hands tangled in his hair. “Brilliant,” he muttered. “Truly brilliant, Malfoy.”
The silence crept in.
But it wasn’t entirely silent. In the hush, he could hear the wind scraping past the doorframe, the gentle hum of the protective wards in the walls—and beneath it all, the memory.
The sound of cracking ice.
He hadn’t meant to wander that close. The river had looked harmless—glass-smooth and glittering. He’d only been hiding from Harry in their stupid game of hide and seek in the snow.
The ice gave way without warning. One moment solid, the next plunging him into frigid black. Cold hands clutched at his limbs, dragging him under. He’d screamed, he thought—but the cold had stolen the sound.
And then—arms. Fire. A roar. Harek’s voice, swearing and steady. The burn of life returning to his frozen fingers. The rough warmth of Harek’s coat around his shoulders.
“Don’t do that again, not everything is a game.” Harek had muttered. Draco had said nothing, throat raw, heart thrashing. He hadn’t forgotten.
Draco exhaled shakily, curling his fingers tighter into his hair.
He remembered the feel of Harek’s coat, warm and scratchy and smelling of pine smoke. He remembered the way Harek never mentioned it again, never asked for thanks, never used it to shame him. Just quietly made sure Draco had extra blankets that night. Just made sure he got home.
And today—he’d called him a half-breed. A creature.
“Gods,” Draco whispered, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. “What the hell is wrong with me?”
The shame burned colder than the river ever had.
He didn’t know how to fix this. He didn’t even know if he could.
But he knew he had to try.
He stood, numb fingers fumbling to pull on his coat. The wind had picked up outside, but he didn’t care. Somewhere out there, Harry was walking off his fury. Somewhere in the village, Harek might still be awake.
Draco didn’t know if they’d forgive him. Though he searched most of the night. He couldn’t find either one of them. Draco returned to the shack, not sleeping as he waited for Harry to return. But he never did. 
The next morning, Draco found Eulah and asked her if she knew where they had gone. With soft eyes she explained that they were out hunting with the others. 
Dejected Draco sought out Nessa.
She raised a single brow when he asked about the old bestiary tucked into her shelves.
“You finally tired of hating what you don’t understand?” she asked, voice light but eyes sharp.
He didn’t look away. “I want to learn.”
She nodded once and handed him a stack of books—one old and leather-bound, the other a tattered journal with hand-scrawled notes in the margins.
“They’re not monsters, you know,” she said quietly as she passed him a mug of tea. “The stories say they were. But stories lie. Especially the ones written by people afraid of anything wild.”
Draco didn’t answer. He just took the tea and read.
It turned out werewolves were complicated.
Not just in folklore, but in biology, in magic, in myth. He read about lycanthropy as a curse, but also as a transformation rooted in primal magic, older than wands and older than the Ministry. He read about clans and blood rites and voluntary turnings, about lunar bonds and the effects of silver—not all of which were what he’d been taught.
He read about stigma. About fear. About children cast out of homes.
And he found Harek’s name once—briefly, in the margin of an old parchment journal. “Harek of the Grey Fang—once healer, now exile. Saved a boy from drowning. Still carries him in silence.”
Draco’s throat closed.
It took him three days to gather the nerve again to seek either of them out.
He found Harek outside the smithy, sharpening a hunting spear in the quiet mid-morning frost.
Draco stood awkwardly for a moment, unsure if Harek would even acknowledge him.
But Harek only glanced up, brow raised.
“Got something to say, princeling?”
Draco swallowed. “Yeah. I do.”
He took a breath. The words stuck, tried to twist into prideful knots.
“I was wrong,” he said finally. “What I said—that day—about you. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t true. And I’m… sorry.”
The silence between them stretched thin. A cold wind hissed through the trees.
Harek tilted his head. “You scared?”
Draco blinked. “What?”
“Of me. Of what I am.”
He hesitated. “I was. Not anymore.”
Harek’s gaze was heavy, unreadable. “You ever been hunted just for existing?”
“No.”
“Then you don’t know what it means to be a creature. Or to be Harry Potter.”
Draco lowered his eyes. “I want to learn. If you’ll let me. Let me understand.”
For a long moment, Harek said nothing. Then he sheathed the blade, dusted his hands on his coat, and gave Draco a nod.
“Then start by showing up tomorrow. We’re checking traps before dawn. Don’t be late.”
Draco blinked. “…That’s it?”
“Forgiveness takes work,” Harek said, turning. “You want it, earn it.”
That night, Draco returned to the shack just as the sun began to fall below the trees. Harry was sitting by the hearth, legs stretched out, working a new patch onto the blanket Nessa had given them.
Draco stopped in the doorway.
Harry didn’t look up.
Draco stepped forward slowly, scarf tugged loose from his throat.
“I was awful,” he said quietly. “Not just to Harek. To you.”
Harry’s stitching paused.
“I said things I didn’t mean. I was angry. Cold. Tired. But none of that justifies—”
“You called him a creature,” Harry said, voice low.
“I know.”
Harry turned to face him then, eyes tired and red-rimmed, but not cruel. “That’s what they called me. All the time. ‘Dark creature.’ ‘Freak’. As if it was a sin to be different. As if my magic decided I didn’t deserve love.”
Draco felt the words settle in his gut like stones.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. “And I… I want to be better. Not just for them. For you too.”
Harry nodded slowly.
“Then be better,” he said.
A quiet truce. A start.
Draco moved to sit beside him.
Harry didn’t pull away.

Draco showed up before dawn.
Harek didn’t say much when Draco arrived, breath puffing in the chill, scarf pulled up high on his face. He just handed him a second pair of gloves and started walking into the woods.
The silence between them was heavy, but not cruel. Draco followed, step for step, as frost crackled beneath their boots.
They checked the traps—small snares and larger wards around the perimeter—and Harek showed him how to reset them without disrupting the scent paths. It was careful, quiet work. The kind of task that made Draco’s hands itch and his brain slow just enough to feel things he didn’t want to feel.
Near the fourth trapline, Harek paused.
“Why’d you really come?” he asked, not turning around.
Draco hesitated. “Because I owe you an apology. And because I want to understand.”
Harek looked over his shoulder. “Understand what?”
“You. Your kind. What I called you… it was wrong. But I can’t just pretend it didn’t happen. I need to learn why it was wrong.”
Harek nodded slowly, then pulled off one glove and held up his arm.
A thick, dark leather armband rested just below his elbow—carved with runes, bound in silver thread.
“This helps keep the wolf part of me balanced,” he said. “It’s not suppression. It’s connection. Earth, moon, self.”
Draco stared. “It’s magic?”
“Old magic,” Harek said. “Not wandwork. Not potion or curse. This came from choosing to live with what I am. Not fight it. Not hate it.”
Draco took a tentative step closer, eyes narrowing at the armband. “Was it a ritual? Some kind of grounding enchantment? Or… a secondary tether to something? Like the earth’s ley lines?”
“Closer than you think,” Harek said. “It started with meditation. With listening. I walked the land until I could feel it breathing under my feet. Until I knew the rhythms—not just the moon, but the pull of root and rock and river. The armband anchors that awareness. The runes are reminders, not restraints.”
“And the wolf… listens to that?” Draco asked.
“The wolf is that,” Harek said. “It’s not a curse. It’s a truth. A part of me that hungers and hunts, yes—but also a part that protects, that watches, that knows the shape of the wind and the sorrow of dying things.”
Draco’s voice was soft. “But how do you not lose yourself?”
“I used to,” Harek admitted. “Every full moon. Every season’s edge. I tore through forests and woke covered in blood. Not always my own. But the more I tried to cage it, the worse it became. Until I stopped trying to be one thing and started becoming both.”
Draco was quiet for a long moment. Then he looked down at the snow. “That’s what you meant. About being two things. And one thing.”
Harek nodded. “Just like you and Harry with your tether. It’s not a leash. It’s a lifeline. You’ve both been changed. Not broken. Not less.”
Draco’s eyes burned, but he blinked the sting away.
“I used to be so sure of what was right. Of who was dangerous. Of what made someone a monster.”
“And now?”
Draco smiled faintly. “Now I think my father knew less than he thought he did. And I want to be someone who listens before judging. Someone who kneels beside the trap, not above it.”
Harek didn’t say anything, but he handed Draco the next snare to reset. And this time, when Draco’s fingers trembled, Harek guided them with steady hands.
They worked until the sun rose, pale and gold and full of cold light.
And Draco left the woods with his gloves dusted in frost, the shame in his chest quieted—for now—and a new understanding braided silently between them, like the silver thread on Harek’s arm.
He was learning.
And he was not alone in the cold.
Later that morning, Harry stood in a clearing with Nessa, the frost still clinging to the branches above. They faced one another, hands outstretched, palms hovering just apart. Harry’s breath fogged the air between them.
“Again,” Nessa said gently.
Harry closed his eyes and reached for the pulse of power under his skin.
Not the wild burst he used when defending Draco. Not the lashing force he’d felt when using his wand. This was deeper. Slower. Hot like lava under stone.
The wind shifted, a branch groaned, and the air around him sparked. Magic answered—but too much. The wind whipped his cloak open, frost hissed from the grass, and Nessa’s braid lifted in the gust.
“Stop,” she said quickly.
Harry opened his eyes. “I can’t— it’s like holding back a storm.”
She stepped forward and took his hands in hers. “That’s because you’re trying to cast outward. Like Draco. But your magic doesn’t want to be thrown. It wants to be contained.”
Harry frowned. “Contained?”
“Think of it like this: some people pull their magic from the world. Others, like you, carry it in.”
He looked down at their hands. “Because of the tether?”
Nessa shook her head. “Partly. But also because you carry too many people inside of you.”
Harry blinked. “You mean… my friends? Draco?”
She didn’t answer right away.
Instead, she murmured, “You’ll understand when it’s time.”
He felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. A flicker of something cold and dark stirred at the edge of his thoughts. The same place that ached when the mark burned. But it passed.
“Try again,” she said softly. “But this time, draw it in. Let it settle in your chest like a breath you’re saving. Don’t cast. Contain.”
Harry exhaled slowly, eyes slipping shut.
And for the first time, the magic didn’t crash through him. It settled.
Heavy. Powerful. Waiting.
And deep within it, something else stirred.
Something that wasn’t entirely his.
But he didn’t notice—not yet.

Chapter Text

The forest had changed.
It wasn’t just the green—though it stretched as far as the eye could see, thick with ferns and wildflowers that spilled over the old paths like the forest was reclaiming everything in bloom. It was the way the air breathed easier, the earth no longer heavy with ice or death. Even the birdsong had shifted. Crisper. Louder. Alive.
Harry crouched low beneath a birch tree, one hand brushing the faint impressions in the dirt. “Deer,” he murmured.
Behind him, Draco huffed. “If I step in one more pile of dung, I’m hexing something.”
Harry glanced over his shoulder, smirking. “You said that last week, and it turned out to be a boar. Remember?”
Draco looked properly scandalized. “It charged me, Potter.”
“And you shrieked like a girl.”
Draco made a show of flicking a leaf off his sleeve. “A dignified sound of surprise. Not a shriek. Let’s be clear.”
They fell into step again, Harry leading, his eyes trained on broken branches and bent grasses like a puzzle only he could read. He wore a tunic now—faded grey, torn at one elbow—and boots scuffed from months of forest trails. The boy who once scrambled through a trapdoor with Ron and Hermione was still there, but buried beneath leather, callouses, and the subtle confidence that came with knowing how to move through the world without being noticed.
Draco, for his part, had learned not to complain. Not as often, anyway. He kept pace with Harry now, pausing occasionally to brush stray pine needles from his shoulders or peer at unfamiliar flowers. He still dressed like he was auditioning for a faerie court, but practicality had wormed its way into his bones. There was mud on his knees. Smudges on his cheek. And when he swore at the underbrush, it came in Old Norse.
“You’re getting better,” Harry said after a long silence, stepping carefully around a patch of moss. “Tracking, I mean.”
Draco looked pleased for half a second before remembering himself. “Well, I am a fast learner.”
“Just not with fire spells.”
Draco’s mouth twitched. “You wound me.”

Their shack—once a drafty, slapped-together shelter—had become a home. There were curtains now, made from stitched-together scraps of fabric traded with villagers. The chimney smoked reliably, and Draco had enchanted the hearth stones to warm themselves when the fire died down at night. The hay filled bedrolls had been replaced with rough but sturdy cots. Each one stuffed with thick wool and lined with soft fur from the animals Harry had hunted in the forest. It wasn’t Hogwarts, but it was theirs.
Beltane had come and gone in a flurry of dancing feet, open flames, and shared mead. Harry had gotten drunk—well, buzzed—on something sweet and amber-colored and had kissed Draco’s shoulder by accident when trying to whisper a joke. Draco hadn’t brought it up since, but he also hadn’t moved his cot back to the other side of the room after that night.
They had met the wolves under a full moon.
Harek had brought Harry to the Selrun Pack alone at first, claiming the wolves needed to see him without the shadow of old magic trailing behind. Draco hadn’t spoken to him for two days after.
“They gave me this,” Harry said later, turning the carved tooth over in his hands. “Said it’s a gift. A symbol.”
Draco sat on the edge of the bed, arms folded. “Do you even know what it means?”
Harry shrugged. “Sort of.”
“They’re claiming you. They’re acting like your Harek’s pup-adjacent.”
Harry hesitated, an embarrassed blush forming on his cheeks. “Is that bad?”
Draco didn’t answer right away. “No. Not bad. Just… not neutral, either.”

The centaurs came with thunder in their hooves and quiet words on their tongues. Their leader—Marion, tall and scarred—offered Draco a scroll written in silver ink. It shimmered faintly in the dark, the words flickering as if resisting translation.
“They said Dumbledore’s alive,” Harry whispered afterward, sitting by the fire, gaze distant. “That he was injured. Badly. Apparently I was right about the man drinking the unicorn blood in the forest. It was Professor Quirell. He tried to kill Dumbledore, nearly did.”
Draco picked at the hem of his sleeve. “And Hogwarts?”
“Still standing.” A pause. “Quirell’s dead though.”
Silence stretched between them. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled.
“I miss them sometimes,” Harry admitted softly.
Draco looked up.
“Ron. Hermione. Even Neville, when he wasn’t melting cauldrons.” He rubbed at the back of his neck. “I wonder if they miss me.”
“They do.” Draco’s voice was sure. “You’re… impossible to forget.”
Harry looked at him then, long and unreadable. “What about you?”
Draco’s lips thinned. “Pansy would say I’ve finally snapped. Blaise would be curious. Theo… Theo might understand.” He hesitated. “Goyle and Crabbe would’ve followed me.”

Draco’s magic had shifted, too. Not as quickly as Harry’s mind. But runes came naturally to him, like they were buried in his bones. He’d carved them into stones, wood, even leaves, watching them shimmer and sink into the material with quiet satisfaction.
He struggled, though, with spells that required fire. No matter how much intent he pushed into his casting, flames resisted him. Water answered easily. Ice even more so. He could coax mist into shapes and chill tea with a whisper. But when it came to heat…
“Try it again,” Harry offered one morning, watching Draco attempt a simple Ignition spell.
Draco narrowed his eyes, pointed his wand, and hissed, “Incendio.”
A spark. Then smoke. Then nothing.
Draco groaned and flopped backward into the grass. “I hate this.”
“You don’t hate it,” Harry said, lying down beside him. “You hate not being good at it.”
“Same thing.”
Nessa, who had been tending herbs nearby, walked over and crouched beside them. “Not all fire comes from the magic within us,” she said, dabbing a bit of salve on her fingers. “Some of it… needs a spark from what’s hidden.”
Draco blinked up at her. “Hidden?”
“You’ll know when it rises.” She smiled faintly. “And when it does, the world will feel it our pretty little dragon.”

It was Thalion who changed everything.
He arrived one afternoon, appearing like mist from the trees—tall, silver-haired, and sharp-featured, his presence both ethereal and unsettling. He watched them from a distance for hours before stepping into the light.
“I’ve never met humans,” he said simply, his voice like wind through chimes. “You’re very loud.”
Draco had been the first to speak. “You’re very… not.”
Thalion smiled.
From the beginning, he gravitated toward Draco. Asked questions. Touched runes Draco carved with careful fingers, eyes wide with curiosity.
“You wrote this one backwards,” he said one day.
Draco blinked. “No, I didn’t.”
Thalion pointed. “There. That stroke crosses too early.”
Draco flushed and scraped it away with the edge of his wand.
Harry watched all of it from the shadows of the doorway, jaw tight.
“He’s brilliant,” Draco said that night, sprawled across his cot. “He’s never seen a broom before. Or tasted Pumpkin Juice. I gave him a chocolate wand I found in my old uniform, and he almost cried.”
Harry didn’t answer.
Draco sat up. “Are you jealous?”
Harry shrugged, picking at the leather bracer on his arm. “Just… don’t forget who your first friend out here was.”
Draco looked at him for a long time. “I haven’t.”
Outside, the summer wind rustled the trees. The forest, always listening, always alive, held its secrets close.

Some nights, they didn’t speak at all.
It wasn’t a silence born of anger or awkwardness, but something quieter—like the hush of a forest after the wind stills. They sat shoulder to shoulder on the porch, knees drawn up, watching fireflies pulse in the dark. Draco would sip his tea. Harry would polish the blade Harek gave him, movements slow and rhythmic.
And between them, something settled.
A knowing. A thread pulled taut but not strained.
It had been months since the Yule gift exchange, but Draco still wore the scarf on cold mornings. He didn’t say much about it, only tucked it around his neck with a practiced flick, like it belonged there.
Harry had never taken off the pendant.
Draco noticed once—saw the way it glowed faintly under Harry’s shirt when he leaned close to stoke the fire.
“You know it’s not just a trinket,” Draco said one evening, watching Harry from across the room. “The runes—it’s a protective charm. Old magic.”
“I know,” Harry murmured, fingers closing around it. “Feels like you.”
Draco looked away. “Well. That was the point.”
The forest began to shift in subtle, uncanny ways.
Flowers bloomed out of season. A squirrel darted across their path with fur that shimmered like starlight. Draco found a tree whose bark sang when touched. Harry nearly walked into a clearing that didn’t exist the day before.
“Something’s happening,” he said one morning, studying the compass Nessa lent him. The needle spun wildly in circles, then froze, pointing at Draco.
Draco arched a brow. “What?”
Harry hesitated. “I think it’s you.”
“You think I broke a compass?”
“I think…” Harry looked down. “You’re drawing things to you. Creatures. Magic. Thalion. Even the weather shifts when you’re upset.”
Draco opened his mouth to argue, but closed it again. Because he had noticed. The way snowflakes avoided his hair in winter. The way leaves spiraled around his feet in windless groves. The way fire refused him—but moonlight never did.
He said nothing. Just stood there, arms crossed, gaze distant.
Harry stepped closer. “If something’s waking up in you, I want to be there when it does.”
Draco glanced over. “Afraid I’ll turn into a veela and fly off without saying goodbye?”
Harry smiled. “I don’t think you’re a veela.”
“What do you think I am?”
Harry didn’t answer. But his eyes lingered too long. His fingers brushed Draco’s sleeve before he turned away.
That night, Draco dreamt of roots and wings.
He stood in a field of stars, bare feet in damp grass. Voices whispered in a language he didn’t know but understood all the same. Runes glowed along his arms, pulsing with light. He reached for something—someone—and woke up gasping.
Harry was already awake, sitting at the edge of his cot, head in his hands.
“Did you hear it?” Draco whispered.
Harry looked back, eyes wide. “The humming?”
Draco nodded. “Like it was inside me.”
Outside, the wind picked up, though the trees didn’t move. Magic prickled against the air like static.
Draco curled the blanket tighter around himself. “I think the forest’s trying to tell us something.”
Harry didn’t speak, but he moved his cot closer that night.
Close enough that Draco could hear him breathe.

Chapter Text

It began with the fever.

Draco didn’t tell Harry at first. The heat that pulsed beneath his skin felt like a private betrayal—something ancient and raw he couldn’t quite explain. His back ached constantly. The bones near his shoulder blades throbbed like something wanted out.

He’d wake drenched in sweat, furs tangled around him, lips bitten red from silence.

Harry noticed, of course.

“You’re not eating,” he said one morning, eyes scanning Draco’s pale face. “And you haven’t sparred with Harek in days.”

“I’m fine.”

Harry didn’t push, but he didn’t leave, either. That night, he sat by Draco’s bed with a damp cloth, pressing it to his forehead.

“Your burning up,” Harry murmured. 

Draco turned his face away. “It’s changing me. My magic. And I don’t know into what.”

Harry’s fingers stilled. Then he took Draco’s hand—gingerly, carefully—and placed it over his chest.

“Whatever it is,” he said softly, “it’s not bad. It’s yours.”

Later that night, when Harry finally dozed off in the chair beside the bed, Draco stared at the ceiling, afraid to move.

His skin was too tight. Magic crackled beneath it, volatile and wild. Every breath came too fast. Too shallow. He clenched the furs in his fists to stop his hands from shaking, but the tremor moved deeper—bone-deep. Instinct-deep.

He slipped out from under the blanket as quietly as he could, careful not to wake Harry.

The cold bit at his sweat-damp skin as he padded to the corner of the shack. There, behind the crude curtain they used as a privacy divider, he collapsed to his knees.

The moment he was alone, he pressed his forehead to the floor and bit back a groan.

It was getting worse.

Not just the heat, though it gnawed at him now with dull teeth. It was his body—foreign, traitorous. His scent had changed again. Thicker. Sweet. The way he’d once smelled his mother perfume in the spring.

Now he reeked of it. Of need. Of offering.

His hands twitched. He felt too full, like something inside him was swelling and couldn’t get out. His back ached with pressure—like fingers pressing at the skin. Like heat curling around his lungs. He wanted to scratch his skin off just to let it breathe.

“Stop,” he hissed under his breath, digging his nails into his thighs. “Stop it. Please—”

He couldn’t let Harry see.

Couldn’t let anyone see what he was becoming.

Veela. His mind supplied. Half-creature. Half-boy. Whatever it was, it felt too soft, too fragile, too exposed. He didn’t want Harry’s pity. Didn’t want his tenderness, not if it was offered out of obligation.

He wanted to be held—but hated himself for it.

His body pulsed, and suddenly something was dripping between his legs. Slick pooled between his legs, hot and sticky, coating the inside of his thighs.

He curled tighter, forehead to the floor, breath catching in his throat. He couldn’t cry. Wouldn’t cry. Not for this. Not because he smelled like sex and sugar and desperation.

The heat twisted again, sudden and sharp, and he let out a gasp that was almost a sob.

A pause.

Then: soft footsteps.

“Draco?”

Harry.

Draco froze.

The curtain rustled, and Harry’s shadow loomed just behind it. “Are you—”

“I’m fine,” Draco rasped, voice hoarse, broken. “Go back to sleep.”

Silence.

Then, softer: “You don’t have to hide from me.”

Draco squeezed his eyes shut. “I do.”

A breath. Then Harry’s voice, strained, uncertain: “Is it hurting?”

Draco swallowed. “Yes. But not just my body.”

The curtain didn’t open. Harry didn’t step in.

Instead, he sat down just on the other side, knees brushing the fabric, voice no louder than a whisper. “Then I’ll stay here. Even if you don’t let me see.”

And for some reason, that made Draco cry.

Silent. Shaking. His nails dug into the floor as his body trembled through the first wave of heat he couldn’t suppress, couldn’t outrun.

But Harry didn’t leave.

He stayed.

Just on the other side of the curtain.Draco shivered. Whether from the fever or from something else entirely, he didn’t know.

Over the next week, the changes grew stranger.

His pupils sometimes narrowed in dim light. His hearing sharpened to the point where even the rustle of parchment was too loud. And once, in a moment of quiet fury after a nightmare, the stones under his feet cracked—not shattered, not broken, but split down the center with a clean, impossible line.

He stumbled back. Harry caught him before he fell.

“I didn’t mean to,” Draco breathed, voice hoarse. “I wasn’t even doing anything.”

Harry steadied him. “That wasn’t a spell.”

“No.” Draco’s mouth went dry. “It wasn’t.”

There were no books to explain it. No professor. No Pureblood tutor whispering truths in Latin. Just instinct. Sensation. Power like a tide coming in and refusing to leave.

One night, it became too much.

Draco collapsed just outside the shack, his breath shallow and skin burning hot. Harry was beside him in seconds, panic clear in every movement.

“Draco—”

“I can’t—” he gasped. “It hurts—something’s—wrong—”

Harry half-carried him inside, laying him down on the floor when the cot felt too far. The heat coming off Draco was unnatural, shimmering in the air like mist. His shirt clung to his back, soaked through.

Then Harry saw it.

Two faint ridges, symmetrical and sharp, pressing against the skin just below his shoulder blades. Like something beneath the surface was trying to break free.

“Draco,” Harry whispered, voice shaking, “you’re—changing.”

Draco blinked up at him, fever-dazed. “Stay.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

And he didn’t.

He ran cool water over cloth and wiped Draco’s face. He whispered nonsense stories about stars and Quidditch and how Ron once accidentally turned his eyebrows green for a week. He held Draco’s hand until the tremors passed, until the fever broke just before dawn.

And when Draco finally slept, Harry curled up beside him—not touching, but close enough that his breath stirred the fine strands of Draco’s hair.

He didn’t sleep at all.

It began with the wind.

Sharp. Wrong.

Liora’s wards shimmered once—then cracked like glass under pressure no spell could hold back.

Draco woke screaming.

Harry was already on his feet, knife in hand, chest heaving. Magic churned around the shack like a storm with no eye. The smell hit him next—thick, cloying, sweet—and then the sound: distant howls, guttural roars, the thud of boots, claws, hooves.

Draco clutched at his chest, curled in on himself. His skin glowed faintly gold beneath the moonlight. The ridges on his back had split. Down his spine, down to the base of his neck, his veins shimmered like fire beneath his skin. Blood dripped down like pretty ribbons.

“Oh Merlin,” Harry whispered. “It’s not over.”

It wasn’t.

It started as a throb.

Deep and low in his belly, like a second heartbeat pulsing beneath his navel. Draco gasped as it spread, clawing up his spine and down between his thighs—heat, thick and cloying, drowning thought.

He barely registered the shimmering fracture of Liora’s boundary. Didn’t hear the shouts, the pounding feet, the alarm bells screaming across the glen.

All he knew was that something inside him had snapped.

He curled around himself, fingers trembling as his skin burned like it had caught fire from the inside out. The marks on his back pulsed, bright as fresh wounds. He arched with a cry as the first bone cracked.

Then came the wings.

They tore through him—feathers not soft but sharp at first, blood-slick where they broke free from shoulder blades too fragile for this kind of violence. He felt the rip. Felt his muscles wrench apart and rebuild. Something animal clawed free of his ribs.

He screamed.

His claws burst from his fingers next, involuntary. They raked across the furs under him, tearing through the wool, through the mattress, through wood. His body was no longer his own. His vision blurred. The room swam in gold and red. His tongue felt too big in his mouth. Every breath hurt.

And beneath it all—the need.

It was maddening.

He didn’t know what he wanted, only that he needed it now. His cock was already hard, pressed against his stomach, twitching with every pulse of heat. His thighs were soaked with slick—thick, hot, endless. It dripped down onto the bed beneath him, the scent of it sharp and wild and completely unmanageable.

His back arched again. He bit into the pillow, shaking. Was this the transformation? Or the heat?

He didn’t know. Couldn’t tell. The pain and the want were inseparable. Every nerve was electric, every muscle strained. His mouth formed half-words, pleas he’d never say aloud. He was desperate.

And then—he felt them.

Eyes. Magic. Alphas.

Dozens of them.

Their magic pressed against his mind like smoke through cracks in the walls. Wanting. Reaching. Answering his call. It was as though the wind itself had been summoned by his body.

“No—” he croaked, but his voice broke on the sound.

He gripped the edge of the bed with shaking hands, tried to close his legs, but his body refused. His scent only grew stronger, pouring out of him with every pulse of his heat.

Something inside him was howling. Choose. Choose. Choose.

But there was no mate. No bond. No protection.

Only Harry.

Through the haze, he caught a glimpse of the door—light and shadow and the sharp scent of blood and burning. He felt the magic shift, like gravity turning upside down.

Then—Harry’s voice.

And Draco broke.

The heat had crested, and the full weight of Draco’s creature inheritance came crashing down: Veela instincts, omega scent, magical allure. No bond. No mate. No protection.

And now, the world knew it.

They came in waves.

Men with glowing eyes and fanged smiles, drawn by instinct and hunger. Some were half-shifted—werewolves, vampires, unknown creatures with eyes that flashed silver or red. All alphas. All pulled by Draco’s call.

The village bells rang. Torches flared. Nessa screamed warnings into the wind, clutching her armband like a shield. Harek snarled orders. Liora stood at the front gate, staff raised, spells flying.

It wasn’t enough.

They broke through.

Not through stealth or strategy—but through need. Bodies climbed over stone, burst through tree lines. Some bared teeth; others fell to their knees, whispering praises to the omega light pulsing in the shack like a beacon.

Harry stood guard at the door, every nerve screaming. Inside, Draco writhed, breath hitching, throat working like he was choking on his own magic.

“I can’t—Harry—don’t let them—”

“I won’t.”

But they were coming too fast.

One made it to the steps. Then another. Then—

A shadow blocked the moon.

Nine feet tall. Broad shoulders. Hair like rusted iron. A werewolf in alpha form, only half-transformed, teeth too long for his mouth.

“You can’t keep him from us,” the wolf said, voice thick with lust and magic. “He’s ours. The heat calls.”

Harry stepped forward.

“No. He’s his own. And you’re not touching him.”

The wolf lunged.

Harry met him with a roar of his own, knife forgotten. Magic surged through him—wild, wordless, protective. He tackled the wolf off the porch, fists and fury, knuckles breaking against fur and fang.

The wolf snarled and bit deep into Harry’s shoulder. He screamed, but didn’t stop.

Claws raked down his side. Harry struck back, elbowing the creature’s snout, cracking it with a sickening crunch. Blood sprayed. Harry rolled. Kicked. Cast a wordless blast of raw force that slammed the wolf into a tree.

It stood back up.

“You smell like nothing,” it growled. “Like prey. But you fight like pack.”

Then it smiled.

“I’ll make you one of us.”

The second bite went deep—into the thigh, straight through muscle. Harry choked on the pain, on the magic crawling into his bones.

Then Nessa’s spell hit the wolf from behind—pure fire—and Harek’s axe followed.

The creature dropped.

But the damage was done.

Harry collapsed on the steps, blood soaking his shirt, chest heaving. His vision blurred, ears ringing. His body felt wrong. Like the bones beneath his skin were arguing about what they wanted to become.

Inside, Draco screamed again.

His heat had turned lethal.

The villagers pulled together, dragging the remaining attackers out or cutting them down. The air shimmered with spells. Blood soaked the soil.

And at the center of it all, Harry bled. Fever already creeping in. Bite wound throbbing. His hands trembled. But he refused to give up—to give in.

He pressed his palms into the earth and pushed.

His magic raced, burned and purified the world around him. It rebuilt the wards of the village like steel hulls of a ship.

It allowed no one in and no one out.

Chapter Text

The Forbidden Forest was colder than usual, a heavy storm was coming, the trees shedding their last leaves in a hush that echoed with long-held secrets. Hagrid’s heavy boots crunched on frostbitten earth as he stepped over gnarled roots and ducked beneath low-hanging branches. Behind him, two aurors from the Ministry followed—begrudgingly—each of them twitching at the sounds of distant hoots and rustling leaves.

“Bit jumpy, aren’ yeh?” Hagrid grunted, brushing aside a pine bough. “Forest don’ bite unless yeh bite first.”

The taller of the two aurors, Dawlish, muttered, “We’re here on Dumbledore’s orders, not for sightseeing, Hagrid.”

Hagrid didn’t respond. His mind was occupied, not with the Ministry’s posturing, but with two missing boys.

Harry Potter. Draco Malfoy.

Gone since November. Vanished without a trace.

Except they hadn’t vanished. There were signs, quiet ones, and only the Forest had seen them. Dumbledore had told Hagrid to trust his instincts, and those instincts led him deep into the thickest parts of the woods.

The aurors huffed behind him, clearly uncomfortable. The cold wasn’t the worst of it. The forest had a way of knowing when it was being watched—and it didn’t like being disturbed.

“Should be nearin’ the glade,” Hagrid murmured. “Place the centaurs sometimes go to read the stars.”

He wasn’t wrong.

The trees thinned just enough to let in pale shafts of silver moonlight. A ring of stones surrounded a small hollow where the ground shimmered with frost but remained untouched by snow. In the center stood Magorian, proud and still, his dark coat gleaming with dew, eyes reflecting the fire of a nearby torch.

Hagrid raised a hand in greeting. “Magorian.”

The centaur inclined his head. “Rubeus Hagrid. You return with those who seek answers, but will not hear them.”

Dawlish stepped forward, posture rigid. “We’ve been authorized to—”

“Silence,” Magorian said, not harshly, but with the authority of a mountain.

Hagrid cleared his throat awkwardly. “They’re just here ‘cause Dumbledore asked. Reckon they mean no harm.”

Magorian stepped closer. Behind him, other centaurs appeared—Ronan, Bane, and an unfamiliar mare with a mane like starlight.

“The boys are not lost,” Magorian said at last, addressing Hagrid. “They are protected, nested in the breast of Mother Nature, where neither curse nor crown can touch them.”

Dawlish scoffed. “Is that supposed to mean something?”

Bane’s eyes gleamed. “It means what it means, human. The stars do not lie.”

Hagrid, voice softer now, asked, “Are they safe? Are they… alive?”

The starlit mare stepped forward. Her voice was lilting, like wind in the high trees. “Alive, yes. Changed, yes. But the wolf and the winged one are not who they once were.”

Dawlish frowned. “Wolf and winged one? That’s not—”

“Harry and Draco,” Hagrid said under his breath.

Magorian nodded. “The prophecy swells again. Two sons of war and shadow, born under fire and green light, will walk the forgotten path. One bound to earth, the other to sky. When the forest wakes and the castle weeps, they will not turn away.”

The aurors exchanged glances.

“They are being prepared,” Ronan added. “Shaped by the wild, in the forge of silence and storm.”

“They cannot be taken,” said the mare. “Not yet. The soil has claimed them.”

Hagrid took a step back. His eyes prickled with tears, hidden beneath his beard. Relief. Hope.

“Thank yeh,” he said hoarsely.

Magorian gazed at him with something close to kindness. “Tell your Headmaster this: Wait. The forest gives what it chooses in its own time.”

Dawlish grumbled. “This is nonsense. We’re wasting our time.”

But Hagrid turned, already retracing his steps. He didn’t need to argue. He knew. He felt it.

The boys were alive.

And the Forest—old, wild, unbreakable—was their cradle now.

As the aurors followed, grumbling and brushing twigs from their robes, the centaurs watched in silence. Behind them, the stars shifted overhead, whispering truths that only the trees could translate.

And beneath layers of leaves and protection, two boys lay curled in dreams of light and shadow, unaware that the world was still searching for them.

The time would come.

But not yet.

The corridors of Hogwarts had never felt more hollow.

Though the grand halls still echoed with footsteps and the classrooms buzzed with spells and parchment-scratching, there was a lingering emptiness beneath it all. Two empty seats in the Great Hall seemed to tug at the eye. Two names absent from rosters. Two lives unaccounted for.

McGonagall stood at the head of her House table, watching over her Gryffindors with sharp eyes that rarely softened now. The chill in the air wasn’t just the approaching winter; it was the silence that settled every time someone almost said Harry’s name, then stopped. As if speaking it aloud might unravel whatever fragile illusion of normalcy remained.

Across the castle, Severus Snape was no more at ease. His patrols had doubled. His temper was more brittle than ever. And still, his mind circled back—again and again—to Potter and Malfoy. His hands curled behind his back as he stood in the shadows of the Astronomy Tower, the Daily Prophet folded under one arm, today’s headline an angry snarl: 

HOGWARTS STILL SILENT ON MISSING BOYS—WHERE IS THE TRUTH?

It was getting harder to hide. Harder to pretend they hadn’t all failed.

In the staff room that evening, the usual simmering debates had quieted. Professors lingered over mugs of tea and coffee, speaking in low voices.

“I don’t suppose the Aurors are still checking the southern edge of the forest?” Flitwick asked gently.

“Fudge pulled them last week,” McGonagall said, jaw tight. “Claims the Ministry can’t afford to waste resources on a ‘hopeless trail.’”

A bitter silence settled.

“They’re not dead,” Pomona Sprout whispered. “I can feel it in my bones.”

“Alive doesn’t mean safe,” said Snape. “You know that better than anyone.”

There was a beat, and then McGonagall stood abruptly. “I’ll write another letter to Dumbledore. He may be hiding something, but he still cares about this school—about those boys. He must.”

Meanwhile, in the Gryffindor common room, Hermione sat curled in a chair by the fire, a stack of books on magical tracking piled beside her. She had read them all. Twice.

Ron sat opposite her, arms folded, jaw tense. He hadn’t said anything for a long time.

“I just don’t think they’re dead,” Hermione said again, staring at the fire. “Not Harry. Not Malfoy either. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Malfoy always wanted to run this school,” Ron muttered. “He’s a bloody coward sure, but just leaving? Harry… Harry never would have left us either unless he had too.”

“I don’t think they left on purpose.”

“Yeah, well. Maybe they did. Maybe they’re living it up somewhere. Or maybe they’re in trouble and we’re just sitting here, pretending everything’s fine!”

Hermione turned sharply, her voice low. “You think I’m pretending? I write to different  aurors weekly. I’ve owl-bombed the Ministry twice. I nearly got a detention from Professor Vector for trying to enchant a locator charm onto one of Harry’s old quills. I’m not pretending anything, Ronald.”

Ron’s face went red, but he didn’t argue. His gaze drifted to the portrait hole, as if half-expecting it to open and for Harry to step through, sheepish and wild-haired, complaining about missing homework or strange headaches.

But it didn’t open. It never did.

Later that night, Dumbledore stood in his office, hands clasped behind his back. The silver instruments around him whirred softly, chiming with unreadable rhythms. Fawkes trilled a note from his perch and then fell silent again.

A soft knock at the door.

“Enter,” he said.

It was Minerva.

“I’ve had a message from Firenze,” she said, stepping inside. “The centaurs have agreed to speak with us again. One of them claims the stars have shifted. That something is stirring beneath the castle.”

“Beneath?” Dumbledore echoed, his eyes narrowing. “The Forest has always whispered secrets, but rarely about us.”

“There’s more.” She handed him a sealed letter. “Hagrid met with them earlier this month. Apparently, they believe the boys are protected—for now. That they’re being sheltered by something ancient deep in the forest. Something older than even Hogwarts.”

Dumbledore opened the letter, scanning the centaur’s careful script. His eyes flicked over the words quickly, but his expression gave nothing away.

Minerva waited, watching him with the same scrutiny she gave wayward students. “Well?” she asked, after a long pause.

He looked up slowly, folding the parchment with quiet precision.

“Mostly riddles,” he said lightly, setting it aside. “The centaurs rarely offer clarity. Their visions are clouded by symbolism and interpretation.”

Minerva’s mouth tightened. “And yet you asked them to look.”

“A precaution,” he said. “Nothing more.”

She studied him, eyes sharp behind her spectacles. “Do you believe them? When they say they’re alive, Albus?”

He gave her a small, wistful smile. “Hope is a powerful form of magic, Minerva. I think we must hold onto it, however fragile.”

It wasn’t an answer. She knew it. He knew she knew it.

But she nodded anyway and left, her robes whispering against the stone as the door clicked quietly shut behind her.

Once he was alone again, Dumbledore returned to his desk and unfurled the parchment once more. His gaze lingered on a single line written in careful, sloping script:

“They sleep in the breast of Mother, where the stars have turned and the tide waits to break.”

He traced the words with a finger, eyes distant.

Then, without another sound, he locked the message away in a drawer, deep beneath spells meant to forget.

Chapter Text

The first thing Harry noticed was fire.

Not pain. Not light. Not even the sharp throb in his shoulder.

Just fire.

It smoldered low and molten beneath his skin, curling around his ribs, threading through his spine. It wasn’t flame exactly—it was change. Something deeper. Ancient. A power rising up from his marrow like it had been waiting all along.

And beneath it, scent.

Warm, spiced. Sweet like moss and moon sap. And beneath that, a familiar thread: petrichor and pine.

Draco.

The smell wrapped around his thoughts like wool, soft and grounding. Harry leaned into it instinctively, pulling himself toward the source.

When he opened his eyes, the ceiling was a living thing—woven with roots and flowering moss, runes etched in bark and bloom. Small crystal orbs floated on hovering shelves, casting lavender light over the room.

And beside him—

Draco.

Asleep on a stool, head tucked into his arms, his pale hair glowing like frost in the firelight. But something was wrong—his posture too curled, too tense. Something glinted at his back.

Wings.

Great white wings, half-folded, stretched and twitching unconsciously in sleep. They shimmered faintly with iridescent firelight, tipped in gold and silver, too large for the small space. One was tucked awkwardly under the stool. The other draped slightly over the bed, the edge singed where it had accidentally grazed a floating light.

Harry blinked slowly.

His chest felt heavy—like something inside him had been tied to the earth. Not painfully. But permanently.

He stirred, breath hitching.

Pain flared in his shoulder. A gasp escaped his lips.

Draco startled awake, wings flaring instinctively—too fast.

The nearest light orb popped with a hiss. A curtain caught fire.

“Merlin—!” Draco yelped, scrambling back, knocking over the stool as he flung a wing over the flame. A puff of smoke rose, singeing the edges of his feathers. His talons—sharp and blackened like obsidian—dug into the wooden floor in panic.

Harry blinked at him.

Draco was panting, wide-eyed, red with shame. His wings trembled, half-wrapped around his body like a shield.

Eulah entered the room with calm, unhurried grace, waving a hand. The flame vanished with a hum.

“Again?” they murmured. “That’s the third light you’ve broken today.”

Draco’s ears turned crimson. “I—I’m sorry—I didn’t mean—”

“You never mean,” Eulah said, not unkindly. They knelt beside Harry and offered a carved wooden bowl. “Here. Drink. He’ll be useless while he’s flapping.”

Harry’s lips twitched. He took the bowl with both hands.

The potion smelled like damp wood and crushed herbs. Bitter. Familiar. Laced with starlight. He sipped. Warmth spilled down his throat, easing the fever’s grip.

“He didn’t tell us,” Eulah added, voice suddenly sharper, turning toward Draco. “Not when the feathers started. Not when his hands split open. Not even when his magic began setting things alight.”

Draco flinched. His wings drew tighter around him.

“I didn’t know—I didn’t know what it was,” he whispered. “It’s not—it’s not supposed to be me. No one in my family’s been Veela in centuries.”

Harry turned his head, dizzy but alert.

Eulah crossed their arms, bracelets clinking. “And still. You thought silence was wiser?”

Draco stared at the floor. “That’s how I was raised,” he said tightly. “To hide it. To control it. To shove it down and pretend I’m normal. Not… this.” He flexed one wing, talons trembling. “Not a creature.”

“You are not a creature,” Eulah said. “You are becoming. That is a different thing.”

Draco said nothing. His shame was a living thing in the room—hot and bitter and old.

Harry shifted, and Draco moved instantly to his side, wings brushing the edge of the bed.

“You’re burning up,” he said, voice cracking. “I thought I—I thought you were going to die.”

“You’re the one who caught the curtain on fire,” Harry rasped.

Draco laughed once, shakily. “Yeah. Well. That’s a thing now.”

Eulah touched Harry’s forehead, magic crackling under their fingers.

“You defended him,” they said softly. “He defended you. You two seem to make a habit of it.”

Draco looked away, hiding behind a wing again.

Harry reached up, fingers brushing the edge of a feather.

“You’re not a creature,” he said.

Draco looked at him, startled.

“You’re beautiful,” Harry added, barely above a whisper.

And Draco broke.

His breath stuttered. His wings fell limp. For a moment, everything in him stopped—talons, fire, shame—replaced only by the look in Harry’s eyes.

He sat beside him on the edge of the bed, careful of his wings. Quiet now. Still.

Harry leaned into him, feverish but clear.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he murmured.

And Draco whispered, “Me too.”

Eulah remained at the foot of the bed, their presence as steady as stone, as if they’d been waiting for the moment when silence would soften and questions could breathe.

Draco’s wings had settled into a lazy arch behind him. His talons had retracted into more human hands, though his nails still shimmered with a faint dark sheen. He sat beside Harry without touching him, barely breathing, as if afraid his very existence might undo the fragile peace.

Harry, still propped against the pillow, looked between them both. “What happened to me?”

Eulah’s head tilted, and the candles bent toward them slightly, their flames swaying as if listening too.

“You broke a tether,” they said. “Or perhaps you were broken free. A thread cut, deep magic awakened. Not unlike what your friend here has endured—” they glanced at Draco, “—though the shape of it is different.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “You said he was cursed.”

“He was. But curses are not always chains. Sometimes they are cages. Sometimes they are locks keeping something greater hidden. And when pain strikes in the right place, when love is fierce enough, the lock breaks open.”

Harry shifted, his fingers twisting into the blanket. “What did I… become?”

Eulah leaned forward, resting their arms on their knees. “Nothing new. Not really. You became what you always were, but hidden. It is not the first time we’ve seen this. In the old texts, we called them ‘Twilight-born’—those who carry death and life in equal measure. Yours is forest-magic, old and stubborn. The kind that sleeps until it is called.”

“By what?”

“By grief. By love. By sacrifice.”

Draco went still.

Eulah continued, voice gentler now. “You tried to give your life for his. You chose it. That kind of magic listens. It woke to answer the choice.”

“But… the fire,” Harry whispered. “The pain. It didn’t feel… good.”

Eulah nodded. “Birth is rarely pleasant.”

Harry stared.

“You were not dying,” they added softly. “You were shedding. The fever is the price. The bones, the dreams, the ache—you are crossing a threshold now.”

Draco swallowed hard, his eyes never leaving Harry. “Will he survive it?”

Eulah gave a small smile. “He already has.”

Harry let out a shaky breath. “And the bond? Between us?”

Draco stiffened.

Eulah raised their brows. “You’ve felt it, haven’t you? The way your magic calls to each other?”

Harry and Draco exchanged a glance. The weight of it hung between them—unspoken, undeniable.

“You are not bound by accident,” Eulah said. “This kind of connection does not form through convenience or chance. It forms through choice—even when neither of you knew you were making it.”

Draco whispered, “He chose me in the fire.”

“And you chose him when you flew into it,” Eulah replied, eyes bright. “Your bodies may be still catching up, but your souls are already speaking.”

Harry’s cheeks flushed. He felt the warmth rising again—not fever this time, but something deeper.

“So what do we do now?” he asked.

Eulah stood. The candles rose with them. “Now you rest. Let the bond settle. Let the magic root itself in your bones. The rest will come in time.”

“And after that?”

They smiled cryptically. “After that, you build a life worthy of the magic you’ve awakened.”

Eulah closed the door behind them, leaving only the sound of rain—soft and steady against the thatch above.

The healer’s hut smelled of damp moss and boiled herbs, woodsmoke clinging to every breath. Dim lantern-light flickered along the rune-carved walls, casting long shadows across the floor.

Harry sat propped up against moss-padded pillows, still fever-warm but clearer than before. Draco sat beside him, too still, his wings drawn tight and hunched like a stormcloud around his shoulders.

Neither of them spoke.

Harry broke the silence first. “It’s raining.”

Draco’s fingers twitched where they curled around his knees. “It started just after.”

Harry tilted his head. “After I was bitten?”

Draco nodded.

Harry stared down at his lap. “In front of everyone. Harek. Eulah. The whole bloody village.”

“They saw everything,” Draco said tightly. “They saw you scream. They saw me do nothing.”

“That’s not true.”

Draco looked away. “Isn’t it?”

Lightning flickered through the shutters, casting silver across Draco’s skin. His talons glinted where they peeked from trembling fingers. Feathers along one wing were still singed, curled from fire. He hadn’t noticed. Or hadn’t cared.

Harry leaned forward slightly. “You kept me alive.”

Draco flinched. “No. Eulah did. Harek held off the bleeding. Liora found the herbs. I—just stood there. With fire in my hands and panic in my chest and—burning. I could feel it coming on for days. My skin wouldn’t stop tingling. Everything smelled too strong. And I thought it was just my magic waking up or—something I could control.”

He went quiet. Then added, barely above a whisper: “But then the heat hit.”

Harry blinked. “Heat?”

Draco’s ears turned red. “It was like being lit from the inside. Everything under my skin—alive, demanding, hot. I didn’t know what was happening at first. I thought I was sick. Or cursed. And then I realized—what it was.”

Harry’s eyes widened.

“In front of everyone, Harry. I—” Draco’s voice broke, bitter and low. “Do you have any idea how humiliating it is to go into your first heat surrounded by strangers? In public? With no control, no dignity—nothing? They saw everything. The villagers knew before I did.”

Harry didn’t answer right away. Just looked at him—really looked.

Draco’s face was taut with shame, lips tight, jaw trembling beneath the strain. His wings had curled in so tight they shivered against his spine. He couldn’t even meet Harry’s eyes.

“And it wasn’t just the heat,” Draco added, nearly choking on the words. “It was you. I could smell you—feel you—and it hurt not to touch you. My magic kept clawing at me like—like it knew something I didn’t. And then you were bitten and I—froze.”

Harry reached for him. Their fingers brushed, hesitated—then held.

“You didn’t run,” Harry said quietly. “Even when everyone saw. Even when your instincts were screaming.”

Draco whispered, “I wanted to. I’ve never wanted to disappear so badly in my life. But I couldn’t. Because—because you were there. Hurt. Burning. And all I could think was: don’t let him die.”

Harry squeezed his hand. “You didn’t let me.”

A silence settled between them, filled only by the rhythm of the rain.

Draco breathed in. Out. “I thought if anyone knew what was happening to me, they’d look at me like a monster. Like something dirty. Weak.”

“Because you were scared.”

“No.” Draco’s wings curled tighter. “Because I was raised not to show weakness. To bury anything that made me different. Magic that doesn’t come from a wand is wild, my father said. Dangerous. Filthy. I didn’t even know there was Veela blood in us until Eulah told me. And it’s not just that—there’s something older waking up in me. Something that doesn’t care about rules or reason or whether I’m a Malfoy.”

Harry’s eyes softened. “You were afraid they’d see you the way your family would have.”

Draco spoke softly, “But they didn’t.”

Harry said, “Neither do I.”

Their foreheads touched—soft and trembling and unsure.

Draco closed his eyes. “I’ve never felt so out of control.”

“You’re not alone anymore,” Harry whispered.

And outside, the rain kept falling—warm and alive and steady. Washing shame from old wounds. Soaking into soil where new things could grow.

Chapter Text

The storm had passed, but the village still whispered.

Though the Nuckelavee had accepted them—for now—some still stared too long, stepped too lightly around Harry’s shadow. Others offered quiet nods when they saw Draco, eyes glowing faintly like stars behind frost.

But inside the hut with Eulah and the others—there was peace.

It was twilight when they arrived. Lanterns of hanging crystal swayed in the branches above the doorway, their pale blue light pulsing gently with the rhythm of the earth. The air smelled of burning herbs and polished stone.

Harek stood by the entrance, arms crossed, the curve of his axe glinting faintly in the fading light. His presence was steadying. He had accompanied them not to intervene—but to witness.

“I’ll wait here,” he said, nodding once to Liora, then to Harry. “This is your path to walk. But you’re not alone.”

Harry met his eyes and nodded. The reassurance mattered more than he could say.

Liora greeted them without words—only a soft smile and a beckoning gesture. They wore deep violet robes today, embroidered with silver thread in the shapes of moons, wolves, and antlers. Their long white braid gleamed in the growing dusk.

“This is the House of Runes,” they said, voice low and musical. “The old scripts live here. And now, perhaps, they will live in you.”

Draco’s eyes lit up instantly. He had always been drawn to things like this—hidden knowledge, elegant structure, the way magic curved through ancient syllables.

Harry just watched him.

“How do runes help with transformation?” he asked, running a finger over the carved table where Liora had begun laying out stones.

“They don’t stop it,” Liora replied, placing down a parchment inked in silver. “But they speak to the deeper self. They anchor you to who you are. That is where the danger lies for the wolf-born—not in the changing, but in the forgetting.”

Draco tilted his head. “So it’s memory magic.”

“In a way.” Liora’s bracelets hummed faintly as they gestured. “But it is also love magic. Intimacy. A rune is a promise made visible.”

Harry blinked. “To whom?”

“To yourself,” Eulah said, gaze steady as she stepped forward with a bowl of powdered chalk. “To the stars. To the one you protect.”

Harry glanced at Draco, but Draco was looking down, cheeks faintly flushed.

They spent the next hour drawing.

Liora taught them slowly, carefully. They sketched sigils in chalk on rough parchment—runes of stability, of moonlight clarity, of blood-peace and grounding. Draco’s script was neat, elegant. Harry’s was messy but determined.

At one point, Draco shifted beside him and leaned over Harry’s parchment.

“That one’s upside down,” he murmured, smiling soft and crooked.

Harry laughed. “I thought it was supposed to look like a wolf’s paw.”

Draco took his hand. “No. Like this.”

He turned Harry’s fingers gently, adjusting the angle, steadying his wrist. His touch was warm. Intentional. The moment stretched.

Harry’s heart stuttered—not in fear. In recognition.

Their hands stayed there longer than they needed to.

Harek, watching from the doorway, shifted slightly but said nothing.

Liora, across the room, pretended not to notice—but their faint smile betrayed them.

When the parchment was full, Liora brought out a flat tray of tempora stones—polished black discs that pulsed with quiet, ancient warmth.

“These are old,” they said. “You may choose one to hold your rune. Think carefully.”

Draco chose a thin oval with a faint seam of silver running through it.

Harry picked one that felt hot to the touch, like it remembered fire.

They etched their chosen runes in silence.

Harry’s was for grounding—to anchor his body and mind when the wolf threatened to consume. Draco’s was for clarity—to remind him who he was becoming, not just what he’d been told to be.

Liora sealed them with a soft incantation in the Nuckelavee tongue.

“Wear them always,” they said, handing each boy a thin silver chain. “Your magic will come to know them, as it knows breath.”

Outside, night had fully fallen. Stars bloomed above the canopy, wild and bright.

Harry rubbed the rune between his fingers, then glanced sideways. “Thanks for helping me,” he said quietly.

Draco looked at him, and for a moment, the space between them disappeared.

“You’ve protected me since the beginning,” Draco said, voice low. “I just want to do the same for you.”

Harry smiled. “You already are.”

From the doorway, Harek turned away to give them privacy, a flicker of approval passing through his eyes.

And above them, the stars pulsed gently in agreement.

That night, Harry lay awake.

Draco was curled beside him, pale hair tangled against the pillow, breaths soft with sleep. The silver rune hung around his neck, catching the dim flicker of firelight.

Eulah sat nearby, tending the banked coals. She glanced up as Harry stirred.

“You’re safe,” she said quietly. “Just tired.”

Harry sat up with a wince. Sweat clung to his brow.

Eulah offered him a steaming cup. “Fever potion. The last of it.”

He took it, hands shaking slightly. Draco stirred but didn’t wake.

“He’s been worried,” Eulah said, voice gentle. “About how public everything was. His heat. Your bite. Some things we can’t hide.”

Harry looked down at his hands. “We didn’t try to.”

A shadow moved in the doorway—Harek.

He entered quietly, sat across from the hearth, and leaned his axe against the wall. His eyes met Harry’s.

“The worst part,” Harek said, “isn’t the change. It’s thinking you’re alone with it.”

Harry didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

Draco shifted again, brow furrowed, breath hitching. Harry touched his shoulder gently.

“He thinks it shamed him,” Eulah said. “But that vulnerability—that was truth. And the village saw it.”

Harek nodded. “Truth’s a kind of power too. Not everyone will see it that way. But the ones who matter… will.”

Harry looked up at them both, exhaustion softening the corners of his face.

“Will he be alright?”

“Yes,” Eulah said. “And so will you.”

Harry finished the potion. The warmth spread through his chest like a remembered fire.

And in the quiet that followed, the rune at his throat pulsed gently—like breath.

Like a promise.

The fire had burned low, casting long shadows on the walls.

Harry had finally drifted off, one hand resting on Draco’s arm, the other curled around the rune at his throat. Both boys breathed in quiet tandem, moonlight catching the curve of their shared blankets.

Eulah tucked the edge of the coverlet a little higher over Draco’s shoulder, then rose slowly. Her joints ached from kneeling so long.

She found Harek outside the hut, sharpening his axe by starlight.

“You didn’t sleep,” she murmured, settling beside him on the worn stone bench.

He didn’t look at her, just passed the whetstone once more along the blade.

“Didn’t need to.”

Eulah folded her hands in her lap. “You watched him the whole time. Harry.”

“I’ve seen what the turning does to people.” Harek’s voice was low, flat. “Some come back wrong. Or not at all.”

She nodded, her eyes tracing the rise and fall of the trees.

“He didn’t come back wrong.”

“No,” Harek agreed. “But he came back changed.”

A long silence stretched between them.

“Draco grounds him,” Eulah said at last. “In a way he doesn’t even realize yet. And Harry—he lets Draco be soft. That boy’s never been allowed to be soft before.”

Harek grunted. “Dangerous, that kind of softness.”

Eulah turned to him, her smile edged with something sharper than kindness. “No, Harek. It’s the kind that survives. The kind that teaches people to stop bleeding.”

He set the axe aside, finally looking at her. “And if it doesn’t last?”

“Then it still mattered.” Her voice didn’t waver. “They’re changing each other. That’s the work. The real work.”

Harek stared at the hut.

“They’re too young.”

“We were younger.”

That silenced him more effectively than any spell.

Eulah rose, brushing frost from her cloak.

“You saw it, didn’t you?” she said softly. “The way they looked at each other. Not like children. Like people who’ve stood in fire and still chose to reach out.”

Harek looked down at his hands. Calloused. Steady. Still trembling.

“I saw.”

“Then trust it.”

She left him there, under the watch of the stars.

And after a long while, Harek tipped his head back and did.

Chapter Text

The morning broke golden and thick with warmth, sunlight filtering through the treetops in hazy beams that lit the cabin’s wooden floor. Birds trilled lazily in the distance, their song barely registering through the fog of sleep and hunger that clung to Harry like a second skin. 

He woke first. Or maybe he hadn’t really slept at all.

There was something off in his body—coiled, electric, a low-burning ache under his skin that hadn’t been there before. His stomach twisted, not with pain, but with need. A gnawing, almost feral need.

He stoked the embers in the hearth with trembling fingers, tossed on a strip of salted venison they’d cured days ago, and crouched near the pan as it sizzled. The smell—sharp, cooked, oily—turned his stomach.

Too much. Too much char. Too dead.

With a muttered curse, Harry pulled the meat from the flame early, slicing into it to reveal a center that was still pink, nearly red. He stared at it for a beat too long before sinking his teeth in. It was better. Warm, but still blood-rich. His teeth tore rather than chewed.

He didn’t look up. He didn’t want to see the judgment in Draco’s eyes.

But there wasn’t judgment.

Across the room, Draco had barely stirred under the patchwork blanket—until a breeze fluttered through the open window and danced across his bare shoulders. He stirred, shifted, and sat up slowly, hair tangled and wings tucked awkwardly tight against his spine.

And then his eyes flicked toward the bowl of fruit on the table.

“Is that… are those nectarines?” he croaked, his voice still rough with sleep.

“Peaches,” Harry replied around a mouthful, voice muffled.

Draco didn’t answer. He crossed the room barefoot, graceful even half-asleep, and grabbed two without ceremony. He bit into one like it was salvation, juice dripping down his chin, hands sticky with pulp. He devoured it, then the next, and then started in on the summer berries, shoving them between his lips in bursts of color—red, violet, black.

Harry watched him, dazed.

It should have looked absurd. Draco Malfoy, former heir of a gilded legacy, wrist-deep in berry juice, hair mussed, pale lips stained purple, eyes wild with hunger.

But it didn’t. It looked… right. Real.

Draco wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and finally glanced at Harry. Their eyes locked. Something passed between them—raw, wordless, a flicker of instinct neither of them could name yet.

“You’re bleeding,” Draco said suddenly.

Harry blinked, glancing down. A split in the meat had leaked along his fingers. His nails looked darker. Sharper?

He put the food down, suddenly unsure whether he was hungry or just… altered.

“Can’t stop thinking about it,” Harry muttered. “Meat. Raw. The smell of it. It’s like my whole body is tuned to the wrong frequency.”

Draco nodded slowly, licking juice from his wrist. “Mine’s sugar. Fruit. My muscles ache when I don’t get enough.” He flexed his shoulders, wings twitching beneath his shirt. “I think I need it to fly.”

“Wings still hurting?”

Draco hesitated. “They’re… heavy.”

They sat in silence, each pretending not to watch the other. There was a quiet tension now—nothing spoken, but thick in the air between them. Like two pieces of a puzzle no longer fitting the way they used to. Shifted edges. New instincts. Old friendship giving way to something more volatile.

And neither knew what to do with it yet.

Later that morning, Harry had vanished into the trees with Harek again, tracking something or sharpening blades or—more likely—avoiding Draco entirely. The silence between them had been thick enough to choke on.

Draco sat on a rock behind the cabin, shirt discarded and wings half-furled, the sunlight warming the pale expanse of his back. His fingers dug into the loamy earth at his sides as he tried, and failed, to stretch the wings fully.

They ached. Constantly.

And not in a passing sort of way. In a bone-deep, muscle-burning, screaming-for-space way. Every morning they felt heavier, the joints pulling at his spine, the new weight throwing off his balance. He’d fallen trying to stand twice already today.

“Getting bigger again?” came a familiar voice from behind him.

Draco twisted, nearly toppling. “Nessa—bloody hell, don’t sneak up on me.”

The girl only grinned, unbothered. Her arms were full of herbs and wild greens, apron dusted with pollen and tiny burrs. “Wasn’t sneaking. You’re just deaf and self-absorbed.”

He huffed, then groaned, adjusting his posture. “They feel like boulders strapped to my back.”

Nessa dropped her bundle beside him and crouched down. “Can I?”

Draco nodded stiffly. She reached out and gently pressed her fingers along the ridge where his wings joined his back, feeling the tension in the muscle. He flinched, but didn’t pull away.

“Everything’s inflamed,” she said. “You need more muscle here. You’re too lean. Your body’s trying to support flight with no structure.”

Draco flushed, glancing down at himself. “I’m not that thin.”

“You’re vain,” Nessa corrected, poking his side. “You’re wiry and graceful and probably looked lovely at court. But this isn’t about looking pretty in a robe. You need to bulk up.”

He grimaced. “I’ll look ridiculous.”

“You’ll look like someone who doesn’t snap his spine trying to take off.” She sat beside him now, gaze softening. “It’s just a different kind of puberty. Wings, muscle aches, weird cravings…”

“Oh, wonderful,” Draco muttered. “Just what every boy dreams of—growing extra limbs and sweating fruit juice.”

Nessa laughed, that wild-bird sound of hers. “Well, your puberty is just a little more dramatic than everyone else’s.”

Draco couldn’t help it—he smiled, even if it was a small, crooked thing. “You think?”

“Definitely.” She leaned her head against his bare shoulder. “But you’re still you underneath all the changes. And you’re not alone.”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t want to admit how badly he needed to hear that. How much the weight of his own skin made him feel like he might drown in it. Or how, lately, every time he looked at Harry, something inside him ached in ways he didn’t yet have names for.

After a while, Nessa added, “You know, you don’t have to wait for someone to name you theirs before you take up space.”

Draco looked away, jaw tightening. “Easy for you to say.”

“Maybe. But someone should be telling you this. You’re not broken. You’re becoming.”

From the edge of the trees, Harry crouched low in the underbrush, a half-dressed rabbit hanging from his grip, his brows drawn into a hard line.

He hadn’t meant to spy. Not really.

But when he’d heard voices—Draco’s, bright and exasperated, followed by Nessa’s familiar laugh—he’d followed the sound like it was a string tied to his chest.

And now he couldn’t look away.

Draco was sitting shirtless in the sun, his silver-blond hair tangled and wild, wings pulled in close and twitching like they had a mind of their own. Nessa leaned against him, shoulder to shoulder, and said something that made Draco laugh. Not a smirk. Not a sneer.

A real laugh. Open-mouthed, carefree, like he hadn’t done in months.

Harry’s stomach twisted. The back of his throat felt dry. The rabbit dropped to the ground with a soft thump.

“Well,” came a low voice beside him. “That’s not murder in your eyes, is it?”

Harry startled, jerking toward the sound. Harek stood leaning against a pine, arms crossed and smirking, his long braid tossed over one shoulder like a scarf.

“You need to move quieter if you’re going to sulk in the forest like a jealous squirrel.”

Harry flushed. “I wasn’t sulking.”

“You were definitely sulking.”

He bristled. “I just—he’s touching her. And she’s touching him.”

“Yes,” Harek said dryly. “That’s generally how arms work.”

Harry growled, low in his throat, something sharp and wrong behind his teeth. “She doesn’t even like boys.”

Harek shrugged. “Maybe not. Doesn’t mean she can’t make him laugh. Or remind him he’s not dying.”

Harry turned away, hands clenched. “It’s not just her.”

Harek raised a brow. “Ah. Thalion, then.”

Just saying the name made Harry’s blood simmer. The elf had arrived two days ago, with soft-soled boots and star-bright eyes, all gentle curiosity and thinly veiled judgment. He’d barely spoken to Harry. But Draco? He’d hovered near Draco like a moth circling a lantern.

“Draco doesn’t see it,” Harry muttered.

“No,” Harek said. “He sees praise. And need. And someone who speaks like home.”

Harry inhaled sharply, but it was like trying to breathe through smoke.

“And you,” Harek added, stepping away to retrieve the rabbit, “reek of instinct. Hormones. Possessiveness.”

“I don’t—”

“You smell like a basilisk that rolled in rancid herbs.”

Harry scowled. “Thanks.”

“Not a compliment, pup.”

He tossed the rabbit back at Harry. “Sort yourself out. Or someone else will.”

Harry caught the carcass, hands tight around the cold fur. From the clearing, Draco laughed again—lighter, freer than Harry had ever heard.

Something primal inside him snapped its teeth.

The air shimmered with summer heat, thick with birdsong and the scent of crushed berries.

Draco stretched his wings lazily beneath the tree canopy, their pale arches catching stray motes of light. He was starting to get used to the weight of them—how they folded against his back, how they ached after too long sitting still. His shirt had been discarded completely this morning, and despite the new muscle mass slowly building across his shoulders, he felt lean. Not strong. Not enough.

“I’d suggest almonds,” Thalion said, suddenly beside him. “Good for flighted folk. Muscle density. And mood.”

Draco blinked up at him, momentarily caught off guard. “I beg your pardon?”

The elf knelt beside him, graceful in a way that made Draco instinctively tuck his wings in tighter. Thalion extended a small pouch and gave a crooked smile. “Eat. You’re burning more magic and calories than your body can keep up with.”

Draco narrowed his eyes, but accepted the almonds. “And how would you know?”

“I was once a fledgling too.” Thalion’s gaze dropped, lingering briefly on Draco’s collarbones, the faint shimmer of sweat along his skin. “Though I daresay I wasn’t half so compelling.”

Draco scoffed, popping a nut into his mouth to avoid responding. The taste was earthy and rich, and—annoyingly—satisfying.

Thalion continued, voice low. “You’re adjusting well. These things take time. Effort. Pain. But look at you.” He reached forward, uninvited, brushing a thumb lightly along the base of Draco’s left wing where it met skin. “Your magic sings, little dragon.”

Draco stilled. The touch wasn’t inappropriate—barely even intimate. But it meant something. The praise cut through him like sunlight through water, and gods, he wanted more of it.

“You should be proud,” Thalion added. “You’re evolving.”

And for one stupid second, Draco was proud.

He caught himself too late, cheeks coloring as he looked away. “I’m hardly finished.”

“Exactly,” Thalion said, standing smoothly. “You’re just getting started.”

And with a wink, he strode toward the cooking pit, leaving Draco blinking after him.

From the edge of the clearing, Harry stood so still a squirrel darted right past his boots without noticing.

He had seen everything. The touch. The smile. The look in Draco’s eyes.

He could smell Draco’s shifting scent even from here—confusion, craving, a desperate flicker of pleasure that didn’t belong to Harry. That was because of someone else.

His jaw clenched. Magic stirred low in his gut, hot and bristling.

Behind him, Harek’s voice came again, dry and knowing: “You’re gonna combust if you don’t say something soon.”

“I’ll say it with my fist,” Harry muttered.

“Mm,” Harek replied. “Just don’t punch the elf’s face off. You’re technically our guest.”

“Am I still? Anyways, he doesn’t feel friendly at all.”

“No,” Harek agreed. “Feels like a rival.”

Chapter Text

The morning mist hadn’t burned off yet, and the air clung damp and silver around the clearing. Dew beaded on Draco’s skin as he exhaled hard, hands braced on the log bench he’d dragged from the treeline. His bare torso glistened, muscles trembling from the weight of his latest set of pushups. His wings—tucked tightly behind him—shivered when he strained, the effort making them twitch with residual magic. His hair, no longer slicked backed, had grown over the last year. Now long enough to tie back with a leather cord at the nape of his neck.

He could feel the change now, each week layering more strength over what had once been aristocratic slimness. He was bulking—broadening. His shoulders no longer sat narrow under the collar of his cloak. His chest felt heavy, full. His back had begun to ache not from weakness, but from growth.

He welcomed the ache.

He welcomed the jump in height too. A slow thing that had been happening over the course of a few week. He once looked Harry in the eye and now he had to peer down at him. Nessa liked to joke about puberty and it being a way for his body to offset the length and height of his wings. Either way, he no longer looked like a pretty prince from some forgotten century. Now he looked nearly like the other young men of the elven village they called home. Tall, board and not weak like he assumed his more submissive nature would imply.

Nearby, Harry moved like smoke.

Barefoot and fast, he ducked low through the brush, dodging branches and weaving between tree roots. He didn’t make a sound. His body was leaner, tighter, honed for speed and silence rather than size. Every motion was practiced—controlled.

Harek watched him from a distance, nodding approvingly when Harry vaulted over a moss-covered boulder and landed without a whisper.

“You’re tracking better,” Harek murmured when Harry came to a stop beside him, chest heaving lightly. “Quieter too.”

“I’ve been practicing,” Harry said with a sharp smile, dragging a hand through his damp hair. Though Draco had grown his out, Harry had opted for a shorn on the sides look. Similar to that of Harek’s.“Helps when I’m not starving all the time.”

“Your instincts are waking up. You move like a predator now.” Harek smirked. “Still stink like a teenage boy, though.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Thanks.”

Back at the shack, Draco tugged a cloth over his face, wiping away sweat as he stretched his wings wide, testing the pull of new muscle across his back. The ache was there again—low and persistent, but satisfying. His arms were thick with tension, his biceps flushed with exertion. He paused only when a soft voice broke the stillness.

“Your wings are looking good.”

Draco turned to see Nessa approaching with a pitcher of cold spring water and a crooked smile.

“They’re not ‘looking good,’ they’re functional,” Draco corrected, although he accepted the water gratefully.

“Right,” she said with a smirk. “Functional and a bit fit, too. If you’re going to go through magical puberty, might as well do it with flair.”

Draco groaned. “Don’t call it that.”

Nessa just laughed. “Call it what you like. You’re growing into it, though. All that sulking, and now look at you—like a real forest creature.”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. She wasn’t wrong. His magic had settled differently lately—heavier, deeper in his bones. Less volatile. More rooted.

That night, after they’d both eaten—Draco half a melon and strips of dried beef, Harry a nearly-raw slab of venison—they sat near the fire near the village center, silent.

Harry glanced over, watching the way the flames played against Draco’s wings. “You look stronger,” he said quietly.

Draco raised an eyebrow. “You sound surprised.”

“I’m not,” Harry said. “It just suits you. All of it. The wings. The muscle. The height”

Draco turned his face slightly, hiding the flush that rose unbidden. “You don’t look so bad yourself, you know. With the whole… dark, broody predator thing.”

Harry snorted. “Thanks. I think.”

They didn’t speak after that. Just sat close enough to feel the heat of each other’s skin.

Different bodies. Different instincts. But the same fire driving them forward.

The next morning they found a clearing that smelled of pine sap and sun-warmed moss, but under it, something more primal simmered — sweat, magic, hormones. The boys circled one another barefoot in the dirt, neither quite smiling, neither quite scowling.

“Ready to get your arse handed to you, Malfoy?” Harry said, bouncing lightly on his toes.

Draco stretched his wings lazily. “You wish. Don’t go crying when I knock you flat. I’ve got twice the reach now, Potter.”

Harry lunged first.

It wasn’t a formal duel. No wandless magic, no spells — just instinct and raw movement. Harry was fast — faster than Draco expected — weaving in and out like wind cutting through trees. But Draco was solid, grounded now, with a body that struck like iron and wings that flared to throw Harry off balance.

They scuffled, grunted, stumbled, and laughed, breathless and wild.

At one point, Harry ducked a swing and swept Draco’s legs, sending him tumbling into the dirt. Draco groaned, glaring up from the ground as his wings twitched beneath him.

“That’s cheating,” he panted.

“That’s survival,” Harry shot back with a grin, sweat beading at his temples.

Draco rolled and kicked, catching Harry off-guard and toppling him into the leaves beside him. They lay there panting for a moment, limbs sprawled and hearts hammering, laughter bubbling up between them.

“You smell weird,” Draco muttered, nose wrinkling.

Harry snorted. “Thanks, really. That’s what I needed to hear while lying on top of you.”

“No — seriously.” Draco sat up and sniffed the air. “It’s like… like rosemary and smoke. But wrong. Sharp.”

Harry frowned and turned his head to the side, discomfort flickering across his face. “Harek said it might start soon. The full moon. He thinks that’s when I’ll—” he hesitated, swallowing— “change.”

Draco blinked. “Change as in…”

“Yeah.”

A long beat passed between them. Draco’s eyes softened.

“Do you think you’ll be… ?”

“No.” Harry’s voice was firm, immediate. “I’ll still be me. I can feel it already. It’s not like some curse trying to take me. It’s just—” He paused, frustrated. “It’s just me… more.”

Draco nodded slowly. “Still doesn’t explain why you smell like rancid herbs and regret.”

Harry threw a handful of leaves at him.

They sparred again after that, harder, letting their instincts push further. Harry darted like lightning through the trees, tracking Draco by scent and sound alone. Draco countered with power and precision, using his wings to confuse Harry’s path, muscles taut and gleaming in the dappled sunlight.

They wrestled until they both lay in the underbrush, tangled and red-faced, dirt smudged and limbs shaking with exhaustion and adrenaline.

And underneath it all — something else stirred. An awareness. A tension. Not quite spoken, not quite denied.

Harry looked at Draco, eyes dark and unreadable. “You’re getting stronger.”

“So are you,” Draco said softly, gaze flicking to Harry’s throat, his jaw, the wild edge to him lately.

The wind shifted. Somewhere distant, a wolf howled.

They both turned toward it, silent.

As evening became dusk the fire had burned down to embers, low and glowing, spitting softly as the night crept around them. The stars blinked between the ragged branches above, more curious than comforting.

Draco sat cross-legged beside the hearth, his bare shoulders damp with sweat, a forgotten peach core in his hand. His wings twitched now and again — faint spasms of feather and tension that made his whole back shift and flex.

Harry was across from him, arms looped loosely around his knees. His gaze wasn’t on the fire but somewhere far beyond it, out past the trees, into the dark where the wind whispered too much.

“You’re quiet,” Draco said, not unkindly.

Harry blinked back into the present. “Thinking.”

Draco snorted softly. “Always dangerous.”

But Harry didn’t smile. He dropped his chin onto his arms and stared into the dark. “Do you remember… the night in the forest, first year? The one with Quirrell.”

Draco stiffened just slightly. “You mean the thing that was drinking unicorn blood.”

Harry nodded. “It wasn’t just what it did… It was what it felt like. Wrong. Empty. Like… like it had lost everything human and didn’t care.”

Draco was quiet.

Harry swallowed hard. “What if that happens to me? When the full moon comes, what if I lose myself in it? What if I hurt you? Or someone else?”

Draco looked over at him then. Really looked. “You’re not going to turn into a raving monster, Potter.”

“You don’t know that,” Harry said, too quickly. “I don’t know that. I don’t even know what I am. It’s not like anyone left us a guidebook.”

“No,” Draco said slowly, “but I know you.”

Harry blinked at him.

“You’re stubborn. Annoyingly noble. And no matter how bad things get, you still care about people — even the ones who don’t deserve it.” Draco’s mouth twisted slightly. “If that’s what’s inside you, it’s not going anywhere. Not even with claws and teeth.”

Harry looked away. “You think it’s that simple?”

“No,” Draco said, quieter now. “I think it’s terrifying. I think we’re both changing into things we don’t understand. But I also think… you’re not alone. Not anymore.”

They sat in silence. The fire cracked again. A soft breeze stirred the leaves above them.

Draco shifted, pulled the worn blanket from their bedding and tossed it over Harry’s shoulders before flopping down beside him. “If you start growing fur, just don’t shed on me.”

That drew a huff of reluctant laughter from Harry. He leaned into Draco, just enough to feel the warmth of him through the blanket.

They sat like that for a long time, shoulders touching, heartbeat steadying, the night folding around them like a breath held in the dark.

And above them, the nearly full moon was already beginning to rise.

Chapter Text

Harry was supposed to be meditating. That’s what Harek had said—“Breathe. Ground yourself. Touch the earth, or the moon will unmake you.”

But Harry couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t focus. He could never really ever focus unless he was fighting for his life. The sun had barely passed its peak, and already his skin prickled like something was crawling underneath. His bones itched. His teeth ached. Every sound scraped too loudly against his skull.

Across the clearing, Draco laughed—low and smooth, leaning too close to Thalion as they examined a bundle of gathered herbs. His wings twitched with irritation, but his mouth was easy, light. 

Open.

Harry scowled. He closed his eyes again and pushed his hands into the soil. Breathe. Breathe. But the ground felt dry and dead. The air too thick. His skin too tight.

“Why don’t you just go kiss him if you like him so much?” Harry snapped, voice loud and sudden in the quiet.

Draco and Thalion both turned.

“What?” Draco asked, confused.

Harry stood, dirt clinging to his palms. His heart was hammering. “You spend more time with him than with me lately.”

Draco’s brows lifted. “We’re practicing wing stretches. It’s not exactly a romantic rendezvous.”

“Oh, right,” Harry said, voice turning sharp, cruel. “Because you’d never fall for someone with muscles and status and magic pouring off him in waves. Bet he makes you feel real special—like the pretty little prince you used to be.”

The silence snapped like a tree branch under weight.

Draco stared at him. The color drained slowly from his face, replaced by something cold and shuttered. “What did you just say?”

Harry’s mouth moved before his brain caught up. “I said you don’t belong here. You’re just slumming it with the rest of us—monsters and half-breeds and castoffs. Playing survivor until Mummy and Daddy send someone to fetch their broken little boy.”

Draco’s wings flared, stiff with shock. His jaw clenched.

Thalion said nothing. Just nodded, once, and turned away, respectfully silent as he disappeared into the trees.

When it was just the two of them, Draco took one step forward. “Do you really believe that?”

Harry didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His breathing was too shallow, his fists clenched, his vision swimming with the heat of jealousy, fear, shame.

“You think I chose to lose everything? That this—” Draco gestured at the shack, at the forest, at the sky, “—is some kind of game to me?”

Harry flinched. “I didn’t mean—”

Draco laughed bitterly. “Yes, you did. You always mean it when you’re trying to hurt someone.”

Silence stretched.

Harry looked down, stomach churning. “I’m scared,” he said finally, voice a threadbare whisper. “The moon’s coming and I can’t stop it. I can’t sleep. I feel like I’m coming apart. And every time I see you with someone else, it’s like—like something in me wants to tear the world apart.”

Draco stared at him. His face softened, just a fraction, but the distance between them felt like a chasm.

“I’m not the one you’re fighting, Harry.”

“I know,” Harry said, shoulders slumping.

“You’re not a monster,” Draco added.

Harry didn’t answer.

Draco’s voice dropped. “But you’re doing a damn good impression of one.”

He turned and walked back to the hut without another word, wings folding tight against his back.

Harry stood alone in the clearing, the weight of the sky pressing down.

The earth was silent beneath his feet.

And the moon was coming. 

As the day past faster than either boy anticipated Harry felt his anger rise and spill over. He hunted in the woods. Ran through the river bend. At one point he even launched logs through the underbrush of the forest. 

But he couldn’t escape the pull of the moon as sun sunk below the horizon and the moon rose higher in the sky.

The forest felt older than the moon.

Draco crouched in the thicket beyond the firelight, arms wrapped tightly around his knees, wings furled close to his back. He kept his breathing shallow, slow—like Nessa had taught him when tracking birds that startled easy.

Except it wasn’t birds he was watching tonight.

Harry was barefoot and pacing—circling the edge of the clearing with sharp, agitated movements. His shoulders were hunched. His back was slick with sweat. Every time the wind shifted, Draco could feel the heat of Harry’s emotions—anxious and wild, like lightning in a glass jar.

Draco’s chest ached.

He’d told himself he wouldn’t come. That if Harry wanted to push him away, then fine—let him. But now, here in the hush of midnight, the idea of Harry transforming alone… of no one being there to see him through it… that felt worse.

Harry stumbled forward, hands bracing against a low stone. He let out a groan, animal and raw. The transformation was beginning.

Draco bit his lip, fingers curling into the moss beneath him. He hated how helpless he felt. How badly he wanted to do something—soothe, protect, ease the pain. But there were some things you had to go through alone. He knew that better than most.

Still… he could be here. Quiet. Unseen. Just in case.

A broken prince slumming it with half-breeds and monsters.

The words still rang in his ears. Sharp. Unfair.

But not untrue—not entirely. At least, not in the way Harry had meant. Because he had looked down on people, once. Had thought himself better. Cleaner. More valuable. And then the world had broken, and the boy who’d once sneered down his nose at others had needed their kindness to survive.

And Harry—Gods, Harry—had seen him at his worst. Spiteful, vicious, cold. And he’d forgiven him. Again and again.

How could he not do the same now?

He swallowed down the last bitter remnants of the hurt and straightened his spine, feeling the stretch of his wings pull at the muscles of his back. He was still growing. Changing. Becoming something new.

Maybe Harry was too.

Eulah had said it best: Grace is for those who don’t deserve it yet. And mercy is strongest when it’s hardest to give.

Draco watched as Harry’s body ripped—limbs twisting, bones shifting. His scream split the trees, but no animals fled. They knew the sound of one of their own being reborn.

The change was beautiful. Terrible. Honest.

And Draco stayed until the end, hidden in the shadows, offering the only thing he could:
His presence.
His patience.
And, quietly, his forgiveness.

The creature in the clearing was not Harry Potter.

It stood where Harry had once been—tall, lean-limbed and bristling with power—but the boy was gone, buried beneath thick, obsidian fur and eyes that glowed like dying stars.

Draco stayed hidden.

The wolf sniffed the air, muscles taut beneath its skin. It turned slowly, scanning the trees. Looking for something. For someone. Its breath came in short, sharp huffs—feral. 

Uneasy.

It didn’t recognize the world yet. And the world, wisely, held its breath.

Draco’s heart hammered in his chest. Every instinct told him to back away. Quiet. Careful. But he remembered Nessa’s words: Not all monsters bite because they’re cruel. Some bite because they’re alone.

The wolf’s ears twitched.

Draco didn’t move.

The creature stalked forward a step. Then another. Its legs moved like water over stone—smooth and silent, despite its size. Clawed paws crushed the damp moss as it approached the firepit they had sat next to just a few days prior, sniffing at the embers. Smoke drifted upward and the wolf sneezed, growled low, confused.

Draco clenched his fists.

It wasn’t Harry. Not quite. But it wasn’t a mindless beast either. Not a threat to kill. Not yet. Its movements were intelligent, reactive. It was trying to understand its shape.

And then, it howled.

The sound cut through the trees like a spell, sharp and keening—desperate. Mourning. As if calling out for a pack it had never known.

Draco flinched. That sound didn’t belong in a forest.

That sound belonged to someone lost.

Slowly, he stepped out from the brambles.

The wolf turned on him instantly—hackles raised, lips pulled back in a growl that promised pain. Draco lifted his hands, heart pounding in his ears.

“Easy,” he murmured, trying to keep his voice steady. “Harry. It’s me. You know me.”

The wolf snarled. Took a step forward.

Draco didn’t flinch. “You don’t have to remember everything right now,” he said, softer this time. “You just have to remember I’ve never run.”

For a long, frozen moment, the wolf was utterly still.

Then, it huffed and turned away—circling the fire pit again, still restless, still searching. But it didn’t charge. Didn’t bite.

Draco exhaled slowly. Not tame, he thought. Not safe. But not lost either.

He would stay with him. Just like Harry had stayed through his worst.

The moon slid higher in the sky.

And somewhere deep inside the creature’s chest, the first hint of recognition sparked—small as a candle flame, but warm enough to hold.

Draco followed from a distance.

At first, it was just observation. Caution.

The wolf—Harry—loped through the trees with unsteady, overpowered grace. His body wasn’t used to its own weight yet, didn’t know how to slow down or move without sending leaves scattering behind him in gusts. He tripped once, catching a root, and snarled at it as if the forest itself had insulted him.

Draco didn’t laugh. Not aloud.

But something in his chest eased.

The wildness wasn’t just rage. It was confusion. Curiosity. Harry’s wolf bristled with muscle and instinct, yes—but it was also sniffing the world like it had never seen it before. Re-learning.

When the wolf paused to nose at a rabbit den, Draco crouched low behind a fallen log and watched.

Harry’s ears flicked backward. Caught the sound of a branch shifting under Draco’s weight.

He turned.

Their eyes locked. Human and wolf.

Draco held his breath.

The wolf didn’t charge. Instead—it huffed, almost offended, and gave a small growl that sounded suspiciously like “You again?”

“Just keeping you out of trouble,” Draco whispered with a crooked smile.

The wolf snorted. Then, unexpectedly, darted into the trees.

Draco blinked. “Oh, hell no.”

He gave chase.

They ran.

Between trunks and roots, over streams and mossy rocks—Harry led him deeper into the forest, fast and erratic. Not in attack. In play. Testing how far Draco would follow. How close he could get.

Twice the wolf doubled back and brushed Draco’s shoulder with his flank—bracing, solid, real. Draco caught himself laughing aloud, breathless, as he shoved back.

“You’re a menace,” he panted.

The wolf’s tongue lolled out, chest heaving.

Something passed between them. Not words. Not quite thought either. Just… knowing.

And that’s when the second shape stepped into the clearing.

Draco froze.

Harry’s wolf stilled too—something in him instantly going rigid, muscles bunching beneath his dark fur.

The creature that emerged was massive.

Not lurching or misshapen like some dark fable from an old wizarding storybook. No shaggy, foaming monster with blind fury in its eyes.

This one was controlled. Whole. Real.

Tawny fur shimmered in the moonlight, matted in places with streaks of earthy brown where claw scars and old bite marks crisscrossed thick hide. It moved like something born to the forest—not cursed by it. Its shape was fully wolf, but more. Every line of it, every soundless step, radiated patience and power.

Draco couldn’t look away.

And its eyes—gods—those eyes were nearly white. Pale crystal blue, glacial and ancient.

Just like Harek’s.

Draco’s heart stumbled.

He turned. Fully. Not just a half-beast… but this?

Not a beast at all. A force of nature.

How?

It couldn’t just be meditation. Not breathing and herbs and full moon rituals. This was something else—something older. Wiser.

Is that what Harry’s meant to become?

Is that what he might become if he kept standing at Harry’s side?

The older wolf didn’t bare teeth. Didn’t growl. He looked at Harry’s wolf—really looked—and gave the smallest, deliberate dip of his head.

Acknowledgment.

Harry tensed. Ears flicked back. A low sound rumbled in his throat—not a challenge. Something more like resistance. Hesitation.

The other wolf took a step closer.

Harry lowered his head, not quite submissive, not quite ready. But watching.

The moonlight struck Harry’s thigh just then—and Draco caught it. The mark. The place where the bite had taken hold. A streak of fur running white along his inner thigh, the exact color of Draco’s feathers.

Draco felt his throat tighten.

The older wolf approached. Stopped just close enough that their breath met in the air.

Then—slowly—he turned away. And vanished back into the trees.

Draco stood in the silence that followed, breathless, mind whirling.

How did he do that?

 Why didn’t anyone teach us that part of the story?

 Why did the adults always stop talking when we got too close to the truth?

He looked back at Harry, who stood still, nose lifted, breathing in the place the elder wolf had been. Then, with one last look at Draco, padded back toward the shack—silent, steady. Less uncertain now.

Draco followed.

Not because he had to.

Because he wanted to.

Because now, more than ever, he needed answers.

Chapter Text

The shack was quiet when Harry woke.

Grey dawn leaked through the warped slats of the window shutters, painting everything in soft, watery light. The fire had gone out hours ago. The hearth was cold.

He lay curled in a mess of blankets on the floor, body aching like he’d run from Scotland to London on foot and back again. Every muscle pulled taut when he moved. His ribs felt bruised. His head pounded.

But the strangest thing of all was the silence in his mind.

Where his magic usually thrummed like low, constant music—there was nothing. Only the echo of something else.

Breath. Wind. Earth.

Instinct.

What the hell happened to me?

The last thing he remembered clearly was… the pull of the moon. The sharpness of the world turning too loud and too real. A tree. Then nothing.

He sat up slowly.

And found Draco sitting on the edge of the bed, arms folded, watching him like he was a puzzle that might bite.

“You look terrible,” Draco said, voice light but tired. “All that gallivanting through the woods apparently doesn’t do wonders for your skin.”

Harry squinted at him. “How long was I—?”

“Just the night. You came back before sunrise. Collapsed on the floor, very dramatic. I considered leaving you out there to soak in your own wolfy shame, but Harek said you’d bite someone.”

Harry winced. “Did I… hurt anyone?”

“No,” Draco said quickly. “You were…” He paused. “You were wild. But not vicious. You avoided people. Chased a rabbit. Sniffed me like I was a truffle pig. All very romantic.”
Harry groaned, burying his face in his hands.

“Don’t worry,” Draco said, softer now. “You didn’t hurt me.”

There was something warm in his voice. Careful. A thread of awe he couldn’t quite hide.
Harry peeked up at him. “…You stayed with me?”

Draco shrugged, but his cheeks flushed. “Someone had to make sure you didn’t fall off a cliff.”

Silence stretched between them. The hush of morning settling like dust in a chapel.

“I don’t remember much,” Harry said finally. “But… there was someone else. Another wolf.”

Draco nodded slowly. “Harek.”

Harry’s eyebrows lifted.

“He followed us,” Draco continued. “He changed. Not like you. Full wolf. It was…” He faltered, eyes distant. “It wasn’t a monster. It was him. Just… older. Bigger. Wiser.”

Harry frowned. “He didn’t tell me he could do that.”

“I don’t think he tells anyone anything unless they ask the exact right question in the exact right moment.” Draco’s mouth twitched. “Mystical forest bastard.”

That made Harry snort. “Do you think… I’ll end up like that?”

Draco studied him for a long beat. “I think you’ll end up like you,” he said at last. “Whatever that means.”

Harry blinked at him.

“I also think,” Draco added, a bit more awkwardly now, “that you’re not alone. That this thing doesn’t have to ruin you.”

Harry looked down at his hands. At the faint white mark ghosting his side.

He thought of fangs and fur and the sound of his own heart thundering like a drum.

Then he looked at Draco again.

Not alone.

“I said something awful to you,” Harry said quietly. “Before I turned. I—”

“You were scared,” Draco said, cutting him off gently. “I’ve said worse.”

“You didn’t mean it,” Harry whispered.

“I think you didn’t either.”

Harry stared at him.

And Draco gave a small, brittle smile. “You always forgive me,” he said. “It was about time I did the same.”

The lump in Harry’s throat didn’t go away.

They sat in silence for a while after that. The quiet kind, shared only between people who have walked through fire and are still brushing ash off their shoulders.

Eventually, Draco stretched and stood, looking down at him.

“Breakfast?”

Harry raised a brow. “What is it today? Burnt oats and foraged guilt?”

Draco smirked. “Close. Rabbit stew. And maybe some peaches. Depends on whether you growl at them again.”

Harry groaned but followed him anyway.

Behind them, the forest exhaled.

The moon waned, the wolves slept, and for just a moment—the world held still.

It was afternoon when Harek came to the shack.

The sun was filtered gold through the leaves, dappling the clearing in shifting patterns of shadow and warmth. Harry was sitting on a log outside, a blanket draped over his shoulders and a half-eaten piece of jerky hanging from his fingers. Draco lounged nearby, shirt off, sharpening a dagger and pretending he wasn’t watching Harry breathe.

Harek arrived silently, like always. One minute the air was empty, the next it bent around him.

“Good. You’re awake,” he said, stepping into the light.

Harry looked up, wary and bone-tired. “Did I… hurt you?”

“No,” Harek said simply, and crouched near the fire pit, using a stick to prod at the cooled ash. “You have strong instincts. You kept your distance. You ran rather than fought. That’s more than most manage their first time.”

“Was that really you?” Draco asked, squinting at him. “The second wolf?”

“Yes.”

“You looked…” Draco struggled to find the words. “Whole. Not like something twisted by the moon.”

Harek didn’t smile, but his pale eyes softened slightly. “That’s because I am whole. My form isn’t borrowed from pain or forced by magic. It’s mine. Always has been.”

Harry swallowed. “How?”

There was a pause. The forest rustled, a hush of wind through grass.

“I was born a shifter,” Harek said at last. “Before the bite. Before the infection. I already knew how to move between skins.”

Draco froze, knife halfway down the whetstone.

Harry blinked. “Wait. You were a…?”

“A changeling. Not a true Nuckelavee, not entirely human. My people call it úfaran, the in-between. We can take on other forms—animal, shadow, spirit—if our magic is strong enough. But the moon…” He lifted his head, eyes sharp and strange. “The moon tried to strip that away when I was bitten. Tried to remake me in its image.”

“And you said no?” Draco asked, incredulous.

“I said not yet.” Harek’s mouth curled at the edges. “I let it shape me. But only after I remembered how to shape myself.”

He stood then, stretching out his arms. “That is why I can turn at will. It is not easy. And it is never free. But it is mine.”

Harry stared. “And the others like you? The ones that are just… werewolves?”

“They change by force. It is survival, not mastery.” He looked at Harry now, direct and steady. “But you’re not quite one or the other, are you?”

Harry stiffened. “What am I, then?”

“Something similar.” Harek tilted his head. “Something hungry. Something unfinished.”
That landed between them like a stone.

Draco glanced sideways at Harry, but didn’t say anything.

“You must learn your body, boy,” Harek continued. “It is yours now, not a curse to be survived. But there is more to shaping yourself than meditation under trees and feeling sorry when you lose your temper.”

Harry flinched.

Harek knelt, placing a hand flat on the ground. “You must listen. To this.” His fingers dug into the dirt. “The forest. The soil. The pulse of what you were before the scar.”

Draco frowned. “You mean—?”

“I mean you must earn your place among the wild again. Not just as a beast. As kin.” Harek stood, brushing off his palms. “If you want control before the next moon, you’ll need more than quiet thoughts.”

Harry sat straighter. “What do I do?”

“You begin with a rite.”

The words hung heavy.

Draco leaned forward. “A ritual?”

Harek nodded. “An anchoring. Between your mind, your body, and the earth. Between the self that walks on two legs and the one that hunts by scent and sound. You do not simply become the wolf. You honor it.”

Harry looked down at his hands. At the pale scar on his side. “Will it hurt?”

“Only if you lie to yourself.”

The fire pit cracked under the heat of the day.

Draco leaned back on his elbows, staring at Harek with narrowed eyes. “You really are a mystical forest bastard.”

That time, Harek did smile. “And you, feathered one, should start lifting heavier rocks. Those wings of yours won’t carry that clever tongue very far without muscle.”

Draco flushed.

But Harry just kept staring at the dirt beneath his feet. Listening.

Breathing.

Somewhere beneath the skin, the wolf was waiting.

The air had shifted.

The forest didn’t feel dangerous anymore, but it wasn’t safe either. It was holding its breath. Waiting.

Harry sat at the edge of the stream, legs half-submerged in the water, his shirt clinging damply to his back. He still looked exhausted—circles under his eyes, skin too pale where the moon had left its mark. But he was here. Awake. Real.

And Draco couldn’t stop looking at him.

He perched a few feet away, pretending to sketch something in the margins of an old herb journal Eulah had given them. A leaf, maybe. A rock. He wasn’t sure. The charcoal kept breaking in his fingers.

Harry hadn’t said much since Harek left.

Draco bit the inside of his cheek. The silence stretched, heavy but not cold. Just fragile.
“So,” he tried lightly, “I suppose I should start calling you Moony now.”

Harry gave him a flat look. “What?”

“Nothing. Just…” Draco shrugged. “You’re furry. And grumpy.”

“You’re not funny.”

“I am hilarious, actually.”

A quiet snort escaped Harry before he could stop it. He dipped his hands into the water, scooping it up and letting it drizzle through his fingers. “You stayed. Last night.”

Draco blinked. “Yeah.”

“You followed me.”

“Obviously.”

A pause.

“You weren’t afraid?”

Draco looked down at his half-finished sketch. “I was terrified.”

Harry glanced at him, startled.

“I thought you might not come back,” Draco said quietly. “I thought… I’d lose you to it. To the part of you that growls when someone touches me too long. The part that wants blood.”
Harry’s throat worked around a sound that didn’t make it out.

“But I didn’t,” Draco added. “You came back. That matters.”

The sun filtered through the leaves, dappling Harry’s hair like gold over coal.

“I said something horrible before,” Harry murmured. “Before the shift. About you.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “So you’ve said. We’ve talked about this already. You’ve said worse and so have I.”

“I meant it.”

“And I’ve meant worse too.”

Silence.

Then Draco stood, stretching his arms overhead. “Eulah keeps preaching about grace, doesn’t she? Maybe I should try it. For once.”

Harry stared at him.

Draco met his gaze. “You’re not the only one trying to control something wild, Potter.”

They held that for a long moment—each unsure who would move first.

Then Harry looked away. “Thank you.”

Draco rolled his eyes, kicking water at him with one foot. “You’re insufferable when you’re sincere.”

“I’m still furry and grumpy.”

“I’m still shirtless and fabulous.”

Harry laughed, real and sharp-edged.

Draco let the sound settle in his bones like something sacred.

For the first time in days, the quiet between them was easy again. Not without tension—never without that—but softened. Wound with something warmer. Something growing.

Later that night, they shared a meal of honey-roasted roots and the last of the summer plums. Harry still leaned toward meat, picking apart bits of dried venison with careful fingers. But his eyes lingered on Draco’s hands more than the food.

Draco noticed. He always noticed.

And when they lay down to sleep, Harry’s shoulder brushed against his in the dark.

He didn’t move away.

Chapter Text

The villagers called it Threading the Soul.

An old ritual, older than the castle that now crumbled beneath ivy and storm, older than even the language they used to speak it in. A rite meant to stitch back what the moon tore open. For some, it failed. For others, it saved their lives.

Tonight, one month since Harry’s last transformation, Harry would learn which kind he was.

They gathered in a glade lit only by fireflies and rune-torches. Liora stood at the center, hair braided with silver thread, arms bare beneath the moonlight. Her eyes glowed faintly, as if the magic had seeped into her skin.

Draco stood just outside the circle, arms crossed tight over his chest. He hated not being part of the ritual, hated the ache in his ribs when Harry stepped forward and didn’t look back.

Harry looked calm. But Draco had seen the tremble in his hands while dressing. He had felt it, too, when Harry had leaned into his shoulder for the briefest moment before they parted.

“You’ll do fine,” Draco had whispered.

Harry hadn’t answered.

Now, Liora marked a ring around him with powdered ash and a paste of crushed mint and rowan. The scent of it made Draco’s eyes sting—sharp, green, and oddly clean.

“Sit,” Liora instructed.

Harry knelt at the center of the circle, bare feet pressed to the earth, palms open. He breathed out slowly, visibly trying to find the same meditative stillness Harek had taught him.

Draco knew better. That boy had never been still a day in his life.

Liora began to chant. The sound was low and syllabic, like something scraped from the base of the throat. The villagers joined in, a soft echo of vowel-heavy words that stirred the wind and sent leaves dancing toward the firelight.

Above them, the moon rose full and heavy.

Harry shuddered.

It began in his spine—a ripple that bent his shoulders forward, then back again. The change didn’t come as fast as before, didn’t rip him open like it had the first time. But it hurt. Draco could tell.

Draco was so tired of seeing Harry Potter being hurt. He quietly hopped this would be the last time.

The ash circle glowed faintly blue.

Harry’s hands sank into the soil. His eyes—green, the color of an Avada Kedavra—fluttered closed.

Something beneath the surface howled.

Draco nearly moved forward. Eulah’s hand shot out, he hadn’t even noticed her standing next to him, catching his wrist without looking.

“Not yet.”

Harry’s body arched again—then froze. For a terrifying moment, Draco thought he’d fainted. But then the air shifted.

The magic deepened.

Harry’s skin began to ripple and darken. Fur sprouted across his arms, his neck, his back. His breath quickened, chest heaving with each pulse of transformation. Then, with a deep, pained sound, he fell forward, catching himself just before his face hit the ground.

And when he looked up—

It was the wolf.

Not a monster. Not a snarling thing from fairy tales. But still not him. Its green eyes darted wildly. It growled, snapping at shadows only it could see. Its hackles rose.

It was fighting.

Against the magic. Against itself.

Liora raised her voice now, louder, firmer. The villagers clapped their palms against the earth, sending a rhythm through the soil like a heartbeat.

“Harry,” Liora said—not to the boy, but the soul beneath the fur. “You are not just this. You are not only the teeth. You are the forest. The fire. The bloodline that refused to be snuffed out. Find your tether.”

The wolf let out a low, broken sound. It half-turned, eyes catching Draco’s in the firelight.

Draco’s heart slammed into his ribs.

“I see you,” Draco whispered, not sure if it was him or the wolf who needed to hear it more.

The wolf paused.

It breathed in—slowly.

Then something eased. The fur rippled again. Not backward into a human, but deeper. Controlled. Focused.

When the light around the circle faded, the wolf stood there still—dark-furred, lean, proud. But not snarling. Not lost.

Harry had done it.

He was inside the wolf this time. Watching. Steering.

Later, when the villagers drifted away and the fire had shrunk to a low glow, the wolf padded toward Draco.

It didn’t speak, of course. But it nudged Draco’s arm with its snout. Pressed its head to his shoulder. Let out a small, low chuff.

Draco felt tears sting his eyes and hated it.

“You’re a bloody menace,” he muttered. “But you’re my menace, you idiot.”

The wolf huffed, settling beside him in the leaves, thick tail curled around its body. Its eyes closed slowly.

Draco reached out, fingers brushing through soft, midnight-black fur. His hand hovered near the white streak along the ribs—the mark of the bite.

And for once, he didn’t think of monsters at all.

The forest was hushed now.

Not dead—just reverent, as if even the trees knew something sacred had happened in the clearing.

Draco sat beside the wolf for a long while, fingers absently carding through the thick ruff of fur between Harry’s shoulders. He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. The firelight had waned to coals, and still the wolf stayed curled at his side.

When Draco finally stood, the wolf followed.

“Come on, then,” Draco murmured. “Let’s go home.”

The word came out before he could stop it—home—but Harry didn’t flinch. Didn’t turn away. The wolf’s ears only flicked toward his voice, and he padded obediently at Draco’s side as they left the ritual circle behind.

Their little shack waited, warm and unassuming beneath the stretch of trees. The hearth still held a bit of ember-heat from the morning fire. Draco nudged it back to life with a practiced hand, then added the kettle and a few herbs from the bundle Nessa had given him.

“For sleep and grounding,” she’d said. “For souls pulled too tightly.”

He thought Harry could use both.

The wolf stopped at the threshold. Stared at the door for a moment.

“Go on,” Draco said, soft. “I’ll wait out here if you want.”

A beat. Then the wolf stepped inside, slow and hesitant, as if unsure it deserved the space. Draco waited outside, arms crossed, listening to the quiet creak of the wooden floor and the faint snap of muscle and magic as Harry changed back.

It took longer than he expected. Or maybe it just felt longer.

Finally, the door creaked open again. Harry stood there, barefoot and shirtless, one of the thick wool blankets wrapped around his shoulders. His hair was a wild mess. His eyes… softer now. Still glowing faintly in the dark.

Draco handed him the mug.

“It’s a little bitter. You’ll live.”

Harry took it with both hands. “Thanks.”

They sat in silence for a while, cross-legged near the fire. The only sound was the whistle of wind through the trees and the soft clink of ceramic as Harry drank.

Then Draco exhaled, slow and shaky.

“I was scared,” he said quietly.

Harry blinked.

“Not of you. Not really.” Draco traced the seam of his own teacup. “But of losing you to that… part of yourself. The part I can’t understand. The part you don’t even want.”

Harry didn’t answer.

Draco’s voice dropped to almost nothing. “I’ve never lost people before, you know. Not like you to war. Some just… drifted away. Turned into strangers. Because of my parents or politics or Hogwarts House. It’s terrifying to love someone like that. Someone who’s always half-shadow.”

There it was—said aloud, raw and fragile. Not the word “love,” not yet. But something just adjacent. Something that hovered beside it like a breath not taken.

Harry looked down into his tea, hands curling tighter around the mug. “I didn’t mean what I said. Before. About you slumming it. I was angry. Scared.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t—” He stopped. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

“I know that too.” Draco’s smile was faint. “Doesn’t make it sting less. But I’ve said worse. You forgave me. I’m just… trying to learn how to return the favor. So stop bringing it up yeah?”

Silence stretched between them again. Then Harry whispered, “I didn’t think I’d still be me.”

Draco looked at him.

“When I changed,” Harry explained. “I thought the wolf would take over. That I’d be gone. Just something dangerous in my skin.” He swallowed. “Like Quirrell. Or worse.”

Draco reached out, not touching, but close. “But you were there. I saw you.”

Harry looked up.

“I see you now, too,” Draco said. “You’re still you.”

Later, Harry fell asleep curled on the pallet beside the fire, the blanket tucked under his chin, the empty mug still in his hands. Draco didn’t move him.

They never had fixed his bed after that night—the night everything changed, the night heat and hunger and pain bled together. Since then, they’d just… shared. Harry’s small, rustic bed in the corner, barely wide enough for two, had become their unspoken compromise.

Their new normal.

Draco watched him now, the fire casting slow shadows across the furrow of Harry’s brow, the soft twitch of one hand still gripped around the mug. The wolf was gone. The boy remained.

And maybe—just maybe—that was enough.

Chapter Text

The summer sun filtered through the canopy in warm dapples, but Harry still found himself restless under it. Something in him itched — not skin-deep, but bone-deep. A prickle behind his teeth, a quiet hum along his spine. It was the wolf, he knew. Not the uncontrollable force it once was, but a presence, newly aware. Alert. Hungry.

And it wasn’t just meat it craved.

Harry had started noticing things. The way Draco moved, for one. How his new wings — still ghostlike and shimmering at rest — shifted with his moods. How his scent had changed: more electric in the heat, edged with something rich and golden that made Harry’s jaw clench if he got too close.

They didn’t talk about it. Not really. Not since the inheritance.

“You’re staring again,” Draco muttered one afternoon, not looking up from his journal.

“I’m not,” Harry lied.

“You are. Stop it. It’s distracting.”

“You smell weird,” Harry countered. “It’s not my fault.”

Draco finally looked up, something flickering in his expression. “Weird?”

“Not bad. Just… different.”

Draco blinked. His wings fluttered once, then stilled. “Right. Well. Don’t sniff me like a bloody bloodhound, then.”

Harry flushed. He hadn’t meant to. It just happened. His body kept reacting before his mind could catch up — standing too close, leaning in when Draco laughed, going still when someone else got near him.

Especially Thalion.

The elf had returned to the village for the season, bringing herbs and arcane books to trade. He’d greeted Draco like an old friend, brushing his fingers against Draco’s wrist in that too-familiar way that made Harry’s knuckles crack.

“You glared at him the entire meal,” Draco said that night, toeing off his boots near the firepit.

“I didn’t.”

“You did. Nessa noticed. She thought you might actually growl.”

Harry didn’t answer. Instead, he shoved more wood into the fire, the flames sparking sharply.

“Is it because he touched me?”

Harry stiffened. The wolf inside flicked its ears.

“Because it was nothing,” Draco went on, tone deliberately casual. “He’s like that with everyone.”

“He doesn’t touch me like that.”

Draco raised a brow. “Would you like him to?”

Harry turned to him then, eyes dark. “No.”

Something in the air twisted, tight and magnetic. Draco’s wings shimmered faintly, and for a breathless second, neither moved.

Then Draco said, too lightly, “You’re being ridiculous.”

And Harry, because he didn’t know what else to do with the way his chest ached, muttered, “You smell like nectarines today.”

Draco blinked. “What?”

Harry stood abruptly. “I’m going for a run.”

He didn’t wait for a reply.

The days stretched long and bright, but tension clung between them like humidity. Harry’s wolf senses were sharper now — he could pick out the flap of Draco’s wings from fifty meters away, could tell what mood he was in by the cadence of his footsteps alone. The knowledge was overwhelming, electric.

Draco, in turn, had grown quieter. Not withdrawn, exactly — but watchful. He lingered longer near Harry, like a bird circling a campfire: curious, cautious, drawn. When they trained together, his magic flared more easily, more instinctively. And when Harry praised him — genuinely, not teasingly — his entire posture changed.

“You’re stronger than before,” Harry said once, after Draco conjured a wall of flame that held against the summer storm.

Draco’s cheeks flushed faintly. “I’ve been practicing.”

“It shows.”

Their eyes held.

Draco broke it first, wings twitching behind him. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you want to eat me.”

Harry paused. “I don’t.”

Draco shot him a pointed look.

“…Not like that,” Harry added, and Draco rolled his eyes so hard it nearly counted as spellwork.

That night, the storm returned.

Rain lashed the shack roof. Thunder growled low over the trees.

Harry couldn’t sleep. His body was too warm, too alert. He paced the small space, listening to Draco’s steady breathing — until it wasn’t steady anymore.

“You’re not asleep,” Harry said quietly.

“No,” Draco admitted, eyes cracking open. “You’re loud.”

Harry moved to sit near him, back against the cold stone hearth. “Can’t shut off.”

“Wolf brain?”

“Maybe. Or just… too much going on.”

Draco propped himself up on one elbow, wings rustling faintly against the blankets. “You’re not used to feeling everything at once.”

“No.”

“Neither am I.”

He said it too fast. Too easily. And then he glanced away like it had slipped out wrong.

They sat in silence, the kind that felt more like waiting than stillness. Rain crawled down the foggy window panes in twisting rivulets, and thunder murmured again in the distance.

Finally, Harry asked, “What did it feel like? When it started?”

Draco didn’t need clarification. He shifted slightly, so the faint glow of his wings caught the firelight — almost invisible, almost not.

“Like falling,” he said. “Like every bone in me remembered something I didn’t know I’d forgotten.”

“That sounds awful.”

Draco shrugged. “It wasn’t. Not exactly. Just… overwhelming. And afterward, everything smelled brighter. Felt more raw.”

Harry nodded. “Yeah.”

More silence.

But something clenched inside Draco, sharp and sickly sweet. Because what he didn’t say was that it still felt like falling. Every morning. Every time Harry stood too close or smiled without thinking. Every time Draco remembered — truly remembered — that they would eventually leave this forest, this stolen reprieve, and re-enter a world where he was not allowed to be this version of himself.

Not allowed to ache for the boy beside him. Not allowed to want this life — this firelight and storm and peace.

He didn’t know who he was outside of this place. Outside of Harry.

And the thought of returning to the manor, to Father’s cold, expectant silence and Mother’s distant, pinched disappointment, made his skin feel too tight.

Harry’s voice, soft but certain, cut through the storm. “What are you afraid of?”

Draco exhaled like the question had struck a nerve. Because it had.

He hesitated, but then, low and bitter: “Everything.”

Harry looked at him.

Draco continued, barely above a whisper, “I’m afraid of what my father will say when I come back with wings and no heir. Of what my mother will see when she looks at me and realizes I’ve given up everything she taught me to preserve. I’m afraid of who I’ll be if I can’t have this. This shack. This forest. These people. You.”

He forced a laugh, brittle and too thin. “And I’m afraid of wanting it anyway.”

Harry didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. The fire popped.

Draco’s gaze fell to his hands, curled tight in the blanket. “They told me Veela are creatures of passion. But what they don’t say is that it hurts. To feel this much. To need so desperately to be seen, touched, wanted—and to know that you might never be.”

“You are,” Harry said quietly.

Draco shook his head. “You don’t understand. It’s not about romance. Or sex. It’s… identity. Legacy. I was supposed to be a perfect heir. An alpha. A Malfoy. And now I’m—”

His voice caught. The wings behind him gave a sudden flicker, luminous and unsteady.

“Now I’m soft in places I was taught to carve into stone.”

Harry watched him for a long moment.

“I don’t think you’re soft,” he said at last. “I think you’re surviving.”

Draco’s throat worked. His lips parted, but no sound came out.

And maybe it was the storm. Maybe it was the firelight, or the memory of Thalion’s hand on Draco’s wrist, or the way Draco’s scent was clover-sweet and maddening and his.

But Harry leaned in.

Just a little.

Not a kiss. Not even close.

But close enough that Draco didn’t move away.

Close enough that Harry could see the fine shimmer of his lashes and the flicker of magic under his skin.

“I’m not going to touch you unless you say so,” Harry whispered.

Draco’s breath hitched.

And something inside him — Veela or omega or simply Draco — uncurled slowly, painfully. Like wings from a wound.

“That’s… very noble of you,” he said, though his voice trembled at the edges.

“I mean it.”

A beat.

Then Draco, quietly: “I’ll let you know when I want you to.”

Harry’s chest felt too small. “Okay.”

They stayed like that, barely touching, barely breathing — two boys almost-men, not quite creatures, not quite human — until the fire died down and the storm passed overhead, and the question of what came next was left, for now, unspoken.

Chapter Text

The shack was quiet in the early light, the hearth low but warm, casting long shadows on the wooden walls. A thin breeze crept in through the half-open window, rustling the dried herbs hung from the beams. Somewhere in the trees, birds began to stir, calling in soft, cautious notes — as if wary of the magic lingering in the air.

Harry blinked awake, his body slow to move, caught in the warmth of tangled limbs and that horrible wool blanket Harry had made over spring. It took a moment to remember where he was. Who he was.

Who was with him.

Draco lay curled on his side, back pressed into the crook of Harry’s chest. One wing — still folded and warm — peeked out from beneath the blanket like a sleeping bird. His white-blonde hair tickled Harry’s nose. He smelled like something soft and clean and faintly wild — crushed mint and sun-warmed berries.

Harry didn’t move. Not yet. He wasn’t sure he could.

His heart was beating a little too fast. Not from fear — not exactly. From something else. Something newer. Unnamed.

Draco stirred slightly, and his shoulder brushed Harry’s arm.

The contact burned.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut.

Don’t move. Don’t breathe weird. Don’t think about how his hair feels. Don’t think about the heat between your legs or the way your chest hurts when he shifts just right.

He should have rebuilt the other bed weeks ago. But he hadn’t. He couldn’t. After that night — after Draco’s heat and the bite and the long, quiet confession — they just… hadn’t.

Maybe he liked waking up like this. Maybe that was the problem.

He let out a breath — too loud. Draco stirred.

A sleepy voice mumbled, “You twitch in your sleep, Potter.”

Harry tensed. “Did not.”

“You do. Like a dog dreaming about rabbits.” Draco’s voice was low, hoarse with sleep. He didn’t move away. He didn’t seem embarrassed to still be so close.

Harry flushed, skin prickling with heat. “Better than snoring like a dying hippogriff.”

That made Draco snort. “I don’t snore.”

“You do.”

Draco finally turned, shifting to his back — now facing Harry, barely a handspan between them. His eyes were still heavy with sleep, pale lashes casting faint shadows across his cheeks. They stared at each other for a long moment.

Harry’s mouth went dry.

He wanted to say something — anything — but his brain was busy screaming nonsense. About how close they were. About the little freckle near Draco’s ear. About the way his wing stretched slightly when he yawned.

Instead, he said the most idiotic thing possible:

“It’s nearly my birthday.”

Draco blinked. “What?”

Harry cleared his throat. “I—I just remembered. I’ll be thirteen in a few days.” He looked away. “Not that it matters. No one here cares.”

Draco was quiet. Then, softly, “I care.”

Harry looked back at him.

Their eyes locked again, and for a breathless moment, Harry thought Draco might reach for him. Or maybe he’d do it himself. Touch his hand. Brush the hair from his face. Something.

But Draco only smiled — faint, warm, secretive.

“Thirteen,” he said. “Gods help us. You’ll be unbearable.”

It was late afternoon when Harry escaped into the trees.

Not escaped, exactly — but the shack was suddenly too warm, too small, too filled with the scent of Draco’s skin and that fluttering tension that never quite left them. He needed air. 

And answers.

He found Harek at the riverbank, ankle-deep in the current, shirt off, the early sun catching against the long scars that lined his back like lightning frozen in flesh. He was sharpening a blade against a wet stone, humming tunelessly under his breath.

Harry cleared his throat.

Harek glanced up with those pale, not-quite-human eyes. “Potter. You look like someone just stepped on your tail.”

Harry flushed. “That’s not— I don’t have a—”

Harek chuckled. “What can I do for you, pup?”

Harry stepped closer, arms crossed. He couldn’t meet Harek’s gaze at first. “I have a question. A… kind of stupid one.”

“Stupid questions are my favorite kind.”

“It’s about—about sex.”

Harek paused. Slowly set the blade down. “Right.”

Harry stared down at the water.

“It’s just—Draco’s always near. We’re always touching. Sleeping in the same bed. And—and sometimes he looks at me like he’s thinking something. And I don’t know if I’m thinking it first or reacting to him or—”

He stopped, words collapsing into themselves. He felt hot and idiotic and far too young for this conversation.

Harek scratched his jaw. “That’s not a stupid question.”

Harry looked up, uncertain.

“It’s a dangerous one,” Harek continued. “And a very normal one.”

Harry frowned. “Normal?”

“You’re thirteen,” Harek said. “Your blood’s full of fire and your skin barely fits you. You’re smelling instincts you’ve never had before. Add in some feral magic and close quarters with someone you clearly care about?” He raised an eyebrow. “It’s a wonder your heads aren’t fully up your arses.”

Harry grimaced. “Thanks. That helps.”

Harek gave him a dry look. “Do you want honesty or comfort?”

Harry hesitated. “…Honesty.”

“Then here it is.” Harek stepped out of the river and crouched beside him. “Wanting someone — that pull, that confusion — it doesn’t mean you’re ready. Your bodies might be waking up, but your magic’s just as loud. Feral magic wants connection. Bonding. Sometimes it mistakes a crush for a mate. You have to be smarter than your instincts.”

Harry sat with that, frowning hard at the dirt. “Is that what this is? A crush?”

Harek tilted his head. “Do you like how he smells?”

Harry went scarlet. “What—?”

“Do you feel calmer when he’s close? Does touching him make your skin settle or buzz?”

“Yes. Both. I don’t know.” Harry scrubbed his hands through his hair. “He’s infuriating. But I think about him when he’s not there. And I want to… I dunno. Hold his hand, I guess.”

Harek smiled faintly. “Then yeah. Probably a crush.”

Harry groaned.

“Look,” Harek added, more gently, “you’ve got time. You’re not broken, and you’re not your instincts. You’re allowed to want things. You’re also allowed to wait.”

Harry nodded slowly.

“Besides,” Harek said, leaning back, “Draco’s got his own mess of instincts to sort through. That boy’s got wings, hormones, and your socks on his side of the bed. Give it a minute.”

Harry blinked. “…He’s got my socks?”

“Folded under his pillow.”

Harry went very still.

“Don’t worry,” Harek said with a wink. “It’s charming in a deeply unhinged, teenage-boy way.”

Draco sat alone at the old worktable, quill chewing into his lower lip and parchment crumpled around him like failed spells.

He’d been trying to write a list. Or… something. A plan. But every time he started, it dissolved into half-thoughts and ink blots.

Harry’s birthday was in a few days.

His thirteenth, which felt oddly sacred. The first birthday since leaving the world behind — since surviving everything that nearly destroyed them.

And what did you give to someone who didn’t even know how to ask for things?

Draco tapped his quill against his lip, glaring at the parchment.

“Cake,” he muttered. “Obviously. And maybe stew.”

Eulah was already planning a feast — though she called it a “forest supper,” which sounded quaint and druidic. But that wasn’t from him. That wasn’t Harry’s.

He wanted to give him something personal. Something… not bought. Not conjured. Just theirs.

A sigh escaped him. He’d never done this before — never had to think about it. Every gift he’d given at home was curated, pre-approved, polished until it gleamed with Malfoy tradition. But Harry didn’t care about gold or grandeur. Harry cared about hands making things, about warmth, and meaning, and stories stitched into every seam.

Draco glanced toward the bed — the small one they’d been sharing since… since that night. Still unspoken, still awkward in that teenage way. But neither of them had brought out the second mattress. They just curled around each other now like instinct.

His gaze dropped to the floor near the hearth, where Harry’s boots and cloak were drying from the rain. Nearby, the scarf Draco had been given by him for Yule was folded carefully on a hook — worn, but treasured.

That had meant something.

Draco’s fingers twitched.

Maybe it was time to make something again.

“Why not something he can wear again?” Nessa asked, rubbing sap off her fingers with a bit of rough cloth. “You said he made you that scarf, right?”

Draco hesitated, watching the flicker of the forge-fire play off her dark curls and sharp, clever eyes. “Yes. He—he knitted it. I still don’t know how he figured it out. It’s not exactly a Malfoy family skill.”

Nessa grinned. “Maybe it’s a Potter skill. That or desperation. Winter here isn’t kind.”

Draco huffed a breath of agreement and leaned over the table, frowning at the scattering of dyed threads, soft leather scraps, and a few pieces of carved bone and polished shell. They were all odds and ends from the village craft pile — things that might become something… if he could just decide.

“He deserves something better than this,” he murmured. “He deserves something lasting.”

Nessa tilted her head, then nudged a pale blue bead toward him — its center flickered with a faint swirl, like trapped stormlight.

“What if it didn’t need to be fancy?” she asked. “What if it was just… yours? Something you made with your hands.”

“His hands are already callused,” Draco said, surprising himself with how quiet his voice had become. “They’re always bleeding or cracked from chopping wood or sparring. I hate it. He says he doesn’t care, but—”

Nessa reached out, placing a scrap of soft leather in his hand. “Then make him something that makes them hurt less.”

Later, seated on the edge of the little hearth in Eulah’s cottage, Draco ran his fingers over a strip of tanned hide, thinner than the leather used for belts, but thick enough to hold a stitch. He imagined Harry’s hands — large for his age, strong but often raw — wrapping around the hilt of a training blade or scraping moss off bark.

Gloves, maybe.

No, bracelets.

Simple leather bands he could wear in the summer, that would soften over time and mold to his skin. Ones with stitched runes, like the ones Eulah used to protect the herb garden from wild magic. He could carve their initials into the inside seam. Something only Harry would see.

He could sew it himself. Ask Nessa to help him braid the thread. Maybe use the same stitch as the edge of Harry’s scarf — echo the shape of a gift once given.

And just maybe… Harry would understand.

The shack was still and quiet when Draco stirred. Harry, warm and half-tangled in the wool blanket, hadn’t moved from where they’d fallen asleep shoulder to shoulder. His mouth was slightly open. His fringe clung to his forehead, damp with summer sweat, and one hand curled loosely against Draco’s side as if by instinct.

Draco held his breath.

There was a flutter in his chest — not quite nerves, not quite nausea — but something too large to name. He’d nearly talked himself out of the whole thing five times over. The little leather band, tied with braided forest thread and etched with runes so faint they shimmered only in firelight, felt heavier than it should in his pocket.

“Harry,” he whispered.

Harry blinked awake, bleary and soft-edged in the weak dawn light. He yawned and rubbed at his face, making a noise that sounded like the end of a long growl.

“It’s still dark, Draco,” he mumbled.

“I know,” Draco said. “But it’s your birthday.”

Harry froze. For a breath. Two. And then his eyes opened all the way.

“Oh. Right.”

He sounded… surprised. Not the kind of surprised people are when they’ve forgotten a holiday — but the stunned, fragile sort, like someone offered a warm hand when they weren’t even sure they deserved it.

“I didn’t think anyone remembered.”

“I did,” Draco said.

He pulled the little bundle from under his pillow. “Here. It’s stupid. You don’t have to wear it.”

Harry sat up slowly, blanket falling around his waist, bare chest catching the early light. He took the bundle with the same care he took live embers — as though something so simple could burn.

He unwrapped it.

There, nestled in folds of pale cloth, was the leather band. The stitching wasn’t perfect, but it was neat. A tiny rune pattern curled along the top edge, protective magic sewn into the seams. On the inside, where only Harry’s skin would ever touch it, were two initials: H.D.

Harry stared at it for a long moment, mouth parted.

Draco cleared his throat. “It’s… for your wrists. I thought, maybe it might stop them from cracking so much. Nessa helped me with the—”

He didn’t get to finish.

Harry surged forward and wrapped his arms around Draco, nearly knocking them both off the edge of the bed. The hug was messy and too hard, but it made Draco’s heart lurch against his ribs.

“Thank you,” Harry said, voice muffled against Draco’s neck. “I didn’t… I’ve never had a birthday like this. Not really.”

They stayed like that for a beat too long. When they pulled apart, both boys were red-faced, avoiding each other’s eyes.

Draco cleared his throat again. “You, uh. You want tea?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, still clutching the bracelet. “But maybe after I try this on.”

Draco busied himself with the kettle, pretending not to watch — but he saw it anyway: the way Harry turned the band in his fingers like it was something precious, the way he ran a thumb over the stitched initials, the way he smiled to himself before slipping it onto his wrist like it belonged there.

And maybe it did.

They hadn’t told him.

Even as the day unfolded — warm tea, Draco making duck eggs again (nearly burning them, but refusing to let Harry help), a rare peach cut in half and shared between bites — no one said a word. Not Nessa, not Eulah, not even Harek, who smirked like he was in on some joke.

So when Draco tugged him by the wrist toward the grove by the stream just after sunset, Harry didn’t expect anything. He grumbled about sore feet and half-jokingly accused Draco of trying to get him eaten by a fox. Draco only laughed, his hand warm and sure where it closed around Harry’s.

The path opened up into a clearing, flickering with the soft light of paper lanterns. Fireflies darted above a laid table. Someone had draped woven garlands from the trees, wildflowers still damp with dew. A few villagers stood waiting — Nessa with flour on her cheek, Harek leaning against a tree with his arms crossed, Eulah adjusting something in the center of the table and shooing off a curious raven.

Harry stopped in his tracks.

“What is this?”

Draco, flushed and breathless, let go of his wrist. “Your birthday. Obviously.”

“I—” Harry looked around. “You didn’t have to—”

“We wanted to,” Nessa said, grinning. “You’re one of us now.”

“Besides,” Eulah added, lifting a jug of something sweet and spiced, “you’ve survived an entire year of putting up with Draco. That’s worth a feast on its own.”

Draco huffed. “I’m delightful.”

The villagers laughed, and the sound—light, real—wrapped around Harry like a blanket. It wasn’t a grand affair. No banners. No music. No stack of presents or piles of gold. Just fresh bread, warm cheese, blackberries soaked in honey, a single plum cake with herbs baked into the crust.

It was more than Harry had ever had in his life.

And when they sang — quietly, off-key, the words soft and strange in a language that belonged to the hills and roots — Harry felt something loosen in his chest.

He belonged here.

Not because of prophecy or blood or war. But because he had planted herbs beside Nessa and learned to stitch with Eulah. Because he had bled beside Draco, howled under a shared moon, and carried firewood in the pouring rain.

After the cake, Eulah pressed something into his hand — a pendant carved from smooth driftwood, shaped like a small pawprint.

“For the wolf,” she said softly. “And the boy inside him.”

Draco said nothing, but when Harry looked his way, he saw the same flicker in his eyes that had been there that morning. A quiet want. Something unspoken.

The party lingered long after the lanterns dimmed. And as Harry sat with his legs folded beneath him, sharing the last wedge of plum cake with Draco in the grass, he realized something strange:

He was happy.

Chapter Text

July bled into August and then into the cool days of September. On no particularly important morning Harry didn’t reach for his glasses, he didn’t even notice.

He blinked up at the morning light trickling through the rafters of the shack, caught the outline of Draco’s back by the hearth— the pale sweep of wings tucked tight, his long hair sleep-mussed and glowing — and rubbed his eyes. It wasn’t until he sat up, stretching with a groan, that he realized the world was still clear.

The smudged wooden beams, the specks of dust dancing in the air, the tiny chip in Draco’s teacup from when he’d dropped it last week — everything.

He froze.

“Draco,” he said slowly, voice still rough with sleep, “I think… I don’t need my glasses anymore.”

Draco turned from the hearth, spoon in hand, eyebrows arching with cautious interest. 
“Oh?”

“Everything’s—sharp. I didn’t even notice. It’s like my eyes just—fixed themselves.”

Draco’s gaze flicked over Harry, thoughtful. “That… might be your creature inheritance catching up. Magical balance correcting a weakness. Or your werewolf form bleeding into your body. Or—both. Or neither.”

Harry snorted. “Helpful.”

Draco shrugged, then smirked. “You’re still a mess.”

But there was affection in his voice. Pride, even. And something warmer that neither of them had words for yet.

Later that morning, Nessa led them to the edge of the southern cliffs — a wide plateau surrounded by thick heather and buzzing insects, with the wind curling like a living thing around their ankles.

“No silly wizard wands,” she said, tying her braid back. “Just instinct.”

“Like feel the magic inside you instinct?” Harry asked, deadpan.

Nessa grinned. “Exactly.”

Draco rolled his shoulders, wings rustling faintly behind him. “I’m getting better at channeling. Watch.”

He stepped forward, eyes narrowing in concentration, and held out one hand toward a jagged stone. The wind shivered — then the rock lifted, trembling slightly, as though carried on invisible threads. It hovered for two heartbeats before dropping with a soft thud.

Harry whistled. “Show off.”

“Your turn.”

Harry exhaled and crouched, pressing his fingers into the warm dirt. He didn’t push the way he used to with spells — didn’t reach or grab. He let go. And the earth responded.

Grass trembled. A faint glow pulsed beneath the topsoil, like veins of magic answering the call. Something stirred deeper — something old.

And for the first time, he felt the wolf rise with him, not over him. Magic didn’t just leak from his skin; it coiled inside, steady and wild, wrapped tight around his bones like a second pulse.

When he stood, eyes green and bright, Nessa nodded.

“You’re almost ready.”

“Ready for what?” Draco asked, breathless.

“For what comes next,” said Harek from behind them, stepping from the shadow of a tree.

His smile was sharp, teeth flashing in the sun. “To bond your magic. Truly. Not just through instinct or injury or shared blood. But willingly. Permanently.”

Harry and Draco exchanged a glance. No more trembling magic sparked by fear or adrenaline. This would be deliberate.

Harry spoke first, softly. “What does it mean?”

Draco huffed, “another damn ancient ritual ceremony with singing inanimate objects and poorly timed catastrophes.”

Harek grunted while he looked between them. “It means, pigeon boy, you stop being two halves surviving, and start becoming something whole.”

Their days took on a rhythm.

Wake. Train. Eat. Rest. Repeat.

Nessa guided them through elemental sensitivity exercises — whispering to the wind, feeling the tug of water under rock, touching heat without burning. Sometimes Thalion watched from afar, offering only the occasional correction. (“You’re asking, not commanding. Don’t demand loyalty from the earth, earn it.”)

Draco was stronger now. His shoulders no longer fit in the old shirts they’d stitched before winter. The tight muscle between his wings flexed with new control, feathers shimmering when the light hit just right.

He still hated the way the molting itched, but the strength was undeniable.

“I think I could fly,” he said one afternoon, staring up at the sky with a kind of fierce longing.

Harry tossed him a plum from their lunch basket. “Let’s stick with gliding before you try diving off a cliff.”

Draco took a bite, juice running down his chin. “Spoilsport.”

But he grinned.

Harry, meanwhile, had grown leaner in a healthy way. Not how he was when living with the Dursley’s. Faster. Where Draco’s body moved with brute power, Harry slipped between trees like mist. His steps left no trace. His scent, once sharp and unmistakably human, now mingled with bark and moss and something wolfish that lingered long after he’d passed.

Harek taught him tracking. Scent marking. How to watch wind direction. How to breathe slow enough to go unnoticed by birds.

“Your eyes are different,” Draco told him one night as they sprawled in the grass after a sparring match. “Sharper. Like they glow when you’re excited.”

Harry blinked up at the stars, still panting. “Yours, too. Especially when you’re flapping your wings.”

Draco didn’t answer for a while.

Their elbows touched in the grass. Neither pulled away.

“I don’t feel human anymore,” Draco said softly.

Harry turned his head. “Is that a bad thing?”

“No,” Draco whispered. “Just… different.”

There was a pull between them. Not just emotional. Not just magic. Something older, quieter — like two magnets nudged just close enough to begin sliding across the table.

That night, Harry didn’t reach for his blanket when he climbed into bed. Draco followed a moment later, bare feet scuffing against the floor, silent as dusk.

They didn’t speak. Just curled together, the way they’d been doing since that first heat. Back then, it had been survival.

Now, it was comfort. Habit.

And something else.

Their power didn’t just grow — it started to echo.

It happened subtly at first. When Harry called fire, Draco’s fingers would tingle, the warmth dancing across his palms. When Draco took fluttering half-formed flights, Harry would feel a gust of wind press at his back, though the air was still.

One morning, Nessa tested their elemental affinities. She led them to a quiet glade, tucked deep into the folds of the forest, where the roots curled like fingers and birds refused to sing.

“Stand back to back,” she instructed. “Close your eyes. Don’t think. Just feel.”

Draco exhaled, adjusting the weight of his wings. Harry rolled his shoulders. Their spines brushed — a faint, trembling connection.

“Now,” Nessa said, “reach inward. And then… outward. Toward each other.”

The glade fell silent.

For a moment, nothing.

Then, power bloomed.

It wasn’t a roar, or even a spark. It was warmth. Light. The pulse of something waking, ancient and clean. Between them, grass curled gently upward, kissed by magic. Their breathing synced. The air shimmered faintly, like heat above stone.

Harry opened his eyes first.

Draco followed, golden lashes fluttering. His gaze found Harry’s.

“Did you feel that?”

“I think that was us,” Harry whispered.

Before Draco could speak—

The forest shivered.

Not from them this time.

Branches creaked.

Something moved in the trees, fast and low. A chittering sound. Many legs.

“Back,” Nessa hissed. “Now.”

But it was too late.

From the brush surged a spider — larger than a pony, all twitching limbs and glistening mandibles. Behind it, more. Dozens. Their black bodies skittered across bark and leaf, their chittering growing into a deafening chorus.

Draco stumbled back in horror. “Are those—?”

“Acromantulas,” Harry growled. His fingers sparked with fire. “I’ve heard about them before. In the forest near Hagrid’s.”

The spiders didn’t hesitate. The first leapt. Nessa threw a warding spell, but it hit hard, cracking like glass under pressure.

“Don’t let them surround you!” she barked. “MOVE!”

Harry lunged forward, snarling, fire in his palms. Draco spun and took to the air, wings slicing branches, casting gusts downward. He shot blinding bursts of light to daze and scatter.

Magic pulsed between them again — resonance. When Draco cast light, Harry’s fire burned brighter. When Harry struck, Draco’s aim steadied.

The glade became a battlefield of light and heat, bark and legs and fangs.

But they were still outnumbered.

Just as one spider lunged from behind toward Harry’s exposed flank—

A blur of fur slammed into it midair.

The spider crumpled beneath the weight of a massive wolf.

Tawny fur. Earth-brown streaks where old wounds marred the hide. Pale blue eyes that gleamed like frost.

Harek.

Not a monster — a full wolf. Wild but controlled. Terrifying but aware.

He turned toward Harry briefly, a silent command passing between them.

Go.

Then Harek leapt again, teeth sinking into chitin with bone-crunching force.

Harry grabbed Draco’s hand as he landed. “Come on!”

They ran.

Behind them, the forest echoed with the clash of fangs and screeching mandibles.

The Acromantulas swarmed like a tide of nightmare.

Their legs moved with unsettling coordination — not frantic, but deliberate. Predatory. Ancient. And they were fast. Faster than anything that large had a right to be.

Harry barely had time to drag Draco behind a mossy boulder before one spider landed where Draco had stood, its legs cracking the earth like splintering ice.

Instinct over thought.
Harry moved first.

His palms ignited with a burst of greenish fire — too hot, too feral, as if the wolf in his blood lent it edge. He hurled it at the creature and it reeled back, flames searing into the fur at its joints.

Draco’s wings unfurled with a snap. Not enough space to fly, but he used them to launch himself into the low branches of a tree, grabbing a wandless charge of light between his fingers. He shouted, “Harry — down!”

Harry hit the dirt just as Draco unleashed a bolt of burning brilliance.

The Acromantulas shrieked — not in fear, but in agitation. The forest shimmered with their fury.

“We need to move!” Harry yelled, scrambling upright again, his clothes streaked with mud and sweat. “We can’t hold them here!”

But it was more than just numbers.

There was…something between him and Draco now. Their magic had flavored each other.

When Harry cast a barrier, it didn’t hold until Draco mirrored it behind him, reinforcing it like bracing a door together. When Draco flung a wave of blinding light at a cluster of spiders, Harry’s fire curled within it, making it burn instead of dazzle.

They were fighting as one — untrained, raw, but together.

Draco dropped beside Harry, breathing hard. “I think we’re syncing.”

“No, really? Just like your sarcasm’s syncing with my rage.”

Draco smirked despite himself — until the next spider landed barely a foot away, its mandibles clicking like snapping bones.

Harry spun and struck it with his whole body, not thinking, just reacting. He caught it in the face with a gout of searing flame, and it shrieked, thrashing wildly. Its death spasms knocked Draco off his feet.

Draco slammed against a tree with a grunt. He barely had time to brace before another spider came toward him — smaller, but faster.

Too fast.

“Harry!”

But Harry was pinned under a leg the size of a broomstick, snarling, struggling, fire burning uncontrolled around his arms.

That’s when the air broke.

A howl.

Low and furious and echoing like something sacred.

The spider atop Harry jerked its head up just in time to be tackled.

By a wolf the size of a horse.

The wolf — Harek — moved with calculated violence. Each strike was surgical, each bite final. There was no frenzy. No bloodlust.

Just control.

Draco stared, half-risen. His heart pounded.

That was a guardian.

How?

It wasn’t the full moon. There’d been no potion. No shrieking or contorting transformation.

Draco’s fingers trembled. His wings twitched in confusion. The spiders shrank away from Harek’s approach like lesser predators fleeing a greater one. Even their hissed cries sounded uncertain now.

“Harry,” Draco whispered. “He’s a wolf. Not a werewolf like from the stories. Not like—Quirrell or the monsters in the books. I thought—I thought….”

Harry growled as he rolled to his feet, swiping blood from his lip. His eyes burned bright green, more wolf than boy.

“Then we follow him,” Harry said. “Run!”

Draco lifted off, hovering low, grabbing Harry’s wrist to drag him through the trees while Harek took the rear, keeping the remaining spiders at bay.

Behind them, the woods were alive with firelight, snapping branches, and the lingering sound of a wolf’s howl— silent, ancient, unbreakable.

They didn’t stop running until the trees thinned and the air shifted — cooler, gentler, less hungry.

Harry collapsed in the shallow creekbed behind the elder thicket, arms and legs sprawled, chest heaving. Mud smeared across his neck and arms, and a wicked gash down his shoulder throbbed in time with his pulse.

Draco dropped beside him — not gracefully — and peeled the damp hair from his forehead.

“Okay,” he panted. “So. New rule. If anything in the forest has more than six legs, we’re not talking to it. Or fighting it. Or letting it look at us.”

Harry let out a wild, wheezing laugh that turned into a groan. “I think I have arachnophobia now.”

“Think?” Draco rolled onto his back. “I nearly wet myself. If I see even a regular spider, I’m hexing it into next week.”

They laid there for a long moment, the grass slowly calming beneath them, their magic humming between their limbs like a shared breath.

“Do you think…” Harry began, voice low and serious now. “Do you think that was just…a freak attack?”

“No.” Draco shook his head, wet leaves clinging to his hair. “They weren’t hunting. They were scared. Like they were trying to hide.”

Harry’s green eyes flicked to the trees. “But why now?”

They both fell quiet.

And neither of them mentioned the look in Harek’s eyes when he stood over them, teeth bared, not at them — but for them.

On the other side of the forest Nessa burst into Liora’s cottage without knocking.

“Spiders,” she gasped. “Big ones. Forest-born. They attacked the boys by the outer springs. Harek stepped in.”

Liora was already at the hearth, stirring a slow-burning bundle of protective herbs over blue flame. Her jaw tightened, but she didn’t speak right away.

Nessa tried again, breathless. “They weren’t just hunting. They knew.”

“They always know,” Liora murmured. “The old forest stirs with purpose. Especially when the veil thins.”

“You mean the moons?” Nessa asked, eyes narrowing.

Liora turned. “Not just the moons.”

She moved to a small desk carved from fallen yew and scrawled a quick note onto a parchment with a wax-tipped stylus.

“Niam,” she called.

A girl stepped in from the back room, tall and wiry with storm-grey eyes and a slingshot on her belt. “Yes, Elder?”

“Take this to the Southern Glade. Give it to the centaur commander, Alatheon. Don’t stop. Don’t speak to anyone but him.”

Niam took the scroll without question and vanished.

Nessa crossed her arms, trying to steady the thump in her chest. “You think the spiders are being used?”

Liora didn’t answer directly.

Instead, she looked out toward the trees beyond the window and said quietly, “No, I think they were scared.”

They reached the edge of the village just before sunset, bruised and covered in leaves and drying blood. The path twisted gently beneath their feet, but neither boy spoke — too tired, too wired, too aware of how close that had been.

Their shared shack sat like a lighthouse at the edge of the woods, its windows glowing faint with the last of the day’s warmth. The sight of it was almost enough to undo them both.

Draco nudged open the door and dropped his bag to the floor with a thump. “We need new rules. And traps. And a bloody moat.”

Harry kicked off his shoes and immediately sat on the floor, too sore to bother with the bed. “You okay?”

Draco gave him a look. “I was nearly turned into spider kibble, but yes, I’m fine. You?”

Harry held up his bandaged forearm and smirked. “Got a trophy. Think I’ll mount it.”

They both laughed — dry, shaky little things — and then Draco moved to the stove to put the kettle on. A silence stretched between them, not tense, but heavy.

Harry leaned back on his palms, eyes drifting toward the little bed they shared.

“We still haven’t fixed your side,” he said after a moment.

Draco glanced over. “I noticed.”

“Do you…want to?”

Draco turned back to the kettle, fussing with the flame. “No.”

A pause.

“Me either,” Harry admitted softly.

Draco didn’t answer, but when the tea was poured, he brought Harry’s mug over and sat close — their knees brushing, heat curling between them like the steam from the cups.

Chapter Text

The wind carried a crispness now—autumn clawing its way into the forest, brushing gold across the trees. Somewhere above the canopy, a thinning crescent moon blinked faintly through the clouds. The forest was quieter since the spider attack, eerily so. Birds had fled. Even the frogs near the marshes seemed hesitant to sing.

Harry sat on the porch steps of their shack, polishing the dull edge of the dagger Harek had given him. He wasn’t cold, though the air had cooled. His body ran hot now, always—muscle and magic roiling beneath his skin like an ember waiting to spark.

Draco sat not far off, stringing a line of dried hawthorn berries with magical thread, his wings loosely draped behind him like a second cloak. He’d grown broader—Harry had noticed. His shirts didn’t fit as well anymore, stretched tight across his shoulders. His presence was steadier too, more rooted. Nessa said the winged ones needed balance between air and earth or they’d unravel. Draco was trying.

They hadn’t spoken much since the spider fight. Not about the fear. Or the way Harry had shielded Draco with his whole body, barely aware of himself as he moved like a wolf through the chaos. Or the moment afterward, when Draco had gripped Harry’s hand so hard his knuckles turned white, the unspoken tremble between them louder than words.

Now, Draco spoke first.

“I think it’s September,” he said, threading the final berry.

Harry’s hand paused on the blade. “Yeah.”

“Hogwarts will have started.”

Silence.

Then Harry said, quietly, “They won’t find us.”

Draco looked up, frowning slightly.

“We can’t even get past Liora’s barrier,” Harry went on, gesturing to the treeline. “It’s like being underwater the second you try. Everything slows. I can feel it pressing against me.”

“I know,” Draco said. “I tried last week.”

Harry gave him a side glance.

“I wasn’t going to leave,” Draco added quickly. “I just— I needed to know.”

They lapsed into silence again. The forest seemed to hold its breath with them.

Then: “Do you miss it?” Harry asked. “School?”

Draco didn’t answer at first. Then, “Not really. I miss Quiddich. I miss books. My friends. But not the rest.”

Harry nodded, but he was still chewing over something else.

“I had a dream,” he said. “Last night.”

Draco blinked.

“I was back there. But it was empty. Everyone was gone. And I was walking through the corridors, but I was… different. I could hear things, smell things. I wasn’t me. Not really.”

“Wolf-you?”

“Maybe.”

Draco shifted a little closer. “What did you smell?”

Harry frowned. “Magic. And something… old. Something beneath the school. It felt like it was watching.”

“Watching you?”

“No. Waiting for me.”

Draco went very still.

Then from behind the shack, a branch snapped.

Both boys turned, bodies instinctively tense. But it was just Nessa, cheeks flushed from the cold, cloak bundled around her shoulders. She waved a hand.

“Liora wants you two at the circle,” she said. “Niam’s back.”

When they reached the village center, the clearing was dimly lit with torches, the glow dancing across carved stone and weathered wood. Niam stood beside a figure new to the boys—taller than most men, chest bare, dark pelt glinting with hints of silver. A centaur, his tail swishing once behind him like the last sweep of twilight. His name, murmured among the gathered, was Caldan.

The older centaur’s eyes landed on Harry first, then Draco. Sharp. Not unkind. Like he was looking through them—through bone, blood, and soul.

“You carry shadows,” Caldan said, his voice low and resonant. “Old magic. Heavy and dark. It clings to your spirit.”

Draco stiffened, glancing sideways at Harry, but Harry didn’t move. He felt the words like a stone pressed to his chest.

“What kind of dark magic?” Draco asked, voice careful.

Caldan turned his gaze on him. “Magic that was never yours. A mark that lives deeper than scars. Dormant—but not dead.”

Harry swallowed. He didn’t need it spelled out. He remembered the way he’d felt, sometimes, like something else inside him stirred when he was angry or afraid. A sharpness that didn’t feel entirely his.

“It’s not him,” Draco said firmly, stepping half in front of Harry. “He’s not dark.”

Caldan didn’t contradict him. But he didn’t agree either. “What rests inside a vessel does not define the vessel. But it can… influence it. Especially when the soul is still soft.”

Liora stepped forward, not to stop him but to ground the air. Her voice was calm. “The darkness is not a curse. It is a test. Like fire to metal—it will reveal the true strength of the boy.”

Harry’s fists clenched, but he nodded once. He wouldn’t run from it. Whatever it was.

“We can’t go back,” he said, voice hoarse. “The boundary—Liora’s magic—it holds us here.”

“You are not meant to leave. Not yet,” Caldan answered. “The forest shelters you for a reason. You are being tempered, not imprisoned.”

A hush fell across the circle. Niam shifted beside Liora, the torches flickering in the wind. Overhead, clouds bruised the starlight.

“You will remain here until your sixteenth year,” Caldan said. “Rooted to the earth. Bound to the wild. Bound to each other.”

Draco exhaled slowly, three more years, it felt like a life time. He let his shoulder knock Harry’s. Neither of them said a word, but something loosened between them—something that had been held tight since the last full moon.

“But the castle…” Harry said quietly. “Something’s waking there. That’s what the spiders were running from, isn’t it?”

Caldan’s gaze turned toward the northeast, toward the unseen towers of Hogwarts. “Yes. Something ancient stirs. Something long hidden beneath the stone. It is not yet awake, but it dreams.”

“Is it dangerous?” Draco asked.

“All sleeping magic is dangerous,” Caldan said. “Especially when it wakes hungry. Especially when it has been denied for so long.”

Liora stepped forward, her voice soft but certain. “Your task is not to confront it. Not yet. Your task is to become ready for another darkness that has yet to rise.”

Caldan nodded once. “The darkness in you must be known before it can be mastered. And the bond between you—tested before it can be trusted. Tend both. Remove the light will burn away the darkness.”

And finally, with the torches flickering and the villagers murmuring among themselves, Caldan added, “The thing that sleeps inside you, Harry Potter… it will one day wake too. And when it does, your heart must be the stronger voice.”

It wasn’t long after that Caldan followed Liora into her cottage. After that, nearly everyone else dispersed whispering together as they made their way home. 

The door thunked shut behind them, heavy with the weight of too many unanswered questions. The fire still burned low in the hearth, casting shifting shadows that made the shack feel smaller than usual, like the walls were leaning in to listen.

Harry ran a hand through his hair and groaned. “Can we not have one day without someone saying something terrifying about me?”

Draco threw his cloak over a hook by the door and kicked off his boots. “You’re asking the forest, the villagers, and apparently the moon to stop being dramatic. I don’t think that’s in the cards.”

Harry slumped onto the edge of the bed—the one they’d been sharing for months now, since Draco’s had never been fixed after the heat incident. They’d simply… adjusted. Learned how to sleep back-to-back, or tangled like wolves curled for warmth.

He let out a long sigh. “So now it’s ‘dark magic in my blood’? Great. Add that to the list.”

Draco perched beside him and mimicked the sigh. “You are collecting mysterious red flags like Nessa collects herbs.”

Harry shot him a glare. “Thanks. Very comforting.”

“You’re welcome. I do my best.”

They sat in silence for a moment. The only sounds were the fire crackling and the faint rustle of summer wind through the shutters.

Then Harry spoke, voice low. “I didn’t even know there was a war until I got here.”

Draco glanced at him, surprised. “Seriously?”

Harry nodded. “No one ever told me. The Dursleys—my relatives—wouldn’t even say my parents’ names. I didn’t know what they did. Or how they died. I just knew people looked at me like I was something else. Something they were scared of… or wanted something from.”

Draco’s jaw tightened. “You shouldn’t have had to grow up like that.”

“Yeah, well,” Harry muttered, rubbing his arms, “I did.”

Another silence. Not awkward, just… full.

Harry finally said, “You know, I could have been in Slytherin.”

Draco blinked at him. “What?”

“I mean, I’m reckless, snarky, have an unhealthy sense of justice, and somehow everyone either hates or loves me. Classic Slytherin traits.”

Draco scoffed. 

“I didn’t want to be in Slytherin. Mostly because of you.”

Draco looked offended. “Me?”

Harry turned to him, raising a brow. “You were a stuck-up little arse when we met. Spouting off about purebloods and who should or shouldn’t be in Hogwarts.”

Draco opened his mouth, closed it, then gave a grudging shrug. “Okay. Fair.”

“And also,” Harry added, lifting his cup of tea for emphasis, “everyone kept whispering about how Voldemort came from there. Like the house was cursed.”

Draco’s expression tightened, the name hanging in the air between them like smoke.

“You shouldn’t say his name,” Draco said.

“Why not?”

“Because it makes things worse,” Draco said, voice low. “It draws things to you. I don’t know how, but it does.”

Harry stared into his tea, the swirl of herbs looking like tiny storm clouds. “I don’t know what I’m carrying,” he admitted. “Dark magic, shadows, whatever. But if it means people are going to keep treating me like a freak, I’m not sure I want it.”

Draco nudged his knee. “You’re not a freak.”

Harry gave him a side-eye. “Says the boy with wings.”

“Touché.”

They both laughed, soft and surprised. Then Harry leaned back on his elbows, gaze drifting to the ceiling.

“Do you ever wish we could just… be normal?”

Draco considered that. “Like, go to classes, have a dorm, get into arguments with other kids instead of giant spiders and prophecies?”

“Exactly.”

“I mean,” Draco said, “I do look excellent in school robes.”

Harry snorted. “And modest, too.”

“I’m full of layered complexity.”

“Sure you are.”

Draco grinned, then leaned in just slightly, voice dropping. “You really think I was the reason you didn’t go to Slytherin?”

Harry shrugged. “You were loud. Annoying. Too blond.”

“I am the perfect amount of blond.”

Harry raised a brow. “I stand by my statement.”

Draco smirked. “Well, lucky for you, I grew on you.”

“Like a rash,” Harry said, but he didn’t pull away. If anything, he scooted a little closer, shoulder brushing Draco’s.

The fire crackled louder for a beat. Then Draco said, quieter, “Even if there’s something inside you… something dark… I’m not afraid of it.”

Harry looked at him. “You should be.”

Draco just shook his head. “Too late.”

They sat in stillness, the kind that only comes after fighting monsters and hearing your fate spoken in riddles by centaurs. Eventually, Harry sighed and nudged Draco’s foot under the bench.

“You’re still a little annoying, you know.”

Draco grinned. “And you’re still a little in denial.”

Harry groaned and threw a pillow at him. “Go to bed, Malfoy.”

“You first, Potter.”

They didn’t argue much after that. Just curled into the small, shared bed—too close, too warm, too much, and somehow just right.

Chapter Text

It was an unusually quiet morning in the Slytherin common room when Pansy Parkinson’s shriek split the air.

“Look!” she shouted, waving a copy of The Daily Prophet in one hand while nearly spilling her pumpkin juice on the other.

Blaise Zabini snatched the paper from her and narrowed his eyes at the front page.

Across the top, a bold headline read:

MALFOY FAMILY OFFERS 50,000 GALLEON REWARD FOR INFORMATION ON MISSING STUDENTS

Below it, a moving photograph of Narcissa Malfoy stood proudly beside her husband Lucius, both dressed in somber grays. Her hand gripped a delicate silver cane. Her eyes were red-rimmed but proud. Behind them stood an empty chair.

A smaller photo below showed Harry Potter, windswept and unsmiling, in what appeared to be a Hogwarts courtyard. Next to it was Draco Malfoy’s formal school portrait, looking distinctly annoyed at having been forced to sit for it.

Blaise read aloud:

‘The Malfoy family is requesting the assistance of the wizarding world in locating their only son, Draco Malfoy, and his companion, Harry Potter, both of whom went missing under mysterious circumstances last November. The family is offering a reward of 50,000 galleons for verifiable information on their whereabouts.’

Millicent Bulstrode grunted. “Wonder what kind of information they’re expecting. Everyone’s been talking for months and no one knows a damn thing.”

“They’re alive,” Daphne said quietly. “You know it. I can feel it.”

Blaise flipped to the next page. “It says there’s a special owl drop-off for anonymous tips, and Gringotts has verified the reward is real.”

Theo gave a low whistle. “Fifty thousand. You could buy a manor.”

“You could buy a damn country,” Pansy muttered.

But behind the scoffs and speculation, a nervous current ran beneath their words.

Where were Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter?

And why had the Malfoys mentioned them together?

The Slytherin common room was darker than usual, the green lanterns casting long shadows across the stone floor as students huddled in clusters, whispering.

It had started with a rumor.

A second-year girl claimed she’d heard the walls whispering in a weird tongue she had never heard of before. Another said she’d seen a snake vanish into the cracks beneath the girls’ lavatory.

And then the old tale resurfaced—The Chamber of Secrets.

“They say it’s open again,” whispered Theodore Nott, perched on the edge of a velvet couch. “That’s why Dumbledore hasn’t found Potter. The castle took him.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” snapped Daphne Greengrass, though her fingers trembled slightly as she reached for a book.

“I’m not saying I believe it,” Theo said, shrugging. “Just that people are talking. A Gryffindor nearly wet himself saying the ghosts were warning students away from the second-floor corridor.”

Blaise leaned back against a cold stone pillar. “So the Boy Who Lived vanishes and suddenly the Chamber’s open again? Convenient timing.”

Pansy looked up from her mirror. “It’s not just Potter. Draco’s gone too. If anyone would know how to open some pureblood hellhole, it’s him.”

“Shut it, Pansy,” Blaise growled.

She rolled her eyes. “I’m only joking.”

But no one laughed.

In the far corner, an older Slytherin prefect muttered to another seventh-year, “My grandfather said that this is just like last time. And you remember what happened they said happened back then.”

Their voices trailed off.

Rumors swirled like smoke through the common room, tangling with the damp chill of the dungeons. No one could prove anything. But everyone could feel it—something ancient was stirring.

Something hungry.

And the two boys who might’ve stopped it… were gone.

The Gryffindor common room, was not unsimilar to their Slytherin counterparts. It had never been this quiet.

Seamus stared into the fire, his face illuminated in flickers of orange and gold. Dean sat beside him, sketchpad unopened in his lap, pencil unmoving. Even Lavender and Parvati weren’t whispering tonight—they sat together on the windowsill, arms linked, eyes turned toward the dark grounds below.

It had been almost a year.

“Why would the Malfoy’s include Harry?” Seamus finally asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “They hated him.”

“Maybe because they’re desperate now,” Hermione said from the corner, voice raw from hours of reading. “It’s been nearly a year now. No new leads. No eye-witnesses. A dead professor and now this rumor of some monster lurking in the castle? They needed to bring the story back to the forefront of people’s minds. Harry has always been good for headlines.”

Ron shot her a look. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” she replied softly, setting down the thick tome in her lap. “It’s the most logical step. If…if I was a mother I would do the same thing. Using Harry’s fame is the smart move. It also puts the Malfoy’s in a better light, publicly speaking that is.”

There was a long pause.

Ginny stood, arms crossed tightly over a battered diary she held tightly to her chest. “It’s not about who is more liked than who,” she said. “It’s about why no one saw this coming. Why no one stopped it. Why they let two first years go into the Forbidden Forest alone and with school permission.”

“Dumbledore tried,” Neville said suddenly, his voice firmer than expected. “I saw him searching. Every night for weeks. He never stopped.”

Hermione nodded. “He still hasn’t.”

Ron frowned. “Then why hasn’t he said anything? Why is it the Prophet getting everyone talking, not him?”

“Because he’s afraid,” said Ginny. “Because if Harry’s gone—really gone—then it means something worse is coming. And he doesn’t want to say it out loud.”

No one responded.

In the firelight, Scabbers stirred, lifting his head as if listening to something only he could hear.

Then Hermione stood, walking to the window.

Outside, the stars glimmered above the Forbidden Forest, just beyond the lake. Far away, past the wards.

“I don’t think he’s gone,” she said. “I think he’s out there. With Draco. I think they left together.”

“Voluntarily?” Ron asked, incredulous.

She hesitated. “Maybe not at first. But… I think they’re choosing each other now.”

The silence that followed wasn’t disbelief.

It was dawning realization.

Up the winding staircases, past a gruff sounding gargoyle the doors to the Headmaster’s office slammed open with such force that several portraits hissed in protest. Cornelius Fudge swept in with his usual bluster, though his eyes carried none of their former softness. Behind him trailed two silent Aurors and a pale young Ministry assistant juggling a folder of parchment and ink pots.

Albus Dumbledore did not rise from behind his desk. He merely looked up, serene as ever.

“Cornelius,” he said, calm and cool. “What an unexpected visit.”

Fudge stormed forward and slapped down the evening edition of the Daily Prophet. The headline all but screamed up at them:

“MALFOYS POST PRIVATE REWARD FOR MISSING SON — BOY WHO LIVED INCLUDED”

A moving photo of Lucius and Narcissa stood beneath it—Lucius cold and composed, Narcissa porcelain-pale, her gloved hand clutching a handkerchief she never used.

“Explain this,” Fudge demanded. “Explain why a grieving family and the Prophet are doing more than you—than I—to locate two missing children!”

Dumbledore glanced at the paper. “I was made aware of the reward this morning.”

Fudge bristled. “You were aware? Albus, they’ve been missing for a year. A year. And now the parents are throwing Galleons into the wind just to get anyone to pay attention, and all the great Albus Dumbledore offers is silence? No statements. No reassurances. Just… vague mutterings about the school being safe?”

“I do not offer empty comfort, Cornelius.”

“No,” Fudge said sharply. “You offer rumors. Ghost stories. Tales about secret chambers and ancient monsters. There’s panic spreading through the papers, through the families. Parent’s are considering withdrawing their children. Governors are growing restless.”

Dumbledore’s expression remained unmoved. “And what would you have me say? That I know where they are, when I do not? That the school is perfectly safe, when something—someone—has taken two boys without leaving a trace?”

“I would have you do your job, Albus,” Fudge snapped. “Control your school. Keep your students alive. Or I will find someone who can.”

The room chilled, despite the fire crackling behind the Headmaster.
“That sounds an awful lot like a threat.”

Fudge took a step back, recomposing himself. “It’s a promise. If another child vanishes, if you so much as whisper about chambers and dark magic without proof—Hogwarts will be closed for a full investigation. Effective immediately.”

From his corner, the assistant’s pen snapped in his grip. He paled and quickly fumbled for another.

Dumbledore leaned back, eyes ancient and unreadable. “And who will you send to run the investigation? Lucius Malfoy? Dolores Umbridge?”

Fudge’s jaw clenched. “Don’t test me, Albus.”

“No,” Dumbledore murmured. “I don’t suppose I need to.”

The Minister turned with a swirl of robes, muttering to his Aurors, who followed wordlessly. The assistant stumbled behind them, nearly dropping his folders.

Only when the door slammed shut again did Dumbledore move. He reached for the paper and turned it over.

He could still feel Narcissa’s eyes, even in ink.

Below, in the nearly empty staff room, the last rays of evening casting thin golden lines across the stone floor. Professor McGonagall stood at the hearth, arms folded tight across her tartan robes, her lips a grim line. The Daily Prophet was spread out on the table behind her, the headline catching the firelight.

Snape entered without knocking, his robes fluttering faintly. He didn’t speak right away. He rarely did with her.

“Fudge left looking like a man freshly trampled by a troll,” he remarked.

McGonagall didn’t turn. “He waved that paper in Albus’s face like a battle standard. As if that family hasn’t done enough damage already.”

Snape’s eyes flicked to the moving photograph. “The Malfoy’s have never wasted an opportunity to make a tragedy about themselves.”

She turned then, sharply. “Their son is missing, Severus.”

He inclined his head. “So is Potter. I do not forget.”

McGonagall sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “It’s been a year. A full year. And now Fudge is threatening to shut the school down if Albus can’t keep his students safe.”

“Perhaps he should,” Snape said coldly. “If Albus continues to treat this matter with only riddles and silence.”

She bristled. “You think he doesn’t care?”

“I think he knows more than he’s willing to say.” He stepped closer. “I think—whatever he suspects—he is protecting something. Or someone.”

They were quiet a long moment, the fire crackling between them.

“We’ve had more patrols. Restricted access to the dungeons. And still… we know nothing. Not who took them. Not where they went. Not how,” McGonagall said. “If students are truly in danger, we have a responsibility.”

Snape studied her. “You’re suggesting we act without him.”

“I’m suggesting we prepare,” she said. “If another student vanishes, it won’t just be Fudge storming these halls. It’ll be the entire Board of Governors with him.”

Snape gave a thin, unreadable smile. “Then what do you propose, Minerva?”

“We draw up our own protection network. Quietly. Staff we trust. Additional wards, student interviews, a watch system in every House.” Her gaze sharpened. “And if something dark is moving through this castle, I want eyes in every corridor.”

Snape nodded once. “I’ll speak to Filius. He’s better with charms than any of us. And Hooch has been itching to keep students grounded after dark. She’ll support a curfew.”

“And you?”

“I already keep a close watch on my Slytherins,” he said simply. “But I’ll make it tighter.”

McGonagall crossed the room and pulled the Prophet off the table. She folded it carefully, as if the headline might slice her if she wasn’t careful.

“I don’t care what the Ministry thinks. Or what the Prophet prints. We won’t lose another child, Severus. Not one more.”

Snape gave a short nod. “Then let’s see to it.”

Chapter Text

The forest floor still smelled of fear.

Though the danger had passed, the aftermath of the spider attack lingered in more than just splintered trees and ragged webbing. A hush clung to the branches—a reverent stillness, as if the woods themselves were holding their breath.

Harry adjusted the strap of his satchel and stepped over a fallen log. Draco knelt beside a brittle nest of silk threads. The silver strands glinted in the morning light, stretched tight between rocks and roots like old scars.

“Careful,” Nessa warned from behind them, pointing with a gloved hand. “The outer barbs can burn if you brush against them wrong.”

Draco glanced up, unimpressed. “Lovely. Man-eating spiders and now acid thread. Your forest really knows how to treat its guests.”

Nessa chuckled, plucking a few intact strands with practiced ease. “This silk’s stronger than anything we can spin ourselves. Makes incredible cloaks, binding thread—magical netting too, if you know how to treat it.”

Harry moved in to help, catching a handful of web that shimmered pale gold in the light. “So… we’re basically raiding a spider graveyard?”

“Not a graveyard,” Nessa replied thoughtfully, “more like… leftovers.”

Draco wrinkled his nose. “Delightful.”

Still, he worked carefully, binding bundles of harvested thread and empty fang casings into cloth sacks. Nearby, Harek and another villager pried apart one of the larger spider corpses, muttering about venom sacs and potion infusions.

The strangest part was how normal it all felt. Just another task. Just another day in a place where monsters could be turned into medicine and magic with the right hands.

Harry stepped away, brushing his fingers over mossy bark. The forest felt quieter now. Not safe—never safe—but steadier. The chaos had passed, and something beneath the earth had gone still.

A soft hiss made him freeze.

He looked down—and saw it. A small, emerald-green garden snake, winding lazily through the underbrush. It paused in a pile of brown leaves, black eyes fixed on him.

“Pretty,” Harry murmured, crouching down.

The snake lifted its head, tongue flickering.

“Hello,” it said.

Harry blinked. Then again.

“…What?”

The snake tilted its head. “You speak. That’s nice. Most don’t. They just scream or squash.”

Harry stared. He wasn’t hallucinating, was he? “I—I can understand you?”

“Obviously,” the snake said, curling into a lazy spiral. “You have the voice. The old voice. It tickles the air.”

Heart stammering, Harry sat down slowly. “I did this once. At the zoo. Before I even knew I was a wizard. Made the glass vanish too.”

“Ah,” the snake said. “Then it’s in you. The breath of serpents. You carry it like a shadow.”

“…Cool,” Harry whispered, in the stunned, mildly horrified tone only thirteen-year-olds could manage.

“What’s your name?” he asked after a moment.

“Don’t have one. You can give me one, if you like. I’ll know it’s mine if you say it.”

Harry tilted his head. “How about… Ivy?”

“Ivy,” the snake repeated, pleased. “Yes. Like the creeping vine. That is mine now.”

She flicked her tongue again, slithering toward his shoe. “This place is warm. Yours? I like the leaves.”

Harry looked toward the edge of the clearing, past the ridge. Their shack’s roof was just visible through the trees. “There’s a basket by the hearth. It’s warm. You could stay there.”

“I will live there.”

And just like that, Ivy climbed his boot, curled into the crook of his arm, and declared herself home.

By the time Draco made it over, huffing and mildly alarmed, Harry was already whispering to the snake like they were old friends.

“What in Merlin’s name are you doing?” Draco asked, eyes fixed on the snake. “Is that alive?”

“Her name’s Ivy,” Harry said cheerfully. “She’s moving in.”

Draco blinked. “You’re talking to her.”

“Yep.”

“She’s talking back.”

“Also yep.”

Draco threw his hands in the air. “You can speak snake now?! Are you kidding me?!”

Harry raised a brow. “What, you don’t?”

“No! Because that’s not normal! That’s Parseltongue!”

Harry frowned. “So? I thought it was just… a wizard thing. I did it when I was little—scared Dudley half to death at the zoo with a boa constrictor.”

Draco looked at him like he’d sprouted a second head. “Harry. Parseltongue is rare. Like, ancient magic rare. Salazar Slytherin rare. Dark wizards rare.”

Harry blinked. His heart thudding at the prospect of it. Another thing to tie him to the dark. “Well, that’s comforting. Thanks.”

Ivy hissed contentedly. “This one is dramatic. Are all your kind like this?”

Harry snorted. “Yes. Especially the blond ones.”

“Oi!” Draco snapped. “I heard that!”

“Not everything is about you, Malfoy.”

Draco crossed his arms. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Thank you,” Harry replied sweetly.

Nessa approached, her basket filled with fang casings. She paused when she saw Ivy and whistled softly. “That’s a blessing if I ever saw one.”

Harry turned to her, wide-eyed. “You know what this is?”

She nodded. “You’re a Parselmouth, Harry. It’s an old, old magic. Snake-speaking. Older than the Founders of you Hogwarts. Most folk fear it, but it’s just another gift. Dangerous in the wrong hands, sure—but so is any magic.”

Harry frowned. “I didn’t ask for it.”

“No one ever does.” Nessa’s smile was soft. “Probably why you get along so well with your Dragon over here. But it’s in you for a reason. Might be time you started asking why.”

Draco looked baffled. “How can you just—talk to her? Like it’s normal?”

Harry shrugged, cradling Ivy. “It feels normal. Like breathing. I didn’t even know it was special.”

“That’s what’s so infuriating about you,” Draco muttered. “You stumble into magic most people spend their lives chasing. And you make friends with snakes like it’s just Tuesday.”

Harry grinned. “And yet, you still follow me into the woods.”

“Against my better judgment,” Draco muttered.

They returned to the village with silk and potion supplies. Ivy rode in the fold of Harry’s hood, flicking her tongue and charming an elderly villager who insisted Harry was a “blessed speaker of old tongues.”

That night, Harry tucked Ivy into a shallow basket beside the hearth, lined with soft cloth scraps. The flowers in the garden were gone now—October creeping in—but Ivy looked perfectly content beneath the warmth of their little shack.

As Harry climbed into bed, shoulder to shoulder with Draco, he sighed. “You think there’s anything normal about us left?”

Draco grunted into his pillow. “Define normal.”

Harry smiled into the dark. “Exactly.”

The shack was quiet in the early light, golden beams slanting through the warped glass panes and pooling on the wooden floor like spilled honey.

Draco rolled over with a groan, burying his face in his pillow. His hair stuck out in several directions, flattened on one side and haloing on the other like a very disgruntled cherub. He blinked blearily at the ceiling, then at the strange rustling sound coming from the hearth.

His eyes narrowed.

“Harry,” he said, voice still hoarse with sleep. “There is a snake in the living room.”

From across the room, Harry looked up from his spot on the floor, where he was crouched beside the hearth basket, gently coaxing Ivy out from under a scrap of wool with a small field mouse he caught in one of his traps this morning.

 He beamed. “Good morning to you too.”

Draco sat up, blankets pooling around his waist, and jabbed a finger toward Ivy like she’d personally offended him. “Why is she still here?”

“Because she lives here now,” Harry said, like it was obvious. “She claimed the basket. It’s hers.”

Draco gaped. “You—you just let a literal serpent take up residence in our house?”

Harry tilted his head. “I mean… she asked nicely?”

“She hissed.”

“She’s very polite,” Harry insisted. “She said the place was warm and quiet and she liked the leaves.”

Draco flopped back against his pillow, covering his face with a groan. “I’ve lost the plot. I’ve well and truly lost it. We’re harboring an actual reptile like it’s a house cat.”

“She’s cleaner than Scabbers,” Harry offered cheerfully. At least he won’t attempt to turn her yellow.

Draco peeked through his fingers, expression tragic. “And you just understood her. Without a spell. Without a book. You speak fluent snake.”

Harry looked smug. “Well, I am a Slytherin now, aren’t I?”

That earned him a sharp snort. Draco sat up straighter, sheets draped like a toga. “You are not. The Hat sorted you into Gryffindor. And Gryffindors don’t chat up garden snakes like they’re old mates from school.”

“I don’t know,” Harry mused. “You lot have the whole snake aesthetic. Brooding. Slithering. Unnecessarily silky hair.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “You’re making fun of me.”

“A little.” Harry grinned. “But come on. You’re a Slytherin. Aren’t you supposed to love snakes?”

Draco gave him a flat look. “I love tasteful green accents. Silver embroidery. Ambition and legacy. I do not, however, cuddle with cold-blooded animals before breakfast.”

“Ivy’s warm,” Harry defended. “She slept in the basket all night.”

“Of course she did,” Draco muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. “Why wouldn’t the cursed forest snake adopt us like strays?”

“I’m telling you,” Harry said, standing and stretching, “she’s harmless. Likes sunspots and warm fabric. She thinks you’re loud, but tolerable.”

“She what?”

Harry smirked. “She called you dramatic.”

Draco scowled. “Tell her she’s not wrong.”

A pause.

Then: “…Wait, don’t actually tell her that.”

But Harry was already chuckling, heading toward the fireplace. Ivy had curled into a lazy coil near the ashes, blinking slowly.

“I think she likes it here,” Harry said, kneeling to brush his fingers gently along her spine. “And you’ve got to admit—she suits the aesthetic.”

Draco huffed, climbing out of bed and padding over barefoot, arms crossed tight over his chest.

He stared down at the snake for a long moment, then at Harry, then back at Ivy.

Finally, with a sigh worthy of theatrical tragedy, he muttered, “Merlin help me, you really do have a thing for things that slither.”

Harry looked up with a wicked grin. “Guess that explains why I keep you around.”

Draco blinked, then let out a shocked laugh—genuine and startled.

“You absolute menace.”

“I learned from the best.”

Draco arched an eyebrow, clearly fighting back a smile. “Careful, Potter. Flirting with snakes will get you bitten.”

Harry’s grin softened. “Then I’ll risk it.”

For a beat, the shack was quiet again—just the crackle of the hearth, the sleepy breath of the forest pressing against the windowpanes, and the quiet flick of Ivy’s tongue tasting the morning air.

Chapter Text

A year had already passed, September had faded into the cool nights of October. Autumn officially here and winter nearly at their door again. And yet Harry still remembered those first few weeks with Harek.

The forest had long since become more than a prison or a mystery — it had been a living presence. Every shift of branch, every rustle of underbrush had carried a tone, a rhythm. Harry had begun to learn the tempo. Not well, not fluently, but enough to know when something had been near, when the wind had whispered instead of screamed.

It had started with bruises on his shins and knuckles scraped raw from falling over roots. It had started with sore feet and the bruising of pride. Harek, the hunter who had agreed — begrudgingly — to teach him, had made no effort to soften the blows. The man had been tall, half-shadow, with a voice rough as gravel and hands scarred from claw and steel. A werewolf, they said. Bitten but not broken. Dangerous, but not damning.

Harry hadn’t cared. Danger had been relative.

“Step there again and the snare’ll gut your ankle,” Harek had said one early morning, jerking his chin toward a barely visible loop of wire between two saplings. Harry had already tripped over one the day before, and his pride still limped.

“I see it,” Harry had muttered.

“You think you see it.”

Harry had stepped wide.

That first week had been all wet socks and muttered curses. But slowly, the forest had softened for him. He’d learned how to walk without sounding like a wounded centaur. How to watch for prints. To hear the shift in birdsong when something moved too loudly nearby. It had felt, in many ways, like learning magic all over again — only this time, the spells had been leaf and stone, bone and breath.

“You’re better with a snare than with a bow,” Harek had said one evening as they’d shared jerky by the fire. “Too kind. You hesitate.”

“I don’t want anything to suffer.”

“Then kill clean.”

It had been advice that stayed with him. Harek had given lessons in grunts and scowls, but beneath it all had been something like care. Harry had seen it when the man showed him how to twist cord from nettle fiber, or how to clean a hare without wasting the skin. There had been patience there, hard-won, buried under years of survival.

Draco, of course, had found the whole ordeal repulsive.

“You reek of pine and animal death,” he had said one evening, wrinkling his nose as Harry entered the shack, carrying two squirrels by the tail.

“Better than whatever potion you’ve been melting down your sleeves.”

“It’s a cleansing balm. And at least I haven’t been rolling in moss with a feral dog.”

Harry had dropped the squirrels on the table. “Harek could probably hear that.”

“Oh, let him. I’m sure he’s busy sniffing trees and howling at the moon.”

“Charming.”

Draco had rolled his eyes and returned to his parchment, where Nessa had left notes on wandless incantations. She’d taken a particular interest in Draco’s progress, and he, in return, had warmed to her — in the way a cat might warm to a sunny windowsill.

They had made an odd contrast: Draco, all precision and cool arrogance, and Nessa, a whirl of charm and dry-witted observation. She had been the first person who seemed to treat him without expectation or history. It had made him uncomfortable, which probably meant it was good for him.

“She says my affinity is stronger with elemental conjuration,” Draco had said one night, tapping the parchment.

“Like fire?” Harry had asked.

“Among other things.”

“Explains the tantrums.”

Draco had given him a long, flat stare. “Do go chew a root, Potter.”

Harry had grinned. “Already did. Found out the hard way nettles don’t roast well.”

The banter had masked the truth: they still hadn’t fully forgiven each other. They’d danced around old arguments, both wary of igniting something that might burn too hot. The tension had sat between them like a third shadow.

But slowly, others had entered the space. Nessa with her quiet understanding. Harek with his unflinching mentorship. And the village, with its strange sense of rhythm and ritual.

There had been a moment, late one evening, when Harry and Harek had sat watching the flames and the stars beyond them. The forest had been quiet.

“You ever think you’d end up like this?” Harry had asked. “Teaching a half-blood to trap rabbits?”

Harek had smirked. “Didn’t think I’d end up anything. But the forest gave me a second breath.”

“You think it’ll give us one too?”

Harek’s eyes had glinted gold for a moment, moonlight catching on something wild beneath the skin. “That depends. You both still carry too much fire. Fire’s good — but it has to be aimed.”

Harry had nodded slowly, his gaze falling to the dirt and ash between his boots.

“I’ll aim it,” he had said.

Harek had simply nodded.

Nearby, tucked under a blanket of moss and memory, Draco had whispered through a spell that shimmered in the air — light drawn not from a wand, but from will.

And somewhere in the forest, the old trees had listened.

The training had shifted focus after that.

It had been Nessa who explained it first. The Rite of Tethering — an ancient ritual, older than Hogwarts, older even than the Ministry. A pact between the body and the land it stands on. For Harry to learn to control his wolf shape, to choose when to transform rather than be ruled by the moon, he had to root himself to something deeper than instinct.

“The wolf is wild, yes,” she had said, crouching in the dirt and sketching runes with a stick, “but it is also of the land. It does not take — it balances. That’s what the rite does. It grants you access, not ownership.”

Harry had nodded, eyes flicking over the spiral pattern she etched into the soil.

“Will it hurt?”

Nessa had tilted her head. “Only if you resist.”

Harek had joined them the next day, overseeing the physical side. It had been one thing to read runes and recite vows — another to strengthen the body and mind enough to hold the change without breaking.

So Harry had trained harder. He’d run, barefoot, until his legs ached. Climbed trees until his hands bled. Drank infusions that had made his bones feel too long in his skin. He thought of all the times the wolf inside him became unmanagable. His stupid teenage brain and werewolf needs were confusing the two. He was becoming impulsive, jealous, possessive and aggressive in ways he never would be before. As if the magic and the wolf were taking the worst parts of him and heightening them to dangerous levels. 

Harry remembered only early this week. Another blow out between Harry and Draco over Draco’s continued friendship with Thalion. 

Harry hadn’t meant to watch.

He’d only come to return the damned bowl Nessa lent them — carved pine and charred around the rim, still smelling faintly of the honeycakes Draco adored. But the second he stepped into the clearing and saw them — Draco and Thalion — everything in him halted.

Draco was laughing. Not the brittle, sarcastic huff he gave Harry most days, but something real. Light. Unencumbered.

And Thalion — tall, silver-braided, grinning — stood far too close.

Harry’s fingers clenched around the bowl.

Thalion said something Harry couldn’t hear, and Draco laughed again, tipping his head back. The faint arch of his throat caught the sun. His wings, half-furled, twitched in what Harry knew by now meant pleasure. Approval. Trust.

Harry saw red.

He moved before thinking — teeth bared, vision narrowing to a point just behind Thalion’s heart. His foot snapped a twig. Both figures turned.

Draco’s smile fell. “Harry—?”

But Harry was already shoving between them.

“Back off,” he growled at Thalion. “You’re too close.”

Thalion blinked, a slow frown forming. “We were—”

“I don’t care.” The bowl dropped to the grass with a soft thud. “He doesn’t want you near him.”

Draco’s eyes went wide. “Potter—”

“I said, back off.”

Magic sparked at his fingertips. He felt it roil under his skin — raw, wild, and furious. His creature side stirred, hungry and possessive, echoing through every bone: mine, mine, mine.

Thalion stepped back, hands raised, not in fear, but caution. “Understood,” he said quietly. “I meant no harm.”

And then he turned, cloak flaring, and walked away.

Silence rang louder than any shout.

Draco stared at him — mouth parted, chest rising and falling fast. “What was that?”

Harry couldn’t answer. His pulse thundered in his ears.

“You just—Merlin, you just threatened him.”

“He—he was touching you,” Harry said, but the words tasted weak.

“So?” Draco stepped forward, fury flaring in his eyes. “He’s my tutor. He was helping me channel my elemental core—”

“He was touching you,” Harry repeated, voice cracking. “And you—you let him.”

Draco reeled back like he’d been slapped.

Harry felt it hit, deep in his gut.

“I didn’t mean—” he started, but Draco had already turned, wings snapping tight against his back.

“Next time,” Draco said, voice cold, “knock before you barge in.”

He vanished into the trees.

Harry sat in the dirt long after, bowl forgotten. His hands trembled.

He hadn’t just been angry. He’d been… terrified.

Of what, exactly? That Thalion would take Draco from him? That Draco would choose someone else? That Harry wouldn’t be enough?

His creature side didn’t care for logic. It burned with instinct, claimed without asking, defended without apology.

But Harry knew better. He should’ve known better.

“I scared him,” he whispered.

Not Thalion.

Draco.

And that was worse.

Draco had watched from the edge of the clearing, lips tight. “You’re going to kill yourself before you even get to the rite.”

Harry, shirt soaked through, had offered a crooked smile. “Hey! I am the boy-who-lived remember? This is a cake walk for me.”

“You’re an idiot.”

But Draco had brought him tea that night, strong with ginger and honey, and hadn’t said anything more.

Nessa had taught him the binding chants in the language of the land, old and strange. “You’ll speak them when you offer your blood to the earth,” she had said. “And when the time comes, it will answer — if you’ve earned it.”

“Have you done it?” Harry had asked.

She had only smiled. “Would I still be here if I hadn’t?”

As the days had passed, the clearing where the rite would be held had become sacred ground. They’d prepared it with ash circles and herb bundles, with polished stones and wooden talismans. The forest had seemed to lean in as if listening.

And at the center of it all had stood Harry, barefoot, marked with runes and sweat and purpose.

Soon, he would ask the earth to claim him. And if it answered — he would never again be ruled by the moon alone. Especially since the wolf was becoming incredibly aggressive and possessive of Draco.

Draco stood at the edge of the clearing like an idiot dressed for a funeral he didn’t remember RSVPing to. Arms crossed, jaw tight, his fingernails had nearly torn through his sleeve cuffs by now, but he didn’t dare look away.

Because of course Harry bloody Potter was kneeling shirtless in the middle of a glowing dirt circle while the forest tried to decide whether to eat him or elevate him.

Again.

Another week, another life-threatening ritual. They really ought to start a bloody scrapbook. “Rites We’ve Survived (So Far)” — now with bonus trauma bonding and inconveniently timed self-discovery.

And yet—Draco couldn’t make himself laugh at it.

Not really.

Because Harry wasn’t screaming in agony or trembling in fear. 

He was laughing. 

Trust the villagers to invent mystical summer camp games with spiritual meaning.

Draco crossed his arms as Harry ran out of the circle barefoot through the shallows of a nearby forest stream, laughing — laughing — while children tossed bundles of colored twine at him. Each one had a rune. Each one meant something. Forgiveness. Will. Change. He was meant to catch them, dodge others, speak the ones that struck him aloud. Harek led the dance, arms folded, gold eyes sharp. Maelor stood nearby, murmuring the old magic, keeping the flow steady.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Honestly. Every bloody week it’s a new rite. We’ve done more soul-searching here than an overfunded meditation retreat.”

Still… he watched.

And as he did, something inside him curled tighter. A knot of heat and ache and dread.

His wings flexed again — useless, hungry, heavy. He couldn’t join this ritual. It wasn’t his to claim. And his body knew it, screamed it. His magic itched under his skin, his omega howled inside him, furious to be separated from its tether.

He’s leaving you behind, it hissed. He’s always ahead. Always stronger. Always chosen.

Draco clenched his jaw.

Because it wasn’t just the magic. It wasn’t just the rite. It was everything. This forest. These people. The unspoken rituals and quiet bonds that had taken root while he wasn’t looking. Harek and his hard-earned silence. Nessa’s gentle hands and knowing smirks. Eulah’s gentle grace. The way villagers had started to expect them — to wait for them during rites, and celebrations, to make space for them at the fire.

The way this had started to feel like home.

And Harry—Harry who looked like a god lit by the streamlight, hair soaked, skin streaked with ash and laughter. Harry who fit this world like he’d been born from the soil itself. Harry who kept choosing it. Choosing them.

Draco hated how much that thought hurt.

Because it reminded him of everything waiting beyond this forest’s edge.

Three more years. That had been the cryptic as fuck star-reading bullshit. A sabbatical. A reprieve. But time moved, and one day, it would stop moving in their favor. And then what?

Return to Wiltshire? To the manor, echoing with judgment and polished to hide all the cracks?

To his mother’s thin-lipped disappointment and his father’s silent, seething rage?

To questions about inheritance and marriage and bloodlines? To dinners where he would be expected to sit straight and smile politely while men carved his future into neat little slices?

He could already hear his father’s voice:

“This nonsense will end when you return. You’ll marry. You’ll lead. Produce hiers. You’ll become the man the Malfoy name demands.”

The very idea made his throat close. His stomach churned. His wings twitched like they wanted to tear him free from this worldly plain and take him far-far away.

Because what would they say when they saw him now?

What would they see?

A boy with wings. An omega with no alpha. A veela so half-bound he couldn’t even conceal his own wings. Someone whose magic burned wrong, whose instincts pulled toward another boy with a force that felt like gravity and grief.

He couldn’t breathe.

Being near Harry was like standing too close to the sun. Being without him was worse.

He hated how deeply he needed this — all of it. The forest. The quiet. The space between the trees where no legacy dared to speak. The absurd rituals that wrapped his raw nerves in something like meaning. The fact that, for once, his name didn’t precede him like a curse.

And Harry. Harry, who made it all bearable. Who looked at him without flinching. Who argued and laughed and offered him the impossible gift of normalcy and acceptance.

The thought of losing him — of watching him walk away after three years, of pretending this never happened — made Draco want to vomit. To scream. To curl in on himself and never get up again.

So he didn’t think about it.

He couldn’t.

Day by day. That was how he’d survived since his inheritance. Don’t look ahead. Don’t plan. Don’t feel too much or need too hard. The future was too sharp, too close, too cruel. It had expectations he couldn’t meet and rules he never wanted to follow again.

But the present — the moss beneath his feet, the scent of firewood and wet—brittle leaves, the flicker of Harry’s grin across a clearing — that he could live in. That he could bear.

Even if it broke him later.

Harry caught another ribbon — blue this time — and shouted, “Loyalty!”

“Of course it’s loyalty,” Draco muttered under his breath. “Gryffindors and their infernal moral karaoke.”

Maelor gave him a side glance. Draco offered a tight smile. “Just cheering him on.”

But in truth, his chest ached. Because Harry was laughing, lit from within, and Draco could only watch. Separated by choice, by magic, by what they were becoming.

Still — when Harry met his eyes across the clearing, something silent passed between them.

Not yet. Not finished.

Draco let out a breath and finally, finally let his wings relax.

Maybe this, too, was part of the rite.

Chapter Text

The spiders had vanished weeks ago, but the memory of their retreat lingered like the scent of ash after fire. It haunted the forest, curling in the gaps between trees where webs used to glisten. It followed Harry down the narrow paths when he foraged alone, and it scratched at Draco’s thoughts during quiet hours beside the hearth.

Something had driven the spiders out. Something ancient.

And now, someone had followed them in.

She arrived with the dawn mist clinging to her boots, a crooked figure weaving through the tall grass. Her hair was a thicket of silver and thistle, feathers and twine, bones tied with red thread. Her cloak dragged behind her like wings made from patchwork shadows.

The villagers whispered before she even reached the fire circle.

“It’s the Crone.”
“One of the Riddled Ones.”
“They say she dreams in riddles and speaks only in truths.”

Harry and Draco stood just inside the ring of stones, watching as she leaned on her staff and turned her head—far too slowly—to look at them.

Her eyes were pale as frost. Her smile too wide.

“Ahhh,” she hissed, like wind through hollow reeds. “So much dark in you. Woven like ivy in spring. One of you speaks in tongues he doesn’t know. And the other… burned from the inside out.”

Draco stiffened. “Charming.”

“You’re why the spiders run. They fear what you’ve brought with you.”

Harry flinched. “We haven’t brought anything. We’ve been here. Alone.”

“No one is ever truly alone, child. Shadows come from somewhere.” She tapped her staff once against the stones. “You’re tied to the serpent in the stone house. You carry the echo of it.”

Draco turned to Harry, whispering, “Tell me this isn’t about your Parseltongue weirdness.”

“I haven’t said a word to a snake since Ivy last molted, thanks.”

The Crone laughed, creaking like old wood. “Oh, he doesn’t speak to them. He is them. He sings their song in his sleep. The trees have heard it. So have I.”

That night, the villagers lit their torches early.

Draco kicked at a root near the edge of their hut, arms crossed, jaw tight. “Well, she was lovely. Shall we invite her to Yule this year? Perhaps she can foretell who dies first.”

Harry watched the trees beyond the clearing. They were too quiet. “Do you think she’s right? About me?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “You’re not evil, Potter. Just inconveniently magical.”

“Draco.”

The blonde sighed. “Look. She’s cracked. Completely. But she’s not wrong about the spiders. Or about something stirring near the castle. If there’s a giant snake slithering around, maybe we should find out more before it slinks its way here.”

Eulah was tending her herbs when they found her the next morning. She didn’t look up.

“You’re both buzzing. Like bees before a storm.”

Draco stepped forward. “Teach me how to see.”

That caught her attention. She had mentioned to him in passing that fire magic could be used for many things. Things that Draco hadn’t even realized were possible.

They built the fire with careful hands. No salt. No blood. No ancient rite.

Just cedar and pine needles, some of Eulah’s dried yarrow, and the steady rise of breath.

Draco sat with legs folded, back straight, wings tucked tightly against his body, eyes narrowed. Harry sat behind him, one hand resting against the small of Draco’s back. Grounding. Always grounding.

“Let the fire show you what it remembers,” Eulah murmured. “Not what you want to see.”

The flames danced.

Draco leaned in.

Shapes began to form.

A long corridor of stone. Water rippling across the floor. A girl crying in a bathroom stall. A diary bleeding ink. And then, a serpent—longer than any beast Draco had ever seen—slithering over tile with scales like wet stone.

He gasped.

Harry gripped his hand. “What is it?”

Draco whispered, “It’s a snake. Huge. But it’s not acting on instinct. Someone’s guiding it. A presence. A command.”

He looked at Harry. “I think it’s tied to you. Or someone like you.”

Harry paled.

That night, Ivy stirred.

Harry barely slept anymore. When he did, his dreams were crawling with scales and stone and mirrors cracking under pressure. But when Ivy tugged at his blanket, something felt… different.

Urgent.

“What is it?” he whispered in Parseltongue.

She flicked her tongue, coiling around his wrist. “Come. Come see. Come below.”

He dressed quickly, tugging on boots and whispering Draco’s name.

Draco groaned. “If this is another dead animal, I swear to Merlin—”

“It’s not. She wants to show me something.”

Draco cursed but rolled out of bed to follow.

They wandered deep into the trees, farther than they’d ever gone, where the moss grew thick enough to bury a boot and the air smelled of old magic and dead things.

Ivy led them to it.

An ancient tree, gnarled and blackened with time. Its trunk had split open, revealing a hollow wide enough to crawl through.

“No,” Draco said immediately. “Absolutely not. This is how people die. I swear I’ve read this happening in a book once.”

Harry ignored him and knelt. “She says someone lives inside.”

“Of course she does. Probably an axe murderer. Or a hag who eats teenage boys.”

But Harry was already crawling in.

Draco followed, cursing every life decision he had ever made.

Inside was cool and damp. The hollow pulsed faintly with magic.

A voice slithered out of the darkness.

“Who comes to wake me?”

Harry swallowed. “My name is Harry Potter. I was led here by Ivy.”

A great coil shifted. Eyes opened, luminous and dim.

The snake was massive, but old. Blind in one eye. Covered in moss.

“You are the echo. The one born under two shadows.”

Draco hissed under his breath, gripping Harry’s arm as Harry relayed what the snake was whispering. “Is it always this cryptic with your snake people?”

Harry ignored him. “What do you mean ‘echo’?”

“The boy with two names left his mark. You carry it like a scar inside your soul.”

“Voldermort,” Harry whispered.

The snake nodded. “His name coils through the castle again. He has awoken the mother of my kind. A serpent born of death and starlight. The spiders ran because she stirs. We once kept them at bay. But she is stronger than our oldest laws.”

“How do we stop her?” Draco asked.

“You cannot. But there is one who might.”

“A snake can’t kill another snake?”

“Not one so old. You need a predator of fire and feather. One who sings in flame.”

Draco blinked as Harry told him what the snake was saying. “A Veela? Or a phoenix?”

The snake turned its head toward Draco.

“This one carries the fire in his veins. He may call it, if your cause is true.”

They emerged from the hollow tree in silence, blinking as moonlight filtered through the canopy above. The forest air was thick with the scent of damp leaves and loam, and the only sound was the soft shhhff of their boots brushing aside piles of fallen autumn.

Draco shoved his hands in his pockets, eyes narrowed at the path ahead. “Well, that wasn’t horrifying at all. Just a cozy chat with an ancient, prophetic snake living in a haunted tree. Perfectly normal.”

Harry scratched the back of his neck, Ivy curled loosely around his shoulders. “You didn’t have to come in.”

Draco shot him a sideways glance. “Please. Like I was going to let you get eaten by a tree-dwelling death noodle without supervision.”

Harry snorted, his breath fogging in the cold. “He was old. Gentle, even.”

“‘Gentle,’” Draco repeated, mockingly. “That thing spoke in riddles and knew your name. And mine. I’m just saying, the next time a snake starts monologuing about your soul, I reserve the right to run.”

Ivy hissed softly. Harry smirked and reached up to stroke her scales.

“She says you’re very dramatic.”

“Oh, does she now?” Draco huffed. “Tell her I don’t take criticism from a creature who sleeps in a pile of your dirty socks.”

“She understands you, you know. She just pretends not to.”

Draco looked at Ivy, who blinked innocently.

“Of course she does. That’s exactly what she’d do. Playing the long con.”

The forest opened a little as they walked, moonlight catching on wet leaves like scattered coins. The silence that followed was companionable, comfortable even, and Harry caught Draco kicking through a particularly large pile of gold and red maple with far too much force.

“You okay?” Harry asked, more quietly now.

Draco shrugged. “Aside from hearing that you’re a Parseltongue-Chosen-One -snake-magnet and that I’m supposed to summon mythical flaming birds? Brilliant.”

Harry looked at him sideways. “You’re not scared?”

“Oh, I’m terrified,” Draco said breezily. “But at this point, I’ve come to expect weird from you. Just hoping this phoenix doesn’t expect me to sing.”

Harry grinned and bumped his shoulder lightly into Draco’s. “You’d sing terribly anyway.”

Draco gasped. “Excuse me—I was a soloist in choir at Hogwarts!”

“Because you threatened to hex anyone who sang louder than you.”

Draco gave a dramatic sigh. “Details.”

They kept walking, the lights of the village flickering faintly through the trees ahead. Behind them, the forest whispered with unseen things—but for now, they had each other. And something new to fight for.

Later, they stood before the fire pit again.

No herbs this time.

Just Draco’s hands, trembling slightly. Eulah by his side as he followed her instructions on how to use his magic to call to a creature he’s never even met.

Harry watched him. “Are you sure? Fawkes is pretty cool. I don’t think Dumbledore has much control over him one way or the other. I think he’s more apart of Hogwarts than The Headmaster anyways.”

“No. But we don’t have another option.”

He closed his eyes.

Focused.

A shape took form in the flames. A bird, wings wide, eyes bright.

“Come, brother of fire and air” Draco whispered. “Come if you still serve the light.”

The fire screamed.

And from the ash, a single feather floated.

Far off, in the distance toward the castle, something cried in answer.

Chapter Text

The castle was beginning to dream again.

Long, shivering dreams, where pipes groaned like old bones and the flagstones whispered beneath students’ feet. Dreams of fire. Of feathers. Of something missing.

Snow had receded into the low hollows of the grounds, but ice still crept down the windows like veins, tracing silent warnings the students couldn’t quite read. The wind carried a strange hum. Like song. Like warning. Like longing.

Professor McGonagall stood alone at the edge of the Astronomy Tower, eyes narrowed against the morning glare, robes tugging in the wind. Below, the lake shimmered like a held breath.

“The walls are whispering,” she murmured. “And the children are listening.”

Behind her, Dumbledore joined her with a quiet sigh.

“They are afraid,” he said. “As they should be. The unknown is the cruelest of enemies.”

“They don’t even know what it is,” McGonagall whispered. “But it’s enough to make the youngest scream at shadows, and the oldest check mirrors twice.”

Her voice dropped to a rasp. “It’s hiding in plain sight. And I believe… I believe it’s afraid of its own reflection.”

Dumbledore said nothing. Below them, the Black Lake glimmered silver—like moonlight mourning something lost.

The castle had turned silent in the way only ancient places could be. Not quiet—quiet meant peace. This was something different. Something deeper. The kind of silence that stretched long and thin through the halls, warping the echoes, catching on the stone like skin on bone.

Something was wrong at Hogwarts. Everyone knew it.

The fear moved in ripples. First, it was a whisper: a student found rigid in the corridor, eyes wide and unmoving. Then it happened again. And again. Students began to move in clusters, skipping classes, clinging to rumors like lifelines. Some said it was Peeves. Others claimed it was a ghost. The most popular theory, however, was the worst:

That whatever had taken Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy last year had come back to finish the job.

No one had seen them since the forest. No body, no message—just the panic of the professors and the hurried cover story about running away. But some of the older students remembered the blood on Professor Snape’s robes. They remembered McGonagall’s face when Hagrid had told her the boys were lost in the woods

And now, with the new attacks… people started to wonder if the castle had ever been safe at all.

Down near the dungeons it was Pansy who saw him first.

The house-elf was trying to stay hidden near the bottom of the dungeon stairwell, half-tucked behind a broken suit of armor. He was small, twitchy, with enormous eyes and a ragged pillowcase for clothes. He looked like he’d been crying.

Pansy’s shriek made Blaise and Theo both turn.

“Bloody hell,” she snapped, hand to her heart. “What is that?”

“Is that—?,” Theo said slowly. “I think… that’s the Malfoys’ elf. The one Draco used to complain about. Dobby.”

Dobby flinched but didn’t run. Instead, he inched forward, ears low. “Dobby is not supposed to be seen. Dobby was never here,” he said in a shrill whisper. “Master would punish Dobby terribly.”

“What are you doing here then?” Pansy asked her sharp eyes narrowed. 

“I can explain miss,” Dobby said softly. “Dobby used to tell stories. Bedtime stories to young Master Draco. About the great Harry Potter who always saved the day. Who always stood up when no one else could. Harry Potter who stopped the darkness. But now he is gone… and darkness is coming again.”

Blaise narrowed his eyes. “You think you’re supposed to be Harry Potter?”

Dobby didn’t smile, but his ears twitched. “No, sir. Dobby knows he is small. But sometimes, someone must try. Even if they are not a hero.”

Theo shifted, something sharp curling in his gut. “Do you know what’s doing this? The attacks?”

Dobby’s eyes darted around the corridor. “No name… no shape… just a voice. Cold and angry. Whispering through the walls. Old magic. Terrible magic.”

He paused. “Dobby heard it once. Through the pipes. It said it would cleanse the school. Said the blood was wrong. That it would make Hogwarts pure again.”

Pansy went pale.

Before anyone could speak, new footsteps echoed through the corridor.

Hermione Granger appeared first, wand drawn and shoulders tense. Ron Weasley followed close behind.

“Oh,” Hermione breathed, stopping short at the sight of the elf. “What is that?”

Ron stared. “Is that a house-elf?”

Dobby gave a small bow. “Dobby is sorry. Dobby means no harm. Dobby only came to stop the hurting.”

Hermione blinked, visibly thrown. “You… you came to help?”

Theo stepped between them slightly, wary but not hostile. “We don’t know what’s going on. But if this thing is hearing voices in the walls… it lines up. There’ve been reports of strange noises. Murmurs. Something… moving.”

“Whatever it is, it’s not human,” Blaise muttered.

Ron crossed his arms. “So why would it come back now?”

Pansy’s voice was quiet. “Maybe it never left.”

Hermione’s eyes flicked to the shadows above them. “And maybe this is the same thing that got Harry and Draco.”

No one argued.

Suddenly, a sharp trill split the air above. A blaze of fire and wings cut across the dungeon ceiling as Fawkes, the Headmaster’s phoenix, dove past.

He circled once—bright and watchful—and then vanished down the corridor, trailing sparks behind him like falling stars.

Hermione clutched Ron’s sleeve. “Why would he come down here?”

Theo watched the fading light. “Looking for something. Or someone.”

Dobby straightened slightly, his voice filled with quiet awe. “Phoenixes know the truth of things. Fawkes is looking for the heart of it. Dobby thinks… maybe he feels someone who still carries it.”

“Carries what?” Blaise asked.

“The light Harry Potter left behind,” Dobby whispered.

For a long moment, no one spoke.

The group stood in strange alignment—Slytherin and Gryffindor, elf and phoenix fire—all of them just a little closer to the same truth.

And beneath their feet, far below the flagstones, something ancient stirred.

Before anyone could respond, the shadows shifted at the end of the corridor. A lantern swung into view, casting long, crooked streaks of light across the stone floor.

“Oi! What’s all this racket?” came the unmistakable growl of Argus Filch.

He shuffled into view, a grimace already forming beneath his patchy grey hair. Mrs. Norris slinked beside him, yellow eyes glowing like coals, tail twitching with suspicion.

“I can hear you lot breathing from the third-floor stairwell,” he snapped. “Loitering. Whispering. Plotting mischief, I’ll wager.”

“We’re not plotting anything,” Pansy said flatly.

Filch narrowed his eyes at her. “Don’t sass me, Parkinson. You think I don’t know what your lot gets up to down here? Hiding behind tapestries, sneaking dungbombs through the owlery—”

“We’re trying to figure out what’s going on,” Blaise interrupted coolly. “There’s been another attack.”

Filch stiffened.

Ron stepped forward. “You’ve seen it too, haven’t you?”

“I see everything,” Filch muttered, voice dropping. “Things the professors ignore. Things the portraits pretend not to hear.” He leaned in slightly, greasy hair swinging with the motion. “Something’s crawling in the pipes. I’ve heard it. Whispering filth. Hissing like boiling steam. And Mrs. Norris won’t go near the fourth-floor corridor anymore.”

Mrs. Norris growled softly as if in agreement, brushing her fur against his ankle.

Hermione looked stricken. “Why didn’t you tell Professor Dumbledore?”

Filch scoffed. “Tried that. What do you think he said? ‘Oh Argus, you’ve been listening to too many ghost stories again. Go mop a corridor.’” He spat to the side. “They never take me seriously. But mark my words—it’s coming. Same evil that got the Potter boy and the Malfoy brat. Probably gutted in the forest, they were. Now the castle’s ripe for feeding again.”

“That’s not true!” Theo snapped.

“You don’t know that,” Filch barked back. “You think this place cares if you’re innocent or not? You think the stones give a toss whose name’s on the class list? Hogwarts is old. Older than you know. And she’s hungry.”

A chill crept down Pansy’s spine. She didn’t want to believe him—but his words clung, sticky and cold.

Filch turned his lantern toward Dobby, squinting. “And what’s that thing doing here out of the kitchens?”

“Dobby is here to help,” the elf said quickly, ears flattening. “Dobby has heard the voice too. The one that says blood must spill.”

Filch grimaced, shaking his head. “No good ever came from elves meddling in wizard business. You lot were always meant to stay in the shadows. That’s how the castle kept her peace. You think your master would want you here?”

Dobby shrank back, but said nothing.

Mrs. Norris hissed, fur arched high.

Hermione stepped protectively in front of the elf. “Dobby has as much right to be here as any of us.”

Filch sniffed. “We’ll see what the Headmaster thinks of that.”

He turned on his heel, lantern bobbing as he shuffled away, Mrs. Norris padding close behind.

“Watch your backs,” he tossed over his shoulder. “This place remembers.”

Chapter Text

The forest had changed with the season.

Gone was the hushed, snow-muffled quiet of winter. Now, the earth hummed beneath their boots, spongy with the beginning of the first thaw, and the air smelled green again—of moss, unfurling fern, and the sharp promise of rain. Crocuses peeked up through rotting bark, bold streaks of purple in a world still waking.

Harry stood just beyond the clearing, breathing it all in. This place was alive, yes—but more than that. It was his now.

He could feel the thrum of roots beneath his skin, the slow heartbeat of the land. Since bonding with the forest weeks ago, it was as if he carried a second pulse under his own. Wild and old and steady. And for the first time in what felt like his entire life… he wasn’t afraid of it.

Behind him, twigs snapped as Draco approached.

“You’re getting better at not looking like a feral disaster,” Draco said lightly, lips quirking. “At least from this angle.”

Harry turned, unable to help his grin. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Draco rolled his eyes. His coat was half unbuttoned, the spring wind teasing the escaped tendrils of white hair into his eyes. He looked more golden than usual, the sunlight catching in his lashes and glinting off the little silver ring he now wore on a chain around his neck—the one Harry had carved months ago from mountain pine. His hair was pulled back in a complicated braid with charms and crystals woven into it. 

He took Harry’s breath away. 

He looked more and more like some elven prince from a muggle story book than anything he had ever seen out in the woods. 

Draco Malfoy looked like he belonged here.

“Are you ready?” Draco asked, his tone quieting. “To try the tether?”

Harry nodded. He flexed his fingers once at his sides, grounding himself. “Yeah. I think I’m ready.”

They’d discovered the link by accident at first—a flash of pain shared across distance, a surge of fear that pulled one toward the other like a magnetic snap. Nessa had called it a tether bond, an old and rare form of magic. Not a soul bond. Not a mate bond. Something… stranger. Wilder. It formed in moments of crisis, she’d said. Between beings with complementary magic. Equal in weight, if not always in strength. The Aether-Thread.

Though they had done the ceremony to create the binding. They hadn’t ever actually attempted to work it. It felt too obscure to be real. But then, weeks after the spider attack, Harry nearly sliced his hand to ribbons during a hunting accident. The pain, distance and fear had snapped something forgotten into place.

“You know,” Harry said as Draco came to stand beside him, “we’ve never actually tried to test it.”

“Well, now we will,” Draco replied, already adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves like he was preparing for a duel. “I still think it’s all a bit absurd. Just because you got moody and turned into a wolf doesn’t mean we’re cosmically attached.”

“You were the one who screamed when I got hurt and was too far away.”

“I did not scream.”

“You did. It was very undignified. Everyone in the village heard you.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “Fine. Let’s get on with it, mongrel.”

Harry grinned and stepped back.

“Anything you say, pigeon.”

They began with space.

First, ten feet apart. Then twenty. Forty. The forest stretched between them, a path of sunlit branches and damp moss, but Harry could still feel it—that strange, silvery thread in the center of his chest. It tugged gently, like a line of warmth pulling him back to Draco even when he didn’t look.

Draco closed his eyes. “Are you still there?”

“Yes.”

“Further.”

They kept going, farther than the clearing now, until Harry stood half hidden behind a cluster of trees and Draco was just a pale shape between the trunks. The thread was thinner now, but not gone. It shimmered faintly in the space between them, invisible to the eye but undeniable.

“Tell me what I’m thinking,” Draco called.

“You think I look stupid.”

“No,” Draco said slowly. “I’m thinking… if I let go, will I still come back?”

Harry hesitated.

Then he stepped forward, quickly, closing the distance. The forest snapped back into focus, warm and buzzing. The anxiety he hadn’t known he had been feeling disappearing with each step he made.

“You don’t have to test that part,” Harry said, voice quiet. “Not today.”

Draco didn’t answer right away. Then: “It’s not about you.”

“I know.”

The moment stretched. The trees rustled. A single bee danced lazily past Harry’s ear.

“I don’t want this bond to mean I owe someone something again,” Draco murmured, not quite looking at him. “Not like my parents. Not like the Malfoy name.”

“It doesn’t mean that,” Harry said, firm. “It’s not a leash.”

Draco looked over. “Then what is it?”

Harry didn’t speak right away. He stepped closer until their shoulders brushed.

“I think it’s like…” He struggled for the words. “Like a promise we made without realizing. To come back. Every time.”

Draco went still.

“Like Home?”

Harry couldn’t help the smile that took over his face. “Yes, like home.”

Then, slowly—so slowly it felt like something unfolding in a dream—Draco reached out and touched Harry’s wrist. Just his fingers against skin. Gentle. Real.

The tether thrummed like a plucked string. Singing a melody only the two of them could hear.

“I can feel it,” Draco said, voice barely audible. “When you’re close. Like a heartbeat that isn’t mine.”

“Yeah,” Harry whispered. “Me too.”

They stood that way a while. Letting the wind move around them, letting the bond settle and pulse steady between them. It didn’t burn. It didn’t demand. It simply was.

Eventually, Draco stepped back and shook his shoulders, as if trying to shake off the moment before it clung too tightly.

“I think I’m ready to try hiding them,” he said, changing the subject.

Harry blinked. “Your wings?”

Draco nodded. “Nessa said it wouldn’t work until I accepted what I was.”

“And you do?”

Draco looked down at his hands. His pale fingers, callused now from wandless casting and hunting knives. His hair catching gold in the sun. His eyes, bright and unreadable.

“I think I’m learning to,” he said. “It’s not about becoming something new. It’s just… being all the way what I already am.”

Harry smiled, not mockingly, not even teasing. Just honest.

“That sounds like something a Gryffindor would say.”

Draco gave him a withering look. “Don’t ruin it.”

But he was smiling too.

Then, without fanfare, he inhaled deeply, closed his eyes, and pulled the magic inward.

For a second, nothing happened.

Then the air shimmered, like heat off stone, and the golden glow that had always hovered faintly around Draco’s shoulders snapped inward. His wings vanished—no flicker of feather or flash. Just gone.

Harry blinked.

“Did it work?”

“Look for yourself.”

Draco turned, and Harry stepped closer. There was no sign. Not even a ripple of magic. Just Draco, standing there, chest heaving slightly from effort.

Harry touched his shoulder, and Draco didn’t flinch.

“You did it,” Harry whispered.

Draco’s expression didn’t break, but his voice was quieter now. “I didn’t think I could.”

“You’ve never not done something you’ve set your mind to,” Harry said. “You’re the most stubborn person I’ve ever met.”

“That’s rich, coming from you.”

They stood close again, without needing a reason this time. The tether curled steady between them, soft and invisible.

They didn’t speak of it again that afternoon. They didn’t need to.

The forest knew. The bond knew.

And in the distance, somewhere just past the treetops, a hawk cried, circling high above the spring-wet earth.

Days later Harek led Harry with the confidence of someone who never lost his way, even without a compass or map.

The two of them moved in silence across the forest slope, boots crunching over damp pine needles and fresh-sprung undergrowth. Harry had long since given up trying to keep pace gracefully — Harek always moved like he belonged, while Harry moved like someone trying not to trip.

Still, Harry liked these walks.

He liked the quiet instruction of them, the way Harek would point to a claw-marked tree or the spiral pattern in a patch of flattened grass and say simply, “Bear. Days old.” or “Boar. Males are returning. Keep wide of the old trail.”

There was something honest about it. Rooted and steady. Something that reminded Harry of the parts of himself that weren’t tangled up in war or prophecy or titles like The Boy Who Lived.

Today, the sky was overcast, the kind of grey-white haze that felt like it would either break into rain or lift into sun. They’d been hiking for about two hours when Harek finally stopped and held up a hand.

Harry froze beside him, instinctively lowering his body like he’d been taught.

But it wasn’t danger Harek had sensed. It was voices. Laughter.

From around the bend, just beyond a tangle of rowan trees, two figures came into view.

Draco — unmistakable in that long coat he refused to trade for anything less dramatic — was walking beside Thalion, who had something in his hands, gesturing animatedly. Draco was grinning at something the elf had said, golden hair catching the dull light.

Harry’s breath caught.

It wasn’t the sight of them that set him off. Not really. It was something in the ease of it — Draco relaxed, his shoulders loose, lips curved. Laughing.

And with Thalion.

Harry felt it before he realized he was feeling it. The sudden tightness in his chest. A low, hot growl building at the base of his throat. The wolf inside him rising, fast and territorial.

He wasn’t proud of it.

Wasn’t proud of the way his fingers curled like claws, or how he narrowed his eyes without thinking. His whole body surged forward a step, muscles straining with an urge to tear something away — to protect something that wasn’t even under threat.

Harek didn’t move, but Harry felt the man’s hand come down on his arm — heavy and grounding.

“Steady,” the hunter said, his voice soft and unbothered. “It’s just your blood screaming. Let your breath answer louder.”

Harry squeezed his eyes shut. Breathe.

The magic surged again — that forest magic — older and wiser and cooler than his own temper. And beneath it, like a drumbeat, the tether stirred.

He felt it then. A little pull from the center of his chest, not dragging him, but reminding him. Draco.

The connection hummed. Not panicked. Not alarmed. Just… steady. Like Draco wasn’t afraid. Like Draco wasn’t pulling away.

Harry opened his eyes. The burn behind them had dulled. The growl died in his throat.

When Thalion and Draco turned the corner and spotted them, Draco’s eyes lit up.

“There you are,” Draco called. “I was just telling Thalion about the time you nearly set your eyebrows on fire learning wandless warming spells.”

Harry forced a grin. “You left out the part where you laughed at me for a full hour.”

“I would never,” Draco said, mock-offended.

Thalion offered Harry a respectful nod. “Forest-born,” he greeted.

Harry stiffened, the old edge rising again — not quite jealousy anymore, just wariness. But he made himself speak.

“Hey,” he said. Then after a beat, “Listen, Thalion. About before. I… I wasn’t fair to you.”

The elf raised a brow. “Before?”

“When I was—” Harry faltered, then just said it. “Rude. I let some things get to me. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

Thalion blinked. Then — to Harry’s surprise — he gave a short, amused snort.

“You are young,” Thalion said simply, with a faint smile. “Young ones snarl. It is expected. You have claws now. It is harder to sheath them when the blood runs fast.”

Harry flushed. “Still. You didn’t deserve it.”

Thalion inclined his head again, and Harry was struck by how easy he made it. No lecture. No resentment. Just acceptance, like it was part of the rhythm of things.

Draco, beside him, looked quietly pleased.

Harry’s gaze flicked to him. “You two were out foraging?”

“Thalion was showing me a new place where deer sometimes gather,” Draco said. “He said I might be able to study their tracks more easily there. I want to learn how to map migration patterns.”

“You want to sketch antlers in your notebook,” Harry teased, trying to be light.

Draco smirked. “And?”

Harry gave a short laugh. The tension in his chest had faded. The tether was warm again — faint, but grounding. Like an invisible hand at the small of his back.

Thalion said something to Harek in a language Harry didn’t catch, and the two adults moved a short way ahead, speaking quietly in their low, even tones.

Draco stepped up beside Harry and bumped their shoulders.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low.

“Yeah,” Harry said. “I almost wasn’t. But the bond… helped.”

Draco nodded slowly. “It’s strange, isn’t it? How it works without asking permission. Like it knows us better than we know ourselves.”

“I don’t want to be that guy,” Harry murmured, watching Thalion’s pale braid swing as he walked. “The possessive one. The wolf in the room.”

“You’re not,” Draco said firmly. “You’re just learning the edges of yourself. We both are.”

Harry looked down at him, heart thudding in quiet thanks. “You looked happy, you know. With him.”

Draco met his eyes. “I was. I like learning from him. But it doesn’t touch what you and I have. Not even close.”

Harry didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The tether pulsed once, like a heartbeat shared between them.

It was enough.

The shack was quiet, save for the occasional chirp of the early spring thrushes outside and the steady scratch of charcoal on parchment.

Draco was at the table, sleeves rolled up, a smudge of dark gray beneath one cheekbone where he’d swiped at his face and missed. His sketchpad was nearly full—pages of feathers, bark textures, animal silhouettes, and spell diagrams layered like dreams across the paper. He was working on a new piece now, eyes narrowed in concentration.

Harry sat across from him on the floor near the hearth, Ivy coiled loosely around his wrist. She flicked her tongue lazily at the warmth of the fire, occasionally lifting her head to taste the air.

The light slanted in through the windows, warmer now, though the trees still wore winter’s ghost. Harry watched the way Draco’s wrist moved, how his brow furrowed slightly when he wasn’t satisfied with a curve.

It felt safe. A wordless kind of safe he hadn’t known before.

“I’ve been thinking about my parents,” Harry said softly, running a finger along Ivy’s scales.

Draco paused, glancing up, eyes open and unguarded. “Yeah?”

Harry nodded. “I don’t know anything about them. Not really. I mean—I know what Hagrid told me, and what bits I’ve pieced together over the years. But no real memories. Not even a picture.”

Draco’s charcoal stilled against the page.

“I don’t know what their voices sounded like,” Harry continued. “Or what they smelled like, or if they ever held me in their arms. I don’t even know if I looked more like Mum or Dad.”

There was no bitterness in his voice. Just a quiet ache.

Draco set the pencil down gently. “That’s not fair,” he said.

Harry offered a small smile. “Fair’s never really factored into it, has it? Not for me anyways.”

Ivy flicked her tongue against Harry’s thumb.

“I used to imagine them,” Harry added. “When I was little. Sometimes I’d pretend my dad was an police officers— Auror — who got called away to some secret mission. Other times I’d think maybe they were just lost somewhere, like they’d gotten caught in time, and they’d come back for me one day.”

He chuckled, low and embarrassed. “Then I would be reminded by my Aunt and Uncle that they were dead. And that kind of ruined it.”

Draco’s throat moved, but he didn’t speak.

There was a silence between them, not awkward, but thick with things left unsaid.

Harry broke it again. “Did your mum ever talk about the war? About any of it?”

Draco blinked. “Sometimes. Though it was mostly about our family and what they had or handn’t done. Like her sisters of her cousins. Her favorite was always Sirius Black.”

“Yeah. I remember Hagrid saying something about him once. He was my parents’ friend, wasn’t he? Gave Hagrid his flying motorcycle.”

Draco leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “He was your godfather.”

Harry sat up straighter. “What?”

“You didn’t know?”

“No.”

Draco frowned. “I—Merlin, Harry. I just assumed…” He trailed off, then continued, quieter. “Mum used to tell me stories about the war. Not in detail. Just… bits and pieces, late at night. When Father wasn’t around.”

Harry looked at him, eyes wide. Draco glanced toward the fire.

“She said Sirius Black was brilliant. Wild, but brilliant. She called him the ‘dark twin of the Light,’ whatever that means. Said he laughed in the face of everything purebloods were meant to uphold.” He paused. “She admired him once, I think. She really did say he was her favorite. Before everything. Before he turned blood-traitor. That’s what we were always told.”

Harry blinked. “Is he still alive?”

“As far as I know. Locked up in Azkaban.”

Harry didn’t speak. Ivy flicked her tail around his wrist.

“Dobby, my house elf, used to tell me stories, too,” Draco said after a moment, voice gentler now. “Before bed. Ridiculous ones, like Harry Potter slaying dragons or riding on centaurs’ backs through the Forbidden Forest to save the day.”

Harry raised a brow. “Seriously?”

Draco chuckled. “Yeah, The Daily Profit used to print them with little pictures to go along with them. His favorite was this one story about you befriending a troll and teaching it ballet.”

“What?”

“I didn’t say they made sense.”

Harry laughed then, a real, surprised laugh that made Ivy lift her head in alarm. Draco smiled.

“I used to imagine what you were like,” Draco admitted. “Back then. I didn’t know your story, just what everyone said. But I thought… maybe we’d be friends, if we ever met.”

Harry tilted his head. “You did?”

Draco flushed. “Don’t make it weird. I was six.”

Harry grinned. “Too late.”

They were quiet again. The fire crackled.

“I loved my parents,” Draco said, suddenly. “Still do. But sometimes, it felt like loving a portrait. Something beautiful and untouchable, behind glass. You could stare at it, and know it was yours, but you couldn’t change it. Or touch it without being scolded.”

Harry watched him closely, unsure what to say.

Draco’s voice turned quieter. “I wanted them to see me. Not the heir. Not the polished little prince. Me. I don’t know if they ever really did.”

Harry leaned his head back against the wall. “Maybe they did. But didn’t know how to show it. I wouldn’t know though. I never had parents. But I would like to think they love you. Even in their own really messed up way.”

“Maybe.” Draco reached for his sketchbook again, flipped back a few pages.

He hesitated, then turned it around and showed Harry the drawing.

It was a rough sketch of two figures sitting side by side under a tree—one with wild hair and glasses, the other with elegant posture and half-hidden wings. The tree above them had no leaves, but tiny blossoms were beginning to form.

“I drew this last week,” Draco said, not meeting Harry’s eyes. “It felt… right.”

Harry swallowed. “That’s us?”

Draco nodded.

Harry looked at it for a long time, then smiled softly. “Yeah. It is.”

Outside, the wind rustled through early leaves, and the forest murmured low around them, ancient and alive.

Home wasn’t a place, Harry thought. It wasn’t a house with four walls or a name on a birth certificate. It was a moment. A feeling. A tether in someone else’s chest that said, You belong.

And maybe, just maybe, he’d found it here. With him.

Chapter Text

The thaw had come slowly, then all at once.

One day the frost clung stubbornly to every branch and stone, and the next, the forest breathed again. Snowmelt soaked into mossy earth. Crocuses and wood anemones peeked out from patches of stubborn brown leaves. The stream behind the hut babbled more audibly now, swollen with melted snow, its song a soft accompaniment to the village’s return to life.

Harry stood by the window, his fingers curled around a mug of steaming tea, watching the delicate steam rise and dissolve in the weak morning sun. Ivy, coiled on the windowsill, blinked sleepily in the light, flicking her tongue as if tasting the shift in the season.

Behind him, the sound of a muffled sneeze cracked the quiet. Again.

“You alright?” Harry asked, not turning around yet.

“I’m fine,” Draco muttered, voice thick and unconvincing. “Stop looking at me like that.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “I wasn’t even looking at you.”

“Well, you were thinking it,” Draco grumbled, emerging from the small side room with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a cloak. His usually sharp posture had softened into something slouched, and his pale cheeks had taken on a faint, irritated flush. His wings, always carefully folded and hidden when others were near, hung askew from his back now—twitching slightly, as though annoyed with him too.

Harry set his tea down and crossed the room slowly. “You’ve been sneezing all morning. And you look like a particularly angry ghost.”

“Don’t be dramatic.”

Harry reached out, brushing the back of his fingers gently against Draco’s forehead. Draco didn’t flinch, which was saying something. “You’re warm.”

“It’s spring,” Draco snapped, turning away but not moving far. “Everything’s warm.”

Harry didn’t press. Instead, he grabbed the worn jumper Draco had refused to wear earlier and held it out silently.

Draco stared at it for a long moment, jaw tight.

“I’m not going to fight you over a jumper,” Harry said lightly. “You’ll win. But I will look very sad and betrayed.”

With an exaggerated sigh, Draco snatched it from him and pulled it over his head, muttering about being mothered to death. His wings fluttered again and vanished with a faint shimmer, finally hidden. Harry couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his mouth.

They’d settled into a rhythm over the past months. The hut had become home—flickering with life and quiet magic, with uneven floorboards and warm corners and the shared quiet of understanding. The tether between them thrummed gently beneath the surface, not intrusive but present, like the hum of a familiar tune in the background of their thoughts.

By the time they stepped outside, the village had fully awakened. Children dashed through puddles in rubber boots, and elders aired rugs and hung early herbs in windows. Smoke curled from stone chimneys, and the scent of baking bread drifted from Nessa’s kitchen window.

They didn’t make it far before Harek spotted them from the woodpile and ambled over with a bundle of chopped kindling under one arm.

“You two look cozy,” the old hunter said, nodding at Draco, who now wore the blanket like a dramatic cape. “Caught a spring chill, have you?”

“I’m not dying,” Draco snapped, which only made Harek laugh.

“Didn’t say you were. But you look like a cat someone dunked in the river.”

“Charming,” Draco muttered, scowling as Harek handed Harry a few sprigs of dried mint.

“Put that in his tea. Good for the throat and the humors. And don’t let him pretend he can’t taste it. You Malfoy types aren’t that delicate.”

Draco coughed into the blanket with great theatrical flair.

From across the path, Nessa leaned out her window. “Tell him he’ll lose all his feathers if he keeps whining like that!”

Draco’s horrified expression made Harry snort.

“They don’t fall out,” he muttered under his breath, flustered. “Not like that. And it’s not funny.”

“It’s a little funny,” Harry replied, nudging his shoulder. “You’re kind of like a grumpy pigeon.”

“A swan,” Draco hissed.

They walked the long way back to the hut, Harry slowing his steps to match Draco’s slower ones. The sun filtered through the trees, dappled light dancing on the path as birdsong returned in tentative bursts. Every so often, Harry glanced at Draco—at the flush still lingering on his cheeks, the way his hands were buried in the folds of his sleeves.

When they reached the door, Harry stopped.

“You know,” he said slowly, “you don’t have to pretend around me.”

Draco didn’t answer right away. He just looked down at the ground, jaw working as though he were biting back some sharp retort. When he finally spoke, it was soft. “I don’t like feeling weak.”

Harry tilted his head. “You’re not. You’re sick. That happens to people.”

“I’m not—” Draco cut himself off and rolled his eyes. “Whatever.”

Inside, Harry boiled water and added Harek’s mint, pouring the mixture into one of their chipped mugs. He handed it over without comment. Draco accepted it with reluctant grace and settled into the chair nearest the hearth. Harry crouched nearby, feeding kindling into the fire until the flames crackled and glowed.

Silence stretched between them, but it was a good kind of quiet. Familiar. Safe.

“I ever tell you about the time I accidentally locked myself in a cupboard trying to hide from Dudley?” Harry asked suddenly.

Draco blinked. “No?”

Harry shrugged. “Four hours. Fell asleep in there. Aunt Petunia said she hadn’t noticed I was missing.”

Draco stared at him, something unreadable flickering behind his fever-glassy eyes. “That’s… horrible.”

Harry gave a half-smile. “It was, I guess. It’s weird what you get used to.”

Draco set his tea down and leaned his head back against the chair. “That’s not normal.”

“I know.”

Draco was quiet for a long time. Then, quietly: “You know how I mentioned that I used to dream about us being best friends?”

Harry turned toward him, surprised. “Yeah?”

“When I was little. Before school. I’d hear stories from my father—about you. About the Potters. And my mother—she always said the war ruined too much. Not just things my house elf would whisper to me before bed. I thought maybe we could fix that. Thought you’d like me.”

Harry felt something shift in his chest. “I think I do,” he said honestly. “Now.”

That confession hung between them like incense smoke—fragile, curling, quietly honest.

A sudden gust of wind swept against the hut walls, and rain began to patter softly on the roof. Ivy uncoiled slightly from her spot, tongue flicking, before curling again into sleep.

Harry moved to the fire, stirring it to life again and adding a log. Behind him, Draco curled under the blanket in their shared bed, his eyes already drifting closed. His wings shimmered faintly beneath the illusion spell, barely visible now—like heatwaves in the air.

“You’ll feel better tomorrow,” Harry said, settling down on the ground beside the bed. He didn’t touch him, but he stayed close, the tether between them warm and quiet.

As Draco’s breathing evened, Harry leaned back against the hearth, letting the rhythm of the rain and fire lull him too.

The fever came on fast. It reminded Harry of a forest fire. Quick and unforgiving as it consumed Draco.

One minute, Draco was sketching wildflowers and rolling his eyes at Harry’s attempts to tame Ivy with clumsy Parseltongue. The next, he was sweating through their linens,  his sketch book forgotten, trembling under every blanket they owned, his breath coming in shallow waves.

Harry hadn’t known what to do. 

He hadn’t ever really been sick before. Not that anyone who have cared. But he remembered watching his aunt and what she would do for his cousin. But in the end, without modern medicine or even the heartily stocked infirmary at Hogwarts, Harry was at a loss. 

When the sounds of Draco muttering in his sleep began, limbs tangled, face flushed with heat. A soft panic rose in his throat. He’d seen wounds and exhaustion, had watched Draco tremble with cold in winter—but not like this. Not burning. Not fading.

The village healer, a half-blind woman named Rua, had come with a bundle of dried herbs and a sharp scolding. “You should have come to me sooner instead of Harek mumbling something to me about the bird-boy being ill.” 

“Too much exposure,” she muttered while Harry held Draco still for a bitter draught. “Too many nights under open skies, too much pressure on himself, too much magic in too little body. He needs rest. Sleep. Bulk up more this summer.”

Harry could only nod. 

Draco slept.

But it was not peaceful.

In his dreams, Draco wandered endless corridors that shifted as he walked. The stones were familiar, but wrong. Too slick, too dark, filled with the scattering of tiny bones. Somewhere distant, a pipe groaned—a voice hissed words he couldn’t understand.

“Draco.”

He turned. It sounded like Harry. But when he followed the voice, the floor melted beneath his feet, dropping him into a world of flame.

The forest was burning.

Trees snapped like bones. The sky was thick with smoke and wings—hundreds of them. Dark as night, the wings seemed to fill the sky above. Ash fell like snow, and at the center of it all stood Harry, not boy-shaped at all but something more: taller, older, green-eyed with a golden ring around them. His skin was streaked with soot, and his arms were outstretched as if to shield the forest behind him. An unearthly glow seemed to consume him.

Draco took a step forward—and saw werewolves behind him. Tall, mangy and mouths open with too many teeth.

Harry didn’t look back.

Something inside Draco cracked.

“No,” he rasped in the dream, stumbling toward them. “No, I’m—”

He fell again. Into water this time. Cold. Black. Hands pulling him down, down, down.

When he surfaced, on the other side of it, it was snowing. Hogwarts lay ahead, its windows glowing faintly. Someone was crying. A girl, maybe. Familiar. Hermione?

And then a flash: stone corridors again. Blood. Writing on the wall. Enemies of the heir, beware.

He jerked back.

Now he stood in a long, dark hallway that pulsed like it was alive. He could feel it more than see it—a low thrum beneath his feet, like the castle itself was holding its breath. Doors appeared and vanished as he passed them. One cracked open on its own.

Inside: warm light, soft shadows. A space that shifted as he looked at it. A fireplace flickering gold. Framed sketches of the forest lined the curved walls—his sketches. And Harry, leaning against a tall window, was smiling.

Soft. Unarmored.

“Why’re you here?” Draco asked, voice hoarse.

Harry turned head titled in that way of his. “Because you are.”

That warmth. That unbearable, consuming warmth.

“You don’t have to keep pretending,” Draco said. His own voice cracked, barely audible. “I know what I am now. I know what I’ll become. My wings will turn from white to black. I won’t be able to help keep the wolves at bay.”

Harry stepped closer. “You’ll become mine,” he said gently. “And I’ll become yours. That’s all I ever need.”

Draco reached out—but his hand passed through air. The dream was dissolving.

But then—behind him, from the hallway beyond the open door—a sound: a child’s laugh. High, bright, strange. As if someone was hiding just around the corner. 

“Papa! Come find me!”

He turned sharply, heart lurching, he only caught the briefest of glimpses. Curly blonde hair, an impish smile and green eyes that were a bit too bright to be natural. 

“No—wait—!”

He woke with a gasp.

The world was spinning. The sheets were damp and clinging. Harry had his head on the empty side of the bed as he knelled beside Draco sound asleep, a book on magical fauna crumpled beneath his elbow.

Draco blinked slowly. His heart ached.

Everything from the dream was slipping from memory—melting into mist—but the feeling lingered. The fear. The longing. The desperate need not to lose the one thing in his life that had ever felt real.

He turned toward Harry and reached out with unsteady fingers, brushing the wild fringe from his brow. Harry stirred slightly but didn’t wake.

“You’re not a dream,” Draco whispered, voice raw.

He let his hand fall and closed his eyes, willing the fever to break, willing the smoke and fire to leave his mind.

He would tell Harry in the morning. Maybe not all of it—but the part that mattered. The part where the world burned and only Harry stood between Draco and the end of it.

Because even if he couldn’t say it yet, he knew: whatever came next, whatever he became or left behind, it would be Harry.

Always.

Draco surfaced slowly, as if he had never truly surfaced from that deep, dark lake he had dreamt about. The edges of his vision swam, the fire in the hearth casting a golden shimmer across the ceiling. Everything was hazy, but warm. He blinked—once, then again—until his eyes adjusted to the dim light.

There was movement beside him. A low voice murmuring.

“Come on, just one more sip,” Harry said, soft and coaxing. “It’ll help with the fever, I promise.”

Draco turned his head slightly. Harry was crouched at the edge of the bed, knees tucked beneath him, a chipped cup cradled in his hands. His brow was furrowed, mouth drawn tight with worry. Ivy was looped quietly around his wrist, her tongue flicking at the cup as if tasting for poison.

Draco managed a hoarse noise. “You’re awful at whispering.”

Harry startled, nearly sloshing the drink onto himself. “Merlin—! You’re awake.” His whole face lit up with stunned relief, eyes wide and wet. “You scared the hell out of me.”

Draco gave him a weak smirk. “I aim to please.”

Harry shoved the cup into his hand. “Drink it.”

Draco sniffed it. “It smells like pond water and feet.”

“It’s willowbark and feverfew. Rua swore it works.”

Draco took a tiny sip and grimaced.

Harry hovered, watching. “How do you feel?”

“Like I got hit by a herd of hippogriffs. Set on fire. Then stomped on by your friend Harek.”

Harry huffed a laugh, but it was watery at the edges. His eyes didn’t leave Draco’s face. “You’ve been out for nearly a full day.”

Draco shifted beneath the blankets, frowning faintly at how damp his clothes were. “You didn’t go to sleep, did you?”

Harry didn’t answer. His shoulders curled slightly inward, and he stared at the floor.

“I did for a little while.”

Draco blinked at him, stopped himself from rolling his eyes, how could he feel embarrassed about needing sleep?

Draco would never know. So instead he said “You stayed with me.”

“I thought you might—” Harry paused, voice catching. “We don’t have… we don’t have proper medicine here, Draco. No potions, no pain charms, no St. Mungo’s. Rua tries, but—”

Draco reached out and touched Harry’s wrist. It was a feeble gesture, but Harry flinched like it broke something in him. As if Draco would reach out and punish him for not fixing him sooner. It made Draco’s heart burn for an entirely difference reason other than lingering after-effects of his fever. 

“I don’t want to lose you,” Harry said. Barely a whisper. “Not after everything. Not now.”

Silence stretched between them. The fire cracked gently, and Ivy curled tighter around Harry’s forearm, as if echoing his tension.

Draco’s throat felt tight. “You’re not going to.”

“You don’t know that.”

“No, but I can promise I’ll fight like hell not to leave you. Does that count for anything?”

Harry looked up finally. His green eyes were glassy, red-rimmed. “It counts for everything.”

Draco let his hand drop. He was too weak to keep it up. “Besides, you’d be lost without me.”

“Hopeless,” Harry murmured, managing a smile. “You’d haunt me, wouldn’t you?”

“Every time you burned the tea.”

Harry let out a breath that was half a laugh, half a sob, and leaned forward until their foreheads touched. “You’re the only person who can still insult me while sweating through your sheets.”

“You make it easy,” Draco mumbled, eyelids fluttering shut. “You’ve got that hair.”

Harry didn’t pull away. He stayed close, one hand resting on Draco’s blanket-covered chest, just over his heart. The rhythm beneath was slow and steady now, no longer erratic with heat or pain.

“I dreamed about you,” Draco said softly. “You were older. Braver. The forest was on fire. Rabid wolves at your back.”

Harry drew back, brow furrowed. “Was I terrifying?”

“You were magnificent,” Draco admitted with a tired yawn. “You stood in front of it all like it was yours to protect. Even when everything was falling apart. Even when the sky filled with darkness.”

Harry looked at him for a long time. “Maybe one day I will.”

“You already do,” Draco whispered, slipping back under.

Later that evening, Draco sat propped up in bed with a sketchbook balanced on his knees, a cup of ginger tea steaming at his side. The fever had finally broken. His hair clung damply to his temples, and the wool blanket still felt too heavy—but his fingers ached to move.

Harry had gone outside to fetch more firewood, to wash start washing all the bed linens, promising not to be long. Ivy remained curled in a tight coil near the hearth, eyes glinting in the flickering light.

Draco let the charcoal touch down on the page. He didn’t think, didn’t plan. His hand moved instinctively, chasing fragments of the dream like wisps of smoke. A shape first—the edge of a face. Wild, untamed white hair. Green eyes not unlike Harry’s, though narrower—filled with mischief or cleverness. Younger. A child’s. And there had been laughter—high, bright, echoing from deep within the stone walls of some room he didn’t recognize.

The child looked familiar. Or perhaps it was the echo of something long hoped for, some truth hidden inside him since that first moment Harry had clutched his hand back in the Forbidden Forest.

He added more shading. A tall figure beside the boy—half-finished, rougher in detail. Not because he didn’t remember, but because he didn’t want to look directly at it. It was Harry, of course. Older. Worn. Brighter.

Draco’s chest tightened.

“Dreaming on paper now, are we?” came a soft voice from the doorway.

Eulah stepped inside, brushing melting snow from her shawl. Her dark eyes sparkled in the firelight. Draco flushed faintly and angled the sketchbook toward his chest.

“Don’t stop on my account,” she said, settling into the rocking chair across from him. “That one looks like he’s important.”

Draco hesitated. “It was… just a dream.”

“Maybe,” she said with a smile, “but the fever had a grip on you stronger than most. You were nearly alight with it. Rua says it felt like wild fire magic, flaring in your sleep.”

Draco looked down at his sketchbook, heart thudding a little faster. “Do you think I was—trying to fire scry again?”

“It wouldn’t be the strangest thing a body’s done when caught between worlds.” Eulah leaned forward, peering gently at the drawing. “You saw something, didn’t you? Someone?”

“I saw a child,” Draco murmured, the words tasting fragile. “And Harry. Older.”

“Sounds like a vision, not just fever.” Her gaze softened. “Some scryings come from desperation. Others come when we don’t even know we’re ready.”

Draco swallowed. “What if it wasn’t real?”

Eulah reached out and gently tapped the side of her own head. “Every dream has truth in it, lad. Even if the truth is just what you most wish to be true.”

Draco said nothing for a moment. His thumb smudged the line of Harry’s jaw in the sketch. “I keep waiting for it all to fall apart again. For him to leave once he realizes who I really am. I think the forest has made his forget.”

Eulah’s voice was quiet, but steady. “You think love only exists where it’s earned?”

Draco blinked. “I—what?”

“You think you need to fight for it. Just like your parents never did.” She paused. “But Harry. He’s not leaving. That boy came back from the woods half-broken and still curled himself around you like a shield when the fever came. He’s already chosen you. And anyways bird-for-brains, the forest never forgets.”

Draco looked down at the page again to hide his blush. The child’s laugh still echoed faintly in his ears, though he wasn’t sure if it was memory or magic.

He nodded, just once. Quietly. “I know.”

Eulah rose, her bones creaking. “Then keep sketching, fire-heart. Sometimes we have to draw the future before we can walk into it.”

She slipped out of the room, just as quickly as she had come, leaving behind the scent of pine needles and chamomile.

Draco picked up his charcoal again. This time, he added Ivy curled at the boy’s feet—and a flicker of something golden at Harry’s side, not quite a wand, not quite a flame. He didn’t know what it meant yet. But that didn’t matter.

For now, he let the dream take shape on the page, while outside the cottage, the forest listened and remembered.

Chapter Text

It began, as many things had lately, in silence.

The kind of silence that hangs over a common room like fog—thick, waiting, breathless. The Gryffindor table at dinner was half empty. Lavender Brown was crying quietly into her plate. Parvati had her arm around her, unmoving. The air felt wrong, tight like too-small robes. News had spread fast.

Hermione Granger had been petrified.

And no one knew how to fix her.

The castle’s whispers were louder than ever now. Even Peeves had stopped singing for a day. The second-year Gryffindors and Slytherins gathered together that night in the far corner of the library, their faces pinched and pale under the oil lamps.

“She didn’t deserve this,” Pansy said. For once, there was no bite in her voice.

“She was the best of us,” Ron muttered. “The only one who might’ve figured it out.”

“She did figure it out,” Neville said. “We just didn’t find her fast enough.”

The others nodded grimly. The paper clenched in Theo Nott’s hands had been crumpled and smoothed out so many times it was nearly falling apart. Hermione had left it clutched in her frozen fingers: a torn-out page from Moste Potente Magical Creatures, with a paragraph circled in red ink.

Basilisk.

“It fits everything,” Blaise said. “The staring. The pipes. The voices.”

Theo looked up. “And the fact that only people who didn’t see it directly were petrified. Colin through the camera. Justin through Nearly Headless Nick. Hermione with the mirror.”

“Terrified of roosters,” Ron added. “Hagrid’s were killed early in the year.”

A small figure shifted near the end of the table. Dobby, hair sticking up wildly, ears trembling. “The diary is still in the castle,” he said. “Dobby felt its magic the night Hermione Granger was hurt. It is old… and angry.”

“Do you know where it is?” Pansy asked.

Dobby shook his head. “It moves. It has found a new host.”

There was a heavy pause.

“What kind of diary can control a basilisk?” Neville asked. “Or hurt someone like that?”

“The kind that belonged to You-Know-Who,” Theo said softly. “The kind that’s a filled with dark magic.”

Ron’s face went white.

It was Luna who offered the solution.

She appeared the next evening in the library, a battered black case tucked under her arm. “My mum used to record things,” she said dreamily. “Odd things. Whispers, spells, the inside of acorns. But she especially loved voices. I think she once recorded someone speaking Parseltongue at a wand demonstration in Kent.”

Ron’s eyes widened. “You’re serious?”

Luna nodded. “It’s a little warped, but it’s still a voice. Magic clings to memory like a Wrackspurt.”

Theo took the device—a palm-sized crystal orb, etched with runes. A flick of his wand and the glass shimmered, static-filled, before a dry, sibilant hiss filled the air.

The hiss slithered through the silence. Every hair on their arms rose.

“Do you think it’ll work on the sinks?” Ron asked. They had no idea what the hissing language said on the recorder. But Ron was hopefully it would be enough to get them into the chamber of secrets.

“There’s only one way to find out,” Pansy said, already standing.

The bathroom was cold and echoing. Myrtle’s haunting wails quieted when she saw the group.

“Back again?” she said sourly. “Hoping for another ghost?”

“We’re trying to stop one,” Theo said.

Neville knelt at the sink. “This is the one. The snake’s on the tap. Just like in Hermione’s notes suggested.”

Theo activated the recorder.

The Parseltongue hissed again, low and commanding. For a breathless moment, nothing happened.

Then—with a groan like shifting tombstones—the sink sank downward and split open, revealing a black stone chute.

“Oh, that’s revolting,” Pansy said, peering over.

“You all don’t have to come,” Ron muttered. “I’ll go if—”

“We’re all going,” Theo said firmly.

Dobby’s voice shook. “Dobby will go too.”

“No,” Blaise said quickly. “You need to stay behind. If something happens to us… tell Professor Snape. Or McGonagall. Or Fawkes.”

Something shimmered in the air as they descended—unspoken worry, unshaken resolve.

The tunnels were vast, the air heavy with rot and old magic. Their wands lit the way in jittery bursts.

“Look at all these bones,” Ron muttered, nearly tripping on something long and yellowed.

“Whatever’s down here,” Neville said, “it’s been here a long time.”

They didn’t speak after that. They just walked.

Until the tunnel ended at a massive door, inlaid with twin serpents.

Theo took out Luna’s recorder again. The hiss played, slower this time, more staticky. Still, the snakes slithered away, and the door opened with a moan.

The Chamber of Secrets.

Inside, the air was thick and cold. Statues loomed. The head of Salazar Slytherin towered at the far end, carved in solemn stone.

And at the base of it—Ginny Weasley.

Unconscious. Pale as death.

“No,” Ron breathed, sprinting forward. “Ginny—GINNY—”

“Wait!” Blaise shouted, too late.

The shadows moved. The water rippled. And from behind the statue, the basilisk uncoiled.

It was massive.

Green, slick, fanged—and its eyes gleamed death.

“DON’T LOOK AT IT!” Theo shouted. They all dropped their heads, trying to fight without seeing.

But then—

A cry of fire split the air.

Fawkes. And a very terrified Dobby clutched in the phoenix’s talons.

He dove from the ceiling like a comet, shrieking, as he plopped Dobby down on a water covered stone floor, Fawkes talons glowing gold. In one swift strike, he raked the basilisk’s eyes.

The beast screamed. Blind.

Now it was a battle of sound and instinct.

“Dobby!” Blaise shouted. “Get Ginny!”

The elf disappeared in a flash.

The basilisk lunged wildly, tail crashing through the pillars. Ron tackled Pansy to the ground. Theo and Blaise moved in opposite directions, casting blinding charms and sending echoes to confuse it.

Fawkes dropped something between them.

A sword.

Long. Silver. Glittering.

Where it had come from, no one knew.

Neville grabbed it without hesitation. “I don’t know how to use this!”

“You don’t need to!” Theo yelled. “Just swing!”

The basilisk roared.

Neville charged.

Later, they couldn’t quite describe how it happened.

Only that the sword moved like it remembered what it was. That Neville didn’t falter. That somehow, at the last second, Ron helped redirect the beast’s snapping head. That the blade drove through the roof of the serpent’s mouth with a sickening crunch.

Silence.

Neville fell to his knees, shaking.

Fawkes crooned above them.

Ginny stirred in Dobby’s arms.

Theo wondered half-heartedly if they should take some of the basaliks fangs. They were worth a fortune you know.

“We’s need to destroy the diary,” Dobby said solomonely as he looked at the watered logged book that was half forgotten meters away.

With a nod, Pansy stood abruptly and with the use of her wand managed to pull a fang from the dead snake.

“Careful Pans!” Theo hissed. “Do you realize how toxic their venom is?”

Pansy just rolled her eyes as she stumbled towards the diary. The adrenalin finally fading as the danger seemed to dissipate. Falling to her knees, she raised the fang high above her head and without so much as a word— slammed the basalik fang down into the center of the diary.

A horrible scream echoed throughout the chamber. The sound not so unsimilar to that of a dying man. Ink guttered and spewed out from where the fang was pressed between its pages. Almost as if the diary had a beating heart that was pumping out it’s last bit of blood.

“It’s over,” Ron sighed as he fell down next to his awakening sister.

“For now,” Blaise hummed as he looked nearly starry—eyed at one Pansy Parkinson.

McGonagall and Snape found them half an hour later with the help of Dobby and the recorder.

They said nothing for a long time—just stared at the giant dead snake, the blood, the students leaning on one another like war veterans. Thousands of years of history surrounding them in the once forgotten chamber.

Then McGonagall reached for Neville’s arm after listening to the students tell the tale of their battle against a basalik. “You did something extraordinary tonight, Mr. Longbottom.”

Neville’s voice was hoarse as he looked over at Pansy. “We all did.”

When the story is retold not days later. No one will mention the blush that dusted her cheeks at the compliment.

Snape, surprisingly, didn’t argue.

He looked at the skewered remains of the basilisk, at the soot on Dobby’s pillowcase tunic, at the battered recorder forgotten beside him and the destroyed diary in Parkinson’s no longer perfectly manicured hands. At the unity between students who had been raised to hate each other.

“I believe,” Snape said, “we will need to rewrite some rules and make up a few very convenient stories.”

Fawkes flew high above the wreckage, his feathers scattering light. Dobby stood beneath him, holding Ginny’s hand.

“She’s safe now,” the elf said. “And the darkness is gone.”

He glanced at the students, all of them huddled near the door.

“Harry Potter would have been proud,” Theo whispered to him as he placed a hand on the small elf’s shoulder.

Hours later, the hospital wing was too quiet.

Sunlight filtered in through arched windows, warming the whitewashed stone walls. It should’ve felt safe. It didn’t. Like most of Hogwarts, even the infirmary didn’t feel safe anymore.

Ginny Weasley stirred beside her brothers. Madam Pomfrey hovered close, fussing over her pulse, her pupils, her breath.

“She’ll be all right,” the matron said firmly. “Give her rest.”

Ron nodded, eyes bloodshot. “Thank you.”

Theo stood at the foot of the next bed, glancing nervously toward Neville, whose hands were still bandaged from the basilisk’s final thrash. Blaise sat beside Pansy, who was trying to read but kept holding her page upside down. Luna—quiet, observant Luna—was playing a soft melody on the recorder orb. It no longer hissed; now it sounded like wind chimes in water.

No one spoke for a long time.

It was Dobby who broke the silence.

The house-elf stood at the end of Ginny’s bed, holding his too-long ears. “Dobby is proud,” he whispered. “But Dobby is… sad.”

“Why?” Luna asked gently.

“Because Mister Harry Potter and Mister Draco Malfoy… should have been here to see it.”

The air shifted. No one had to say it. Their absence had lingered like a ghost.

“They would have helped,” Pansy murmured.

“But we managed without them,” Blaise said, softer than usual. “Together.”

Theo nodded. “We didn’t need a Chosen One. Or the Perfect Heir. We just needed each other.”

No one replied. But the sentiment was felt by all who heard it. Things were changing at Hogwarts and nothing and no one could stop it.

The End-of-Year Feast was a strange thing.

The Great Hall glittered with gold, green, blue, and red. All four house banners fluttered overhead. There had been no House Cup this year.

Instead, Professor McGonagall stood at the staff table, raising a goblet with both hands.

“There are no words that feel large enough,” she began, voice strong and unwavering. “Though I have spoken to Headmaster Dumbledore and he agrees with my sentiments. What happened within this castle changed many things. The students who faced such unspeakable odds showed more courage, loyalty, cleverness, and cunning than any we could have hoped to teach them.”

Heads turned—Slytherin to Gryffindor, Hufflepuff to Ravenclaw.

The lines between tables blurred.

“And so,” she continued, “the staff has decided this year’s House Cup will not be awarded to one House alone.”

A ripple moved through the hall.

“This year, all four Houses will share the honor equally. Because it was not one color that saved us, but many.”

Students clapped. Some even cheered. Ron stood, raising his goblet toward Neville and Theo, then toward Luna and Pansy. A few Slytherins raised theirs in return.

A hesitant bridge. A beginning.

Even Snape applauded—once. And only a little.

As the feast began, Dobby appeared at the edge of the room with a tray of treacle tarts and lemon drops, grinning ear to ear. Fawkes swooped overhead, trailing warmth like falling stars.

At the Gryffindor table, Ron glanced toward the doors.

“They would’ve liked this,” he muttered.

Neville nodded. “Maybe next year.”

And far away, in a quiet forest shack where fire crackled and magic stirred in the bones of the earth, two boys slept beneath a shared quilt. One of them dreamt of laughter in a golden hall, and the other of home—not one he’d left behind, but one he was just beginning to understand.

Chapter Text

The air shimmered with heat, cicadas singing like tiny runes etched into the fabric of the day. Somewhere nearby, bees thrummed in the clover and thistle. It was the kind of warm that melted bones, coaxing stillness from even the most restless hearts.

Harry crouched beside a sun-bleached stone, running his fingers along the scorched etchings carved into its surface. “You think this one’s fire-based?”

Draco lay a few feet away in the tall grass, a wide-brimmed straw hat shading his face. “Mm, maybe. But the shape of the middle glyph—it’s similar to the wind rune Eulah showed us last spring.”

Harry squinted at the symbol. “Could be a hybrid.”

Draco hummed in agreement, pushing himself up on his elbows. “The way these runes interlock… It reminds me of the old stories Liora tells on holidays. The kind where fire didn’t destroy, but made something new.”

Harry sat back on his heels and looked at him. Draco’s hair was half-tied up today, sweat curling the loose strands along his jaw and neck. His eyes were bright, even in the thick summer light, and something in the way he studied the rune told Harry he was somewhere far away in his mind.

“You okay?” Harry asked, voice soft.

Draco blinked and refocused on him. “Yeah. Just… remembering.”

“Another dream?”

Draco hesitated. “Not exactly. More like… a waking one.”

Harry shifted closer, brushing a blade of grass from Draco’s arm. “Tell me.”

“I saw fire. Not just burning—but building. Structures shaped from it. Floating stone and carved glass. I think it was a city.” Draco’s voice dropped. “You were there. And a child. A little boy, with white curls and your eyes. He laughed like the sun breaking open. He’s always laughing.”

Harry’s stomach twisted, but not unpleasantly. “A child?”

Draco nodded. “He wasn’t scared of me. He touched my wing—said it was soft like a cloud. Then he ran off. Into a doorway that didn’t exist a moment before.”

Harry exhaled slowly. “That’s… a lot.”

“Yeah.” Draco lowered his gaze. “But it didn’t feel like a future I feared. Just one I didn’t understand yet.”

They sat in the quiet for a moment, the warmth buzzing like a second heartbeat.

Then the grass rustled behind them.

Harry was on his feet in an instant, instinct flaring bright and hot in his chest. The wolf inside didn’t need a second warning.

But it was only Harek, stepping down from the ridge path, bow slung over his back.

“Relax, pup,” the man drawled. “You’re worse than the ravens during nesting season.”

Draco chuckled faintly. Harry took a breath and tried to ease the tension from his shoulders, but something in him still crackled with residual energy. Not danger—just… pressure.

Harek gave them both a glance. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. Just passing through. Wanted to see how the heat’s treating you.”

“We’re fine,” Harry said, a bit too quickly.

Harek raised an eyebrow but didn’t press. “You look like you’ve been roasting. Drink water.”

Draco offered a little wave from the grass, lazy and nonchalant.

Harek gave a short nod and moved on, whistling softly as he disappeared into the trees.

As soon as he was gone, Harry dropped back down, knees hitting the grass harder than necessary.

Draco stared at him. “You were going to lunge at him.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“You had that look,” Draco said. “The one where your jaw goes all tight and you forget how to blink.”

Harry sighed. “It wasn’t about him. Not really. I just—something in me keeps trying to protect. Even when there’s no threat.”

Draco reached out and touched Harry’s wrist. “You don’t have to explain it. I feel it too, sometimes. Like there’s something waking up beneath my skin, and it doesn’t always care about the rules I used to follow.”

Harry turned his hand over, lacing their fingers together.

“The prophecy,” he said, “talked about the ‘aether-thread no blade can sever.’ I think that’s what this is. This… bond. It pulls us toward each other. And when I think something might threaten you—even if it’s just someone stepping too close—”

“You feel like you’re on fire?” Draco whispered.

Harry nodded. “Exactly that.”

Draco leaned in and pressed his forehead to Harry’s. Their joined hands pulsed with warmth, like a low ember catching breath.

“I’m not afraid of it anymore,” Draco said quietly. “Not the bond. Not my wings. Not even the dreams. They all lead back to you.”

Harry swallowed. “You sure?”

“I wouldn’t have survived last year without you. Without this.” He brushed their joined hands up against Harry’s chest. “It’s not perfect, but it’s ours.”

They stayed like that, forehead to forehead, until the heat of the sun slipped slightly, casting longer shadows over the field.

Then, almost bashfully, Draco murmured, “Do you think it’s weird? The dream child?”

Harry chuckled. “I think it’s weird that I wasn’t more surprised.”

Draco cracked a grin. “Same.”

A breeze swept over them, curling the grass and tugging at Draco’s hair.

“Come on,” Harry said. “Let’s get back. If we stay out here much longer, your freckles are going to unionize.”

“They’re beauty marks,” Draco said loftily, standing with exaggerated grace. “Inherited from centuries of elegant mischief.”

Harry offered a crooked grin, brushing grass off Draco’s shoulders. “Come on, mystery boy. Let’s go home.”

The air in the cottage was too hot. It pressed down on Harry’s lungs like wet wool, thick with summer and something heavier—something scented and strange. Sweet and sharp, like citrus and smoke. It clung to his tongue and curled behind his eyes.

Draco paced the room like a storm in a bottle, shoulders taut, wings half-unfurled despite himself. They shimmered faintly, the silvery sheen of them pulsing with heat. He looked flushed, too flushed—cheeks high-colored, eyes glassy.

Eulah sat across from him, watching quietly. “It’s starting early,” she murmured. “You’re burning hotter than last year.”

“I don’t need your commentary,” Draco snapped. “I need this to stop.”

Harry startled at the sudden burst of venom in Draco’s tone. Eulah, calm as a pond, didn’t flinch.

Eulah had warned them that the second year of veela transformation could bring unpredictable shifts. Mood swings. Allure spikes. Emotional overload. But nothing had prepared Harry for the crackling magic in the air, the way Draco’s presence pulled at him like gravity—hot and aching and terrifying.

“Your body is trying to prepare you,” Eulah said gently. “That’s what veela are meant to do. Nest. Bond. You’re coming into it sooner because—”

“I know what it means!” Draco’s voice cracked. “I’ve read every bloody page Nessa gave me, remember? I’m not stupid. I know what happens next.”

He turned sharply, eyes locking on Harry. “And you—what are you doing? Just sitting there like none of this is your problem?”

Harry blinked. “I—what? Draco, I didn’t—”

“You never do!” Draco hissed, wings flaring. “You sit there and let me burn! Do you know what it’s like? To feel your own body betraying you? To crave—” His voice choked off. “—to need things you can’t even speak aloud without falling apart?”

The room went still.

Harry stood slowly. “I didn’t ask for this either,” he said, quieter now. “I don’t even understand what this is.”

Draco laughed—a bitter, brittle sound. “Of course you don’t. You’re tethered now. Grounded. Whole. While I’m falling apart.”

Eulah moved to stand, but Draco whipped his head around. “Don’t. Don’t come near me.”

His wings pulsed, magic rippling off of him in waves—thick and magnetic. Harry could feel it in his teeth, humming under his skin. A strange ache formed low in his belly, hot and sharp and confused. His breath hitched.

Draco’s eyes snapped back to him.

And Harry—he couldn’t look away.

His heart pounded, panic blooming.

Because for a moment, he didn’t see the boy he’d known.

He saw light. Heat and hunger and wings catching the firelight like a trap. Draco’s allure was unspooling around him, sultry and aching and desperate, and it curled fingers around Harry’s ribs and pulled.

His mouth went dry. “You need to stop—”

“I can’t!” Draco shouted, voice breaking. “You don’t get it, Harry. I can’t turn this off! I want to peel off my own skin. I want to claw out of my body. I want to bury myself in the ground and scream until it ends.”

“Then let us help—”

“You think touching me will help? You?” Draco laughed, wild and furious. “Your wolf only wants me when I smell like heat. When I’m shiny and sweet and fucked-up and easy. But what about me, Harry? What about the boy under all this?”

Harry reeled back like he’d been struck.

Draco’s chest heaved.

Eulah didn’t move. Her face was unreadable.

The silence that followed rang loud as thunder.

And Harry, throat tight, finally said, “You’re wrong.”

Draco froze.

“I’m not just drawn to you because of the wolf. Or the veela. Or the magic.” Harry’s voice shook, but he didn’t stop. “I see you. Even when you’re being awful. Even when you push everyone away.”

Something trembled in Draco’s eyes.

“You asked what about the boy under it all?” Harry whispered. “I think I might—I think I care about him most of all.”

Draco stared at him, stunned—and then his face twisted, not with softness, but rage and disbelief.

“Stop it,” he choked. “Don’t say that. Don’t say that when you don’t understand what this feels like—”

His hands trembled.

And then, with a sound torn from the very pit of him, Draco’s claw-tipped fingers dug into his arms and raked downward—shredding pale skin, leaving angry red welts in their wake.

Harry surged forward. “Draco—no, don’t—!”

But Draco collapsed to his knees with a sob, the tears finally coming, ugly and heaving and helpless.

“I can’t breathe in this body!” he cried. “I don’t know who I am anymore—what I want or who I’m supposed to be! It’s too much—it’s always too much!”

Harry stood frozen, heart thundering in his ears.

He didn’t know how to touch him. Didn’t know how to help.

Every instinct told him to run forward, to hold, to soothe—but the memory of Draco’s heat, the magic still thick in the air, and the look of pure torment on his face kept him locked in place.

Harry’s face burned. His fingers clenched and unclenched at his sides.

“I don’t know what to do,” he admitted, voice small. “I—I don’t know how to help you.”

Draco curled tighter into himself, shoulders shaking. “You can’t,” he rasped. “No one can.”

Eulah, still silent, stepped forward and knelt beside him. Her magic glowed faint and warm as she pressed a hand to his back.

“You are still yourself,” she said gently. “You are not broken. You are not alone. And this—this pain—doesn’t mean you’re wrong. It just means you feel. And that means you are alive.”

Harry could only stare—ashamed, overwhelmed, and aching with the weight of what he couldn’t fix.

He backed toward the door and leaned against the frame, unsure if his own skin still fit.

Outside, the wind rustled the trees.

Inside, Draco cried like someone cracking open.

And Harry didn’t know if he should leave.

Or fall apart with him.

The night crept in heavy and slow.

Harry sat alone by the dying fire, his knees pulled tight to his chest, chin resting on them. The shack was quiet now. No more sobbing. No more shouting. Just the faint crackle of cooling embers and the rhythmic tick of something dripping outside—dew off the eaves, or maybe the forest weeping with them.

He couldn’t sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Draco’s face twisted in anguish. The ragged sound of his sobs echoed in Harry’s ears like a curse.

He didn’t understand.

Not really.

He’d faced worse than this—he’d fought trolls and nightmares, barely escaped werewolves, stared down living shadows and survived. But this—this raw, splintering thing between them—was terrifying in a way nothing else ever had been.

He didn’t know how to be what Draco needed. Didn’t even know what he was feeling.

Draco had looked at him like he was the only thing anchoring him to the ground. And Harry had stood there, hands empty, heart pounding like it wanted to crawl out of his chest.

“You asked what about the boy under it all? I think I might care about him most of all.”

What the hell had he even meant by that?

Harry raked a hand through his hair and let out a strangled groan. His skin felt too tight, his body too hot, like he might burst from the inside out. It wasn’t the wolf—it wasn’t a transformation coming on. It was worse.

It was feeling.

Big, awful, teenage feelings.

And he didn’t have a map for this. No one had told him what to do when the person you fought beside started to mean something else entirely. When a boy’s scent made your heart race. When his pain felt like your own.

He hadn’t meant to say those things earlier. Not really. They’d just slipped out. But they’d been true, hadn’t they?

Draco was his. Not like property. Not like a pet. But his in the way the stars belonged to the night, or how ivy always climbed toward the sun.

And now Draco was falling apart. And Harry was failing him.

He bit his lip, hard, and tasted copper.

“Bloody hell,” he whispered into the dark. “I’m not ready for this.”

He wanted to protect Draco. He wanted to understand him. But how was he supposed to when he didn’t even understand himself?

He was thirteen. He didn’t know what love felt like. He’d never been hugged properly before the village. He’d never held someone and been afraid of what it meant.

He remembered Eulah’s words: “There is no shame in not knowing the way. Only in refusing to walk it.”

Harry scrubbed at his eyes, frustrated. “I don’t even know which way to walk.”

A floorboard creaked upstairs.

Draco was probably asleep now, worn out from it all. Or maybe not. Maybe he was lying awake, just like Harry, hating himself for breaking down. Wishing he could tear his own wings off. Maybe hating Harry, too.

Harry flinched at the thought.

He didn’t want Draco to hate him.

He didn’t want Draco to leave.

But most of all, he didn’t want to wake up and find that the one person who had ever seen him no longer wanted to be looked at.

Outside, the wind picked up, rustling through the leaves like whispered secrets.

Inside, Harry wrapped his arms tighter around his knees and let himself feel small.

Because for once, he didn’t want to be the hero.

He just wanted to be enough.

Chapter Text

The first thing Harry noticed was the quiet.

Not silence, not exactly—there was always something to hear in the forest. The rustle of branches, the occasional creak of the old shack beams settling, the faint chittering of moonmoths outside the window. But the pressure had lifted.

For days, the air had felt like a storm waiting to break—thick with magic, heavy with longing and fear and heat. But now, in the pale light of early morning, it felt… bearable. Barely.

Harry opened his eyes slowly, his entire body aching with exhaustion. His tether still thrummed faintly in his chest, like the aftershock of a long incantation. He hadn’t slept—not properly. The night had stretched endlessly, filled with sounds he couldn’t forget even if he tried.

And he had tried.

He shifted carefully, aware of the warm weight beside him.

Draco was curled into the farthest corner of their shared bed, face tucked toward the wall, blankets pulled up to his ears. The tangled fur quilts—soft from Harry’s hunts, gifted by the villagers—were wrapped around him in layers. His platinum hair was damp, curling slightly at the nape of his neck, and his wings—thank Merlin—were nowhere to be seen.

The bed, rebuilt months ago by Harek after the first heat had rendered the old one to splinters, groaned softly as Harry sat up. He ran a hand over his face, rubbing at the stress in his temples.

He didn’t look toward the nest in the corner.

He didn’t need to.

Last night, he’d seen it in flashes—the frantic scrambling of claws on stone, the nesting instinct spiraling into desperation. Draco had torn the remaining linens from their cupboards, upended their laundry basket, and stolen one of Harry’s old cloaks to line the center. Soft moss, feathers, and even the old sweater Harry had outgrown were bundled at the heart of it like a shrine.

He’d seen what was on the inside.

He wished he hadn’t.

The smell had clung to the walls like smoke.

Harry exhaled, quiet and slow.

“You’re awake,” came a voice, scratchy and low.

Harry turned his head to find Draco’s eyes open, slitted with sleep and wariness. His skin was pale, flushed at the cheeks, and his lips looked bitten. His voice was sharp despite the rasp. “Stop staring.”

Harry looked away. “I wasn’t.”

“You were. Your tether hums when you’re lying.”

“It does not.”

“It does. You’re not subtle.”

Harry blew out another breath and leaned back on his elbows. “You alright?”

Draco gave a tired snort. “Define ‘alright.’ Do you mean physically alright, or emotionally traumatized from turning into a magical furnace and then humping your scenting blanket like a feral Mooncalf alright?”

Harry blinked. “So… not alright.”

Draco groaned and buried his face in the blanket. “I want to die. Can you please kill me?”

“No.”

“Coward.”

Harry couldn’t help it—he laughed. Just a little. The tension that had gripped his chest for days cracked open at the sound of Draco’s voice, even if it was muffled by fabric and shame.

“I made a nest,” Draco moaned, voice muffled. “Like a giant nesting augurey. I made a nest and dragged your sweater into it. I licked it.”

Harry blinked again. “Wait, you what—”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Harry’s mouth opened and closed like a stranded Puffskein.

There was a beat of silence, broken only by the wind brushing against the shutters.

Then Draco peeked over the blanket, eyes narrowed. “You smell like wet pine needles and shame.”

“You smell like baked peaches and a crime scene.”

Draco made a strangled, mortified sound and threw the pillow at him.

Harry caught it. Barely.

The sound that escaped Draco’s throat was somewhere between a groan and a whimper. He flopped backward onto the bed and threw his arm over his face. “I hate this. I hate everything. I want to move to the moon.”

“You’d probably start a nest up there too.”

“Good. Then no one would see it.”

Harry smiled faintly, letting the teasing fade. He sat quietly for a moment, watching Draco’s chest rise and fall beneath the blankets.

“Liora’s strengthening the wards today,” he said softly. “She stopped by last night.”

“I know,” Draco murmured. “I heard you talking.”

“You were asleep.”

“I was dying. There’s a difference.”

Harry hesitated. “I didn’t… I didn’t know what to do. You kept crying and yelling and then—then you’d get quiet. That was worse. It was like the tether couldn’t feel you.”

Draco didn’t respond.

Harry picked at the edge of the fur quilt. “Eulah said your magic burned so hot, it tried to fire-scry in your dream. That you almost scorched through the tether completely. She said your heart was trying to find something to hold onto, but you couldn’t decide what.”

A long pause. Then, softly:

“Did I say anything?”

Harry’s heart thumped. “You said a lot of things.”

Draco turned his face further into the blanket. “Oh gods. Did I call you mate again?”

“Twice.”

“I hate this body.”

Harry shook his head slowly. “I don’t.”

There was a quiet rustle, a hesitation in Draco’s posture, and then: “You don’t?”

Harry swallowed. “No.”

A long pause. Then Draco, faintly: “You looked at the nest, didn’t you?”

“I tried not to.”

“Did you see the—”

“Yes.”

More silence.

Harry added, “I’m not judging you.”

Draco turned his head just enough to reveal his pink cheeks and tired eyes. “You should. It’s mental. It’s humiliating. I was ready to rip my own skin off and—”

“I know,” Harry said softly. “I felt it through the tether. How bad it was.”

That silenced Draco again.

Harry lay back beside him, staring up at the wooden ceiling beams. “It scared me. You scared me.”

Draco winced. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I know. But still.”

A minute passed between them. Two.

Finally, Draco whispered, “Do you think this is going to get worse?”

Harry turned his head. “Worse how?”

“Next year. When I turn fifteen. When the heat comes again. When… I don’t know. When the tether starts doing whatever the hell else it’s meant to do.”

“I don’t think it’ll get worse,” Harry said slowly. “I think it’ll get different.”

“That’s not comforting.”

Harry reached out without thinking and brushed a curl from Draco’s cheek. The skin there was warm. “Yeah, well. I don’t have a lot of comforting wisdom. I’m thirteen and have a snake as my closest advisor.”

Draco closed his eyes. “How is Ivy?”

“Sleeping in your nest.”

Draco made a sound like a wounded banshee.

Harry grinned.

But beneath the grin, something warm stirred. Something terrifying and human.

He didn’t know what it meant—that he’d wanted to rip the door off the hinges when he couldn’t reach Draco. That his heart had tried to crawl out of his chest when he thought the tether might go quiet. That seeing Draco curled in their bed now, so soft and tired and alive, made him feel like something just barely escaped being lost.

He didn’t know what any of that meant.

He just knew it mattered.

A lot.

Draco reached out blindly, caught Harry’s wrist, and pulled it under the covers.

His hand was clammy, his grip weak.

But he held on anyway.

Harry let him.

Recovery came in slow, awkward steps.

Draco was up and moving again within a day or two, though he refused to acknowledge the nest in the corner of their shack—even when Ivy refused to leave it. He hissed at the poor snake once, only to have her slither into his shirt sleeve and refuse to move for the rest of the morning.

But as the week wore on, something strange began to happen.

The nest… shifted.

Not by itself, of course. But slowly, subtly, it migrated. The furs were pulled from the corner to the foot of their bed. Harry’s old cloak was folded neatly, tucked near the pillows. A few bits of moss and feathers and warmed stones—originally nestled in the heart of the veela nest—now appeared beneath the wool blankets.

Draco never said anything about it. But one morning, Harry woke to find his favorite hunting scarf—torn in two during Draco’s heat—carefully mended and draped over the headboard like a banner.

They kept to their routine as best they could—daily lessons with Eulah, shared chores, short walks through the woods—but a new weight hung between them, fragile and half-formed.

Eulah didn’t push. But she noticed. Of course she did.

“Your casting was stronger this time,” she said one morning after Harry successfully completed a full shielding charm without using his wand. “Steadier.”

Harry shrugged. “Been practicing.”

“Mm,” she hummed, brushing ash off her skirts. “And you’ve been sleeping better?”

He hesitated, then smiled faintly. “The bed’s… warmer now.”

Eulah looked up, sharp-eyed. “Is it?”

Harry turned slightly red. “I mean—it’s just… he keeps adding things to it. Bits from the nest. Soft stuff. My old cloak. Stones. I think Ivy brought a pheasant feather.”

She grinned to herself. “Veela instincts are rarely wrong.”

Harry dared a glance across the clearing where Draco sat sketching near the tree line, his face pink with effort but carefully neutral. He hadn’t looked over once. Still, his wings flicked subtly at the mention of the bed.

Later that afternoon, when they were alone and tidying up the garden, Harry cleared his throat.
“Hey. The bed’s… kind of comfortable now. You did a good job.”

Draco froze, the basket of herbs halfway to the table.
“You are determined to make my life as unbearable as possible.”

Harry grinned. “I’m just saying. Ivy clearly liked it too.”

Draco groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You are the worst.”

“I try.”

But Draco didn’t actually look upset. In fact, there was a quiet sort of glow in his cheeks that hadn’t been there in days.

They worked in companionable silence until Harry broke it again, voice softer now.
“Can I ask you something?”

Draco looked over warily. “You already commented on the nest. What else could you possibly do to me?”

Harry didn’t laugh. He just leaned against the table and said,
“Do you… do you think you’re into boys?”

Draco blinked.
Then blinked again.

“I mean,” Harry rushed to say, “You don’t have to answer. It’s just—I was thinking about it. About last year. The heat. And this time. And just… you know.”

Draco crossed his arms, wings twitching faintly behind him.
“I always assumed I’d marry some nice pureblood girl and carry on the Malfoy line. Heir and all that. Duty. Expectations. Family legacy. Blah blah blah.”

Harry nodded slowly.

Draco looked away.
“But when I think about it now? I don’t want any of that. I don’t even know if I want to go back to that life. And even if I did…”
He paused.
“When I think about things that make me feel safe or good or… flustered in a humiliating way, it’s never a girl. It’s you.”

Harry’s ears turned red.

Draco coughed.
“I’m not saying you’re my type. I’m saying you’re the problem.”

Harry let out a strangled laugh.

“Also,” Draco added bitterly, “My veela probably wouldn’t let me be attracted to anyone else even if I wanted to.”

“I think that’s how I know it’s not just the veela stuff,” Harry said slowly. “Because I… I like girls. I know I do. But I also…”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Like me?”

Harry gave a pained shrug. “Yeah. Sort of. I think. You’re… annoying. And pretty. And sometimes I want to punch you and then other times I want to…” He trailed off.

“Throw me into a wall?” Draco offered.

“Not exactly.”

“You’re confused.”

Harry nodded. “Yeah.”

“Figures,” came a voice behind them. “Boys always are.”

They both spun around to see Nessa leaning against the gate, arms full of wildflowers and her expression positively gleeful.

“How long have you been there?” Draco demanded, scandalized.

“Long enough,” she sang. “Honestly, you two are hopeless.”

Harry groaned and covered his face.

Nessa waggled her eyebrows. “So, how’d your pigeon period go, Draco? Did you molt? Did you screech at the moon? Compose any tragic love poems in your own feathers?”

“Get out of our garden,” Draco growled, mortified.

“Love you too, feather-butt.”

As she disappeared around the path, still giggling to herself, Draco slumped against the table and groaned.

“I hate this village.”

Harry was laughing too hard to answer.

Still, when the laughter faded, something warm and real remained between them. Not just friendship. Not just tether. Something growing, quiet and honest and unsure.

They didn’t have all the answers.

But maybe they were starting to ask the right questions.

Chapter Text

The morning light filtered softly through the slats of the wooden shutters, casting warm beams across the uneven stone floor. The shack, with its rough-hewn walls and mismatched furniture, felt like a patchwork of their lives—everything imperfect but comfortably theirs. Two years of living here had transformed the place from a shelter to a home. The creaks of the floorboards, the smell of the hearth, the mismatched quilts—all had become familiar, even comforting.

Harry stretched lazily under the worn quilt, pulling it closer around his shoulders as he yawned. His fingers brushed against the soft knit of the blanket, the fabric worn and familiar, a piece of his own making. The pile of yarn in the corner, the basket of unfinished scarves, and the knitting needles that Nessa had gifted him stood as small monuments to the life he had built here, to the life he had with Draco. Their home wasn’t defined by stone or timber; it was defined by the people in it.

Even Ivy, Harry’s pet snake, had her spot by the hearth, curling up in the warmth of the fire, content in the simple peace of their life together.

But today was different. Today was his 14th birthday. For the first time, he felt a quiet, unfamiliar significance to the day. The weight of it felt like a gift in itself, the promise of something more than the past he’d come from.

Just as he settled back into the warmth of the covers, the door creaked open.

“Harry.”

Draco’s voice was soft, almost unsure. Harry blinked, looking over at the doorway. Draco stood there, holding a small bundle, looking out of place in a way that made Harry’s heart skip. His posture was more rigid than usual, like he was trying to steady himself, but there was no hiding the faint flush of uncertainty on his face.

“Morning, sunshine,” Harry said, his voice still thick with sleep. “Come to serenade me with a birthday song or just bring me food?”

Draco scowled, though there was a glint of amusement in his eyes. “I’d rather do neither, honestly. But it’s your birthday, and I thought I’d at least do something that didn’t involve me setting anything on fire.” He stepped closer, holding out the bundle.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Wait, you actually remembered?”

Draco raised a brow right back. “It’s hard to forget when you’re the only person I know who doesn’t make a big deal of his own birthday.”

“Well,” Harry drawled, sitting up slowly, “it’s not like I’ve ever had much reason to celebrate it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Draco muttered. “Can you just take the damn gift?”

Harry’s grin widened. “Fine, fine. Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Malfoy.”

He carefully unwrapped the bundle, and his breath caught when he saw the hand-sketched image of his parents, standing side by side with him between them. The likeness was imperfect, but there was a warmth to the image—his parents laughing, with Harry nestled between them, smiling back at him from the page.

Harry couldn’t tear his eyes away. It felt like a piece of his soul had been returned to him, something he had never dared to dream of. For so long, he had lived without the image of his parents, without any real memory of them. Now, here they were, captured in a moment of love he had never known but had always craved.

“Draco,” Harry whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “How did you—how did you do this?”

Draco shifted awkwardly, looking anywhere but at Harry. “Fire-scrying,” he muttered. “It wasn’t perfect. I couldn’t really pull them out of thin air, but… I thought it was something you should have. A piece of them.”

Harry felt the lump in his throat, fighting the tears that were suddenly threatening to spill over. “I’ve never had anything like this,” Harry said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you.”

Draco nodded, his gaze softening despite his usual aloofness. “You deserve it. I just… thought you should have something.”

For a long moment, Harry didn’t know what to say, overwhelmed by the gift. Finally, he broke the silence. “You’re an absolute bastard, you know that?”

Draco blinked, startled. “What?”

Harry smiled, his heart swelling with affection. “You’ve completely ruined me now. How am I supposed to go back to getting socks and candles for birthdays when I get something like this?”

Draco rolled his eyes, though his lips quirked up at the edges. “You’ll survive, Potter. Just don’t start expecting things from me every year. This is a one-time thing.”

“Sure,” Harry said with a teasing grin. “I’ll just add it to my list of reasons to keep you around.”

Draco’s face flushed again, but he cleared his throat and quickly changed the subject. “Right. Enough sappy stuff. I made you breakfast. Thought I’d give you something edible for once.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “You? Cooked? The last time you cooked, you nearly burned the whole place down.”

Draco shot him a look, but there was a trace of pride in his expression. “That was one time, Potter. And it wasn’t my fault. The oven was broken.”

“Uh-huh,” Harry said, eyeing the rustic treacle tart warily. “Well, I’m feeling brave today. Let’s see if you’re still trying to poison me.”

He cut a small piece and took a bite. The sweetness hit him first, rich and comforting, with just the right amount of warmth. “Huh,” Harry said, surprised. “It’s actually good. Like, really good.”

Draco looked almost smug, but he quickly disguised it with a shrug. “Told you I could cook. Not that I care what you think.”

“You care,” Harry said, his grin growing wider. “You totally care. But I’ll take what I can get.”

Before Draco could retort, Nessa’s voice rang out, announcing her arrival as she stepped into the room, holding a basket of herbs. “Well, well, the birthday boy himself,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “Did I miss the cake?”

“More herbs?” Draco groaned, throwing himself back into his chair dramatically. “Honestly, if you give him any more plants, we’ll need to start charging rent.”

Nessa ignored him and pulled something wrapped in cloth from the basket. She handed it to Harry. “I thought you might need something to finish the endless knitting projects you’re always working on.”

Harry unwrapped the bundle to reveal a beautiful set of knitting needles, their handles carved from smooth deer antlers. They were perfect, the carving just right, and Harry could feel the thoughtfulness behind them. “Nessa,” he said, his voice soft. “These are amazing. You didn’t have to.”

“Of course I did,” she said with a wink. “You’ve been making everything, so now I’m making sure you’ve got the right tools.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, looking between them. “Great, now we’ve got a bloody knitting club. What’s next? Matching sweaters?”

Before Harry could respond, Eulah entered, her presence calm as always. She passed Harry a small, wrapped gift. “For your home,” she said simply.

Harry unwrapped it, revealing a crystal that shimmered with an ethereal glow. He felt its warmth, a pulse of magic that seemed to resonate with the cabin itself. “Thank you, Eulah,” Harry said quietly. “This is perfect.”

Eulah’s eyes softened just a fraction. “A home needs to be protected, just as its people do.”

Harry nodded, holding the crystal close. It felt like a quiet promise—one he would keep, along with the rest of what they had built here.

As they all settled in, Harry felt the comfort of their shared history and the quiet bond that tied them all together. He didn’t know what the future held, but for the first time, he wasn’t afraid. They were together, and that was enough

The woods felt like home to Harry—wild, untamed, and full of instinct. As he shifted into his wolf form, the familiar surge of power spread through him, and he breathed in the earthy smells of the forest, his senses coming alive. The world was sharp, vivid, and full of possibility. The scent of rabbits lingered in the air, and with a playful growl, Harry bounded forward, tail swishing behind him as he bolted through the underbrush.

Behind him, Draco called out, though Harry could tell by the tone that his words were more for show than anything else. “Keeping up, dog?” Draco teased, sounding almost as if he were amused by his own bravado.

Harry didn’t bother answering. There was no need. He just let out a soft snort of amusement and picked up speed, the thrill of the chase filling him with a rush of energy. He could hear Draco’s footsteps behind him, but Harry was already faster, the thrill of hunting for rabbits, of feeling his body move through the trees with ease, all consuming. He let his instincts guide him, darting through the woods, feeling the wind rush past him.

“Don’t get too cocky!” Draco shouted from behind, his voice tinged with the playful challenge that had become so familiar. “I’m right behind you!”

Harry slowed just enough to glance back, his eyes catching Draco’s figure trailing behind him, just out of reach. With a playful flick of his tail, Harry turned and took off again, pretending to dart after the scent of a rabbit he knew was long gone, only to circle back to Draco. He tilted his head to the side, his expression mischievous, as if daring Draco to catch up.

Draco, clearly having enough of Harry’s antics, picked up his pace. “You know, I didn’t agree to be your personal tour guide, you little mutt,” he called out, though there was laughter in his voice, the warmth of familiarity in his teasing.

Harry didn’t need to answer. His grin, wild and playful, was more than enough to convey the message. He was having too much fun to stop now.

Eventually, the playful chase slowed, and the two of them moved deeper into the woods, Harry weaving through the trees like a shadow, Draco following just behind, though still holding onto his human form. Harry could feel Draco’s gaze on him, something softer in the way he watched, something unspoken. When they both stopped, the energy shifted. The woods felt quieter now, as if holding its breath, and Harry’s ears perked up at the distant sounds of movement.

That’s when they appeared—silent, almost ghostly. The thestrals. Harry froze, his muscles tensing, his instincts alert. The creatures stood still in the clearing, their wings folded at their sides, their dark eyes glowing with an eerie wisdom. Harry watched them carefully, sensing the quiet presence they held, as if they had always been there, watching.

Draco, too, was silent, his gaze fixed on the thestrals. For a long moment, neither of them moved. The creatures seemed to be aware of them, their eyes locking onto Harry, as if they understood something deeper.

Draco stood next to Harry, the weight of the moment settling between them. He didn’t speak at first, just watching the thestrals, his expression unreadable. Finally, his voice broke the silence, quieter than usual. “I’ve never really seen them up close… not like this.”

Harry’s body remained still, his gaze still focused on the thestrals. He felt the connection between them, the deep understanding that hovered in the air. He couldn’t speak in this form, but he didn’t need to. Instead, Harry whined low in his throat, a soft, quiet sound that seemed to echo in the stillness. His ears twitched as he shifted slightly, inching closer to Draco. He nudged Draco’s side with his snout, offering silent comfort—an acknowledgment of the shared moment between them.

Draco looked down at Harry, his hand hovering just above his fur, uncertain, but Harry could feel the subtle shift—the unspoken understanding that passed between them. Harry’s gaze flickered back to the thestrals, then back to Draco. There was no need for words. They had both seen death, in different forms, and yet here they stood, together, in the presence of creatures who understood that darkness.

Draco took a deep breath, his voice quieter now. “We’ve both seen it, haven’t we? But I guess not in the same way.”

Harry’s eyes softened, his attention still flickering between the thestrals and Draco. He couldn’t answer verbally, but his presence, his steady gaze, spoke volumes. He stepped closer to Draco, his side brushing against him in a comforting nudge.

“They understand, don’t they?” Draco continued, his voice a little more distant, almost as if speaking to himself. “They know what we’ve been through.”

Harry lowered his head slightly, a quiet acknowledgment that this wasn’t just about the thestrals. It was about them—what they had both endured, what they had both lost. He couldn’t speak, but he could share this moment. Share the understanding that they had both experienced a kind of death, a metaphorical death for Draco, and the death of his mother for Harry. And yet here they were, both alive, both moving forward together.

Draco let out a small, rueful laugh. “We’re a strange pair, aren’t we?”

Harry nudged him again, his tail flicking in playful defiance as if to say, You have no idea. He darted away from Draco, playfully challenging him to catch up.

Draco raised an eyebrow, a smile tugging at his lips despite himself. “You’re impossible,” he muttered, but there was affection in his tone, something deeper than the usual teasing.

Harry’s grin widened, and he ran off again, the thrill of the chase taking over once more. He darted between the trees, his wolf form moving effortlessly through the forest, leaving Draco behind. But Harry wasn’t going too far. He knew Draco would follow.

Draco, of course, did just that, following Harry through the woods with a mix of exasperation and fondness. The chase was on again, but this time, it wasn’t just about running. It was about the quiet connection that ran deeper between them—something unspoken, something they both understood.

The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting a warm glow across the room. The evening had settled in with a kind of calmness, the kind that had become familiar over the past few years. The cabin was quiet, save for the soft rustle of the fire and the occasional clink of forks against plates. The small, wobbly table between Harry and Draco was cluttered with remnants of their meal—Harry’s raw rabbit, mostly ignored, and Draco’s grilled sweet fruit, vegetables, and rabbit leg. The table had always felt a little too small for them, but tonight, it felt different. It felt like the only space they had left before they were forced to face what came next.

Harry stared down at his food, not really seeing it. The familiar taste of the raw rabbit had begun to lose its appeal, the weight of the conversation hanging over him like a cloud. His mind was spinning, and his heart beat a little faster with every passing second. The peace he’d felt earlier in the day, playing in the woods with Draco, felt like a distant memory now, replaced with a gnawing uncertainty about the future.

For all the joy and comfort he had found here, in the forest, with Draco, Harry couldn’t ignore the terrifying thought that kept creeping into his mind—what happened when they left this place? What would their lives look like when they returned to the world that had abandoned them so many years ago?

Draco was quiet, his attention focused on his food, but Harry could feel the unspoken tension between them. It was too much to hold inside any longer.

“Draco,” Harry began, his voice quiet but heavy with the weight of his thoughts. “What do we do when we leave here? What happens when we go back? We’ll only be sixteen. That’s… still so young.”

Draco didn’t immediately answer. His gaze flicked up from his plate, and Harry saw the familiar spark of concern in his eyes—though it was quickly masked by the sharp edge of his usual expression.

“What do you mean?” Draco asked, though there was an edge of uncertainty in his voice now.

Harry exhaled slowly, feeling the tension build in his chest. “I mean—will I go back to the Dursleys? And you… you’ll go back to the Manor, won’t you?” His voice wavered slightly as he spoke, and he felt a familiar knot twist in his stomach. “We’re just kids. How can we fight the rest of the world when we’re still so young?”

Draco set his fork down and looked at Harry, his expression unreadable. For a moment, there was nothing but the quiet crackle of the fire, the weight of their words hanging in the air like a thick fog. Finally, Draco’s voice broke through the silence, quieter than usual. “You’re worried,” he said, his eyes softening slightly as they met Harry’s. “You’re afraid that when we leave here, we’ll go back to where we were before, right?”

Harry nodded, his heart pounding in his chest. The thought of going back to the Dursleys—the abuse, the neglect—was something he couldn’t even bear to think about. But the thought of Draco returning to the Manor, to his father, to the life that had tried to suffocate him… that was almost as terrifying.

“I don’t know what to do, Draco,” Harry whispered, his voice low and unsure. “What if we have to go back? What if they separate us? What if we never get to choose what we want again?”

Draco’s jaw tightened, and Harry saw the flicker of something in his eyes—something protective, something fierce. “You’re not going back to them,” Draco said, his voice low and steady. “You’re not going back to the Dursleys. I won’t let that happen.”

Harry looked up at him, his heart skipping a beat at the raw conviction in Draco’s words. There was no hesitation, no uncertainty in his tone. Draco meant it.

“But what about you?” Harry asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’ll go back to your father, won’t you? You’ll go back to the Manor.”

Draco’s face softened for a moment, and his hand reached out, his fingers brushing against Harry’s in an unspoken gesture of reassurance. “Not without you,” Draco said firmly. “I won’t go back to that life without you. We’re not going back, Harry. We’re not going to let them take us apart.”

Harry felt a wave of relief flood through him, but it was quickly followed by a knot of fear. “But how do we stop it? How do we stop them from pulling us in different directions? What about Voldemort? What about the prophecy? Dumbledore said he’s coming back. And the tether—we’ve both felt it, Draco. How will it survive if we’re forced apart?”

Draco’s gaze hardened, his fingers curling around Harry’s hand, tightening just enough to ground him. “We’ll make sure it survives,” Draco said, his voice low but full of determination. “We’ll find a way. If we have to fight for it, then we’ll fight. I’ll make sure you don’t go back to the Dursleys. I won’t let them take you. I won’t let them tear us apart.”

Harry’s breath hitched at Draco’s words, the fire in his voice sparking something deep inside Harry’s chest. Draco was so certain, so sure of his intentions, and for the first time, Harry believed it too. He wouldn’t have to go back. They wouldn’t be separated.

“But how, Draco?” Harry whispered, his voice shaky with uncertainty. “How do we fight against everything that’s waiting for us out there? How do we survive?”

Draco leaned in closer, his gaze never leaving Harry’s. The intensity in his eyes was almost overwhelming, and Harry could see the rawness in him, the desperate need to make things right. “I’ll do whatever it takes, Harry. If I have to talk to that crazy old crone from the village and bribe her with veela feathers to get books on wizarding law, then so be it. We’ll find a way. I won’t let you go back. I won’t let them win.”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat. The desperation in Draco’s voice, the way he said it, left no room for doubt. Draco was willing to fight for them. And Harry… Harry was willing to fight too.

“I was put into Slytherin for a reason,” Draco continued, his voice now more of a low growl, a promise. “I will do whatever it takes. If I have to empty both of our vaults to make sure we’re together, then I will. We’ll go to Gringotts, bypass the Malfoys, bypass Dumbledore—whatever we have to do to reclaim what’s ours. Our magic. Our gold. Our future.”

Harry felt his pulse quicken, his chest tightening with a combination of fear and hope. Draco was right. They didn’t have to go back to a life that had never been theirs to begin with. They could take control of their future, together.

“And if we have to get married or become emancipated adults to do it, then so be it,” Draco added, his words firm, resolute. “Whatever it takes to keep us together, I’ll do it. And I won’t let you fight this alone.”

Harry’s throat tightened, and he looked down at their hands, still entwined on the table. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t find the words to express what he was feeling. The fear that had haunted him all evening, the uncertainty about their future, suddenly seemed a little less daunting. With Draco by his side, they could face anything.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Harry whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

Draco’s hand tightened around his, pulling him closer. “You won’t have to, Harry,” he said, his voice soft but unwavering. “You won’t ever have to go back to them. You’re mine, and I’m yours. We’ll fight for that.”

Harry looked up, his eyes meeting Draco’s, the unspoken promise between them clearer than ever. Whatever the future held, they would face it together. They would fight for each other, for their love, for their future.

And Harry knew, for the first time, that they would win. Together.

Chapter Text

The first light of morning had barely touched the forest when Draco stormed out of the cabin. His mind was a whirlwind of frustration, desperation, and fear. He had hardly slept, the weight of Harry’s words echoing in his mind, turning over and over. What if we’re forced apart? Harry’s voice, strained and uncertain, was still fresh in his ears. And Draco had no answer, no solution, except a gnawing sense that he couldn’t fail Harry. Not now, not ever.

His heart had pounded in his chest all night, a relentless rhythm that refused to ease. The thought of being torn from Harry—the only constant in his life now—was a nightmare Draco couldn’t let become reality. He wasn’t going to let it happen. He couldn’t.

The path to Liora’s cabin seemed to stretch endlessly before him, each step an attempt to drown out the panic rising in his chest. By the time he reached the door, his frustration had boiled over into hostility. His fist banged hard on the wood, the sound sharp in the early morning silence.

Liora’s voice came from inside, calm as always, but with a hint of concern. “Draco,” she said, opening the door before he could knock again. “You’re up early.”

Draco didn’t wait for an invitation. He pushed past her, marching into the cabin with an urgency that made Liora raise an eyebrow. “I couldn’t sleep,” he muttered, his voice rough with the tension in his chest. “Harry… he said somethings last night. Things that got to me.”

Liora closed the door behind him, her gaze never leaving him. “Such as?”

Draco’s frustration bubbled over. “What if we’re forced apart when we leave here?” he snapped, turning to face her. “What if they send me back to the Manor and Harry to the Dursley’s? What if the tether… what if we can’t survive it? I can’t lose him, Liora. I can’t. I won’t.”

Liora remained silent for a moment, her expression thoughtful. She studied Draco’s face, noticing the raw desperation in his eyes. “You think they’ll try to separate you?” she asked softly, though her voice held an edge of understanding.

“Yes,” Draco said, his fists clenching at his sides. “And I can’t let it happen. I won’t let them tear us apart. We know that a war will becoming. My family and his were on opposite sides last time. I fear they might still be. I can’t return to them, not if it means sacrificing Harry.”

Liora moved toward the fire, her calm demeanor never faltering. “Then perhaps it’s time to take action,” she said, her voice steady. “You’re not the only ones with ties to this world, Draco. There are others—who might be able to help.”

Draco’s eyes flickered with a mix of confusion and hope. “Others?” he repeated. “What are you talking about?”

Liora smiled, the kind of smile that said she had known more than she let on. “There are some who can help you… in ways that you haven’t yet considered. There’s a pack of werewolves—friendly ones. They’ve known Harry for nearly as long as the villagers have. He comes across them in the woods as I am sure you’re aware.”

Draco looked at her, processing the information. Liora raised an eyebrow, a sly smile tugging at her lips. “You know Harek would never leave Harry astray, I hope?”

Draco huffed, his shoulders stiff with the familiar protective frustration that had become second nature to him. “Yeah, he talks about them. He seems to think they’re… an extension of Harek’s family.” He shook his head slightly, frustration creeping back. “But I’ve never actually met them. And now, I’m supposed to trust them? Just like that? I am not a Gryffindor like Harry. I don’t just blindly trust people just because someone says so. This is our future we’re talking about!”

Liora’s smile softened, and her voice took on a comforting, almost motherly tone. “Draco, I know this is difficult. But the Grey Fang pack is unlike any others you’ve encountered. They’re not like the ones who tried to come for you last year. They aren’t the ones who hurt Harry either. They’ve been through more than you might expect, and their loyalty isn’t easily earned. But I can reach out to them. I’ll help connect you to the right person, someone within the pack who can help.”

Draco’s expression softened as he absorbed her words, the rawness in his chest giving way to a quiet understanding. “And you think they’ll actually help me? Help us?”

“Yes,” Liora said, her voice steady and reassuring. “The pack has been with us for many years, long before you and Harry came here. They’ve seen Harry’s heart, seen his spirit. That knowledge is not easily forgotten. I believe they will trust you if you show them that you’re willing to fight for one they consider their own. I believe the leader is under the assumption that Harry is Harek’s adoptive pup in that he is showing him the true way to be a wolf. ”

Draco didn’t say anything for a moment, but the knot in his chest began to loosen. The fear was still there, lingering at the edges, but there was something in Liora’s words that felt like the first step toward hope. He nodded slowly. “I’ll do whatever it takes to keep Harry safe.”

Liora stepped closer, her presence grounding him as she placed a hand on his arm. “I know you will, Draco. And they’ll see that. It won’t be easy, but it will be worth it.”

Later that morning, after Draco’s visit to Liora, she wasted no time in making plans. Her mind already working, she turned to Thalion and Harek, who had been waiting quietly in the cabin as she began to make arrangements.

“Thalion,” Liora began, her voice calm and decisive, “I need you to reach out to the Grey Fang pack. I know they’ve kept their distance from much of the wizarding world, but now we need their help.”

Thalion nodded, a silent understanding passing between them. “What exactly do you want me to ask of them?” he asked, his voice low and steady, his posture still and alert.

“I need them to help us find someone who can direct Harry and Draco with wizarding law,” Liora explained. “Books, scrolls—anything that can help them understand the current regulations. They’ll need to know about wizarding legal defense as well. There’s a lot of information they’ll need to navigate the world outside this village.”

Harek, who had been quietly listening, spoke up, his voice carrying the weight of experience. “The pack’s been living under the radar, but they’ve always had connections. I can reach out to the ones from the wizarding world. Some of them may know more than we realize about what’s going on with the laws, especially those who’ve had to hide in plain sight.”

Liora smiled at Harek’s words, appreciating the confidence he brought with him. “Exactly. They’ll have resources we don’t. They’ve always been resourceful. If anyone knows what books, laws, or people could help, it’ll be them.”

Draco, still processing everything, sat quietly at the table, his tea had gone cold. The uncertainty that had plagued him earlier was momentarily pushed aside by a quiet hope. It was a nice reminder to know that Harry and himself weren’t alone in this. Not with Liora, not with Harek, and not with the pack. And even though it felt like they were reaching out blindly, like so much of their life here had been, there was a strange comfort in the action. They were doing something, taking the first steps toward securing their future.

Liora turned to Thalion. “Can you arrange it, quickly? I am sure our boys would like to have a head start on this. We all know their future will be rife with trouble as it is.”

“I’ll speak to them now,” Thalion said, his voice steady as ever. His eyes moving to look at Draco. “It’ll take some time, but I know where to start. We’ll have something for you soon.”

As he left, Harek turned to Draco, his eyes sharp. “Don’t worry about the Grey Fang. They’ll get you what you need. That I promise you.”

Draco gave a small nod, though his mind was still a storm of worry and hope. “I’m not worried about them,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “I’m worried about everything else. About what happens next.”

Liora caught his gaze and gave him a soft, reassuring smile. “It’s alright to be worried. You’re doing the right thing. And you’ll find the answers you need.”

Draco didn’t say anything, but he felt a weight lift off his chest. He wasn’t alone in this fight. They all had their roles to play. And if the Grey Fang pack could guide him through the legal maze of the wizarding world, then maybe—just maybe—he could find a way to keep Harry by his side.

Weeks passed in a quiet, almost painful stillness. Draco kept his worries to himself, refusing to bring them up to Harry. He had convinced himself that he needed to maintain the facade that he had it all under control. That the Grey Fang pack would come through, that somehow, things would work out. Every time Harry asked about the situation, Draco would offer a confident smile, telling him that everything was fine, that he had spoken to Liora and were getting things sorted.

But inside, Draco was unraveling. The absence of any word from the pack made his stomach churn, and the longer it went on, the more desperate he became. He had put on a brave face, pretending like he wasn’t terrified of what could happen if they didn’t get the answers they needed.

And yet, in some strange way, it was during these weeks of silence that Draco found himself thinking about his father. The Manor, his father’s rules, the way Lucius had always had things under control—well, that was what Draco had tried to emulate when he first arrived at the village. The same methodical, calculated control that made him feel like he could protect Harry, protect their future.

But it wasn’t working. Not this time. It wasn’t the same as running the Manor, as having everything organized and predictable. He didn’t have thousands of galleons to throw at the situation or friends in high places to smooth things over. The situation they were in now wasn’t something that could be controlled by strict order, and the very thought of trying to do so made him feel lost. There was so much about his father’s world that Draco resented now. The constant pressure to conform, the hollow control that had done nothing but tear his family apart.

He didn’t want to repeat that. He wanted to choose a different way, even if that meant facing the unknown.

With the beginning of September rolling in, and Hogwarts was back in session, the quiet that had settled over the village was finally broken. Draco and Harry had been sitting outside the cabin, the late summer sun casting long shadows as they spoke about mundane things. Harry’s head was thrown back as he looked up towards the branches of the trees commenting on how they were starting to change when two men arrived. 

The morning light filtered softly through the trees when Thalion and the Grey Fang leader arrived at the cabin with a shabby-looking man following behind them. He was tall but hunched slightly, his clothes ragged and worn, the weight of years of hardship evident in every line of his face. Deep, crisscrossing scars marred his skin, but there was something about his eyes—haunted yet resolute—that made Draco pause. This man wasn’t just another stranger. There was something else there, something that connected him to a world Harry had always wanted to understand.

The Grey Fang leader stepped forward and introduced the man in his quiet, measured way. “This is Remus Lupin. He’s a guest of ours, and he’s temporarily working at Hogwarts. He’s stayed with us before. I thought it would be beneficial for you both to meet him.”

Draco studied him closely, sensing something familiar yet strange about the man. His protective instincts flared, but he kept his distance, his fingers slowly turning into talons, the veela in him humming to make a move when needed. He still wasn’t sure about other werewolves besides Harry and Harek. The reminder of what happened a year ago still haunted him some night. However, knowing this man might hold answers Harry had been searching for—well he couldn’t exactly say no. 

Harry, stood from his seated position beside Draco, was quiet. The air was thick with anticipation. And when Remus’s gaze landed on him, it was immediate—a flicker of recognition that sent a strange shiver down Harry’s spine. There was something in the man’s eyes, something that made Harry’s heart race with confusion.

Before Harry could make sense of it, the man—Remus surged forward, nearly shoving Draco aside as he quickly approached Harry, closing the space between them in a few long strides.

“My god,” Remus whispered, his voice breaking. His hands shot out, grabbing Harry and pulling him into a tight embrace. “Harry, you’re alive,” he breathed, choking on the words, his hands shaking as they held him. “You’re really alive.”

Harry stood frozen for a long moment, not knowing how to react. The suddenness of the hug was jarring, overwhelming, and Harry was struck by the emotion Remus radiated, but it wasn’t just the act of hugging—there was something desperate about it, something Harry couldn’t quite place. The man was holding him as though Harry’s existence meant something he could barely comprehend. 

Draco stood abruptly. His teeth sharpening, his talons digging into his palms, as he held himself back from ripping the werewolf away from Harry. One wrong move and it wouldn’t matter if he could help them or not. Nothing was above Harry’s safety. 

“I—what—?” Harry sputtered, feeling overwhelmed and confused. “Who are you? What—what is this?”

“Are you some fan of The Chosen One? Because that is not what we asked for. Fanatics have no place here,” Draco seethed between clenched teeth as he gripped the older mans arm ready to remove him quickly from Harry’s person.

Remus pulled back just enough to look at Harry, his hands still on Harry’s shoulders, his face pale and lined with grief. “I’m so sorry,” Remus moaned, his voice shaking with raw emotion. “I should have been there for you… I should have—” He stopped, swallowing hard, his breath shaky. “I never thought… never thought you’d be here. I thought you were lost to us forever.”

Harry’s mind raced, trying to make sense of what was happening, but it felt like a blur. “You know me?” Harry asked softly, unsure. “How do you know me?”

Remus nodded slowly, the tears welling up in his eyes. “I knew your parents. I was their best friend, Harry.” His voice cracked as the words slipped out. “I should’ve been there when you needed someone, but I failed you… I failed them. I was supposed to protect you. But I wasn’t there.”

Harry felt his heart twist at the words. His parents’ friend. He had always wondered about them—who they were, what they were like. “You were their best friend?” Harry repeated, his voice barely above a whisper. “Why didn’t anyone tell me about you?”

Remus looked down, guilt flooding his face. “I was a mess for awhile after…everything. I never got the chance to really be what you needed,” he said. “After everything that happened… after they died, I was such a mess. I couldn’t think straight. Dumbledore told me you’d be protected, that the place you were at would keep you safe from anything—even from You-Know-Who. So I believed him. But the longer it went on, the more I wondered. No one had heard anything about how you were doing. And when I heard you were at Hogwarts, I thought—maybe, maybe I could make sure you were alright.” Remus’s voice trembled as he spoke. “And then when you went missing… I became desperate to find you. I knew I had to. To make up for the mistakes I made. To honor your parents in a more meaningful way.”

Harry stood in stunned silence, processing Remus’s words. He had never been told about the protection Dumbledore had placed on him, and hearing it now left a bitter taste in his mouth. He’d spent so long in the dark, never understanding why things had played out the way they had. The realization that Dumbledore had kept him away from everyone who could have helped, everyone who had cared, hit him hard.

“I was placed with the Dursley’s,” Harry mumbled. 

“Lily’s sister?” Remus asked his brows furrowing. “Lily specifically said for you not to go there. Her sister—”

“Hated her and anything to do with magic,” Harry huffed with a kind of deprecation. “I know.”

“I didn’t know where you went, Harry. I had no idea. I thought… I thought you were somewhere safe. But when you disappeared, I—I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I failed you, and I failed your parents.”

The words stung more than Harry had expected. But the truth was undeniable: Harry had been kept from everyone who could have given him a sense of belonging, a connection to his past. To his parents.

Draco, who had been standing at the edge of the porch, released Remus’ arm, arm, he felt the change in the air. He wasn’t one to trust easily, and watching Remus break down like this… it made his skin crawl. But it was clear that Harry needed this. Needed this connection to someone who had known his parents, someone who could answer the questions Harry had carried for years.

Draco stepped forward, his voice sharp but not unkind. “You should’ve tried harder,” he said, his eyes narrowing slightly. “You could’ve done something. Harry doesn’t need your apologies now.”

He wouldn’t let anyone forget what they let Harry endure for all those years. 

Remus looked at Draco, his eyes filled with a quiet understanding. “I know,” he whispered. “But I’ll do whatever it takes now. To help Harry. To honor his parents the way they deserved.”

Draco glanced at Harry, his eyes softening just enough. “We’ll make sure you have what you need, Harry. You’ll get your answers. And we’ll make sure we’re ready for whatever comes next.”

Harry nodded slowly, still absorbing it all but grateful for the presence of both men in his life, even if it felt overwhelming. “I guess it’s time to hear the rest,” Harry said quietly, turning his focus back to Remus.

As the conversation between Harry, Remus, and Draco came to a quiet pause, the weight of everything that had been shared lingered in the air. Remus, looking as if he had carried the burden of years of regret on his shoulders, stepped back slightly, taking a long breath. He had spoken the truth, and it was a truth Harry had been desperate for, even if it was painful.

Remus, though still filled with sorrow, offered a small, understanding smile. “We will. We’ll make sure you get everything you need to know about your parents, Harry. Everything else Raul said you needed to know from me as well.”

Remus had nodded at the Grey Fang member. He had been quietly listening as Remus and Harry reconnected for the first time in thirteen years.

“I’ll go speak with Liora,” Raul nodded. “I am sure Thalion can show me where she is and I’ll have Harek bring Remus back to us later this evening.”

The three of them nodded in thanks as the other two left them to figure things out.

The air between them shifted. The tension that had built up in Harry’s chest from years of unanswered questions, unanswered pain, was slowly being replaced with something softer—hope. Even though the road ahead was still unclear, for the first time in a long time, Harry felt as if he had people beside him, people who would help him find the answers.

“Thank you,” Harry said quietly, his voice more steady now. “Thank you both.”

With that, Remus gave him one final, gentle pat on the shoulder, before stepping back. His eyes remained soft but focused, as if sensing the quiet peace that had settled in the space between them. “We’ll figure this out, Harry. Whatever you and Mr. Malfoy need. I am yours from now on.”

Draco, standing by Harry’s side, gave him a small, almost imperceptible smile. “And no matter what, Harry—whatever happens—we’ll do it together. That’s what matters.”

The moment hung between them, full of weight, of understanding, of something unspoken but deeply felt. The world outside might have been unpredictable and uncertain, but in this moment, in the shared space they occupied, there was a sense of calm, of solidarity.

And when Draco stepped back to open the door to their home, the boys both knew that this was a moment when everything began to change.

Chapter Text

The small cabin was bathed in the soft light of the late afternoon, the sun streaming through the slatted wooden shutters of the shack. Remus stood in the doorway, his gaze sweeping over the intimate space the boys had made their own over the past months. It wasn’t much—patchwork furniture, mismatched blankets, and a few hand-carved shelves holding books, supplies, and what little they had managed to gather in their time here. Despite its simplicity, there was a warmth to the space, a sense of comfort that came from the boys having made it theirs.

As Remus stepped inside, his eyes lingered on the small hearth at the center of the room, where a fire crackled low. Draco moved towards some roughly made chairs where he moved a few books off the seat. Harry leaned against the wall nearby, his hands fidgeting in front of him, as he looked around their small space bashfully. Though Remus could see that the two of them moved in a quiet, comfortable rhythm that spoke volumes of their bond. It was strange—seeing a Malfoy and a Potter together in such a place, sharing a life, a home. He had never imagined it. But there it was.

“It’s… it’s not what I expected,” Remus said quietly, almost to himself, as his gaze scanned the space. He shook his head slightly. “I mean… I never thought I’d see a Potter and a Malfoy living together. Not here. Not like this.”

Harry and Draco exchanged a glance, both of them uncertain how to respond. It was strange, hearing someone else acknowledge their unusual situation. But Harry broke the silence first, his voice casual, though laced with the underlying tension of his ever-present wariness.

“It’s… complicated,” Harry said. “But we’ve made it work. We don’t really need much, as long as we have each other.”

Draco’s lips curled into a faint, almost absent smirk, but Remus noticed the slight dip in his posture, as if the words themselves weighed on him. He could tell the Malfoy boy wasn’t as comfortable with the sentiment as Harry was, but there was something in his eyes that suggested he had accepted it. Harry had, after all, become his anchor here. And Draco, no matter how much he tried to mask it, had anchored himself in return.

Remus looked down, his nose twitching slightly as a new scent hit him. He had been so absorbed in his observations of the boys and their home that he hadn’t noticed it until now. There was something familiar—something distinctly wolfish—in the air.

He froze.

His eyes snapped back to Harry, who was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, watching him with quiet curiosity.

“Harry,” Remus whispered, stepping closer. His voice wavered as he continued. “You… you smell like a werewolf.”

The words hung in the air like a heavy weight. Harry’s gaze didn’t falter, but a flicker of something—something painful—crossed his face before he spoke.

“Yes,” Harry said quietly, his voice steady, though the vulnerability in his words was clear. “But it’s true. I’m a werewolf.”

Remus staggered back slightly, the shock hitting him like a punch to the gut. He could see the pain in Harry’s eyes at what he assumed was rejection, the way the words had weighed heavily on him even before Remus had confirmed what he had feared. “How?” he managed to ask, his voice strained with disbelief and a deep, growing sorrow. “When?”

Harry inhaled sharply, his gaze shifting to the floor. “I was attacked about two years ago? It happened when I was protecting Draco during his inheritance shift.” He paused, his throat tight. “I wouldn’t make any other choice. The change, the wolf… it’s part of me now.”

Remus felt his chest tighten as Harry spoke, his mind struggling to make sense of the situation. Harry—his Harry—was a werewolf. He had always known the boy had a connection to magic, something untapped, something wild, but this… this was a whole new layer of complexity. Remus couldn’t help the tears that welled up in his eyes as the weight of it all settled over him.

“I didn’t…” Remus whispered, his voice cracking. He fought to swallow the lump in his throat. “I wouldn’t wish this life on anyone, Harry. I didn’t know you were dealing with this. I’m so sorry.”

Harry met Remus’s gaze with quiet resignation. “It wasn’t your fault. You weren’t there. You didn’t know.”

But Remus could see how uncomfortable Harry and trying to hide. The loneliness of carrying this burden. He had lost so much, and now, to carry this too? Remus’s heart ached for him.

“It’s not just the bite, though,” Harry continued, his voice steadier now. “The village… Draco—they helped me accept it. They taught me how to control the wolf. How to ground myself. Now I can shift whenever I need to. I can change at will.”

Remus blinked, taking in Harry’s words. He hadn’t known Harry had been through so much. But as he looked around, as he noticed the small, subtle touches that suggested a life intertwined with the pack—an offering of safety, of protection—it began to make sense. This place, this village, had allowed Harry to become something more. Not just a survivor, but someone who had accepted who he was, who he had become.

“It’s… it’s something you’ve learned to live with,” Remus said quietly, his voice tinged with awe and sorrow.

Harry nodded. “Yes. It’s not easy, but I’m learning.”

Remus’s gaze softened, but there was something else in his eyes. The desire to help, to protect—things he had failed to do when Harry needed it most. “I’d like to know more about it and about the things you went through,” Remus said, his voice a little firmer now. “I’ve always been a guest of the pack, but I haven’t been part of it in the way you must be. I’d like to understand.”

Harry and Draco exchanged a quick look, as if the idea of sharing their experiences was a heavy decision. But Harry nodded, though his expression was filled with quiet uncertainty. “When the time comes, we’ll help you understand,” Harry said quietly. “We’ll show you what we’ve learned.”

Remus smiled faintly, the weight of the conversation still hanging over them. “Thank you, Harry.”

And then, Remus paused, his expression shifting slightly. “But there’s more, isn’t there?” he asked, his voice soft, yet filled with an understanding that Harry knew all too well. “Beside a Malfoy heir having a creature inheritance that is?”

“There’s a prophecy. The reason we can’t leave this village until we’re sixteen. Why we’ve stayed instead of returning,” Draco interrupted. Ignoring the comment about his lineage and focusing at the current problem. The tea kettle whistled as he busied himself making them all some clamming tea.

Harry nodded solemnly. “Yes. It’s a part of the magic. We’re bound here. There are things we have to understand, things we have to do before we can leave.”

Remus’s brow furrowed. “A prophecy?” he repeated, more to himself than anyone else. “How do you—how do you live with that? Knowing you’re bound here?”

Harry’s gaze softened as he looked affectionately over to Draco. “We don’t really have a choice,” he said quietly. “We just have to trust that it’s leading us somewhere. Together.”

Remus looked at both of them—Harry, still bearing the weight of everything he’d been through, and Draco, whose pride was matched only by his quiet dedication to Harry. And Remus couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of hope for them both. It would be a difficult road, but at least they weren’t walking it alone.

The small cabin was quiet now, the air heavy with the weight of everything that had been shared. Remus sat at the rough-hewn table, tea forgotten, his fingers tapping restlessly against the worn wood as he looked between Harry and Draco. His eyes were filled with a quiet urgency now, a desperate need to make up for lost time, to help in any way he could.

“I want to help,” Remus said, his voice soft but resolute. “I know I can’t change what’s already happened, but I—” He paused, collecting his thoughts. “Whatever you need. If you need help getting out of here and back to Hogwarts…or anywhere really. I’ll do my best. Besides that I do have a few resources, anything I can get you from Hogwarts until we find you somewhere safe, I’ll find a way.”

Harry exchanged a glance with Draco, both of them silent for a moment. Draco’s jaw was in a hard set line. Then Harry spoke, a casual tone masking the weight of his words.

“It’s appreciated,” Harry said slowly. “But we’ve been keeping to ourselves for a reason, Remus. We can’t have people knowing where we are, even if you’re trying to help. Dumbledore may have thought he was keeping us safe, but this…” Harry glanced around the room, his expression serious. “This has to stay hidden. The forest will decide when the time is right. We can’t risk exposing ourselves.”

Draco leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, a look of pure exasperation crossing his face. “Honestly, Remus, you think we’re just gonna waltz into the Hogsmead and tell the first person we see where we’ve been hiding out? Like we had a choice in the matter? We’re not exactly owling the ministry with updates. I am sure The Daily Prophet would love to know that their precious Boy-Who-Lived is now Werewolf besties whose been shacked up with a Malfoy who is now also now a veela.” 

Harry rolled his eyes, shaking his head at Draco. “Yeah, Draco. Let’s just have a public announcement,” he said with a smirk. “Maybe a parade. We will let them know all about what we’ve been up to for two years. Just a cheerful jaunt into the woods that took longer than expected.”

Draco’s lips quirked into a sly grin, his sarcasm cutting through the tension. “If there’s a parade, I’m not getting anywhere near it. Do you have any idea what my parents would try to make me wear?”

Harry chuckled, then turned his attention back to Remus. His face sobering up. “We can’t afford to have anyone know where we are. Not The Malfoy’s, not the school, no one. We’ve been living like this for a reason.”

Remus looked between them both, still absorbing the weight of the situation. His brow furrowed as he fiddled with the edge of his chipped cup. “I understand,” he said quietly, but his voice trembled with the hint of frustration and helplessness. “But Harry, Draco—don’t you think that keeping everything locked down, not letting anyone in, isn’t going to work forever? You need more than what you have here. You need people on your side.”

Draco shot him a pointed look, his gaze hard. “You don’t think we know that? We have Harek, Nessa, Thalion, Eullah, Liora and every other person we’ve come to love in this village. We have each other. We aren’t alone. We haven’t been in a long time.” His voice was sharp, cutting through the air. “We don’t need outsiders nosing around where they don’t belong. They don’t understand what we’ve been through. What we will go through if the prophecy is correct. That’s what we’ve been trying to avoid from the start.”

Harry stepped in, placing a placating hand on Draco’s forearm, his tone more controlled. “It’s not about not having people on our side, Remus. It’s about who we have on our side, and how we keep this secret.” He shook his head, almost frustrated at the misunderstanding. “The village, the pack, they’ve shown us how to live with this. We’ve survived this long only because of them, and we’re not going to throw that away just because you feel bad about not being there. This is our fight.”

Draco crossed his arms, clearly impatient. “No offense, Lupin, but we’re not interested in running away and playing some parts in Dumbledore’s made up game. If the forest decides it’s time for us to show up somewhere—fine. But until then, no one knows where we are, and that’s the way it has to stay.”

Remus exhaled slowly, rubbing his face. “I know. I just… I can’t help but feel like I should have been there. I should have done something sooner.”

“Well, it’s a little late for that,” Draco quipped, not missing a beat. “If you wanted to play the hero, you should’ve jumped in when we were twelve. Or maybe even sooner than that.” His gaze flicked to Harry, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “But then again, Harry was probably a lot more fun without the wolf to deal with.”

Harry’s eyebrow quirked, his dry humor seeping through. “Right, because I was a dream at twelve.” He shot Draco a sidelong glance. “The only thing more complicated than my wolf back then was the Dursleys.”

Draco snorted. “Well, I wasn’t exactly one to sit around and watch the melodrama.” He waved his hand airily. “But point being—what’s done is done, and now we deal with it. But this—” He pointed a finger at Remus. “—this stays between us. Understood?”

Remus, though still shaken by the revelation, nodded solemnly. “Understood. No one else will know.”

Draco gave him a sharp, calculating look. “Good. You’d better believe that if anyone gets curious, you’re not talking. Not even my parents or old school friends. We’re serious about this.”

Harry’s voice softened, the weight of the conversation sinking in again. “We are trusting you, Remus. But that doesn’t mean we can take risks. We’ve kept our lives hidden for a reason. We can’t jeopardize that now.”

Remus gave a small nod, his expression filled with regret but also understanding. “I won’t tell anyone, Harry. I won’t tell anyone, Draco. I just… I want to help.”

Draco uncrossed his arms, his expression softening slightly. “Well, you can help by keeping your mouth shut, Lupin. We’ve got enough trouble as it is. What we need are books on updated magical law, history and emancipation. When we do return, Harry can not go back to the Dursleys. I won’t be separated from him because some old man in a night gown thinks he knows better. ”

Remus sighed, but there was something in his eyes that had shifted—he no longer saw Harry and Draco as fragile boys who needed protection, but as two young men who had made a home, a life, despite everything the world had thrown at them. He could see their resolve, the way they were tied together by this shared fight, and while it tore at him to be powerless, he understood the necessity of their secrecy.

“Alright,” Remus said quietly, his voice steady but filled with emotion. “I’ll respect that. But know this—I’m not abandoning you. I can get some of the things you’ll need, I am sure most of that can be found in the Hogwart’s Libary and if not I’ll have Madam Pince to owl order them. I won’t speak about it. No one will know.”

“Good,” Draco said with finality. “You keep those lips sealed, and we’ll figure out how to move forward.”

Harry gave Remus a small, grateful smile. “Thanks. That means more than you know.”

There was a long pause, the tension starting to lift, though the gravity of their situation still lingered in the air. Harry and Draco had come to terms with their way of life; they had built their world together and they weren’t going to let anything—anyone—destroy it.

“The forest will decide,” Draco said softly, a flicker of something in his eyes. “And when the time is right, we’ll be ready.”

Remus watched them, a hint of admiration in his gaze, knowing that their future was uncertain, but for the first time, he saw hope there too. Hope and resilience, and a bond that nothing—not even the harshest forces—could break.

Chapter Text

The shack was quiet, save for the soft crackle of the fire in the hearth. Draco sat at the table, staring down at the ancient law books Remus had brought. They were piled high in front of him, their yellowed pages filled with scribbles and diagrams, some barely legible. He ran his fingers over the pages absently, his mind too distracted to focus. He wasn’t learning anything right now—not about wizarding law or magic—his mind was so far away.

The shift in his life had happened gradually, like a subtle change in the wind, but now it felt undeniable. Harry wasn’t spending as much time with him anymore. Remus had slipped into Harry’s world like a comfortable, well-worn coat, while Draco felt like he was left standing outside in the cold.

Draco let out a frustrated breath, flipping to the next page without reading a word. His veela instincts were a mess of confusion, restlessness, and a gnawing sense of loss that he couldn’t shake. It was a constant pull—wanting to be close to Harry, needing to claim him, protect him… but it was so much more than that. It was scary.

“Oi,” a voice called out from the doorway. “Still sulking, or have you actually managed to read something?”

Draco didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. Nessa had a way of barging in without so much as a knock, always buzzing with that manic energy of hers. She was holding a half-finished rune circle in one hand and a vial of something bubbling in the other. A fresh batch of potion ingredients, no doubt.

“Not sulking,” Draco muttered, not bothering to look up. “Just… reading.”

Nessa hummed as the laughter of Harry, Remus and Harek , well not Harek, drifted in through the open window. The three werewolves were out near the gardens edge laughing about something Draco couldn’t hear.

“Ah,” Nessa said as she moved inside the small shack and placed her items on an empty stool by the doorway. “Feeling a little bit left out, are we? Not spending enough time with Harry?”

Draco shook his head, frustration creeping into his voice. “It’s not just about the time we spend together,” he muttered. “It’s about… the way he looks at Remus. Like Remus has all the answers to every question he’s ever had. How comfortable he is. And it’s like, I can’t keep up. Every time I try to get closer to him, I feel… like I’m just some puppy barking for attention.”

The two of them were talking—too easily, Draco thought, his eyes narrowing as he heard their mumbled exchange. Harry’s laugh rang out once across the garden, carefree and light. Draco clenched his fists, the instinctive tug of something—something he didn’t want to name—tightening his chest. The tether between him and Harry, once a quiet connection, now hummed with an intensity that made it impossible to ignore. And all he could feel was the joy in Harry’s voice… but it wasn’t for him.

He could feel it through the bond—Harry was so happy with Remus. The sensation wrapped around Draco like a suffocating blanket, both overwhelming and maddening. It seemed to drown out Draco’s side of things. He should be happy for Harry. He knew that. But instead, there was this sharp, painful twist in his gut. He hated the way his chest hurt whenever Harry smiled like that, whenever Harry’s happiness wasn’t directed at him.

“You know,” Nessa’s voice called from behind him, dragging him out of his spiraling thoughts. “You look like a dog that’s been locked out in the rain.”

Draco didn’t turn around, but he heard her footsteps tapping on the uneven wooden slats as she approached. “I’m not a bloody dog, Nessa. Stop making comparisons.”

Nessa didn’t say anything for a moment, but Draco could almost feel her smile. “Oh, but you are, Draco. You’re in here pacing, sniffing around, and whining without even knowing it. You’re practically begging to be let outside.”

Draco scowled. “Don’t make it sound so… pathetic.”

She walked up beside him, nudging his shoulder with hers as she gazed through the open window that overlooked the garden. “You’re not pathetic. Just confused. Harry’s spending more time with Remus, and it’s probably throwing you off. Not exactly ideal, huh?”

He let out a short, humorless laugh. “You could say that.” He paused, his gaze fixed on Harry as his voice lowered, almost to himself. “It’s like I’m not… needed anymore.”

Nessa raised an eyebrow, but she didn’t pry. She knew when to push and when to let Draco work through things in his own time. “You’re not getting replaced, Draco,” she said gently, her voice softening with understanding. “Harry’s not going anywhere. He still trusts you. You’re still the epicenter of his entire world. But yeah, he’s growing up. You both are.”

Draco huffed, rubbing his hand across his face in frustration. “Growing up, right.” He turned his gaze toward her, his frustration seeping through. “But what if I’m just… not enough anymore? He’s got Remus, a real chance to have a family and I’ve got this—” He motioned vaguely to the cabin, the forest, everything around them. Then to himself. Sure he had riches beyond measure. But his family they will never accept Harry. They won’t welcome him with open arms like Remus had. “I don’t know how to compete with that.”

“Compete?” Nessa shot him a look, her voice wry. “You think Harry’s in some sort of competition with you? Draco, you’re missing the point.”

“Yeah, yeah. He’s got me and Remus, and now he’s too busy to notice me.” Draco snapped, then immediately regretted the sharpness in his tone. He slammed the book in front of him closed, a sharp breath leaving his mouth. “It’s like… everything’s changing. And I’m not sure I’m ready for it.”

Nessa tilted her head, watching him closely. “Well, that’s the trick, isn’t it? You’re not supposed to be ready. None of us are. But it’s happening my little bird. You have to either accept it, or you’ll end up fighting yourself until you break.”

Draco looked at her, his face softening, but only slightly. “How do you do it?” he asked, his voice almost vulnerable. “How do you just… let things happen? How do you know what to accept and what to reject?”

She didn’t hesitate. “You don’t. You just… do it. You make mistakes, you fix them, you move on.” Her voice dropped slightly, more serious now. “Sometimes you can’t control what happens around you, Draco. But you can control how you react to it.”

Draco let out a slow breath, eyes finally turning to look out the window, to the sight of Harry, now walking away from Remus and heading toward the shack. The smile on Harry’s face, still lingering from whatever conversation he’d shared with Remus, tightened the knot in Draco’s chest.

“You’re right,” Draco muttered. “But it still doesn’t make it easier.”

Nessa smirked, as she knocked her knuckles against one of the pile of books on the table. “Nothing ever is. But look on the bright side. At least you’re not alone in your feelings. You and Harry? You’re both figuring it out. And maybe… just maybe, you need to stop worrying about what Remus is doing and focus on what you need to do.”

Draco’s eyes flicked over to Harry again, watching as he entered the shack, his expression light and easy. And for a moment, Draco allowed himself to let go of the tightness in his chest. Harry’s smile didn’t belong to Remus. It belonged to Harry. 

“I’ll figure it out,” Draco whispered, more to himself than to Nessa. “I always do.”

Nessa gave him a sly grin. “Good. Because otherwise, you’re going to spend the rest of your life sulking in the corner while Harry and Remus go on endless walks in the forest. And nobody needs that drama.”

Draco snorted, feeling a flicker of amusement despite himself. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

She raised her hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. But remember, if you’re gonna be all mopey, at least do it somewhere where I don’t have to hear it. My patience is only so long, little bird.”

“I think I might hate you,” Draco muttered, though the ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. Harry was sat now on the porch shucking his boots off.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Nessa teased, moving back towards the doorway. “But seriously, Draco, you’ll figure it out.”

Draco watched her walk away, her words lingering in the air, as he watched her bop Harry on the head as she skipped back to her own cottage. Draco though he wasn’t sure if he was ready to take that step yet. He could feel the pull of Harry in every breath he took. And the tether? It was growing stronger, more intense with each passing day.

“Nessa helping you with the research?” Harry asked near breathlessly as he came to sit at the table across from Draco. 

Draco paused as he looked at him, feeling a flicker of warmth in his chest. Maybe it wasn’t about competing. Maybe it was about accepting. Whatever was happening with Harry and Remus, it didn’t have to change what he and Harry had built. It would just take time—and a little less brooding on his part.

“Hello? Anyone home? Or did reading finally break your brain like I always knew it would,” Harry laughed as he looked at him with that easy smile, Draco felt the pull of the tether again, but this time, it wasn’t overwhelming. It was steady, grounded.

“Finally found some space for me?” Draco asked, smirking, a little less guarded than before.

Harry raised an eyebrow, his lips curving into a smile. “You were waiting for me?”

Draco shrugged, his voice light but carrying something deeper beneath it. “You know me. Always need something to distract me from books and Nessa’s endless nonsensical ramblings.”

Harry laughed softly, and Draco let himself enjoy it, the knot in his chest loosening for the first time in what felt like ages. Maybe things weren’t perfect—but they didn’t need to be.

He just wasn’t sure what to do with it yet.

The next day the air inside the shack felt heavier than usual as Draco paced the small room. It had been hours since Harry left to meet with Remus again, and Draco hadn’t been able to focus on anything. He didn’t want to admit it, but the longer Harry was gone, the more he felt himself unraveling.

He hated it. He hated how weak it made him feel. There had been a time—just a few weeks ago—when everything had been simpler. He and Harry had been inseparable, bound by a shared history that had kept them close. But now? Now there was this slow, gnawing distance, an ache in Draco’s chest that he couldn’t shake. No amount of pep talks from Nessa seemed to be working either.

He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. It was becoming harder to ignore the fact that he wasn’t spending nearly as much time with Harry anymore. Harry had Remus now—someone who could guide him in ways Draco couldn’t. And what did Draco have to offer? A few books on wizarding law, some snarky remarks, and a veela instinct that was only getting stronger, more demanding.

Every time Harry smiled at Remus, every time their voices rose in laughter, Draco felt like something was being ripped from him. It was like being cast aside, pushed to the corner, and the worst part was that Harry didn’t even seem to notice. He didn’t notice the way Draco was pulling away. He didn’t notice the quiet desperation that tugged at Draco’s insides every time he felt the tether between them weakening, stretched thin.

His feet moved without thinking, carrying him towards the corner where he kept his things. He grabbed a cloak, muttering curses under his breath. He couldn’t just sit here and do nothing. He couldn’t just let it go, could he?

Draco pulled the cloak over his shoulders, his fingers trembling slightly. He was used to being in control—of his emotions, of his magic, of his entire life. But this? This… this was different. And he couldn’t stand it. It felt like the beginning of heat but without the burning edge of need.

What he did need was to be outside. Needed to feel the cold air, needed the distance from Harry that had already stretched so far. He would stretch his wings and try to toss the insane feelings he was having aside. 

By the time Draco reached the edge of the woods, the world had grown quiet, the trees casting long shadows in the evening light. He didn’t go deep into the forest; he didn’t need the pack right now, and honestly, he wasn’t sure he wanted to be around them.

The pack didn’t understand. He had no wolf in him—no natural inclination to run with them. It was hard to connect with creatures who were so at home in the wild, so far removed from the world Draco had known.

No, it was the distance from Harry that Draco needed. He needed to be alone with his thoughts, far away from that warmth and safety Harry had found with Remus.

He sat down against a tree, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. The wind was colder than he expected, and his breath came out in visible puffs. October has come quickly and with it a chill that would soon seep into his bones. It helped a little, the quiet, the cold, the solitude—but it didn’t do enough. Nothing did. Nothing could fill the ache inside him.

A faint tug at the tether snapped him out of his reverie, and he looked toward the shack, where Harry was probably still with Remus. They were probably talking about werewolves, about things Draco had no real interest in. Things he didn’t even know how to be a part of anymore.

Draco clenched his jaw. He couldn’t keep pretending this wasn’t happening. Harry was slipping away, bit by bit, and Draco had to figure out how to stop it—or at least how to make it hurt less.

It wasn’t that he hated Remus. Far from it. But Draco had been the one to keep Harry safe, to teach him things that no one else could. They had shared everything: laughter, pain, survival. But now, it felt like Harry was gravitating toward someone who had answers Draco didn’t. Someone who had a place for Harry that Draco didn’t fit into.

He had tried to broach the subject like Nessa had suggested. But everytime he did he felt absolutely ridiculous. Harry didn’t need this right now. He didn’t need to listen to Draco’s childish insecurities. He needed Draco to be strong, to figure out their future in a way that supported them both.

Instead Draco’s instincts—veela instincts—roared in protest, a twisted, suffocating sensation that crawled through his veins. He hated feeling this way, but the desire to claim—to make Harry his—was undeniable.

He gritted his teeth, shaking his head as if he could shake off the sensations swirling in him. But they were still there. Just underneath the surface. Every time he closed his eyes, every time he thought of Harry, he felt the pull. Along with it a feather from Draoc’s wings fell to the ground.

The meal had gone cold, the scent of their dinner lingering in the quiet cabin, but Harry couldn’t bring himself to eat. He stared at his plate, the warmth from the hearth providing little comfort against the gnawing frustration in his chest. It had been hours since Draco had disappeared into the woods, the same way he had so many times lately. The silence between them had grown longer, and Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

Draco hadn’t been acting like himself. He hadn’t been talking like himself. He’d become… distant, closed off in a way Harry couldn’t quite understand. It was as if they were two people who had once been inseparable but had somehow drifted apart. And Harry? He didn’t know how to fix it.

By the time night had fully fallen, Harry had all but finished his meal in silence. He pushed his plate away, his eyes still scanning the door. He waited. The weight of the unanswered questions felt heavy on his chest.

The door creaked open, and Draco stepped inside, the cold air following him like a shadow. His cloak was damp from the evening mist, his face unreadable as he closed the door behind him. The room was silent for a long moment as Draco shook off the remnants of the night’s chill.

Harry’s eyes tracked his every movement, the space between them thick with things unsaid. Finally, Harry broke the silence, his voice cautious but carrying an edge of concern. “Where did you go?”

Draco barely glanced at him, his eyes still distant. “Out for a walk.”

“You’ve been gone a while,” Harry observed, his tone not accusatory but still probing. He narrowed his eyes, his gaze shifting from Draco to the now-cold food on the table. “Everything alright?”

Draco let out a short breath, his shoulders stiff as he looked away. “Yeah. I just… needed some space.”

Space. Harry’s chest tightened at the word. Space was all he seemed to be getting from Draco lately. The coldness between them was palpable, and it wasn’t just physical. There was something more. Something Harry couldn’t put into words.

He hesitated for a moment, but then moved to sit beside Draco, his body slightly turned toward him, a subconscious attempt to bridge the growing gap. The air between them was thick with things left unsaid, unspoken. Harry could feel the tension in Draco’s posture, the way he stiffened slightly at the approach, but still, he pressed on.

“You’ve been acting weird,” Harry said softly, his voice not accusing, but thick with quiet curiosity. He studied Draco’s face, the way his eyes seemed to focus on everything except him. “I can feel it, you know? You’re… pulling away. The tether has been so tight lately. What’s going on, Draco?”

The silence between them stretched long. Draco didn’t answer immediately, his eyes fixed on the fire, but Harry could see the sharp tension in his jaw. He could feel the hesitation, the weight of something Draco was unwilling to share.

The frustration inside Harry built. It wasn’t just the silence. It was the way Draco was so damn distant. They’d always had a connection, an understanding between them that didn’t need words. But now? Now it felt like that connection was slipping. Their tether felt frayed and only held together by a few threads. And Harry? He had no idea how to stop it. How to reach out and pull Draco back from whatever place he’d gone to inside his own mind.

Draco shifted, his hand clenching and unclenching on his knee, but still, he didn’t meet Harry’s eyes.

Harry took a deep breath, trying to keep his tone steady, but there was a tremor of frustration there. “You’re not fine,” he said, his voice quieter this time. “You can’t just shut me out every time things get hard, Draco. We’ve talked about this before. We’ve been through too much for this silence.”

Draco’s gaze flicked to Harry for a split second before turning away again. He ran a hand through his hair, the tension in his shoulders unmistakable. The sight of it, the way he pulled away, tore at Harry’s insides.

“You don’t understand,” Draco said finally, his voice strained and small. “I’m not who you think I am. You think I’m just… this… thing you can fix. But I’m not. I can’t be what you need me to be. I’m just… I’m just trying to survive this.”

Harry frowned, his heart sinking at the vulnerability in Draco’s voice, but also the desperation. He hadn’t realized Draco had been feeling this way. Draco was usually a hot bed of emotion. A roaring fire against everything they’ve been through. Had been so ignorant in his responsibilities?

“You’re not alone, Draco,” Harry said as he tried to brush his fingers against Draco’s wrist. “I’m not going anywhere. You don’t have to carry all of this by yourself.”

Draco’s lips tightened, and for a moment, Harry swore he saw something raw in his eyes. But it was gone before he could fully process it. “You don’t get it, Potter,” Draco muttered, his words like a knife twisting in Harry’s chest. “You don’t understand what this is like. Being this. Feeling everything. Knowing—”

The weight of those words hung heavy in the air as Draco cut himself off, and Harry could feel the isolation seeping into his own bones. He reached out stronger this time, his hand nearly wrapping around lightly against Draco’s forearm, the touch lingering just long enough to feel the warmth of him.

But Draco flinched. It was almost imperceptible, but Harry saw it. Saw the way Draco pulled back, just slightly, like something deep inside him was screaming to push him away.

Harry took a step back, his chest tight with the weight of it. “I’m not going to push you, Draco. I just want you to let me in. Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out. Please.”

Draco’s lips twisted into a thin, tight line as he wrenched himself away from Harry. “Nothing’s going on.. What do you want me to say? That you’ve got your head so far up your arse that all you can do is pay attention to everyone but me?” He threw his hands up in frustration. “Is that what you want me to say?”

Harry recoiled slightly, his chest tightening at the sharpness in Draco’s voice. “That’s not fair,” he said quietly, but the sting in Draco’s words was too raw, too pointed. “I haven’t been ignoring you. I just want to know what’s happening and Remus is only here a few days each week. You’re more than welcome to join us!”

“You don’t get it,” Draco muttered, his voice low, eyes burning. “You don’t get anything. You’ve got your own little world now—Remus, Harek, the pack and your endless werewolf stuff. You’re doing things I can’t follow and I’m just supposed to keep up with it all? I am not what you need anymore. I don’t think I have ever been honestly. You would have been just fine out here all on your own wouldn’t you? I am the one who is always needing something,” He shook his head, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. 

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I don’t have —.”Draco choked out as tears slipped from the corners of his eyes. A few more feathers fluttered down to the ground around him, unnoticed. 

Harry stood up abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor as he moved towards Draco. “Don’t do this, Draco,” he said, his voice low but firm. “Don’t pretend like I’m the one who’s been pushing you away. I’m not the one disappearing into the woods every chance I get.”

Draco snapped, his gaze flashing with something dangerous. “Maybe that’s what I need, Harry. To get away. To stretch my wings and be me without you for a little while. Because let’s be real here for a moment shall we? I am nothing without The Chosen One there to save me. I’m tired of it! I am tired of the hero having to save me all the damn time! You have other people to worry about now.” He turned sharply toward the door, his hand clenched around the doorknob as though he could escape it all in one motion. “I don’t need your pity. I don’t need your—”

“You’re not alone, Draco,” Harry cut in, stepping forward again, his voice quieter now but full of a quiet desperation. “I’m not going anywhere. You’ve never been alone, not with me. I don’t pity you either and you’re a right prat if you think I believe any of that bullshit you just spat out.”

But Draco’s shoulders stiffened, and before Harry could take another step, Draco wrenched the door open. The sound of the wood slamming against the frame reverberated through the shack like the final nail in a coffin.

“Draco—” Harry began, his voice laced with frustration and something softer, something that tugged at his chest, but Draco was already gone.

The cool night air hit Draco like a slap, but it was nothing compared to the storm raging inside him. He barely registered the darkness around him, the whisper of trees in the wind. All he could hear, all he could feel, was the voice in his head—the voice of the veela inside him, screaming for attention, for connection, for something.

He didn’t know where he was going, didn’t care. He just needed to get away from Harry, from the suffocating presence of everything that was changing. He needed to escape the feeling that he was losing Harry, that the bond they shared was slipping away, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

As he trudged deeper into the woods, he couldn’t stop the burn in his chest. He hated this. Hated the pull of his veela instincts, the way they demanded closeness and connection. He hated how needy he felt, how weak and vulnerable, as if he was supposed to just give in to these feelings and let them take over.

His wings unfurled in frustration, stretching out behind him. The faint shimmer of his feathers caught the moonlight, and Draco’s eyes narrowed as he felt a few of the white feathers flutter off, falling to the ground beneath him. He had been growing them slowly—almost imperceptibly—but this? This was too much. He didn’t know what it meant nor did he have the brain space to even acknowledge it. 

Draco clenched his jaw, hands trembling as he reached for the feathers, barely able to look at them. His breath hitched, the raw frustration of it all welling up inside him. He was broken. This wasn’t who he was supposed to be. He wasn’t supposed to be this weak, this emotional. His hands shook as he tried to gather the feathers, his eyes stinging with a mixture of anger and something else he couldn’t identify.

“I’m losing it,” Draco whispered to himself, voice cracking. The tears welled up, and though he fought to hold them back, it felt like he was drowning in his own frustration.

The sound of a rustling in the bushes made him stop dead in his tracks. He turned sharply, his heart pounding in his chest as his eyes darted to the shadows. His hand instinctively drew up a fire ball.

Then he saw it. A dark shape, moving silently through the trees. It was big, far too large to be any normal animal, and before Draco could react, it lunged from the shadows.

Draco staggered back, but the massive, matted black dog—its fur glistening in the moonlight—was upon him in a heartbeat. It was too fast, too powerful, and before Draco could make sense of it, the creature’s hot breath was on his neck, its large body pressing against him. 

He hadn’t meant to be so caught off guard. All those months of training gone to waste as the heavy beast laid on top of him. He pushed against it, trying to shove it off, but the dog wasn’t moving.

“Get off me!” Draco hissed, his voice shaky with fear and frustration. But the dog just stayed there, unmoving.

Then, without warning, Draco’s body froze. A horrible chill descended on him, and his vision darkened. The air grew even colder, and he knew immediately what it was. 

A dementor.

The beast—no, the black dog—growled and lunged forward, snarling at the dementor. But Draco could hardly focus. He was dizzy, falling to his knees, overwhelmed by the cold despair that threatened to swallow him whole. The dark shape of the dementor hovered just in front of him, reaching for his soul with its bony, cold hands.

All of his feelings lately about Harry, Remus and his lack of…everything came tumbling to the forefront of his mind. His veela instincts screamed at him. A sorrow filled screech filled the forest. His wings felt more like a burden than they ever had before. Tears cascaded down his cheeks as the dementors bone hand reached out towards him as if leaning in for a kiss. 

But the black dog was there, pushing Draco away from the grasp of the dementor, its body a protective shield as the creature hissed and retreated. Draco’s hands shook as his head snapped to the side and was brought back to the present. He looked up at the dog, still dazed, still frozen by the lingering effects of the dementor’s presence.

The black dog didn’t move. Instead, it stood over Draco, watching him with glowing eyes, so eerily similar to his own, its form almost regal in the moonlight.

Draco’s breath came in ragged gasps, his body trembling from the cold. He didn’t know what had just happened, or why the dog had protected him, but he felt the raw, unspoken understanding between them. He was still alive, thanks to this creature—this black dog—and yet, it only made him feel more lost than ever.

The dog turned, its tail flicking once before it began to disappear into the trees, as silently as it had come.

Draco, still on his knees, could only stare after it, his mind reeling with a thousand questions. But the one thing that was clearer than anything else was the feeling in his chest—the one that still gnawed at him. The tether between him and Harry, still there, still pulling even though it felt thread-bare, but now a painful reminder of how close he had been to losing everything.

Chapter Text

Draco’s body felt like it was sinking, weighed down by the deep, relentless cold of the dementor’s presence. He had never felt such a hollow ache, a void that spread through his chest, draining him of energy, of life. His wings, once so full of potential, now felt heavy and useless, their edges dragging along the forest floor as he struggled to stay upright. More of his feather’s fell away with each breath. He could feel the world slipping away, the cold creeping deeper into his bones, threatening to pull him into an abyss of darkness.

He didn’t know how long he had been lying there, the night stretching on forever, but it felt like eternity. The trees above him were silent, their shadows thick and oppressive. The only sound was the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze. He wanted to scream. To lash out. But he couldn’t move. He couldn’t feel.

He reached out to his tether. A once warm, hopeful beacon, that led him always to Harry was nothing more than open wound. It gaped like an open maw ready to swallow him whole. Worst of all, Harry wasn’t on the other side. 

He wailed in the darkness. His veela’s painful, agonizing bird-like scream only seemed to be heard by no one.

And then, through the silence, came a sound—a thudding, rhythmic step, heavy but sure. The ground shook slightly with each step, and Draco’s head lifted just enough to catch the glint of movement through the underbrush.

It wasn’t the pack. Not a wolf, not even a person. This was something else entirely.

A figure emerged from the shadows, tall and imposing, its body dark against the moonlight. It moved with the quiet elegance of something ancient—something wild. The creature had the wide muscular torso similar to Draco’s abraxan at the manor, it’s arms and legs were full of power and strength, and its head was adorned with a thick mane of hair that seemed to ripple like the waters surface at Black Lake. Its eyes dark eyes glowed faintly, an otherworldly blue-black that shimmered in the dark.

It was a Kelpie, one of the most elusive and dangerous creatures of Scottish folklore—part water spirit, part wild beast. But in that moment, it was neither terrifying nor hostile. It moved toward Draco slowly, the earth beneath its bare feet pulsing with power.

Draco couldn’t move, his breath shallow and ragged, but he watched in awe as the Kelpie lowered it’s self down toward him. Its gaze was steady, piercing, as if it could see every part of him—the fear, the frustration, the weakness.

With a soft huff, the Kelpie moved closer. It knelt in front of him, bringing its head down to nudge Draco gently with its face. So similar to that of a horse it took him back. The warmth of its breath against his skin was comforting, grounding. Draco didn’t know why he felt drawn to it, but he did.

“You’re not meant to die here,” the Kelpie’s voice rumbled, deep and resonant, like the sound of distant thunder.

Draco’s chest tightened at the sound. He couldn’t fully process the words, but something in the Kelpie’s tone soothed the panic gnawing at him. The creature was here—here to protect him. That much he understood.

“I’m… not supposed to be here,” Draco whispered, though his voice was barely more than a rasp. He didn’t have the energy to sit up, but he still tried to lift his head. The Kelpie’s eyes met his again, and it let out a low, comforting hum, its eyes narrowing in what could only be called understanding.

It gently nudged Draco again, this time with more insistence. There was no malice in its actions—only an undeniable need to help. To protect.

And despite himself, Draco’s body finally relaxed, giving in to the creature’s presence. He could feel his wings, heavy and awkward behind him, and though they ached with the weight of his own emotional turmoil, they weren’t the cause of his collapse. It was something else—the cold, the emptiness that lingered after the dementor’s attack. The Kelpie’s presence, powerful yet calming, seemed to fill the void.

“I can’t… go back,” Draco murmured, his voice barely audible. “Not after everything. Not after this. I’m too far gone. Let it take me. Let me be free of this burden.”

The Kelpie’s large form moved then, this time offering Draco something unexpected—the kelpie, very obviously male now that draco was seeing him up close, scooped him up in his arms. The gesture wasn’t one of force; it was a commanding decision made by the forest and all her creatures in it.

“You are not gone yet,” the Kelpie’s voice echoed in Draco’s mind, low and firm. “Come. Rest.”

For a moment, Draco hesitated, the pain still gnawing at his insides, but he knew he couldn’t stay out here—not like this. He needed to get back. To somewhere familiar. To safety.

Slowly, Draco relaxed into the Kelpie’s embrace, his body shaking with the effort. His tattered wings hung heavily behind him, the tips dragging against the forest floor. The creature moved fluidly, almost gracefully, its movements steady as it carried Draco through the darkened woods.

The journey felt endless, but Draco was too tired to resist. He rested against the Kelpie’s warm body, the cool night air still biting at his skin, but the creature’s steady pace provided the comfort he needed. As they traveled, Draco allowed his eyes to drift shut, the exhaustion from the dementor’s attack and his emotional turmoil finally catching up with him.

He didn’t know where the Kelpie was taking him—didn’t care. All he knew was that for the first time in hours, he wasn’t alone. For the first time, he could feel the ache inside him begin to ebb, replaced by the strange but grounding presence of the Kelpie.

By the time they reached their destination, Draco was barely conscious, his body slumping against the Kelpie’s back. They stopped at a quiet, secluded cabin just on the edge of the village, where the creature gently lowered him to the ground.

The Kelpie nuzzled him once more, its deep, rumbling voice soft. “Rest here young fledgling. Nerion will keep you safe and will not leave you.”

And for the first time in this very long night, Draco allowed himself to fall into unconsciousness, his mind finally free of the weight of his thoughts.

Harry awoke with a start, the scream tearing through the night air like a knife. His heart leapt into his throat, and his eyes snapped open, wide and frantic. He had been lying on the bed in their shack, waiting for Draco to return, but sleep had eventually claimed him. The moonlight filtered through the makeshift window, casting an eerie glow across the room.

The first scream was distant, muffled, but unmistakable. The sound of it clawed at his chest, pulling him from his restless sleep. His pulse hammered in his ears as he bolted upright, heart racing. His mind was foggy, but the panic hit him like a tidal wave. He could hear the second scream clearer now—louder, more desperate. Like someone was dying.

Draco.

Harry shot out of bed without thinking, his feet hitting the cold wooden floor, the rough texture of the floorboards barely registering. He grabbed for his cloak, not bothering with his shoes, and yanked open the door of the shack. The cold night air hit him like a bucket of water, but the urgency had already consumed him.

He stumbled forward, his bare feet hitting the ground as he ran into the village square, where the faint light of lanterns cast long shadows on the thatched path. Villagers were spilling out of their homes at the ruckus. The air was thick with tension, and the silence that had once been peaceful now felt suffocating. 

And then, he saw it.

A massive black dog. A beast, dark as night, charging into the village center, its eyes glowing eerily in the dim light. It was causing a scene, barking, snarling as it grabbed at at one of the villagers, trying to usher him toward the woods, leaving chaos in its wake.

What the hell…?

“Draco?” Harry’s voice was a hoarse whisper, panic flooding his chest as he searched the faces of the villagers looking for his…what ever Draco was to him now. 

But he couldn’t find him and the panic began to rise up within him once again. Nearly choking him with his inability to find in the chaos.

 There was no time to waste. He needed to find him now.

He turned and nearly collided with Nessa, who had appeared from the shadows, her face tight with concern.

“Have you seen Draco?” Harry demanded, his words rushed, filled with a mix of fear and frustration. 

Nessa’s eyes widened. “No, Harry. I haven’t seen him. I thought he was with you.”

Harry grabbed at his hair in frustration and fear. “Where is he? Where the hell is he, Nessa?”

Before Nessa could respond, Harek appeared at Nessa’s side, his hand gripping Harry’s arm with surprising force.

“You’re needed in the woods,” Harek said, his tone urgent, his eyes scanning the village with concern. “Now. Follow the dog.”

Harry didn’t argue. Panic twisted in his chest, and his instinct kicked in. Without thinking, he allowed Harek to pull him forward, stumbling on bare feet, as they followed the black dog into the woods. The creature led them deeper, its growls reverberating through the trees, pushing them onward with an urgency that matched Harry’s.

The dog stopped suddenly, and Harry’s breath caught in his throat as they reached a clearing. The tension in the air was thick, and as Harry stepped forward, he could smell it—the faintest trace of Draco and so much fear. The distinct scent of his feathers, mixed with the crisp night air had him gasping for breath as he forced himself to stay in his human form. But there was no sign of him. Only the soft rustle of leaves and the flickering shadows beneath the trees.

Harry’s heart sank as he looked at the ground. Feathers. Draco’s feathers.

He crouched, eyes scanning the clearing desperately. But there was no scent trail. No sign of Draco.

“What’s happening? Where is he?” Harry’s voice cracked, his eyes wide with terror as he looked at Harek and Nessa, his body trembling with the weight of the fear crawling up his spine.

Harek stepped forward, kneeling beside the feathers. His expression darkened as he touched them gently, his brow furrowing in thought. “He was here. He’s been here,” Harek muttered, his voice low. “But there’s no trail… no scent leading away from this spot.”

The panic surged again, twisting Harry’s gut into knots. 

“Can you feel that?” Nessa murmured as she held out a ruin stone in the air. “Dark magic was here. Death and sorrow.”

“He’s… dead, isn’t he? He’s been eaten, Harek.” The thought was unbearable, but Harry couldn’t stop it from slipping out. His mind was spiraling, each moment darker than the last.

“Not necessarily,” Harek replied, standing up slowly. “We’ll form a search party. We’ll find him.”

Harry turned to look at Nessa, her face pale as she studied her ruin stone. She looked up sharply at him as if she had come to some sort of conclusion or plan. She took a step toward him, her hand resting gently on his shoulder. 

“I’ll get Eullah and Liora. We can track his magic signature,” she said quietly, her voice trembling with the weight of what was happening. “We won’t stop searching. We’ll find him.”

Harry could only nod, the words dying in his throat. His mind raced with images of Draco, alone, in pain. The tether had gone, and Draco was… he didn’t dare say or think it again.

The weight of it settled into Harry’s chest like a stone, and he felt himself swaying on his feet. “Please, Nessa. Please find him. I don’t know what I’d do—”

“You’re not alone, Harry,” Nessa interrupted softly, squeezing his shoulder. “We’ll bring him back. I promise.”

Harek glanced at Nessa before turning his attention back to Harry. “Stay here. Nessa and I will get help. You wait, alright?”

Harry nodded again, though his heart was still pounding. His body shook with fear, his thoughts chaotic and wild. All he could think about was Draco. He had to find him. He couldn’t lose him.

The others had gone quickly, their footsteps disappearing into the woods as they moved to gather help, leaving Harry standing alone in the clearing. The dog stood in front of him, its glowing eyes never leaving Harry’s face, as if waiting for something—an order, an explanation, something Harry didn’t know how to give.

Harry could feel his breath quicken, his heart hammering in his chest as his mind raced. He was alone in the woods, his connection to Draco severed, the tether gone, and now he had this black dog—this creature—standing in front of him. It wasn’t human, wasn’t anything he could easily understand. But it was here. And it was leading him, guiding him, and Harry didn’t know whether to trust it or not.

“Where’s Draco?” Harry finally asked, his voice more desperate than he meant it to be. “What happened to him?” He wasn’t sure if he was speaking to the dog, to the air, or to himself, but the words felt like they needed to be said.

The dog didn’t respond, of course. It never did. Instead, it simply stood there, its fur rippling in the wind, its gaze intense and unblinking. Harry shifted uncomfortably, his fingers twitching as he clenched and unclenched them at his sides. The weight of the silence between them was unbearable. The longer he stood here, waiting, the more the fear ate away at him.

“Why won’t you just tell me what happened?” Harry muttered, frustration leaking into his voice. “Where is he? He’s—he’s gone out there, isn’t he?” He almost couldn’t bring himself to say the words. The thought that Draco might be gone, lost to the woods, lost to something darker, was too much to bear.

The dog shifted, taking a slow step forward, its large form nearly blocking the faint moonlight. Harry froze, heart hammering in his chest again. The dog let out a low growl, deep and resonant, before it turned toward the trees.

Without thinking, Harry followed, his feet moving before his mind could catch up. His breath was shallow as he sprinted after the creature, heart pounding harder with each step.

The night was colder now, the woods darker. It felt as though the forest itself was pressing in around him, its thick branches stretching overhead like grasping hands, blocking out the stars. The dog moved effortlessly, its paws making no sound on the soft earth, while Harry’s own steps seemed too loud, too frantic.

As they moved deeper into the woods, Harry’s eyes darted around, expecting something—anything—to jump out at him. But the only sound was the rustling of leaves and the occasional creak of the trees.

The dog stopped abruptly, turning to face Harry. It stood there for a moment, its glowing eyes fixed on him, its breathing steady and measured. Harry’s heart sank into his stomach. It was as if the creature had been waiting for him to realize something, but what? He had no idea.

“What am I supposed to do?” Harry asked quietly, his voice trembling as he stared at the dog. “You’re leading me somewhere, but I don’t know what I’m supposed to be looking for. Where is Draco? Is he even still—”

Harry’s breath caught in his throat as he stared down at Draco’s feathers scattered across the forest floor. They glistened in the dim moonlight, white and iridescent silver, unmistakably his. His heart twisted painfully in his chest as the weight of what he was seeing sank in. There was no Draco. No signs of his presence anywhere except for the feathers. His pulse raced, and his mind screamed at him to make sense of it, to make something make sense, but nothing did.

“No… no, no, no.” His voice cracked with the fear that was threatening to swallow him whole. He sank to his knees, trembling, and gathered the feathers in his hands, pressing them to his chest as though holding on to something that could anchor him to reality. But there was nothing. Nothing but the overwhelming absence of Draco. His breath hitched as he held the feathers close, squeezing his eyes shut, trying to fight off the panic threatening to consume him.

Draco… where are you?

The dog stood silently beside him, watching intently, its glowing eyes never leaving Harry’s face. Then, with a soft whine, the dog moved forward, nudging Harry’s arm gently, as if sensing his growing distress. It didn’t speak—dogs couldn’t—but the warmth of its presence was grounding, comforting in a way Harry hadn’t expected. Slowly, the dog wiggled its way into Harry’s arms, its broad chest pressing against Harry’s, as though offering silent reassurance. The weight of the dog’s body was strangely calming, a warmth that seeped into Harry’s bones, making him feel less alone in the cold, empty clearing.

Harry let out a choked laugh, the sound filled with both relief and sorrow. He buried his face in the dog’s thick fur, his hands still clutching the feathers against his chest. The dog whimpered, its tail wagging slightly in an attempt to comfort him, the soft, rhythmic motion almost like a lullaby in the middle of the chaos.

“I can’t lose him,” Harry whispered, his voice muffled against the dog’s fur. “I can’t. He’s my whole world.”

The dog’s ears perked up, its light eyes meeting Harry’s with an intensity that felt almost human. It let out another low whine, nudging Harry’s cheek with its snout as if to reassure him. But then, without warning, the dog wiggled away, stepping back and looking toward the forest.

The dog let out one last mournful whine before turning its head back toward the trees, its body slowly retreating into the shadows. Harry felt his chest tighten, an emptiness spreading through him. The dog was leaving him here, alone.

He couldn’t understand it. There was no trail to follow. No sign of Draco. Nothing.

He was supposed to be here. He should be here.

Harry still on his knees in the clearing, his hands clutching the feathers tighter against his chest, as if they could somehow bring Draco back. His heart felt like it was breaking all over again, the weight of the unanswered questions suffocating him.

“Please,” he whispered, his voice barely audible in the stillness. “Please don’t let this be it.”

The only response was the soft rustle of leaves in the wind. The dog had disappeared, and the silence felt deafening.

Draco’s eyes fluttered open, the light of the room dim and unfamiliar. His body ached, the dull throb in his wings reminding him of everything that had happened—the dementor, the cold, the feeling of being torn apart. He was surrounded by soft moss and duck feathers, the scent of earthy warmth filling the air. But the first thing he noticed as he lay there, disoriented, was the silence. There was a lack of something.

The tether.

He blinked rapidly, confusion spreading like wildfire. The tether—his connection to Harry—was gone.

Draco shot upright in a panic, his breath catching in his throat. His wings strained uncomfortably as he tried to steady himself, the panic rising higher in his chest. He reached for his chest, for the connection he should feel—the comforting pulse that always lingered there—but there was nothing. Nothing but an empty, hollow space.

He could feel it. The absence. Like a missing limb that was supposed to be there. His heart raced, and he felt a wave of dread wash over him.

Where is it? Where’s the tether? Where’s Harry?

“What the hell is happening?” Draco muttered to himself, his voice hoarse and panicked. “No, no, no…”

He shoved himself to his feet, his legs unsteady, his wings twitching behind him. The cabin around him was unfamiliar, warm, but small—definitely not the shack he and Harry shared. He didn’t know where he was. He didn’t know how he got here.

“Well, this is just fantastic,” Draco grumbled aloud, trying to mask his panic with snark. “First the dementor, then whatever the hell this is. Who brought me here? How long have I even been here? What is this place?”

A voice from the shadows answered before he could spiral further. “You were brought here to heal, Draco Malfoy. And to rest.”

Draco spun around, eyes wide, the panic in his chest flaring again. But there, standing in the corner of the room, was the Kelpie—Nerion. He was much larger up close, his muscular, humanoid body filled with an eerie strength, his glowing eyes still locked on Draco. The strands of kelp woven into his long, dark mane glistened in the low light, and for a moment, Draco was taken aback by the raw power emanating from him.

“Ah, right,” Draco muttered, rolling his eyes as he tried to calm his racing heart. “The magic horse man. Just what I needed.”

Nerion stepped forward, his voice low and steady. “You are safe here. You need not fear. I have watched over you for the past two suns.” His deep, rumbling voice.

The words though, hit Draco like a bucket of cold water. “Two days?” he demanded, eyes wide as he whipped around to face Nerion, who had been sitting calmly still.

The Kelpie nodded, his dark eyes still glowing softly in the dim light of the cabin. “Two days. You were in a deep sleep, healing. The effects of the dementor’s presence were strong, and your body needed time to recover.”

“Two days!” Draco repeated, his voice rising in panic. “And you just let me sleep like this?” He paced around the room, his wings flaring out behind him in an instinctual move of alarm. “What the hell do you mean, ‘two days’? Harry—Harry’s going to kill me!”

Nerion tilted his head slightly, unfazed by Draco’s outburst. “He will not kill you, Draco Malfoy.”

“Oh, he will,” Draco snapped, pacing in small circles around the cabin. “I can’t even imagine what he thinks right now. I’ve been gone for two days, and no one has bothered to—” He stopped abruptly, spinning back toward Nerion, his eyes wild with panic. “He’s going to think I just… left. I’ve been avoiding him, and now I’ve disappeared for two days? He’s going to think I— Oh Merlin the tether!”

Draco crossed his arms tightly over his chest, his wings twitching, his entire body brimming with discomfort. “Safe, huh?” He looked at the Kelpie suspiciously. “I don’t feel safe. I feel… wrong. I can’t feel it anymore. The tether. The bond.” His voice shook despite his efforts to sound dismissive. “What the hell did you do to me?”

Nerion didn’t flinch, but there was a glimmer of something in his eyes—something knowing. “It is not something I have done to you. The bond between you and your mate is not yet sealed, and that is what causes your turmoil. Your veela instincts are in scattered because you fight what you feel, what your nature demands of you. The unsealed bond leaves you in this state of confusion and need. It weakens what it feels it does not deserve.”

Draco’s brow furrowed, his chest tightening at the words. His mouth went dry, and for a moment, the reality of what Nerion was saying hit him with full force. He had been feeling it—the aching need to be close to Harry, the pull between them, the gnawing fear that Harry might pull away. And now, with the tether gone, it felt like he had nothing left.

“No,” Draco hissed, shaking his head in denial. “No, that’s not it. Harry… He—he’s not rejecting me. He’s just busy with Remus and the pack. He’s… I can’t—” His breath caught in his throat as his emotions surged higher, a rush of panic flooding him. His brain switching up on him faster than he could even understand. “He’s been pulling away from me. He doesn’t want me anymore. The tether has snapped and it’s my fault. I did this to us.”

Nerion let out a low, knowing sound, almost like a chuff a horse would make. “Harry is not rejecting you, Draco Malfoy. You are rejecting yourself. And because you are not yet mated, your instincts are twisted—overactive. You interpret every distance, every action, as rejection when it is not. It is the absence of the bond, of the seal, that makes you feel this way. The veela inside you cannot understand why the bond has not been completed.”

Draco’s face flushed with a mixture of frustration and embarrassment. He felt stupid for thinking Harry was pushing him away. “I—” he started, but the words stuck in his throat. “I just… I can’t handle it. I don’t want to be this… this thing. This… desperate needy mess.”

Nerion tilted his head, his eyes softening as he looked at Draco. “You are not a mess, Draco. You are simply young. Your veela nature is raw, and it does not understand. You feel everything too much because the bond is incomplete, and your instincts are demanding something that has not yet been given.”

Draco swallowed hard, his gaze dropping to his hands, the frustration and confusion swirling inside him like a storm. He tried to hide his vulnerability, but it felt like a raw nerve, exposed for anyone to see. “I don’t know what to do,” he muttered. “I can’t keep feeling like this. I can’t keep… wanting him when I don’t even know if he feels the same way.”

Nerion took a step closer, his voice quiet but filled with quiet strength. “The bond will grow, Draco. But you must allow it. You must allow yourself to accept what you are, what you feel. And you must be patient with Harry. The bond takes time. But you must not fight it. It is not meant to be rushed.”

Draco met Nerion’s gaze, his heart pounding. “And what if he’s not ready? What if he doesn’t want me the way I want him?”

“You are not alone in this, Draco Malfoy,” Nerion said, his voice steady and reassuring. “The bond will be what it will be, but you must trust it. And you must trust yourself. The pain you feel now will pass. But it is not for you to decide how Harry feels or what he will choose. Only time will tell.”

Draco closed his eyes, his breath slow and steady as he tried to process everything. The pain still lingered, but there was something softer, something calmer inside him now. He didn’t have to have all the answers right away. But for now, he could rest. He could heal. And maybe, just maybe, he could start to understand this bond—this connection he had with Harry.

“Alright,” Draco said, his voice quiet, but laced with a hint of sarcasm. “But if I have to wait for him to make up his mind, I’ll never get any peace.”

Nerion chuckled softly, a low rumble that seemed to shake the air. “You may not get peace, but you will get what you need. You just need to accept it.”

Draco moved back to the nest of moss and feathers, the warmth of the cabin surrounding him. He was still lost, still uncertain, but for the first time in what felt like forever, he didn’t feel quite so desperately alone. Even if he couldn’t feel the tether any longer.

Chapter Text

Harry’s eyes skimmed over the map, his finger tracing the grid lines for the hundredth time. It was a futile effort, but he couldn’t stop. They’d been searching for two days, covering every inch of the forest with no sign of Draco, and still, nothing. There had to be something they were missing. But the map was just a piece of paper. A reminder of everything they had yet to find.

Nessa was sitting across from him, her brow furrowed as she poured over a stack of notes she had made from their observations. Every day, they marked the areas they had covered, trying to keep track of their progress. But it felt like they were going in circles.

“Harry,” Nessa said quietly, her voice tinged with frustration. “This is getting us nowhere. We need a new approach. The map won’t help us find him.”

Harry didn’t respond, staring at the grid with a distant look. It was hard to focus on anything other than the missing tether, the empty space in his chest. For the past few days, he had been holding onto the small thread of hope that he would find something—anything—about Draco. But with every moment, that hope seemed to slip further away.

The silence stretched between them, thick and uncomfortable. Eullah entered the room, her footsteps soft on the creaky wooden floor. She had been out with Liora, checking the edges of the village, seeking answers from the villagers who had lived through the ancient rituals of the forest.

“Nothing,” Eullah said, shaking her head as she glanced at the map. “The barrier Liora set up is still intact. The magic is holding. Draco hasn’t left the area. But that doesn’t mean much.”

Harry’s heart dropped. He had hoped that the barrier would give them some clue, some indication of where Draco had gone. But all it did was confirm that he was still somewhere out there—somewhere they couldn’t reach.

Nessa sighed, her fingers tapping impatiently on the table. “So what now? We’re just supposed to wait and keep looking?”

Eullah shook her head. “We keep searching. But…” she trailed off, looking at Harry. “There’s something… different. The magic here, in the forest. It’s growing stronger, darker. I don’t know if it’s because of the absence of Draco’s tether, or if it’s something else, but the air feels… wrong.”

Harry’s breath caught. He hadn’t been able to feel Draco’s presence, the tether gone entirely. He was just as lost as the others in the sea of uncertainty. But hearing Eullah’s words only deepened his unease. He had always known that the forest held secrets. But now, those secrets felt like they were closing in on him.

“Is that why your senses are off Eullah’s?” Nessa asked, her tone lighter but concerned. “The magic feels strange… is it because of Draco’s absence?”

Eullah nodded grimly. “It’s not just that. The forest itself is changing, shifting. There’s something else here. Something dark.”

Harry’s mind raced, his heart thudding. Something dark? He couldn’t even begin to comprehend what that meant. Draco was missing, the tether was gone, and now there was something in the woods—something dark—lurking.

“I’ll go speak with Liora,” Eullah said, her voice growing softer, almost as if to herself. “Maybe she can sense something we’ve missed.”

Before Harry could respond, a figure appeared in the doorway. It was Thalion, his tall, thin frame filling the entryway. His eyes were steady, and his expression unreadable. Harry straightened as he saw him, his heart quickening with a sense of hope—maybe Thalion had news.

“Thalion,” Nessa greeted him, standing up as he stepped inside. “Any luck with the grid?”

Thalion shook his head. “We’ve covered most of the areas we marked, but there’s still no sign of Draco. Harek is heading east to speak with the redcaps, see if they’ve heard anything. But so far… it’s been quiet. Too quiet.”

Harry swallowed the lump in his throat. “You’ve checked everything?”

“We’ve checked everything,” Thalion confirmed, his voice low and steady. 

The words hit Harry like a hammer. Draco’s presence, gone. That absence was becoming something too heavy to bear. He felt like the world was closing in around him, his thoughts spinning.

Before he could speak again, the door creaked open, and Remus stepped into the room, confusion written across his face. He had been to the village in over a week, no doubt trying to manage things at Hogwarts, and now, he looked like he had just returned from a long journey.

“Harry?” Remus’s voice was calm, but there was concern in his eyes. “What’s going on? Why is everyone so… tense?”

Harry’s heart skipped. Remus didn’t know. Of course he didn’t know. He hadn’t been here to have known Draco was gone. It hit Harry harder than he expected.

“Remus,” Harry said, his voice barely above a whisper, but thick with emotion. “Draco’s gone. I can’t feel him anymore. The tether… it’s gone.”

Remus’s brows furrowed in confusion, a frown pulling at his lips. “Gone? What do you mean, gone? I—I don’t understand.”

“Draco’s missing,” Harry explained quickly, his voice tight as he struggled to keep his composure. “We’ve been searching for days, but there’s no trace. No scent. Nothing. The tether’s gone, and I… I can’t feel him.”

Remus took a step forward, his expression softening with concern. He didn’t seem to fully understand the gravity of the situation, his confusion evident as he looked between Harry, Nessa, and Thalion.

“I don’t understand, Harry.” His voice was quiet, still processing the situation. “Why don’t you tell me what’s happened.”

Harry’s chest tightened with frustration. “I didn’t know what happened. We got into a stupid argument. He stormed out two day’s ago and I thought it was just to cool off. But he didn’t come back. Then there was…was this screaming and I didn’t know what was happening. No one did. All we found were feathers. We thought maybe he was out in the woods… but now it’s like he’s just vanished. We can’t even track him.”

There was a long silence as Remus absorbed the information, his eyes darting between the three of them. His face hardened, as if something was beginning to dawn on him. “This… this is bigger than I thought.”

Thalion cleared his throat, stepping in to offer a subtle clarification. “We’ve been covering ground, but the forest’s magic is acting strangely. Eullah thinks something is stirring in the woods. And we know Draco hasn’t left the barrier Liora put up. It’s all… shifting.”

Remus nodded slowly, processing the weight of the situation. He moved closer to the table and dropped his head in thought. “I should have been more aware,” he muttered under his breath as he dragged a hand down his tired face.

Remus’s face softened, his guilt and regret starting to show as his gaze dropped to the ground. He opened his mouth to speak but hesitated. The weight of the words hung in the air. Finally, he let out a long, slow breath, running a hand through his hair.

“I should’ve known,” he muttered quietly. “I should’ve been here. I should’ve been more aware of what was going on. I—”

“What?” Harry interrupted, his voice laced with frustration and disbelief. “You should have been here? We’ve been looking for Draco for days, and you were off—what? What’s going on, Remus?”

Remus looked up, guilt washing over his face. He opened his mouth, struggling to find the words, before finally letting out a sigh, his voice softer now, filled with a quiet kind of regret. “Harry, I’ve been… distracted. At Hogwarts. Things are… complicated. I was trying to help Dumbledore control the situation— But I should have been paying attention to what was happening here. To what was happening to you both.”

Harry stepped back, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “What’s going on? What could be more important than this? Than Draco being gone? Than me?” His voice cracked at the end, the frustration too much to hold back. “What situation kept you away?”

Remus’s face fell, a flash of something raw in his eyes. He seemed to shrink in on himself. “I didn’t want to burden you, Harry. I didn’t want to bring more pain into your life. I thought—” he hesitated, shaking his head, “I thought you had enough to deal with. And I was trying to protect you.”

Harry’s chest tightened with the anger and hurt he had been holding in. “Protect me?” he repeated, his voice a mix of disbelief and pain. “By keeping secrets from me? By not telling me what was happening at Hogwarts?”

Remus flinched, his eyes avoiding Harry’s. “It’s…it’s about Sirius, Sirius Black,” he whispered, his voice heavy. “I didn’t want to tell you about him. About what’s happening. I didn’t want you to be pulled into it, Harry. But I see now that I was wrong to keep it from you.”

Harry took a sharp breath, his pulse quickening as he stared at Remus. “What about Sirius?” He barely managed to keep his voice steady. “Who cares about some imprisoned Death Eater?”

Remus sighed, looking weary. He stepped closer, his gaze filled with sorrow. “Sirius Black escaped from Azkaban, Harry. He’s free.”

The words hit Harry like a punch. His head spun, and his stomach dropped at the mere thought. “Escaped?” he whispered. “How?”

Remus nodded, his face grim. “Yes. We aren’t sure how it happened. It’s never happenede before. The Dementors—the guards of Azkaban—they’re horrible soul sucking creatures. The Ministry thought it best to have them surround Hogwarts, searching for him. The last time anyone saw him, he was in Hogsmeade. And that’s why I didn’t tell you,” he continued, looking at Harry, a heavy regret in his eyes. “I didn’t want to bring him back into your life, not like this. You don’t need more danger, not after everything.”

Harry felt his mind racing. “So Sirius is free? And the dementors are here, in Hogwarts? Why didn’t you tell me sooner? Why keep it a secret?”

Remus closed his eyes for a moment, his face twisted with guilt. “I should have, Harry. I should have told you. But I didn’t know how to tell you this… how to pull you into this mess. I thought I could protect you from it. I was wrong.”

Harry felt a cold wave of realization wash over him. Sirius Black. Free. The thought was suffocating. And now, with Draco missing and the forest growing darker, Harry couldn’t help but feel that this was all connected. The pieces were falling into place, but it felt like a nightmare he couldn’t wake from.

“I don’t care about Sirius,” Harry said, his voice tight, nearly choking on the words. “I care about Draco.”

Remus nodded solemnly. “I know. But I’m worried, Harry. Sirius escaped, and I’m beginning to think that whatever’s happening in the forest… whatever is keeping Draco away… it could be him. It’s possible that Sirius figured out who Draco is and—” Remus’s voice trailed off, his expression pained. “What if he found Draco out there? What if he’s after him?”

Harry’s breath caught in his throat as the possibility hit him. Sirius might have gone after Draco—Draco’s father had been a Death Eater. And Sirius, of all people, might have wanted revenge for everything.

“No,” Harry whispered, his voice raw with fear. “I can’t lose him. Not like this. Not to him.”

Remus placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder, his grip firm, but there was a quiet sadness in his eyes. “We’ll find him, Harry. We will. I promise you. But we have to be careful. This is bigger than any of us.”

The weight of Remus’s words hung in the air, suffocating Harry with a sense of dread that he could hardly process. Sirius Black. Free. The Dementors on their tail. And the forest—growing darker and more dangerous by the day. Everything was spinning out of control, and Harry felt like he was standing on the edge of something that could swallow him whole.

“I can’t lose him,” Harry muttered again, the words barely audible, but full of raw fear. The idea of Draco being caught in the web of Sirius’s vengeance—the possibility that he was already in danger, just out of reach—made Harry’s chest tighten in panic.

Eullah, who had been silent until now, stepped forward, her eyes dark with concern. “Harry,” she said gently, “we won’t let that happen. We’ll find him before anything else can. We’ve been tracking him, and he’s still out there—somewhere.”

“But if Sirius knows where he is…” Harry’s voice trailed off as the truth settled in. The forest wasn’t just a mystery anymore. It was a danger.

Remus placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder, his expression tight with guilt. “I should’ve told you sooner. I thought I could keep you away from this. But you’re right. You’re involved now—whether we like it or not.”

Harry’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. “So what now?” he demanded, his voice rough. “How do we find him? How do we stop Sirius?”

“We don’t know everything yet,” Remus said, his voice heavy with regret. “But we have to act fast. Sirius being free complicates everything. If he’s after Draco—and I fear he might be—then we need to figure out where he’s hiding and get to him first.”

Thalion stepped into the conversation, his tone low and serious. “I’ve been to the redcaps. They’ve seen strange things near the center of the forest. But nothing’s been confirmed. It’s as if the forest itself is… hiding something. Or someone.”

Harry’s stomach twisted. The thought of the forest holding secrets he couldn’t even begin to understand made him sick. And the dark magic that Eullah had sensed? That feeling of something stirring deep within the woods? It all felt like pieces to a puzzle that he wasn’t equipped to solve.

“I can’t do this alone,” Harry said, the weight of his responsibility heavy in his voice. “We need to work together. We need to keep searching. Whatever is in that forest—it’s not just about Draco anymore.”

Nessa nodded, pushing away the map that had been their constant companion for days. “The search was going in circles anyway,” she said, her voice calm but tinged with frustration. “It’s clear we need to change our approach. If the forest is shifting, we need to adapt. We can’t keep looking the same way and expect different results.”

Harry glanced at Eullah, who had been at the edge of the group, quietly absorbing the conversation. She met his gaze and gave a small nod, her features set with quiet determination.

“The forest is changing,” Eullah said, her voice firm. “And the magic here is unlike anything I’ve encountered. It’s not just the absence of Draco’s tether—it’s something deeper, something tied to the heart of the forest itself. Whatever is out there, we need to be ready for it.”

Harry swallowed hard, trying to ignore the tightening in his chest as he thought of Draco. The forest was growing darker, and Draco’s absence was part of that shift. The connection between them, that tether that had always been there, was gone—and Harry had no idea how to get it back.

But he would find a way. He had to. For Draco. For both of them.

“Then we go into the heart of the forest,” Harry said, his voice resolute. “We don’t stop until we find him.”

The village had been their base for days, but now, as Harry stood with the others—Remus, Eullah, Thalion, Nessa, and the rest of the group—he could feel the pull of the forest more strongly than ever before. The shadows in the trees seemed deeper, darker, and there was a coldness in the air that made his skin crawl. The village had once felt like a safe haven, but now, it seemed like a fragile barrier between them and whatever lay ahead.

The group gathered their supplies, and Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that the forest was watching them, waiting for them to make their move. He had never been more aware of the woods around him—every rustling leaf, every creak of the branches. It was like the trees themselves were alive, shifting with some unspoken purpose.

“Stay close,” Remus said, his voice low as he glanced at each of them. “We don’t know what’s waiting for us out there.”

Harry nodded, gripping his wand tightly. He felt the familiar surge of power within him, but it was overshadowed by the uncertainty of what they would face. He hadn’t felt Draco’s presence in days, and every minute that passed only seemed to deepen the ache in his chest.

As they made their way toward the forest, the tension in the air thickened. The village behind them was quiet, but Harry felt an oppressive weight pressing down on him, as if the entire forest was holding its breath.

The barrier that Liora had set up around the village was still intact, but beyond that, there were no guarantees. The further they went, the more the magic in the air shifted, turning colder and darker.

“Do you feel that?” Nessa asked quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Eullah nodded, her gaze sharp. “The forest is waking up. And it’s not welcoming us.”

The trees seemed to close in around them, the shadows growing deeper with every step. Harry’s heart pounded in his chest as he pushed forward, determined to find Draco, to make sense of the magic that was pulling them all into the heart of the woods.

Chapter Text

Draco awoke with a jolt, gasping as the coldness of the cabin wrapped itself around him. His wings, those once proud appendages that had marked him as different, now felt like heavy burdens dragging him down. His once soft, downy feathers were almost entirely gone, leaving only the jagged, sharp edges of his wingbones exposed. The absence of the tether to Harry gnawed at him, leaving a hollow ache in his chest that he couldn’t quite explain. Without the bond, there was nothing. Just emptiness, stretching endlessly through his body, filling the gap where Harry’s presence used to be.

He shifted uncomfortably, trying to stretch his wings, but they barely responded, scraping against the hard floor of the cabin with a painful drag. Blood dripped from the exposed bones where the wings had been damaged, and each movement sent waves of burning pain through him. His breath was shallow as he held back the tears, not wanting to let himself feel too much. Not yet. Not here.

The silence of the cabin was suffocating. The only sound was the faint rustling of the moss under him as he shifted again, feeling like a stranger in his own skin. His wings were still there, but they felt like they belonged to someone else—something else entirely. Even his body didn’t feel right. He had always been so sure of his appearance, his power, his control. Now, with his wings stripped away and the bond severed, he felt like a shell of who he once was.

“Get a grip,” Draco muttered to himself, gritting his teeth. “You’ve handled worse. You’ll handle this.”

But even as he said the words, they didn’t hold the same weight they once did. There was no confidence in them, no strength. Only fear. And it was a fear he couldn’t shake.

His wings, the physical representation of his veela nature, burned with every twitch, and his entire body felt weak, feverish. The coldness from the dementor’s attack still lingered, draining him of energy, and it felt like everything he’d known was slipping through his fingers. The absence of Harry’s presence—the tether that had once anchored him—was a constant reminder that he had no one to rely on anymore.

Then, just as the despair began to claw at his insides, there was a soft sound at the doorway. Draco’s head snapped up, his heart racing, the panic returning. He didn’t want to be disturbed. Not now. Not when he was still trying to make sense of the chaos inside him.

But the figure that appeared a massive, shadowed form stepped into the cabin, its movements slow and deliberate. 

It was Nerion, the Kelpie. The creature who had been watching over him as he healed, or at least attempted too.

Draco’s breath caught in his throat as he gazed at Nerion. The Kelpie’s massive form was imposing, but there was something in his eyes—something knowing—that stopped Draco from moving. The Kelpie knelt beside him, his deep voice rumbling through the cabin, vibrating the air around them.

“You are awake?” Nerion asked, his voice low and steady, but with a quiet concern that cut through Draco’s fog of pain. “How do you feel?”

Draco could only manage a scoff, though it came out weaker than he intended. “How do you think I feel? My wings are a bloody disaster, and I feel like I’ve been dragged through a field of thorns.” He winced as his wings scraped against the floor, the movement sending another wave of pain through him. “And the tether? Gone. Just like that. Can’t feel him anymore.”

Nerion’s gaze softened, though his face remained neutral. “The tether will not remain gone forever. It is simply sleeping for now. Your magic can only manage so many things at one time. But you are not healing correctly. You have not accepted what has happened to you.”

Draco snorted. “Oh, right. Acceptance. What a novel concept. How do you expect me to accept anything when I can barely move without feeling like I’ve been torn apart?”

The Kelpie didn’t flinch at Draco’s biting tone. “You need help. And the help you require is not in the forest.”

Draco’s mind flickered between confusion and frustration. “What do you mean? You’re telling me I’m just supposed to accept that I’m stuck here, feeling like this, until… what? Until you wave your magic kelp-wrapped hand and make it all go away?”

Nerion didn’t seem perturbed by Draco’s sarcasm. Instead, he began preparing something from his pack—a long, thick strand of kelp that glowed faintly under the soft light. The Kelpie’s movements were deliberate as he crafted a wrap from the kelp, shaping it with care.

“This kelp will stabilize your wings,” Nerion said. “It is used to heal injuries among mermaids, particularly tail injuries. The magic in it will ease the strain on your wings and give your own magic a chance to replenish. It will hurt, but it will allow you to heal.”

Draco’s brow furrowed. “Mermaids, huh? Well, that explains a lot. I can’t even walk without dragging these stupid wings behind me. And now I’m being wrapped in kelp?”

Nerion’s deep, steady gaze met Draco’s. “This kelp has healing properties, Draco. You need to accept it. Otherwise, you will not heal. Your wings will not heal.”

Draco felt a twinge of irritation but didn’t protest as Nerion began to wrap the kelp around his wings. The kelp was cool to the touch, but it quickly began to warm as the Kelpie applied pressure. The magic embedded in the kelp stung, sharp and biting, as it began to fuse with Draco’s wings, binding the tendons and stabilizing the strained muscles.

“Not exactly what I’d call a relaxing spa treatment,” Draco muttered under his breath as the kelp tightened, the pressure mounting against the exposed, raw flesh of his wings. “If this is your idea of a good time, I’m not sure we’d get along in a social setting.”

Nerion’s only response was a low, deep hum, his hands steady as they worked. “You need to heal. The forest cannot restore you, but this will help. Trust it.”

The burning sensation spread as the kelp wrap continued to tighten, pulling the bones and muscles of Draco’s wings into alignment. The pain was unbearable, but Draco grit his teeth, refusing to give in to it. He had to hold it together. He had to push through.

As the final layer of kelp was secured, Draco let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. The pain remained, but it was dulled, the pressure of the wrap steadying his wings.

“Is that it?” Draco’s voice was strained. He hated how weak he sounded, but he didn’t care enough to hide it. “Have you tied me up like a bloody Christmas goose?”

“Rest,” Nerion said firmly, though there was a softness to his words. “You will heal, but you must rest.”

Draco settled back against the moss, feeling the effects of the kelp magic take hold. The burning was still there, but now it felt like something he could endure. He closed his eyes, but before he could lose himself to the sleep he so desperately needed, a quiet whisper—faint but clear—stopped him.

Draco’s mind flickered as the whisper filled the room, its voice soft and almost musical, like wind through the trees. It wasn’t Nerion speaking. It was something—or someone—else.

“He is not healing as he should,” the whisper echoed, filling the room with its gentle, haunting tone. “The forest cannot fix what he has lost. Return him to the village. He must go.”

Nerion’s posture stiffened, his eyes narrowing slightly as he listened. “Dyrs,” he murmured. “You speak too soon. He is still weak. His magic has not replenished at should have.”

“I speak what the forest knows,” the voice of Dyrs answered, her presence unmistakable. “The forest can protect him, but it cannot heal him. He is tethered to the village, and there he must return.”

Draco’s brow furrowed as he strained to hear the conversation. 

“The tether between him and his mate is what his magic needs to be restored,” Dyrs’s voice resonated. “It will not be healed in the woods. Take him to where his bond can be renewed.”

Nerion’s gaze softened, his lips tight as he nodded once, understanding the gravity of Dyrs’s words. 

Draco’s heart thudded in his chest at the thought. The village. Harry. His bond. It was all there, waiting for him, his heart thudded in his cheat at the thought.

Nerion gently helped Draco sit up, he groaned in pain as two his powerful hands supported him as he rose. Draco was still unsteady, but the kelp binding was holding his wings together, stabilizing him enough to stand. The Kelpie’s steady presence helped guide Draco as they walked through the woods toward the village.

“You don’t understand,” Draco muttered, though his voice was softer now, less filled with defiance. “I can’t just go back. Not after I… after everything I’ve done. What if he doesn’t want me anymore? What if I’ve ruined everything?”

Nerion’s voice was low, filled with a quiet understanding. “You are not alone, Draco. But you must trust the bond. Trust him. This is just the unclaimed bond speaking.”

Draco stopped walking for a moment, his heart heavy in his chest. “What if he doesn’t want to be with me? What if he’s moved on?”

Nerion didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he placed a hand on Draco’s shoulder, grounding him. “Do not be a ridiculous fledgling. You will find the answer in the village. But first, you must return.”

Draco closed his eyes, the weight of the Kelpie’s words settling deep within him. He couldn’t hide anymore. 

He turned, nodding at Nerion. “Alright. Let’s go.”

And with that, they moved forward, back toward the village, where everything would either change or be more than he could ever hope for.

The thick shadows of the forest stretched endlessly before Harry, and every step he took felt like a step deeper into the unknown. The moonlight barely cut through the canopy above, and the air was thick with the smell of damp earth and growing tension. His breath came in shallow gasps, the chill of the night biting at his skin as his heart raced in his chest. Every minute that passed without finding Draco gnawed at him, turning his stomach into knots of fear and frustration.

The forest was silent except for the occasional rustle of leaves, but Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. He had been searching for hours now, combing through the woods with Remus and Harek, but there had been no sign of Draco. The forest was vast and untamed, and though they had been thorough, it was as if Draco had simply disappeared into the shadows.

“How can he just vanish like this?” Harry muttered under his breath, asking the same question that haunted him for the thousandth time, his hands running through his hair in frustration. “There’s no sign of him anywhere.”

Remus, who had been walking quietly at his side, glanced up from the map he had been consulting. His face was a mask of concern, but his voice was steady. “Harry, I know this is difficult. But we’ll find him. The forest has a way of hiding things—of keeping its secrets.”

“We’ve been over this already, Remus.” Harry’s voice was sharper than he intended, but he couldn’t help the panic that was rising within him. “I can’t—what if something’s happened to him? What if—”

“Harry.” Harek’s deep voice cut through his spiraling thoughts, steady and reassuring. “We’ll find him. You’re not alone in this. He’s still out there, and we’ll track him down. Together.”

Harry gave Harek a sharp look, his eyes narrowing. The werewolf hunter’s calm demeanor wasn’t as comforting as it should have been. “You’re not the one who’s been waiting for him. You don’t know how it feels.”

Harek met his gaze without flinching. “You think I don’t know what it’s like to lose someone? To be trapped in a place you don’t want to be, not knowing where they’ve gone? Draco will come back to you. Unlike some of us, our loved ones never returned. But you need to keep your head clear.”

Harry nodded stiffly, taking the reprimand, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of dread that settled heavily in his chest. His eyes scanned the forest again, searching for any sign of Draco’s presence—anything that would tell him where his partner had gone. But there was nothing. Only trees, shadows, and the ever-encroaching darkness.

It wasn’t until a soft rustling at the edge of the forest caught his attention that Harry’s attention snapped back to reality. His hands instinctively braced as his heart pounded in his chest. Harek immediately shifted into a more defensive stance, his eyes scanning the woods for any threat.

The rustling grew louder, followed by a soft voice calling out from the trees. “Harry!”

Harry’s breath caught in his throat at the familiar voice. He turned quickly to see Nessa, the young potion maker and rune expert, emerging from the shadows. She stepped forward, her face tense with urgency. She was out of breath, clearly having run from the village to find them.

“Nessa?” Harry’s voice was filled with both relief and confusion. “What are you doing here? Did someone find something? Have you found him?”

Nessa’s eyes were wide with something akin to fear, as she tried to catch her breath, but there was a look of determination in them too. “He’s back,” she said, her voice a rush but filled with unmistakable urgency. “Draco’s returned to the village.”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat at the words, but he struggled to comprehend them. “What? He’s back?” His voice cracked with disbelief. “How? What happened?”

Nessa looked over her shoulder briefly, as if checking to see if anyone else was listening. “He came back with a damn kelpie of all things, but he’s not well. He’s… the kelpie said he’s not healing right. He’s in a lot of pain, Harry. He’s— his magic is nearly depleted. The kelpie said that the magic in the forest isn’t enough to sustain him for much longer. He needs you.”

Harry didn’t wait for another word. Without thinking, he turned on his heel, his body moving on pure instinct. His body shifted so quickly Harry barely felt it as four paws hit the ground running.

Harek’s face tight with concern said nothing. He simply fell in step beside Harry, his presence a quiet comfort in the midst of the storm of emotions raging inside him.

Remus nodded at Nessa, his expression softening. “You did well bringing us this news, Nessa. Lead the way.”

As they made their way back toward the village, the trees seemed too close in around them. The sounds of the forest grew fainter, replaced by the urgency that filled Harry’s chest. His mind raced, thinking of Draco—alone, hurting, and too proud to ask for help. He’d made it back to the village, but how much had he endured in the time since Harry last saw him?

When they finally reached the village, Harry barely slowed his pace. His eyes scanned every corner, searching for any sign of Draco. But it wasn’t until they reached the center of the village that Harry saw it—a group of villagers hovering near a tall, bare chested man whose arm was swung underneath Draco’s barely standing form. 

Harry shifted back into his human form. He barely took a breath before moving towards the other boy.

“Draco!” Harry called, his voice cracking, but filled with relief and desperate hope. His feet moved faster, and he pushed himself harder to get to the clearing. As they drew closer, he saw Draco standing there, his body hunched, his wings dragging behind him like a broken bird. The sight of him, so fragile and worn, his face a pale and sickly, struck Harry to the core.

“Draco!” Harry’s voice caught again, but this time it wasn’t in fear—it was in recognition. “You’re back.”

Draco leaned heavily against Nerion, his wings still bound with kelp, his body fragile and exhausted. His face was pale, and his usual sharpness was missing, replaced by a weary vulnerability that Harry had never seen before. Harry, frantic and filled with both relief and panic, rushed forward, his heart pounding. 

“Draco,” he breathed again, voice thick with emotion. “You’re here. I thought… I thought I’d lost you.” His hands hovered in the air for a moment, unsure whether to touch him, but then he finally reached out, gently resting a hand against Draco’s cheek, a quiet reassurance that he hadn’t given up.

Draco’s eyes fluttered open, meeting Harry’s gaze, but the usual snark was missing. His voice was hoarse and weak, “I didn’t mean to… I didn’t know how to…” He trailed off, exhausted, unable to say more. 

Harry nodded, unable to speak for a moment, just thankful that Draco was back, that he was standing here. His thumb caressing Draco’s pale cheek. 

“We’ll talk later,” Harry whispered, his voice raw, but for now, he simply rested beside Draco, his presence grounding him.

“I am Nerion,” the tall man said from beside Draco. Though Harry’s eyes never left Draco’s dull ones.

Nerion had been watching the exchange quietly, his deep voice soft but firm. “His magic is depleted,” Nerion said, eyes focused on Draco. “The forest has protected him, but it couldn’t restore him fully. He is too weak to maintain the magical energy he needs to heal. He needs rest… and the magic that only his bonded can provide.” 

Harry blinked at Draco, his heart aching at the thought of how much pain he had endured alone. “We’ll get him back to our home,” Harry said quietly, his voice a mixture of resolve and tenderness. “I’ll see to everything.”

Chapter Text

The journey from the forest’s edge back to the village felt like an eternity. With each step, Draco seemed to grow heavier, his feet dragging, the strain of his weakened body taking its toll. He leaned heavily against Nerion, the Kelpie’s broad frame providing a steady, grounding presence as they walked. Harry trailed behind them, his eyes never leaving Draco, his chest tight with a cocktail of emotions—relief, fear, and a desperate, gnawing worry. He had found Draco again, but seeing him like this, broken and so clearly drained, was almost worse than when he had been lost in the forest.

Draco’s wings, now bound tightly with the kelp wrap Nerion had fashioned, dragged behind him, their once-proud form now reduced to a tangle of bone and pain. The faintest flicker of magic emanated from the kelp, offering a temporary respite, but it wasn’t enough to heal the deeper wounds—physical or emotional. The bond between Draco and Harry was still there, but it was frayed, strained, like a rope that had been pulled too tightly.

Every time Harry looked at Draco, he saw the boy he had fallen in love with—the sharp, sarcastic edge, the brilliant, calculating mind—but beneath that, he saw someone utterly lost. His skin had paled, his features drawn and hollow, and his usual defiant posture was replaced with a fragile stoop. Harry longed to reach out, to pull Draco into his arms and tell him everything would be okay, but he couldn’t. Draco wasn’t ready for that, not yet. So, Harry walked beside him, offering his presence as the only comfort he could give.

The villagers watched on as they walked past, their reactions a mixture of surprise, relief, and concern. The few that had gathered near the center of the village fell silent, their eyes flicking from Harry to Draco, and back again. Whispers filled the air, but no one spoke too loudly. It was as if the entire village was holding its breath, unsure of how to approach Draco after his absence.

“Let’s get you inside,” Nerion said, his voice low but firm, breaking the silence. He led Draco toward the smallest cottage in the village, his strength supporting Draco’s unsteady steps. Harry followed closely behind, staying a step away, but his eyes constantly drifted to Draco. He was here, alive, but it felt like something had been lost. The magic in the air felt different, and even the village, which had always felt like a sanctuary, now felt heavier, filled with uncertainty.

Inside the cottage, the air smelled as it always had, of dried herbs and pine, the walls covered with sketches made by Draco—woven baskets, hand-carved wooden shelves, and simple woven blankets that added a touch of warmth. It was a peaceful space, one that had been used for recovery so many times before, but it now felt empty to Harry. It wasn’t enough. Not for Draco. Not now. 

Nerion helped Draco sit by the window, the light streaming through the gaps in the shutters casting soft shadows across his face. For a moment, Draco looked at the familiar surroundings, the village that had offered him protection and solace before, but he didn’t speak. His gaze was distant, almost vacant, like he wasn’t truly there.

Harry moved toward him cautiously, his heart racing in his chest. He had so many things to say—so much to apologize for, so many questions that needed to be answered. But as he opened his mouth, the words caught in his throat. Draco’s state—his fragility—silenced him.

“I’m here,” Harry said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re home, Draco. You’re safe now.”

Draco’s eyes fluttered open, locking onto Harry’s with a depth that made Harry’s chest tighten. There was a flicker of something there—fear, maybe, or doubt. Draco shifted in his seat, discomfort clearly etched across his face. The silence stretched between them, and Harry could see that Draco was still too distant, still too lost to connect. But Harry wouldn’t let that stop him.

Draco didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he stared at the floor, his hands clenching into fists, before finally looking back up at Harry, his voice strained. “I didn’t mean to disappear like that,” he murmured, his words hoarse and filled with exhaustion. “I…I a dementor found me in the woods.”

Harry sucked in a tight breath, his heart breaking at the sight of Draco’s vulnerability. “You don’t have to explain, Draco,” he said quietly, his voice filled with a gentleness that surprised him. “You’ve been through so much. We’ll get work on getting you better first.”

Draco shook his head slowly, his lips tight, as if unsure of how to respond. His eyes darted to the window again, as though searching for something that wasn’t there. “I don’t know how to fix this,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know how to fix… me. The dementor made me realize a few too many things. Things I hadn’t realized were happening.”

Harry’s chest tightened. But just nodded quietly as he patiently waited for Draco to continue.

Draco’s gaze softened, his voice quieter now. “I don’t deserve you,” he whispered, his words filled with a quiet pain that made Harry’s heart ache.

Harry knelt beside him, placing a hand gently on Draco’s shoulder. “You don’t have to deserve anything,” he said softly. “You’re here. That’s enough.”

Nerion, who had remained silent in the background for most of the journey, was now standing in the doorway, observing Draco’s state with a quiet but knowing gaze. “He needs rest,” Nerion said, his voice low and steady. “His body and magic are exhausted. The forest cannot restore him fully. It has done what it can, but without the bond… he will not heal completely until it is restored.”

Harry nodded slowly, absorbing Nerion’s words. His mind was already racing through possibilities—what could he do to help Draco, what could they do together to fix this? But he knew that no matter how badly he wanted to rush things, the reality was far simpler. Draco needed time.

“We’ll give him time,” Harry said, looking over at Nerion. “But… is there anything we can do for him? To help him heal faster?”

Nerion stepped forward, his dark eyes watching Draco carefully. “The kelp wrap is good for now,” he said, his voice a bit more guarded, “but it is not enough. He needs to rest. Let his body heal naturally, and when he is able, he needs his veela side to grow. He’s been to focused on to many other things instead of growing himself. You should have noticed the signs; Illness, feather’s falling out, obsessive and compulsive behavior, and of course his emotional state.”

Harry felt the guilt rise up in his belly until he nearly chocked on it. He should have been paying attention. Should have noticed. His illness started in 

Draco, his face still turned toward the window, let out a small, bitter laugh. “Natural healing,” he muttered, almost to himself. “I’m not sure my body remembers how to heal anymore.” His voice was rough, raw with frustration, but it wasn’t directed at anyone but himself. It was the kind of self-deprecating remark Harry had heard far too often.

Harry leaned closer, gently resting a hand on Draco’s shoulder. “You’re not alone in this, Draco. We’ll figure it out. We always do,” he said quietly, his thumb brushing against the fabric of Draco’s shirt.

Draco flinched slightly, but then, to Harry’s relief, he didn’t pull away. Instead, he closed his eyes for a moment, as though gathering the strength to speak. “I don’t know how to fix this, Harry. How do I fix everything I’ve done? How do I fix myself?” His voice cracked on the last word, the weight of his internal battle becoming too much to bear.

Harry didn’t have an answer, at least not one that would solve it all at once. The truth was, he didn’t know how to fix Draco either. But he did know one thing: he wasn’t going to let Draco fight this alone.

“You don’t have to fix everything all at once,” Harry said, his voice firm but gentle. “You’re here, and that’s the first step. You’ll heal, and I’ll be here. We’ll figure out the rest.”

Draco shifted in the chair, his body sagging under the exhaustion. “I don’t deserve you, Harry,” he said quietly, almost apologetically. “After everything I’ve done… after storming out, after shutting you out. I don’t know how to make it right.”

Harry’s heart clenched at the words. “You don’t have to make it right all at once either,” he said softly. “Or at all honestly. I’m here, Draco. That’s all you need to know.”

The silence that followed was comfortable, the kind of silence that wasn’t filled with tension or the need to fill the void with words. It was a silence where both of them could simply exist, quietly understanding each other. Harry didn’t have all the answers, but he had enough. Enough to be here for Draco. Enough to help him heal.

Nerion cleared his throat gently, stepping forward again. “He will need more than just rest,” he said, turning his attention to Harry. “As I said, his encounter with the dementor only exasperated his condition. He has been quietly powering himself solely with his magical core for months now. Veela need more that just learning how to fly and building nests. They’re community creatures who need a brood as well as a mate. He has been ignoring those signs for far too long. His heats will only become more frequent and more deadly as well. Unless he starts acting like a veela and not just a boy with wings.”

Harry nodded, absorbing the reality of the situation. He looked at Draco, whose eyes were closed now, his face a mixture of exhaustion and resignation. There was no easy fix. No quick solution. But Harry wasn’t giving up. Not now. Not when Draco was finally here, finally home.

Nerion moved to the door, pausing for a moment before speaking again. “Rest is the first step,” he said. “You must allow him time to recover. That means nesting, protein and sugary foods, and you. You cannot rush it. The everything else will come in its own time.”

Harry glanced at Draco again, feeling a surge of affection and protectiveness. He could see the pain, the struggle, and the uncertainty in Draco’s eyes, but he also saw something else. A flicker of hope. It was small, barely there, but it was something Harry could hold onto.

“I won’t rush it,” Harry said quietly, watching Draco carefully. “We’ll take it slow. I’ll pay better attention. I am sorry I was got so caught up in other things.”

Nerion nodded in approval before leaving the small shack and then the small village entirely. Harry remained by Draco’s side, his hand still resting on his shoulder. He wasn’t sure what the next steps would be or how long it would take for Draco to fully recover—physically and emotionally—but for now, that didn’t matter. Draco was here. And that, at least, was something.

Draco lay slumped against the pillows in the bed, his wings awkwardly bent beneath him. The kelp wrap, though necessary, was still tight around his wings, and he hated it—hated the way it reminded him of how broken he was, how much he relied on everyone now. Harry had been hovering around him for days, his presence constant, his attention never faltering. Draco had tried to protest at first, but his protests were met with gentle insistence, and he was too tired to argue. Now, it was hard to ignore the reality of how much he had to depend on Harry, and the humiliation was eating away at him. He was tired, so tired, and every little thing—every time Harry brought him water, a bit of bread, or a new trinket to add to their nest—reminded him of how far he had fallen. 

He hated it.

Harry was sitting beside him again, rearranging a small pile of trinkets he had brought from the village—a few felted shaped animals, a small hand stitched squares of yarn Harry had used to practice with, a bundle of moss. “I thought this one might look nice by the window,” Harry said, his voice soft, as he gently placed felted animal next to the pillow. His hands were warm, steady, and each gesture was a small act of care, of love, but Draco didn’t know how to receive it.

Draco let out a low, frustrated sigh, barely lifting his head from the pillow. “Harry, I told you—I don’t need all this,” he muttered, his voice a little rough. “Stop fussing over me. I’m not some broken doll that needs to be put together.”

Harry froze for a moment, his hand pausing in mid-air as he set down the trinket. He didn’t pull back, though, and that only made Draco feel worse. His brain wanted to push him away, wanted to curl in on himself and hide from Harry’s constant attention, but his body was too weak to do anything about it. And the veela…oh the veela wanted something else entirely.

“I’m not treating you like a doll, Draco,” Harry said quietly, his voice full of an emotion Draco couldn’t quite place. “I just want you to feel better. I—” He stopped, seeming to gather himself before continuing. “Narion said we needed to do this. I haven’t spent years in the woods with you just to watch you wither away and die.”

Draco squeezed his eyes shut, his chest tight. “I don’t want to feel like this,” he snapped, the frustration spilling out. “I don’t want to need anyone! I don’t want you to feel like you have to look after me like I’m some useless wreck.” His hands clenched by his sides, the rough fabric of the blankets tangling in his fingers.

Harry didn’t say anything for a moment, just sat there beside him, his presence solid and unwavering. Draco could feel him, though—he could feel Harry’s gaze on him, gentle but insistent. It made his chest tighten even more. He was so embarrassed. He was supposed to be strong. He wasn’t supposed to rely on anyone. And yet, here he was, like this—broken, weak, dependent.

“Draco, I’m not doing this to make you feel small,” Harry said, his voice calm, though it carried an undertone of something softer, something that made Draco feel even more exposed. “I just want you to be okay. I want to help you heal. But I’m not going to leave you to do it on your own. So stop being such an absolute prat about it and let me do this!”

Draco turned his head away, trying to hide the flush creeping up his neck. “You’re not helping by making me feel like a baby,” he muttered, his voice muffled against the pillow. His wings ached with each movement, but it was nothing compared to the tightness in his chest—the way Harry’s care felt both like a comfort and a weight.

Harry leaned over, a heavy sigh following him, gently cupping Draco’s face with his warm hand. The touch was soft, tender, but it made Draco feel like something inside him was unraveling, and he hated it. He wanted to pull away, but Harry held him there, his gaze firm but full of concern.

“Draco, I’m not going anywhere,” Harry said softly, his thumb brushing over Draco’s cheek so close to the corner of his mouth. “I’m not going to let you go through this alone. And I’m not treating you like a child. If I was I sure as shit wouldn’t be doing the things I’ve been doing. Or thinking about.”

Draco’s breath caught, his pulse quickening at the tenderness in Harry’s voice. But the frustration still burned inside him. He wanted to be stronger. He didn’t want to need Harry this badly, didn’t want to feel so helpless.

“I’m not helpless,” Draco said quickly, his voice tight with shame. He was ashamed of how much he needed Harry, of how much he had already relied on him. “I can still do things. I don’t need you babysitting me.”

Harry’s thumb stopped moving, and there was a moment of stillness. Then, Harry’s hand moved to Draco’s hair, gently pulling a strand of it back from his face, and Draco couldn’t help the small sigh that escaped him. It was too much. It was too soft, too kind, and it made his insides twist. His veela trilled.

“Then let me help in a way that doesn’t make you feel small,” Harry said quietly, his voice almost a whisper. His face so close to Draco’s he could see the way his green eyes weren’t just green. But a forest of colors. “I’ll be here for you, but I won’t force you to be anything you’re not ready to be. Not yet.”

Draco closed his eyes, his face burning with the frustration he couldn’t quite voice. “I’m not weak,” he whispered, though it sounded less like a statement and more like a question he couldn’t answer. “I’m not. I just… I need time, Harry. I don’t know how to accept this.”

Harry smiled, but it wasn’t teasing or mocking—it was gentle, reassuring. “You don’t have to accept everything right now, Draco. Just… let me be here, okay? For however long it takes. I can’t stand the hole the bond left. It hurts.”

Draco didn’t answer, but when Harry shifted closer and wrapped his arm around Draco’s shoulders, pulling him gently into his side, Draco didn’t resist. He still hated it. He still hated feeling so weak, but in that moment, with Harry’s warmth against him and the steady, comforting presence of the boy who had never given up on him, Draco felt something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in a long time: peace.

“I’m not going to push you,” Harry said, his voice steady and comforting. “But I’ll be here, every step of the way.”

Draco buried his face into Harry’s chest, unable to look him in the eye. His heart pounded in his ears, but this time, it wasn’t out of frustration. It was out of something else—something softer. Something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel before.

“Fine,” Draco muttered, his voice muffled by Harry’s shirt. “But you’re never calling me a prat again.”

Harry chuckled softly, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of Draco’s head before stroking the long white strands of Draco’s hair. “I won’t. I promise.”

And for the first time in days, Draco let himself fall into the comfort of Harry’s embrace, the soft trinkets scattered around their nest offering a quiet reassurance. They didn’t need to talk about everything yet. For now, being close to Harry was enough.

And for the first time, Draco actual trilled for Harry to hear.

Chapter Text

The halls of Hogwarts had never felt as heavy as they did in the months following the disappearance of Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy. The usual bustle of students seemed muted, as if the castle itself had adopted an air of waiting. Even the portraits that adorned the walls appeared to hang in stillness, their subjects silent, the usual chatter of life among them replaced with an uneasy tension. A shadow loomed over the school, and though it was a shadow cast by absence, it felt as tangible as any physical force.

Professor McGonagall moved through the corridors with a quiet sense of purpose, her sharp eyes constantly scanning for any sign of unrest. She had always prided herself on being able to keep a firm hold over her students, but in the wake of Harry and Draco’s disappearance, she felt the weight of her own helplessness. It had been nearly three years, yet it seemed as though no one could fill the void left behind by the two boys. Even the air around Gryffindor Tower seemed wrong now—quieter, tinged with something she couldn’t quite name.

She paused in front of the Gryffindor common room, her eyes catching the empty portrait of the Fat Lady. The portrait had always been a place of laughter, of students coming and going, of spirited conversation about anything from Quidditch to homework. Now, it was eerily silent.

Inside, she found Ron Weasley slumped against the hearth, his face drawn and tired. Hermione Granger was at the table, her brow furrowed as she read through a thick tome, though her eyes were unfocused. The room seemed to hold a deep sadness, and McGonagall could feel it weigh on her heart.

“Miss Granger, Mr. Weasley,” she greeted them, her voice warm but laced with concern. “How are you both today?”

Ron looked up from the fire, his eyes dark with sleeplessness. “We’re fine, Professor,” he said, though his tone lacked conviction.

“Are you certain?” McGonagall asked. “You’ve been particularly quiet as of late.”

“We’re just waiting,” Ron muttered. “I’m sure you know how it is.” He shot Hermione a glance, but Hermione didn’t meet his gaze. She only nodded solemnly, folding the pages of her book closed.

McGonagall’s gaze softened, her heart aching for them. She could see the pain in their eyes—the same pain she carried every day. Harry had been like a son to her, and Draco had been like a nephew, even if he would never admit it. They had all been tied together by their shared past, by the sacrifices they had made, by the hope that one day, things would be different. But things had not changed, and as much as she wished it were otherwise, she couldn’t stop the creeping dread that perhaps they never would.

“There are things that can’t be rushed, Ronald,” McGonagall said, her voice softening. “But we’ll find them. In our own time, but we’ll find them.”

Ron gave a short nod, though it was clear he didn’t entirely believe her. There was no real closure to be had when it came to Harry and Draco. They had simply vanished, leaving behind unanswered questions and a gnawing sense of worry. Where were they? Were they alive? And if they were, what had become of them in the years since their disappearance?

McGonagall turned her attention to Hermione, who had remained quiet. The young woman was still only fourteen, yet she seemed much older than that now. McGonagall could see the way Hermione’s brow furrowed in deep thought, a look that told her the young witch had been burying herself in research, trying to find something, anything, to bring her closer to the truth.

“Miss Granger,” McGonagall said, her voice gentle. “You’ve been at this for sometime now. Perhaps it’s time to take a break. A bit of rest won’t do any harm.”

Hermione gave a small shake of her head, her tired eyes meeting McGonagall’s. “I can’t, Professor. There has to be something. A clue, a spell, a way to track them.” Her voice wavered slightly, and McGonagall could see the tears she was desperately trying to hold back.

“Sometimes,” McGonagall said, her tone heavy with understanding, “the answers aren’t things we can find by searching harder. Sometimes, we have to wait for the answers to come to us.”

“I can’t wait anymore,” Hermione said, her voice cracking. “Not when there’s so much more at stake. I—”

“Hermione,” Ron said, his voice firm as he stepped in, placing a hand on her shoulder. “We’re all doing what we can. But we can’t keep beating ourselves up over it. Harry and Draco wouldn’t want us to.”

Hermione met Ron’s gaze, and for a moment, the storm of her emotions seemed to settle. She nodded silently, but McGonagall could see the frustration still lurking beneath her composed exterior.

With a sigh, McGonagall turned away from them, walking out of the common room. She didn’t know how to comfort them. There were no comforting words left. Not when even the most powerful wizards in the world were at a loss.

As she walked down the hall, McGonagall caught sight of Severus Snape in the distance, leaning against a wall, his arms crossed as he stared into the empty corridor. His posture was rigid, but there was a tension in his shoulders that McGonagall had not seen before. Snape had always been a master of hiding his emotions, but even he couldn’t escape the heaviness that now permeated the school.

She made her way toward him, her steps quiet. When she was close enough, she spoke. “Severus,” she said softly. “You’ve been unusually quiet these days.”

Snape’s gaze flicked toward her, but his expression remained impassive. “I’ve had little reason to speak,” he said coolly. “There’s little use in discussing what’s already known. The boys are missing, presumed dead. And with it, everything that goes with it.”

McGonagall regarded him for a moment, her eyes narrowing with a hint of something she could not name. “You seem… different, Severus. You’re not the man you were when they were here.”

His lips curled into a faint, bitter smile. “And what, Minerva, did you expect me to be? A grieving father? Perhaps a long-lost uncle?”

“No,” she said softly. “I expected you to be yourself.”

For a long moment, Snape remained silent, his expression unreadable. Then, with a heavy sigh, he pushed himself off the wall, his eyes dark with something close to regret.

“Dumbledore doesn’t know,” Snape said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “He doesn’t know what’s truly at stake here.”

McGonagall froze. “What do you mean?”

Snape’s gaze darkened further. “I’m not the only one who has regrets. Sirius Black has escaped and we all know what that means. And it’s time we face what we’ve ignored for far too long.”

The absence of Harry and Draco was a specter that hung over the school, affecting everyone in ways they couldn’t always articulate. Students walked the corridors with an unease that had settled into their bones, as if something vital was missing. Even the simple act of stepping into the Great Hall for meals felt heavy, a stark reminder that two of Hogwarts’ most significant figures were gone, leaving an irreplaceable void behind.

Ron Weasley was no stranger to grief, but this… this was a different kind of ache. The kind that gnawed at his insides and made him feel like he was missing a part of himself. Harry had been his closest friends, though they hadn’t seen one another in years. The bond he shared with Harry was stronger than ever.

Yet, now that he was gone, Ron couldn’t help but feel the sharp sting of loss. He missed their jokes, the sharp-edged banter that always kept him on his toes. He even missed seeing Draco’s haughty smirk, knowing it meant he was alive, as infuriating as it could be. And Harry—his best mate—was simply… gone. Ron still couldn’t wrap his head around the idea that his friend, the one who had been with him through thick and thin, had vanished without a trace.

Sitting alone in Gryffindor Tower, Ron stared blankly at the fire, absently poking at the embers with a piece of kindling. His eyes were red-rimmed, the result of many sleepless nights spent worrying about Harry and Draco. He had always been the one who worried, the one who tried to keep everyone together, but it felt different now. Different because, in the back of his mind, Ron wondered if he could have done something—anything—to keep them from disappearing in the first place.

“Ron?” Hermione’s voice broke through his thoughts, but he didn’t turn to look at her. He knew what she was going to say, the same thing she’d been saying for weeks now.

“We’ll find them, Ron,” she said gently, sitting beside him on the couch. Her voice was soft, but there was an edge to it that he hadn’t heard before. “We just have to keep looking. We have to.”

Ron blinked, his throat tightening. “We’ve been looking for years, Hermione. What else can we do? What else is there?”

Hermione looked at him, her own eyes filled with a sadness she was too proud to admit. She had always been the logical one, the one who kept her emotions in check, but even she was beginning to crack under the weight of it all. Her mind, always sharp and focused, had become tangled with unanswered questions. What happened to them? Were they alive? And if so, where were they? And what about Black?

“I know,” she whispered, her fingers curling around the edge of her book, gripping it tightly as though it could somehow provide the answers they so desperately needed. “I know it feels impossible. But we can’t stop, Ron. Not when there’s still a chance.”

Ron turned to look at her, and for the first time in a long while, he saw how much she had changed. She had always been strong, but now there was a brittle edge to her that made her seem smaller, as if the weight of her thoughts was starting to pull her down.

“I’m sorry,” Ron said quietly. “I know you’re doing everything you can. But I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this.”

Hermione was silent for a moment, and for a second, Ron wondered if she was going to break down like he felt he might at any moment. But instead, she gave him a small, fragile smile and squeezed his hand. “We’ll keep going, Ron. For them.”

Meanwhile, in the Slytherin common room, Pansy Parkinson sat quietly by the fire, a sharp contrast to her usual loud and opinionated self. Her eyes flickered to the door every few minutes, as if she expected Draco to walk through it at any moment. But of course, he didn’t. He hadn’t walked through it in over two years.

Pansy had never been one to express her emotions openly, but the truth was, she missed Draco more than she cared to admit. He had been the center of Slytherin’s social hierarchy, and without him, everything felt… off. There was a quiet despair in the way the other students spoke about him, a mix of pity and suspicion. They whispered that he must have been following in his father’s footstep trying to gain an upper hand to get into the Dark Lord’s circle once he returns, but Pansy knew the truth. Draco might have talked a big game, but he would never truly be a willing participant in any of that. 

The guilt weighed heavily on her—guilt for not having done more to help him, to find a solution to return him to his rightful place amongst them. She had watched him struggle with his family’s expectations, the pressure to be someone he wasn’t, and she had done nothing. Now, with him missing, she didn’t know how to move forward. She still carried the hope that Draco would return, but every passing day that hope felt less certain.

She clenched her fists, feeling a sharp pain in her chest. The thought of Draco—alone and vulnerable, wherever he was—was unbearable. And yet, Pansy couldn’t help but wonder if he had even thought of her during this time. Had he forgotten her? Had he found a new life away from all of them?

“Pansy?” Theo Nott’s voice interrupted her thoughts. She looked up to see him standing in the doorway, his expression unreadable. “Are you alright?”

Pansy wiped her eyes quickly, her pride pushing back against the weakness she felt. “I’m fine,” she said, her voice colder than she meant it to be. “Just… tired.”

Theo stepped closer, his eyes scanning her face, as though trying to read her. “You know,” he said softly, “it’s okay to admit that you miss him.”

Pansy’s heart lurched at the words, and she immediately looked away, unable to meet his gaze. “I don’t miss him,” she lied, even though she knew Theo saw right through her. “He’s probably better off without all this. Without us.”

Theo gave her a long, searching look before sighing. “You’re wrong, Pansy. Draco would never have left us behind. He was trapped in his own way. But that doesn’t mean he didn’t care.”

Pansy swallowed hard, feeling the tightness in her throat. She wanted to deny it, to push the feelings away, but she couldn’t. The truth was too strong. “I just don’t know what to do anymore,” she whispered.

Theo stood there for a moment, silent, and then he turned and walked out, leaving Pansy alone in the dim light of the common room. But before he left, he muttered one final thing that lingered in the air: “We’ll find him. We have to.”

Across the castle, Luna Lovegood was sitting by the windowsill in the Ravenclaw Tower, staring out at the forest. It was a beautiful, eerie sight, the way the trees seemed to sway in the distance, as though they were dancing to an unspoken rhythm. Luna had always found comfort in the natural world, in the things that others couldn’t see. She had always known that there was more to life than what appeared on the surface, and that belief had only grown stronger in the years following Harry and Draco’s disappearance.

Luna had been one of the few who had always believed in the possibility that the boys were still alive. She had seen things that others couldn’t, things that suggested they were out there, somewhere. Perhaps it was the magic of the forest, or perhaps it was something deeper—an understanding she had yet to fully grasp. But in her heart, she knew that Harry and Draco weren’t truly gone. Not yet.

The whispers around Hogwarts had grown louder, and the rumors about Sirius Black’s escape added to the tension. But Luna wasn’t concerned with the fear that others seemed to feel. Instead, she felt an odd sort of peace, the kind that came from knowing that all things would eventually come to their rightful place. She knew that the boys’ return would not be in the way anyone expected. The prophecy still loomed over them all, but Luna had always believed that fate had its own way of unfolding.

She stood up, brushing a lock of her silvery-blonde hair out of her face. “They will return,” she said quietly to herself. “In their own time.”

The pull of the prophecy was beginning to make itself known in ways that Remus Lupin couldn’t ignore. The signs were subtle—flickers in the magical wards, whispers in the wind—but they were growing more intense with each passing day. And though he had only recently become aware of the prophecy’s full weight, he could sense that something significant was approaching, something that neither he nor Harry nor Draco could prevent. All they could do was try to prepare for it, as best as they could.

Remus had been visiting the village regularly, spending more time there than at Hogwarts. The Grey Fang pack, cemented into him by Harek, had made him more than just a guest now. Though with the village, he was still considered an outsider, a fact that made him acutely aware of the delicate balance they were trying to maintain between the wizarding world and their hidden sanctuary. The pack had brought him in not only because of his status as a former member of the Order, but because of his unique connection to both Draco and Harry. He had helped them in more ways than one, offering them the guidance they needed as they adapted to their new lives and new abilities.

Draco’s inheritance, his veela nature, was something Remus had never fully understood until he had witnessed it for himself. The powerful attraction that Draco exuded was both a blessing and a curse, something that, if not properly controlled, could overwhelm him and those around him. Draco had been struggling to accept his inheritance, rejecting it at every turn. Remus decided that when he returned he would offer to work with him on how to temper the raw power that had been thrust upon him. Draco’s pride made it difficult for him to listen at times, but Remus knew that a veela’s bond to another—his true mate—was something Draco couldn’t outrun.

As for Harry, Remus had seen the gradual changes that had come with the boy’s wolf form. It had been a difficult transition, more challenging than either of them had anticipated. But Harry’s connection to his inner wolf was undeniable, and Remus was determined to help him and to learn to control his wolf as well. In the village, Harry had begun to understand his power, the way his senses sharpened, the way his emotions would surge when the moon was high. He had learned to embrace the wolf within, even if it still frightened him. Yet, Remus could sense that Harry’s real struggle wasn’t with his transformation—it was with the weight of the prophecy and his bond to Draco.

In the last few weeks, however, there had been signs that the prophecy was starting to act on its own. When Remus had first arrived in the village, it had been a quiet place, nestled in the heart of the forest. But now, with each visit, the atmosphere had begun to shift. There was a palpable tension in the air, as if the very forest itself was responding to the events unfolding around them. The animals seemed more restless, the trees whispered secrets Remus couldn’t quite catch, and the winds carried with them a strange energy that made him uneasy.

It was on one such visit, while he was walking through the woods with Harek, that the first truly unsettling sign appeared. The forest had always been unpredictable, but today, it seemed to have become aware of them. As they walked deeper into the trees, the hairs on the back of Remus’s neck stood on end. He paused, his eyes scanning the shadows that moved just beyond his reach.

“Do you feel that?” Remus asked, his voice low.

Harek, walking ahead, stopped and looked back at him with narrowed eyes. “It’s the forest,” he said, his tone guarded. “It knows something is coming. Something none of us can control. A darkness has arrived.”

Remus’s gaze swept over the dense foliage, and for a fleeting moment, he thought he saw something—someone—moving just beyond the tree line. His heart skipped a beat, but when he blinked, the figure was gone.

“Do you know what it is?” Remus asked quietly.

Harek was silent for a long moment before responding. “No. But the forest has always been tied to the prophecy. The land itself knows what is meant to happen.”

Remus felt a chill race down his spine. He had heard rumors of the forest’s connection to the prophecy, but hearing it from Harek, who had lived with the pack for years, gave it a weight he hadn’t fully understood until now. The very land was involved in the unfolding of this fate.

After their walk, Remus made his way to the small cabin where Harry and Draco were staying. He had arrived to check on Harry’s progress with his wolf form, but his thoughts were consumed with what he had just witnessed in the forest. He hadn’t told anyone at Hogwarts yet, not even Dumbledore, about the increasing signs he had seen in the forest. But it was becoming clear that the magic that held the prophecy together was starting to reveal itself, piece by piece. But his promised to Harry and Draco kept him quiet.

Inside the cabin, Harry was sitting by the fire, his face shadowed with concentration as he focused on controlling a ball of magical light. Remus watched him for a moment, noting the strain in his posture. Harry had come a long way since the first time they met all those weeks ago.

“You’re doing well,” Remus said softly, his voice calm as he approached.

Harry looked up, his green eyes flashing with a hint of the wolf within. “It’s getting harder, Remus,” he admitted, his voice strained. “I can feel it more now—every shift, every pull. My magic is shifting and changing.”

Remus nodded, sitting across from Harry. “It’s natural to feel that way. But you’re not losing yourself. The key is learning to accept the wolf within you, to understand that it’s a part of you. The same goes for Draco. The veela within him isn’t something he can outrun. He has to come to terms with it, just as you must with your wolf.”

Harry looked down at his hands, his fists clenched. “I don’t know if I can. What if the wolf takes over or I loose control of my magic? What if I can’t control either of them when it matters?”

“You will,” Remus said firmly. “You’ve already shown incredible strength, Harry. The wolf and your magic is a part of you, but it doesn’t have to control you. You’ve learned that the most important thing is accepting your power—not rejecting it.”

Harry’s gaze met his, uncertainty still lingering in his eyes. “And Draco?”

Remus hesitated before answering. “He’s fighting something far more dangerous. But he’ll come around. Just as you will.”

As they spoke, Remus could feel the subtle pressure in the air—the way the magic around them seemed to thrum in response to their conversation. He wasn’t sure if it was the prophecy at work, but the sense of destiny seemed to be building around them, a force neither of them could avoid.

The forest, the whispers, the pull of their power—everything was converging. And though Remus knew they still had time, he couldn’t shake the feeling that they were running out of it.

Though, back in the dungeons of Hogwarts, Pansy was hunched over a pile of parchment in the corner of the Slytherin common room, her eyes scanning the latest reports from the Malfoys’ private search team. The search for Draco and Harry had been ongoing for nearly three years, but progress was slow. The presence of Dementors, particularly around the edges of the Forbidden Forest and the outskirts of the village where Sirius Black had last been seen, had made their efforts nearly impossible. The team had been forced to halt several times, the threat of the Dementors’ presence too great for even their best trackers to handle.

Pansy’s fingers tightened around the parchment as she read through yet another failed attempt to find a trail. She had been holding everything together for the remaining members of Slytherin, but the truth was starting to weigh on her. The search was stalling. The longer they went without answers, the more she feared they might never find them.

She sighed, pushing the parchment aside and standing up. “They can’t just vanish,” she muttered to herself, pacing around the room. “They just can’t.”

The door to the common room creaked open, and Pansy turned to see Hermione Granger standing in the doorway. The last person she expected to see, and yet, the person who could be the most useful in this quiet rebellion.

“Hermione,” Pansy said, her voice a mix of surprise and relief. “What are you doing here? You know the Slytherin common room is—”

“I know,” Hermione interrupted with a small awkward smile, stepping inside. “I’m not here for a chat, Pansy. I figured you might be here. And I think we need to talk about the search.”

Pansy raised an eyebrow, her arms crossing. “You have updates?”

“Not much, but I do have some. Narcissa is… concerned. She’s been trying to keep the search team going, but the Dementors have caused a serious setback. The Malfoys’ people had some promising leads, a witch they found in the forest, but they’re no sure if they can trust what she says. Bit lost in the mind. But each time they get close, they lose track. It’s as if something keeps sending them in circles.” Hermione’s voice was tight, frustration evident in her tone. “It’s been nearly three years, Pansy. The longer they’re gone, the harder it’s going to be to bring them back.”

Pansy’s expression darkened. “I know that,” she snapped, her fingers digging into the edge of the table. “And I don’t need reminders of how bad it is.” She paused, taking a breath. “But what else is happening? What’s Narcissa doing about it? We can’t just wait.”

Hermione’s face softened, but there was still determination in her eyes. “She’s reaching out. To old contacts. Private operatives. We’re not giving up on them. Narcissa refuses to let anyone forget the Malfoy name, and that includes Draco and Harry. They’ll be found.”

“That’s what she says,” Pansy muttered, pacing again. “But it’s been too long. They should’ve found them by now, shouldn’t they? With all the money and resources they have, it shouldn’t have taken this long. I don’t know how much longer I can keep telling everyone to wait.”

Hermione stepped forward, placing a hand on Pansy’s arm. “I know it’s hard. But you’re not the only one fighting for them. Narcissa is pushing for a new strategy, and I’m not giving up either. We all have our parts to play. The search isn’t over, Pansy.”

Pansy met Hermione’s eyes, a flicker of gratitude shining through her frustration. “I can’t afford to let them think it’s over. If we give up, everything will be lost. Draco won’t forgive me.”

Hermione gave a small nod, squeezing Pansy’s arm reassuringly. “And neither will Harry.”

Later that evening, back at the Malfoy estate, Narcissa stood in her study, her hands clasped behind her back as she stared out the window at the cold, desolate grounds. The wind howled through the trees, but her thoughts were focused on something far more pressing. She had been busy—organizing the search, reaching out to old contacts—but something was gnawing at her. The longer the search went on, the more it felt like they were losing control.

A soft knock interrupted her thoughts, and she turned to see her house-elf, Jeb, standing in the doorway.

“Madam Narcissa,” Jeb said, bowing low. “The letter has been sent to the designated parties. The team is ready to continue the search once the Dementors have been driven back.”

“Good,” Narcissa said, her voice cool but grateful. “Make sure they’re prepared for anything. We can’t afford another failure.”

“As you wish, Madam,” Jeb said, bowing again before leaving the room.

Narcissa looked down at the desk, her fingers brushing the edges of the paper where she had just written a letter to a key contact in the Ministry. There were too many unanswered questions. Too many moving pieces. But one thing was certain—Draco and Harry would not be forgotten, no matter what. The Malfoy name would survive, and so would they.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the soft click of the door. Lucius Malfoy had entered the room, his movements slow but deliberate. Though he had been imprisoned, his presence still held weight, his aura of authority undeniable.

“Narcissa,” Lucius said, his voice low, “the longer this search goes on, the more I fear that we’ll never find them. The Ministry is suspecting that I had something to do with Siruis Black’s escape. As ridiculous as it is. Could you imagine me? Helping that blood traitor out?”

Narcissa straightened, turning to face him with a look of resolve. “I will not stop until they are found, Lucius. You may be content to wait, to play your games, but I will not sit idly by.”

Lucius’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing, merely nodding in acknowledgment of her determination.

“The world may have forgotten them,” Narcissa said quietly, “but we won’t. The Malfoy legacy lives on.”

Chapter Text

The tension between them seemed to ease a bit as the days wore on, but not in the way Draco would have preferred. Harry continued to hover—bringing trinkets, fussing over food, and adjusting the blankets—each gesture another reminder of how much he relied on Harry. Draco hated it. But worse still, he hated that he let Harry do it. He let Harry care for him, let Harry be the one to nurse him back to some semblance of strength. It made him feel weak. It made him feel like a burden—something he had never allowed himself to be.

And yet, he couldn’t deny the comfort it brought. The steady presence of Harry beside him. The soft words of encouragement, the way Harry’s hand would brush over his when he thought Draco wasn’t paying attention. He tried to push all of it away. Tried to keep his distance, even though every time Harry brought him something new—a carved figure, a soft blanket—Draco felt something inside him shift. Something warm, comforting, and terrifying all at once.

Today, however, was different.

“Don’t you have anything better to do than sit here and hover over me?” Draco muttered, crossing his arms over his chest as Harry carefully arranged another trinket on the bedside table. This one was shinny and Draco did in fact love it.

Harry shot him a playful look, clearly unbothered by Draco’s snark. “You’d be surprised how much I enjoy taking care of you,” he teased, but the smile on his face didn’t reach his eyes. It was quieter today, softer. His expression had lost some of its earlier teasing tone, and Draco could sense the weight behind it—the worry, the concern that had been there ever since Draco’s return.

“You’re unbelievable,” Draco huffed, shifting uncomfortably on the bed. His wings still ached, their bones not quite healed, the feathers nowhere near regrown. It was hard not to notice the void that was left in their absence, but it was impossible for Draco to admit how much it bothered him. He didn’t even want to think about it.

The silence that followed hung heavy between them, and Draco could feel the familiar, uncomfortable knot tighten in his stomach. He didn’t know why, but the quiet felt like a warning. Like a reminder that everything was not yet okay. His body still felt like it belonged to someone else—someone broken, incomplete. He was still recovering, but it wasn’t just the physical wounds.

“You know,” Harry started, sitting down beside him, his voice softer than usual. “There’s no ancient ritual for this, no secret spell to heal everything all at once.” He paused, glancing at Draco with a gentle, almost sad smile. “I wish there was. I really do.”

Draco gave him a skeptical look, but Harry continued. “I know you’re struggling with all of this. With needing help. But the book Remus brought me—it said we need to bond. We need to show affection. It’s part of the healing process. It’s… how your magic comes back and the tether heals itself.”

Draco turned his head to the side, his gaze flicking away from Harry’s. He hated this. He hated that it came down to this simple thing—affection. As if he could fix everything with a touch or a shared moment. He didn’t want to need this. He didn’t want to rely on Harry, on anyone.

A Malfoy would never.

“I don’t want to be a bloody burden,” Draco muttered, voice tight with frustration. “I’ve spent my whole life taking care of myself. I don’t need someone else to… to hold my hand through this.”

Harry’s expression softened, and he leaned forward, his hand resting on Draco’s. “I know,” Harry said, his voice steady. “But you need more than just your own strength right now. You need a family. A pack. A brood.” He used the word slowly, carefully, as if it might break Draco if said too quickly. “You don’t have to do this alone, Draco.”

The word brood hit Draco like a stone. He swallowed, his throat tightening. He had never allowed himself to think about it—about the veela side of himself that needed a family, that needed connection. He had spent years distancing himself from the part of him that yearned for that. Years of pretending it didn’t matter, pretending he didn’t care about the bond, the warmth, the closeness. But now, the bond was there, tugging at him, reminding him of the family he hadn’t wanted, of the love he hadn’t allowed himself to accept.

“Harry,” Draco began, his voice quieter, more vulnerable than he intended, “I’m not like other veela. I don’t want… to need this.” He gestured vaguely at his chest, his wings, as if they could somehow explain the sudden surge of emotion inside him. “I don’t want to rely on anyone.”

Harry’s grip on his hand tightened, and Draco glanced up, meeting Harry’s eyes. There was a quiet understanding there—no judgment, just acceptance. “But you do need someone, Draco,” Harry said softly, almost tenderly. “And I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Draco looked away quickly, his face burning with the shame of it all—the vulnerability he had never wanted to feel, the weakness he was trying so hard to hide. His feathers hadn’t even started to come back yet, a physical reminder of how incomplete he felt. He couldn’t hide it, couldn’t push it away anymore.

“I’m not some helpless creature,” Draco whispered, his voice barely audible. “I know you’re trying to help, but I can’t just… let go. I don’t know how.”

“You don’t have to let go all at once,” Harry replied, his voice calm but resolute. “You just have to trust that I’m here. And that you don’t have to be perfect. Not for me. Not for anyone. Just be you.”

Draco’s breath caught in his throat, and for a moment, he didn’t know what to say. He was too tired to fight anymore. Too tired to push Harry away.

“You know,” Harry added with a small grin, “I’m not going to stop trying to get you to let me help. I’m very stubborn when it comes to you.”

Draco couldn’t help but smirk at the familiar challenge in Harry’s voice. “Great,” he muttered sarcastically. “Another thing you’re determined to annoy me with.” But even as the words left his mouth, there was no real heat behind them.

Harry chuckled, squeezing his hand one more time. “You might just have to get used to it.”

Eventually, with a bit of a dramatic huff, if Harry did say so himself, Draco let himself relax into Harry’s touch, just a little more than usual. Maybe he couldn’t fix everything. Maybe he didn’t have all the answers. But with Harry there—with Harry—maybe, just maybe, he could let go of the fear of needing someone. And maybe, one day, he could let himself embrace the family he had so desperately pushed away.

Days past since that day of quiet acceptance, however, the silence between them had become unbearable. Draco sat on the edge of the bed, his wings still bound with the kelp wrap, his chest tight with the weight of everything he hadn’t said, everything he was avoiding. He wasn’t making any true progress either. He hated feeling this vulnerable, hated the way his body and magic were betraying him. Harry, as always, was there—hovering, watching, waiting for something Draco wasn’t ready to give.

“Harry,” Draco snapped, irritation clear in his voice, though it was a little weaker than he intended. “I swear to Merlin, if you don’t stop watching me, I’m going to hex you.”

Harry, who had been reading in the chair closest to the hearth, Ivy curled lazily in his lap and a book on veela magic from Remus in his hands, snapped the book audibly closed. 

“You can’t keep doing this, Draco,” he said, his voice low but sharp. “You’re acting like you can push me away with your stupid little jabs, but it’s not working. I’m trying to help you. I’ve been trying to help you for days, and you keep pretending like you’re fine. But I can see you. I can see how much you’re hurting.”

Draco shot him a venomous look, his jaw tightening. “I’m fine,” he bit out, though it didn’t sound convincing even to his own ears. “I’m not some delicate thing that needs to be babied every second, Harry. I don’t need you to come in here with your stupid little gifts, your constant hovering and watching. I just want to be left alone.”

Harry set Ivy down in her basket with a sharp motion, his patience clearly wearing thin. “You want to be left alone? Like when you went on a walk in the woods for three damn days and nearly died? You’ve been pushing me away since the moment you came back. You think I don’t notice how you’re shutting me out? I’m not just some caretaker to you, Draco. I’m not going to just sit here and watch you destroy yourself.” His voice rose, an edge of anger creeping in. “You’re not fine. You’re not fooling me, and you’re not fooling yourself.”

Draco flinched at Harry’s words, the harshness in his tone hitting him harder than he expected. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know how to argue back. He was so tired of this—of the constant tension, the way Harry was always right there, seeing through him, waiting for him to crack.

“Why do you keep pushing me, Harry?” Draco’s voice was quieter now, the anger dissipating, replaced by something rawer. “Why do you keep trying to fix me? I don’t need you to fix me.”

Harry stepped closer, his frustration reaching its peak. “Because I care, Draco! I care more than you know.” He was standing right in front of Draco now, his voice shaking with the weight of everything he was feeling. “And I can’t just watch you slip away. You’re barely even here. You can’t even feel your own magic anymore, and I can barely feel the tether between us. I hate it. I hate that I can’t feel you anymore.”

Draco’s chest tightened at Harry’s words. He hadn’t expected that—the rawness of Harry’s admission, the vulnerability he was showing. But the panic was starting to build again. He didn’t want Harry’s care. He didn’t want anyone’s care. “I don’t need you to fix this,” Draco said, his voice trembling with something Harry couldn’t quite place. “I don’t need anyone to make me whole again.”

“I’m not trying to make you whole, Draco,” Harry replied sharply, his voice now a whisper, but the intensity was still there. “I’m just trying to make sure you’re alive—alive, and with me. I don’t want you to fade away. I don’t want to watch you disappear into nothing because you’re too proud to admit that you need someone. Don’t make me watch someone else that I l—care about die right in front me again.”

 Harry’s words were heavy, his frustration building to a boiling point. “You keep pretending you’re fine, and I can smell death all around you. I can feel it every time I come near you. I know it’s not your fault, but it’s there. And it’s driving me insane.”

The words hit Draco like a physical blow. He wanted to argue, wanted to push Harry away, but the weight of those words was too much. He wasn’t fine. He wasn’t fine, and he couldn’t keep pretending. But needing someone—that was the part he couldn’t handle. That was what terrified him.

“I’m not fading,” Draco said quietly, though his voice didn’t hold the same strength. “I’m just… I don’t know how to handle this. I don’t know how to deal with you—dealing with me.”

Harry’s eyes softened, and the sharp edge in his voice dulled. He reached out, his hand gently cupping Draco’s face. “You don’t have to handle this alone, Draco. You don’t have to be perfect. You don’t have to be some untouchable thing. You just need to let me in. Let me help you.”

Draco’s heart was pounding in his chest, the pressure building with every word. He could feel the pull inside him—the tug of the tether, faint but there, like the promise of something he wasn’t sure he could accept. Harry was here, and that scared him more than anything. The truth was, Draco didn’t want to admit it, but he needed Harry more than he wanted to. He needed him in ways he hadn’t allowed himself to feel before.

“I don’t want to be weak,” Draco muttered, looking away, his voice thick with embarrassment. “I don’t want to be someone you have to take care of.”

Harry’s expression softened even further, his thumb brushing against Draco’s cheek. “You’re not weak, Draco. You’re just hurt. And I’m not going anywhere. I’m not giving up on you.”

And then, before Draco could stop him, Harry leaned in, kissing him—slowly at first, but then more urgently, as if the kiss was the only way to bridge the gap that had grown between them. It wasn’t gentle; it wasn’t a kiss born of passion—it was a kiss of raw, frustrated emotion, of everything they hadn’t been able to say until now. It was Harry’s promise that he wouldn’t give up, no matter how much Draco tried to push him away.

Draco froze, the shock of the kiss rippling through him like a jolt of electricity. For a moment, he didn’t know what to do, what to feel. His mind was a whirlwind of confusion, but there was something else too—relief. Acceptance.

When Harry pulled away, Draco was left breathless, the world spinning around him. Harry’s forehead rested against his, and Draco could feel Harry’s warm breath mingling with his own.

“You’re not alone, Draco,” Harry whispered softly, his voice thick with sincerity. “You don’t have to fight this alone.”

Draco closed his eyes, his breath still ragged. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to accept everything Harry had just given him. Though he swore he could feel a hum of the tether once again.

The morning light stretched across the room, soft and golden, casting a serene glow on everything it touched. Harry lay beside Draco, propped up on his elbow as he watched the slow rise and fall of Draco’s bare chest. The room was quiet, save for the faint crackle of the fire in the hearth, the only sound accompanying Harry’s thoughts as he took in the sight of Draco lying there.

Draco was still sound asleep, his long lashes resting against his now-pink cheeks, the healthy glow of recovery starting to return to his skin. It was subtle—still faint, but unmistakable. His complexion, usually pale and drawn, now held a warmth that Harry hadn’t seen in days. It was the first time in a long while that Draco didn’t look like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Harry’s eyes lingered on Draco’s face, tracing the curve of his jaw and the gentle rise of his chest. His wings, still tightly bound with the kelp wrap, shifted slightly beneath the covers, and Harry found himself feeling a strange, protective instinct wash over him. It was impossible not to notice how fragile Draco seemed, but the glow in his skin told Harry that there was strength returning, little by little.

Draco’s magic, too, was starting to stir again. It was faint, barely perceptible, like a whisper in the back of Harry’s mind. But it was there. The tether, though still weak, was pulling at Harry, and it was the first time in weeks that he could feel even a glimmer of Draco’s presence in his magic. It was like the first flicker of a flame after a long, dark night. Harry exhaled slowly, the relief settling in his chest.

And that was when it hit him.

His feelings for Draco had always been complicated, tangled up with worry, friendship, and a sense of responsibility. But as he watched Draco sleeping so peacefully, something in Harry shifted. The connection between them, the bond they shared, was more than just magic. It was more than just care. Harry could feel it now—the desire to be closer to Draco, the longing that had been buried beneath layers of frustration, fear, and uncertainty. He wanted more than to just watch over Draco. He wanted to hold him. To kiss him again.

The memory of their first kiss hit him like a wave. It had been impulsive, messy, and raw, a moment of release that neither of them had expected. But Harry wouldn’t change it. He had wanted it then, and now, as he watched Draco sleep, he wanted it even more. His heart raced as the realization hit him fully: his feelings for Draco were no longer just about being friends. They were deeper, more intense.

He shifted slightly, still watching Draco, but before he could fully process the emotions swirling inside him, Draco stirred. His breath hitched, and he shifted beneath the blankets, his eyes flickering open slowly, as though he were just waking from a deep sleep.

Harry held his breath, his heart suddenly in his throat, as Draco blinked up at him, his eyes soft and unfocused for a moment. Harry quickly turned his face away, trying to conceal the blush creeping up his neck.

“You’re awake,” Harry said, his voice light, though he couldn’t entirely suppress the rush of emotions that surged through him. He immediately regretted the high-pitched awkwardness that made it past his lips.

Draco’s lips twitched, and he raised an eyebrow. “Well, I am now,” he muttered groggily, blinking as he took in the sight of Harry. His voice, though tinged with sleep, was still sharp with that familiar, sarcastic edge. “What’s your excuse for still being here, then? Not enough trinkets for you to drag out of the market? Harek decide to dump you for a younger, dumber werewolf?”

Harry chuckled softly, but it wasn’t a teasing laugh—it was the kind of laugh that was full of tenderness, full of affection. “You’re welcome, by the way,” he said, his tone laced with teasing. “I’ve been bringing you gifts like an absolute saint. And I don’t see any gratitude, just complaints.”

Draco rolled his eyes, but there was something softer about the motion than usual. The sarcastic edge had dulled a little. “I told you, I don’t need gifts. Just space. Space and some peace and quiet would be nice.”

Harry leaned back against the pillows, letting out a small, easy sigh. “You’re a real piece of work, Draco Malfoy,” he teased. “I give you everything, and you give me nothing but attitude.”

“Hey, I’m charming, aren’t I? And have you seen this hair?” Draco replied, his lips curling into a smirk as he shifted, stretching his arms overhead. The movement caused him to wince slightly, his wings still uncomfortable beneath the kelp wrap, but he quickly masked the pain with a roll of his eyes. “I’m just giving back the only thing I’m good at.”

Harry shook his head, though his grin never faded. “I’m not giving up on you, you know. You’re going to have to get used to that.”

Draco shifted again, his eyes flickering toward Harry. “You’re really not going to give up on me, are you?” he muttered, his voice suddenly quiet, almost hesitant. “Why do you keep doing this? You don’t have to. You could just… leave. You’d be fine.”

Harry felt his heart tighten at the vulnerability in Draco’s words, at the soft undercurrent of doubt that he hadn’t expected. He wasn’t sure what to say, but his own voice came out steady and full of conviction. “No,” he said firmly, his gaze meeting Draco’s. “I can’t just leave. I’m not going anywhere. Not ever.”

Draco’s eyes met Harry’s then, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. The air between them was thick with unspoken things. It was different now, warmer somehow. Maybe it was the kiss, or maybe it was the way Draco’s defenses had started to crumble—piece by piece—but Harry could feel it. They were getting closer. The bond between them, fragile as it was, was beginning to feel more real, more tangible.

The tension hung there for a few moments, before Draco broke the silence again, his voice quiet but full of that familiar snark. “I didn’t ask for you to get all… noble on me,” he muttered. “I’m not some charity case, Potter.”

Harry’s grin widened, and he leaned over, brushing a strand of long hair from Draco’s forehead. “I never said you were, Draco. But you’re going to have to deal with me being here whether you want to or not.”

Draco’s eyes softened, and for a second, Harry could see it—the flicker of something in his gaze that hadn’t been there before. It was trust. Just a little, but it was there. And maybe, just maybe, Draco was starting to understand that Harry wasn’t going to leave him. Not now, not ever.

“Fine,” Draco muttered, his voice quieter now. “But I still don’t need you treating me like I’m some precious object. I’m not some… pet project for you to save.”

Harry chuckled, as he impulsively let his knuckles skim over Draco’s shoulder. “I don’t need to fix you, Draco. I just need you to stop pushing me away.” He paused, his voice softening as he glanced at Draco, his smile fading into something more sincere. “I’m not going anywhere. Not even if you tell me to.”

Draco rolled his eyes, though there was no real malice behind it. “Yeah, well, I’ll try to endure it,” he said, but the way his lips curled into a small smile belied the bitterness in his tone.

Harry couldn’t resist anymore. He leaned closer to Draco, his heart pounding in his chest as he closed the space between them. “You know, you’re going to have to start accepting it, Draco,” Harry said softly, before pressing his lips gently to Draco’s forehead, letting the soft warmth of the kiss linger.

The world seemed to stop for a moment. Harry’s heart skipped a beat as the weight of everything settled between them, and in that quiet moment, he could finally feel the first stirrings of the tether—faint but real.

Draco’s breath caught, and for once, he didn’t pull away. He didn’t push Harry out of his space. And in that fleeting second, Harry felt a surge of something in his chest, something deep and unspoken, a connection that had finally been allowed to grow once again.

“You’re stuck with me pigeon-boy,” Harry whispered again, his voice full of quiet resolve.

And maybe—just maybe—Draco believed him.

Chapter Text

The first thing Harry noticed when he opened the door was how the cold hit him in an instant. It wasn’t just the usual biting chill of winter—it was something worse. The temperature had dropped suddenly, and it felt as if the very light had been sucked from the sky. The sun had been bright that morning, but now, in the span of just a few hours, the world outside seemed shrouded in a dull, almost oppressive gloom. Even for November, this was a little too much.

Harry stepped back inside, slamming the door shut against the unnatural cold. “It’s like the dementors are sucking all the light from the sky,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to anyone else.

The snow outside had turned from a light dusting to a thick, swirling blizzard. The wind howled through the trees, twisting in strange, unnatural patterns. The world beyond the village boundary felt dark, suffocating. The weather wasn’t just cold—it was as though the very essence of despair had seeped into the atmosphere itself, thickening the air around them. Harry could feel it. The presence of the dementors was more than just an oppressive force on the weather—it was as if their despair had bled into the environment itself.

Draco, who had been standing by the window, turned as Harry closed the door. His eyes narrowed as he glanced toward the swirling snow outside. “It’s them, isn’t it?” Draco’s voice was quiet, almost hollow, as if the weight of the cold was sinking in. “The dementors. They’re everywhere.”

Harry nodded, but his gaze didn’t leave the window. The feeling in his chest was suffocating, the cold seeping into his bones in a way that felt unnatural. “I hate them,” he muttered, his voice low. “They make everything feel… wrong.”

“You’re not wrong,” Draco replied, his voice tinged with bitterness. He moved away from the window, taking a seat near the fire. The warmth of the room didn’t seem to reach him as much as it should have. Draco’s wings, unwrapped now and still healing, twitched slightly with the discomfort. The soft tufts of downy feathers were just starting to grow back, but they weren’t enough to ease the discomfort in his bones. His magic was still fragile, weak, and it was impossible to ignore how much of a toll the dementors had taken on him.

Harry glanced over at Draco. He could see the exhaustion still etched into Draco’s features—the pallor of someone who had come too close to death. Harry’s heart clenched at the thought. Nearly killed him, he remembered. Draco had been the one to suffer, to bear the brunt of the dementors’ influence. Harry hadn’t been affected—not the way Draco had.

“You’re looking better,” Harry said softly, though the words felt strange coming from him. Draco had been so distant in the days following his recovery that Harry hadn’t quite known how to approach him. Their shared kiss left them both feeling awkward afterwards. But now, with the tufts of feathers growing back on his wings, there was a visible change. Even if it was small, it was enough to remind Harry how fragile the situation still was.

Draco snorted, his tone defensive. “Yeah, well, thanks for the subtle observation. It’s only been, what, a few weeks since I almost died? Good to know you’re not worried.”

Harry winced at Draco’s words but didn’t respond right away. He had seen the way Draco pushed everyone away—how the constant need to act like nothing was wrong had made it harder for Harry to reach him. It reminded Harry a little bit of eleven year old Draco. A snarky tone to hide behind his true feelings. But Harry had been worried. He just didn’t know how to show it.

The door rattled then, breaking the moment of silence, and Harry’s thoughts snapped back to the immediate danger. He quickly moved to the door, glancing once more at Draco before opening it.

Remus stood there, his face pale and lined with fatigue. The cold rushed in behind him, and Harry quickly stepped aside to let him in. Remus’s breath was visible in the air, a cloud of vapor forming with each exhale. His robes were heavy with snow, and his eyes were filled with a deep, exhausted concern.

“Remus,” Harry greeted, though there was no cheer in his voice. “What’s going on? It’s freezing outside.”

Draco stood up quickly to help Harry usher the man towards the fire and to make him a cup of tea.

Remus sat ungracefully, his eyes darting around the room before he gave a short nod. “I know,” he said, his voice low. “It’s the dementors. They’ve been closing in for days. And now… it’s worse. They’re spreading their influence farther, making the weather colder. It’s not just the chill, Harry.” He paused, looking toward Draco, who was standing by the table, his arms flexing as he poured three cups of tea. The cold didn’t seem to have the same effect on Draco anymore, but the tension in the room was palpable. “They’re affecting everything. The air. The land. Even the magic.”

Harry’s chest tightened at the mention of magic. He’d been feeling the same thing—like the air around them was thicker, heavier, as though the dementors were pressing in on them. And Draco… Draco’s magic—it was still fragile. Harry couldn’t ignore that.

“I’ve been keeping an eye out,” Remus continued, his voice grim. “The Ministry is starting to think that Sirius Black has come back to seek revenge, but it’s not just about you, Harry. He’s targeting the school, specifically. They believe he’s trying to settle some vendetta, something tied to Voldemort. Just days ago, he broke into the school and tried to enter Gryffindor Tower.”

Harry froze at the words, his blood running cold. “He’s already been inside Hogwarts?”

Remus nodded. “Yes. And from what we can gather, he’s not just after you. He’s hunting Draco too. We don’t know why yet, but the Ministry and Dumbledore both believe he’s trying to strike at anything related to Voldermort’s downfall.”

Draco’s face darkened, his jaw tightening as he stood up, his eyes flashing with a mixture of anger and something else. “He’s not taking me anywhere,” Draco spat, his voice cold, though the hint of fear lingered behind the words. “He doesn’t get to just come here and make me his pawn.”

Remus met Draco’s gaze, his expression soft but serious. “I know, Draco. I don’t think he will. But we need to be careful. If Sirius is hunting you because of who you are, if he believes you’re the key to something important, we can’t afford to take risks.”

Harry’s stomach churned at the thought. “But what’s he after? What does he think Draco has that’s so important?”

“I don’t know,” Remus said, his voice low. “He simply could be after him for revenge. Your father was able to avoid azkaban himself by claiming he was under the imprius curse the entire time. But we’re running out of time to find out. The barrier Liora put up is holding for now, but the tension is mounting. If Sirius gets too close, the situation will get much more dangerous. For all of us.”

Draco didn’t say anything for a long moment. Instead, he turned toward the fire, his face illuminated in its soft light, but there was something darker in his eyes. The flicker of something more than frustration—something deeper, something raw. “So, we’re just supposed to sit here and wait? While he hunts me and Harry like damn animals?”

“We’ll do what we can,” Remus said, his voice gentle, but there was no hiding the weight of his words. “But right now, staying inside is the safest option. You’re not alone in this, Draco.”

Harry stepped forward, a little closer to Draco, but he didn’t know what to say. The weight of the situation felt heavier with every passing second. And that feeling—of being watched, of being hunted—lingered in the back of his mind.

“I’ll keep an eye on the boundary,” Remus said, glancing between the two of them. “Stay inside. Don’t venture into the woods unless absolutely necessary. I’ll help you prepare for what comes next. But for now, we need to stick together. I’ll try to stay away for awhile just to make sure I am not followed.”

As Remus moved toward the door to leave, Harry caught a glimpse of something outside—the faintest shadow moving just beyond the edge of the trees, just out of sight. A flicker of movement, too swift to be anything human.

But Harry didn’t say anything. He didn’t want to draw attention to it—didn’t want to give voice to the fear growing in his chest. It was there, though. That sense of being watched, hunted, like prey waiting for the inevitable.

“We won’t be going anywhere,” Harry said softly, looking at Draco. His voice was quiet but filled with unspoken promise.

Draco met his gaze, his eyes narrowing slightly. “You’re damn right you’re not. Because if you leave me, Potter, you’d better hope the dementors catch me first.”

Harry gave a small smile, but his heart wasn’t in it. There was no joking in his voice anymore. Harry’s voice was low but steady as he spoke. “You and me, pige. And I won’t let anything happen to you. Not now. Not ever again.”

Chapter Text

The usual morning bustle in the Great Hall was tempered by a strange air of tension, especially around the Slytherin table. Students, eager to start the day, were more preoccupied than usual, their attention drawn to the front page of the Daily Prophet, which was being passed between them with increasingly urgent whispers. The headline was impossible to ignore.

THE DAILY PROPHET, WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 9TH, 1994

GRAVE ESCAPE FROM AZKABAN: SIRIUS BLACK STILL AT LARGE

By Rita Skeeter, Senior Reporter

A Darker Plot Unfolds

Sirius Black, the notorious fugitive believed responsible for the betrayal of James and Lily Potter and the murder of multiple muggles, is still at large from his daring escape from the high-security wizarding prison, Azkaban. This has prompted an urgent search by the Ministry of Magic. Black, who was imprisoned thirteen years ago for his role in the deaths of the Potters, is now the most wanted man in Britain.

Reports from the Ministry confirm that Black, who was known to have been one of the most trusted friends of the currently missing Harry Potter’s late parents, escaped the prison in the dead of night, aided by an unknown force. Witnesses claim they saw a large wolf like creature near the perimeter of the prison just before Black’s disappearance, but no details have been confirmed at this time.

However, a latest report suggest that Black, notorious for his role in betraying the Potters to Voldemort, is not only hunting Harry Potter but also targeting Draco Malfoy in what some are calling an act of vengeance. Several eyewitnesses have spotted Black near the Forbidden Forest in recent weeks, accompanied by strange, wolf-like creatures believed to be working under his command. The forest’s dark, mystical properties have long been a haven for such dark creatures, and Black’s association with them raises new fears about his continued alliance with the dark arts and those who follow them.

“This man is a dangerous criminal and a threat to the safety of our children,” said Cornelius Fudge, the Minister for Magic. “Sirius Black’s escape is a travesty. Not only is he an escaped murderer, but he is believed to be actively working with the dark creatures of the Forbidden Forest, particularly werewolves. His dangerous affiliations and blatant disregard for the safety of the children are unacceptable.”

According to eyewitnesses, Black has been seen near the school, and his efforts to infiltrate Hogwarts on Halloween (the anniversary of The Potter’s Murder) suggest he is determined to find Harry Potter at any cost. The Ministry is doing everything in its power to protect the students, but there are concerns about the ability of the Ministry’s security measures to stop him.

Lucius Malfoy Critiques Dumbledore’s Leadership

Lucius Malfoy, who has been outspoken about the safety of students at Hogwarts since his own sons disappearance three years ago (see page 23 for a full recap and update on the search), was furious when reached for comment. “This situation is absolutely disgraceful,” Malfoy said, his voice seething with anger. “Once again, Dumbledore has allowed the students of this school to be put in danger. How many times will the Headmaster ignore his responsibilities? The fact that Sirius Black was able to infiltrate Hogwarts after breaking into Gryffindor Tower is a testament to Dumbledore’s failure to protect the children under his care.”

Malfoy’s words were harsh, and his voice trembled with frustration as he continued. “The Ministry can say all they want about searching for Black, but it’s been years—years—since I first warned them about Dumbledore and his inability to protect our children. And now, what do we have? A criminal on the loose, and my own son is still missing. If Dumbledore had done his job properly, Draco and Harry Potter wouldn’t have disappeared in the first place. This is a complete failure of leadership.”

Malfoy’s fury didn’t end there. “Every year it’s been something at that school. Malfoy’s have been attending Hogwarts for years. But after we find my son I promise you they never will again. Is that the Ministry’s idea of ‘protecting’ us? Of ensuring the safety of our children? The truth is simple—if Dumbledore hadn’t intervened in Black’s sentencing, the Ministry would have dealt with him years ago. But because of Dumbledore’s inefficiency, once again my son’s life is now in jeopardy, and for what? Because they listened to that old man once again.”

RITA SKEETER SUGGESTS REVENGE PLOT AGAINST MALFOY FAMILY

While the Ministry has taken to reassuring the public with news of their “increased security measures” at Hogwarts, the latest reports reveal that Sirius Black may not be after Harry Potter alone. According to sources close to the investigation, Black is believed to be actively targeting Draco Malfoy as well. Skeeter speculates that Black’s desire for revenge is not solely tied to his alleged betrayal of the Potters, but also to his anger toward the Malfoys.

“It’s possible,” a close personal friend to Draco Malfoy suggested “that Black’s vendetta is not just about Potter. His past with the Malfoys—and their subsequent escape from justice following the fall of Voldemort—could be a key motivator in his relentless pursuit of the Malfoy heir.”

Draco Malfoy’s absence from Hogwarts remains a mystery, with whispers circulating that he, along with Harry Potter, disappeared three years ago after an unfortunate detention incident in the Forbidden Forest. The Malfoys’ influence and ties to the Death Eaters have made them a target for many, and my sources suggest that Black is not the only one hunting the Malfoy family.

Pansy Parkinson, who had been reading the Prophet aloud to the table, threw it down in exasperation. “This is ridiculous,” she scoffed. “Sirius Black working with werewolves? And they keep saying he’s targeting Draco like that’s supposed to matter. He’s not even here, is he?”

Millicent Bulstrode’s lips tightened in annoyance as she folded her arms. “They’ve been printing this nonsense about Draco being missing for years now. It’s not like anyone’s done anything about it. The Prophet just keeps rehashing the same old story because it sells papers, and no one cares.”

Blaise Zabini, who had been silent up to this point, finally spoke, his voice thoughtful. “Maybe it’s not just about Draco, though. Maybe the Ministry’s more concerned about what they’re not telling us. Black being seen with werewolves—that’s not just coincidence. Maybe they’re trying to protect someone, but at the cost of something more important. Like how Draco’s absence isn’t just accidental either.”

Pansy didn’t seem convinced. “Well, that’s a convenient excuse,” she said sharply. “But it’s easy for the Prophet to make everything sound so dramatic. ‘Sirius Black in league with werewolves.’ Really? They can’t possibly know that for sure. It’s just sensationalism.”

But even as she said it, there was an edge of doubt in her voice. The rumors about Draco’s disappearance, combined with the growing tension surrounding Black, seemed to stir something deeper inside her. Something wasn’t right.

Draco’s absence loomed over the table, more pronounced with every mention of Sirius’s return. None of them spoke it aloud, but the idea that Black’s return and Draco’s disappearance were connected was an uncomfortable thought. And with each new report from the Daily Prophet, it became clearer: the Malfoys weren’t just being targeted by Black, they were part of a larger, more dangerous game, one where Dumbledore was failing to protect them.

The chatter in the Great Hall was beginning to settle as students finished their meals and gathered their belongings to head off to their respective classes. At the Slytherin table, the students who had been absorbed in the Daily Prophet were now folding the paper and pushing it aside, though the lingering tension about Sirius Black still hung in the air. But across the room, away from the crowds, Hermione Granger had moved to sit with Pansy Parkinson. 

Hermione had hardly touched her porridge, her mind already consumed by the demands of her never-ending schedule. Between her assignments, extracurricular activities, and the endless hours spent in the library, she looked as exhausted as ever, though her face still managed to hold that familiar determination. She glanced at the clock on the wall, then at Pansy, who was reading the Daily Prophet.

“How do you do it?” Pansy asked, her voice half-disbelieving, as she looked up from the paper. “You’re like a machine, Hermione. Every time I see you, you’re still buried under piles of notes.”

Hermione sighed, rubbing her temples slightly, but then smiled, the weariness in her eyes softening. “I don’t know how, honestly. But I have to. It’s the only way to keep up with everything.” She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear and added with a slight grimace, “It’s getting worse, though. I’ve barely got time to breathe between classes and all the extra reading. And don’t get me started on the tests coming up next week. I’ll be lucky to survive.”

Pansy chuckled softly, her eyes scanning the latest edition of the Prophet, though it was clear her mind wasn’t entirely on the article. “You’ve got a point. But you do seem to have everything under control. You’ve always been like this, haven’t you?”

Hermione paused, glancing down at her hands as she fiddled with the edge of her napkin. “I guess,” she said with a sigh. “But sometimes I wish I could slow down. I mean, I know it’s important to keep up with everything, but it just… feels like it’s all piling up.”

Pansy’s voice softened, more sincere than Hermione had expected. “It’s not easy, is it? You know, I do understand the pressure, even if it seems like I don’t.”

Hermione blinked, surprised by the lack of sarcasm in Pansy’s words. “Really?”

Pansy smiled faintly, putting the Daily Prophet down on the table, where it lay forgotten. “It’s true. Everyone thinks I’m just ‘Pansy the Slytherin,’ but honestly? I’ve got a ton of things going on too. My parents expect me to excel, to be perfect at everything. Sometimes I wish I could just stop and breathe. Do you know what I mean?”

Hermione’s eyebrows furrowed slightly. She had never really thought about Pansy’s situation before. Her reputation as the classic Slytherin—sharp-tongued, self-assured, and a little ruthless—had always overshadowed the more personal side of who she was. But the vulnerability in Pansy’s voice caught her off guard.

“I never really thought about it like that,” Hermione admitted, her voice quieter now. “You always seem so confident… I guess I assumed it came easily for you.”

Pansy gave a small, almost sad smile. “Confidence can be a mask, Hermione,” she said, looking down at her hands for a moment. “We all have to pretend we’re okay, especially when we’re trying to live up to expectations. No one wants to see the cracks, right?”

For a moment, neither of them said anything. Hermione simply looked at Pansy, a new understanding between them beginning to form. It was strange, really, that she hadn’t noticed before. Despite their differences, they shared a lot more than she’d ever realized.

“So, what do you think of the Daily Prophet today?” Hermione asked, eager to change the subject, but not in a way that seemed dismissive. She genuinely wanted to know Pansy’s thoughts.

Pansy shrugged, clearly not expecting to be asked. “The usual sensationalism,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “Blaming everything on Black. And now they’re dragging in werewolves and Malfoy’s disappearance like it’s all connected. It’s ridiculous. The Ministry can’t even keep track of its own security.”

“Yeah, well, I think they’re trying to cover their own mistakes,” Hermione said, her tone light but with an edge of frustration. “The last time they had a real threat was with the Chamber, and now this. Honestly, they never seem to learn, do they?”

Pansy gave a half-smile. “I think they’re doing their best to make everyone believe they’re in control. But it’s like pretending they know what’s going on is enough. There’s no real action, not really.”

A sudden thought crossed Hermione’s mind, and she hesitated for a moment before speaking. “You… you don’t really believe that Sirius Black is after Draco, do you?”

Pansy’s eyes narrowed slightly, her fingers tracing the edge of the paper. “It wouldn’t surprise me, honestly. The Malfoys are always in the middle of things like this. They escaped the Death Eater trials. They managed to survive the fall of Voldemort. And now Black’s just sitting around waiting for revenge. It’s all connected. Black’s been obsessed with Harry, but maybe it’s more about Draco. There’s history there.”

Hermione paused, digesting Pansy’s words. She’d never considered the possibility that Draco might be involved in this more than she’d originally thought, but Pansy had a point. The Malfoys had always had ties to the darker side of the wizarding world.

“You might be right,” Hermione said quietly, her voice thoughtful. “But either way, we need to be prepared. It’s not just Harry or Draco. It’s all of us.”

Pansy met Hermione’s eyes with a small, wry smile. “Well, I didn’t expect to have a deep conversation with you this morning. But… it wasn’t as bad as I thought. I guess you can be a bit less unbearable when you’re not buried in books.”

Hermione laughed, the sound light and natural. “I’m glad you think so,” she said with a teasing smile. “And maybe—just maybe—this could be the start of a beautiful friendship.”

Pansy raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Let’s not get too ahead of ourselves, Granger. But for today, I’ll take it.”

They both smiled at each other, the moment bridging a gap that had seemed impossible only a few months ago. As their conversation turned to lighter topics, like classes and their plans for the weekend, there was an unspoken understanding between them. Neither of them could change their worlds overnight, but perhaps, just maybe, there was room for something more—something beyond the rivalry and the masks they wore.

And in that moment, amidst the uncertainty about Sirius Black and the quiet chaos unfolding in the wizarding world, Hermione realized that even in the darkest times, there could still be small moments of connection.

The shadows of the evening stretched long across the stone walls of the empty corridor. The students had left for their respective dormitories, and the castle had quieted down, save for the occasional flicker of torchlight and the distant sounds of the storm howling outside.

Minerva McGonagall moved swiftly through the halls, her footsteps echoing on the cold marble floor. She had just finished a long day of teaching and was anxious to discuss matters that had been weighing heavily on her mind for weeks. Tonight, she was meeting with Severus Snape, the one person she could trust in this increasingly dangerous time—someone who shared her concerns but, as always, preferred to keep his distance from Dumbledore’s more public plans.

She knocked sharply on the door of his office, already knowing it would be unlocked. It was a well-known fact that Snape rarely locked his door when it came to matters of importance. The door creaked open with the slight push of her hand, revealing the familiar sight of Snape’s cluttered, dimly-lit office. The walls were lined with shelves of various potions ingredients, and his desk was littered with papers and books in various stages of being read—or ignored.

Snape was sitting behind his desk, his black robes nearly blending into the shadows as he looked up from a report. His sharp gaze fixed on Minerva as she stepped inside, and she noticed, as always, the subtle tension in his posture.

“Good evening, Severus,” Minerva said, her tone calm but direct. “I trust I’m not interrupting anything too… distracting?”

Snape’s lips twisted into something that could have been a smile—or a sneer. “Only the usual mess, Minerva,” he replied, his voice tinged with a bitter edge. “Would you like something stronger than your usual tea?”

Minerva declined with a sharp shake of her head, settling herself in the chair across from him. She folded her hands neatly on the table, fixing him with a steady, unwavering gaze. “We need to talk about Black.”

Snape’s face immediately darkened, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. He had clearly been expecting this conversation, but it did little to ease the tension in his posture.

“You’re not happy about it, are you?” Minerva pressed, her voice lower now. “The fact that he has escaped Azkaban, and now we have the potential for another… crisis on our hands.”

Snape scoffed, his voice dripping with disdain. “The Ministry can’t even handle the simplest of problems, Minerva. What do you think they’ll do with this one? Lock up a few more students? Put on a pretty show of security while Sirius Black slips right through their fingers?”

“Not just Black,” Minerva countered, her voice sharp. “We’re also dealing with the dementors, Severus. They’re growing stronger, more erratic. And that’s before we even factor in the… strange reports.”

Snape leaned forward slightly, his fingers steepled in front of his mouth as if contemplating something dark. “Strange reports? What exactly have you heard?”

Minerva hesitated for a moment before answering, her voice low. “There’s talk of werewolves in the Forbidden Forest. Black may be working with them—or at least, using them. Creatures with wolf-like features have been spotted near the forest’s edge.”

Snape’s lips curled into a contemptuous sneer. “Of course. Why not? Why wouldn’t Black be working with the very creatures that would help him slip through the cracks? It’s not like his best friend isn’t one is it?”

Minerva didn’t react to his tone or his accusations, but there was a fire in her eyes as she met his gaze. “Severus, we need to be realistic. We cannot afford to underestimate him. The Ministry believes he’s after Harry Potter, but there are those who think Draco Malfoy could also be in danger.”

Snape’s brow furrowed at the mention of Draco’s name. He couldn’t help but feel the subtle sting of his own dark suspicions. “Draco?” he murmured, his voice colder than before. “Isn’t it obvious? Black might be seeking vengeance, not just for the Potters, but for everything the Malfoys have done. The fact that they escaped the trials with the Death Eaters—don’t think for one second that it won’t catch up with them.”

Minerva’s gaze sharpened, the weight of his words settling between them. “Yes. But Draco isn’t at the school, Severus. It’s been three years since he and Harry disappeared. No one knows where they are. And it’s not just Dumbledore’s failure that troubles me, it’s the complete lack of action from the Ministry. We need a more strategic approach. Something more… reliable.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed, and for the briefest moment, a flicker of something darker passed through his expression. “Reliable, you say?” he echoed bitterly. “You mean someone like Lupin?”

Minerva raised an eyebrow at the mention of Remus Lupin’s name. She could feel the tension between them immediately. “Severus, we are past petty grudges. We need to work together to protect the students.”

Snape’s lip curled in barely concealed disdain. “I don’t trust him, Minerva. Not for a second. His presence here—his convenient situation as Defense Against the Dark Arts professor—it’s too much to ignore. Too many coincidences. Dumbledore keeps him around, and yet he’s constantly on the edges of things.”

Minerva crossed her arms over her chest, her gaze unwavering. “Severus, I understand your concerns about Lupin. But this isn’t about him. This is about Black and the safety of the students.”

“Exactly, Minerva. And Lupin… it’s not just his past. It’s his present. It’s his lack of involvement when it comes to real action,” Snape said, his voice lowering with suspicion. “You know how he can be. I am sure not even you have forgotten. He was… is an unpredictable beast at best. And you want me to work alongside him, knowing what he is?”

Minerva sighed heavily. “You have to put your personal animosity aside, Severus. We’re not children anymore. We have a responsibility to these students. To all of them. I bet on my life that Remus Lupin would never hurt a child or betray one to the likes of Sirius Black.”

“I don’t need a reminder of my duty, Minerva,” Snape snapped, his voice sharp, but his features softened as he continued. “I’m just saying we can’t be foolish enough to trust anyone blindly—especially not Lupin. Black is on the move, and the Ministry is more concerned with covering their mistakes than actually protecting anyone. We aren’t positive which side Lupin is truly on.”

Minerva’s expression softened with a mix of resignation and frustration. “I know, Severus. But for now, we have to trust each other. We’re the only ones willing to act—truly act—to protect these students.”

There was a long pause before Snape finally nodded, though it was reluctant. “Fine. But if things go awry, Minerva, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Minerva stood up, the tension in her body palpable. She paused before leaving, her back straight. “I’m counting on you, Severus. We all are.”

As she exited his office, Snape sat back in his chair, his mind swirling with doubts and suspicions. But one thing was certain—he couldn’t ignore the impending danger. Not when Black was on the loose, working with dark forces, and potentially hunting down both Harry and Draco.

The storm outside raged harder, and within the stone walls of Hogwarts, the shadows seemed to grow longer.

Chapter Text

The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting flickering shadows that danced lazily across the room. The shack, despite its humble and rustic appearance, had become a sanctuary. The world outside might have been harsh—full of cold winds and the looming danger of the unknown—but here, in the quiet warmth of the room, Harry and Draco had found a strange sort of peace over the last few days.

Draco sat with his legs crossed at the edge of the bed, his back propped against the headboard, a thick, ancient-looking book in his hands. His wings, still a bit fragile and barely fully healed, were tucked awkwardly behind him, but that didn’t stop him from shifting uncomfortably occasionally. Every now and then, his fingers would twitch, and he’d absently adjust his wings, as if they were somehow still a foreign part of him.

Harry sat beside him, casually sprawled on the bed, his feet dangling over the side. He was supposed to be reading, but as usual, his attention kept drifting back to Draco, watching him with a soft, searching gaze. The room was quiet except for the occasional crackle of the fire and the low hum of their breathing, but it was comfortable. After weeks of strained silences, it was nice to just… be there with him.

There was something about the way Draco’s fingers clenched tightly around the pages of the book that told Harry everything he needed to know. It wasn’t just the physical pain he was dealing with now. It was more than that. There was an emotional distance, a wall Draco kept up that Harry was more than aware of. And Harry, for his part, wasn’t about to let that wall stand for long.

Harry moved a bit closer, his body just barely touching Draco’s, as he casually reached out and gently brushed his fingers against Draco’s. It was a small touch, but it was enough to break the quiet tension between them.

Draco stiffened for a second, but didn’t pull away. He just shot Harry a glance, one eyebrow raised. “What’s this, Potter? Some sort of ‘comforting touch’ routine? Is it part of the whole ‘you have to care for the wounded Malfoy’ thing you’ve got going on?”

Harry smirked, feeling the familiar teasing tension bubble up between them. “Is that how you see me? Just your personal healer now?”

Draco rolled his eyes, though there was a faint hint of something else in his gaze—something softer. “I didn’t ask for any of this. You know that, right?”

“I’m sure you didn’t,” Harry said casually, his hand slipping over to Draco’s and interlocking their fingers together without hesitation. Draco froze for just a second before he let out an exasperated breath, but he didn’t pull away.

“And what are you going to do with me now, Harry? Going to coddle me some more?” Draco’s voice was tinged with mockery, but there was a trace of something that made Harry pause—a vulnerability hidden beneath his sharp words.

Harry raised an eyebrow and gave him a playful grin. “Maybe I will. You don’t seem to be doing such a great job of taking care of yourself, so I figure I’ll step in.”

Draco’s face flushed slightly, and he tugged his hand back, but Harry kept his grip firm. He wasn’t going to let Draco retreat this time. Not when they were so close to something.

“You’re ridiculous,” Draco muttered, his voice a little softer now. He looked at Harry’s hand still wrapped around his. “Why do you keep doing this?”

“Because I don’t think you’re as fine as you like to pretend you are,” Harry said, leaning closer until their shoulders brushed, his voice quiet but steady. “And because I care, Draco. I’m not going anywhere. Whether you want me to be here or not. You’re probably the most important person to me in the world you know? I couldn’t imagine this world without you in it.”

For a moment, Draco didn’t respond. He just stared at their interlocked hands, the silence between them growing more profound. The flickering of the fire cast a warm light over his face, making the usual guarded expression he wore softer, more vulnerable.

“You really don’t get it, do you?” Draco whispered, more to himself than to Harry. His voice was laced with frustration, but there was something else there—a quiet desperation that Harry couldn’t ignore. “You think you can just keep doing this. Being here. But I don’t need saving, Harry. I never have.”

“I’m not trying to save you, Draco, you’ve never actually needed it,” Harry said, his tone sincere, the usual teasing edge gone from his voice. “I’m just trying to help you… get back to who you were before everything went to hell. To us.” He let out a breath, leaning in just a little closer. “I care about you. You’ve been carrying this weight and its unreasonable of you to carry it alone. I want….I want to be that person for you. The one you reach for when things get too hard.”

Draco blinked, his chest tightening as Harry’s words settled into the space between them. He had always hated the thought of needing anyone, of relying on someone for anything. But here was Harry—again, offering something he couldn’t quite push away. Offering the one thing Draco had spent so long denying.

“You don’t know what you’re asking, Harry,” Draco muttered, almost too quietly. “You’re not going to be able to just walk in and understand half of whats going on with me. It’s not that simple.”

“I don’t care if it’s simple,” Harry said with a small shrug. “And I don’t care if I’m not going to fix it instantly. But I think we both know that if you explain it to me, I’ll try my best to understand. Like when you talk about runes and potions, right? I am sure I can understand you too.”

Draco didn’t reply. Instead, he let out a sigh and shifted, leaning back against the wall of the bed, his fingers still tangled with Harry’s. His wings fluttered slightly, the tips brushing against the floor, but this time, Draco didn’t try to hide them.

Harry, feeling the closeness of their bodies as they sat together, didn’t pull away. Instead, he leaned into Draco, resting his shoulder against his, and let his hand gently squeeze Draco’s. The room was quiet, save for the crackling fire and the soft rhythm of their breathing, but something had shifted. The barrier that had been between them for so long was beginning to weaken, and Harry could feel it—the pull between them, the faint stir of their magic trying to reawaken.

“I don’t know if I be who you need me to be, Harry,” Draco said softly, his voice barely a whisper. “I’m… I don’t know how to let you in. To let anyone in. I think… I think I maybe too much like my father in that way. I don’t want to disappoint you like I disappointed him.”

Harry squeezed his hand gently, not saying anything at first, just allowing the quiet to settle around them. “You don’t have to let anyone in all at once, Draco. Just… take it slow. I’m not going to pressure you. But I’m not going anywhere. You’re not, nor could ever be as big of prat as Lucius Malfoy. Got too much of your mother in you I think.”

For the first time in a long while, Draco didn’t feel the need to fight it. He didn’t pull away or pretend it didn’t matter. Instead, he let his head fall lightly against Harry’s shoulder, his grip tightening slightly in Harry’s hand.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

Snow fell in continuous little puffs all day. The crackling fire filled the room with warmth, but it wasn’t enough to chase away the subtle tension that still lingered between Draco and Harry. Despite the flickering light and the sound of the storm howling outside, there was something comfortable about the silence that had settled between them.

Draco sat on the bed, one leg tucked underneath him, the other hanging off the side. His wings were carefully folded behind him, but he couldn’t help but shift them every now and then, trying to ease the ache that still lingered there. He was still recovering, still fragile, but he wasn’t ready to admit it. Not to Harry. Not to anyone.

The shack was filled with the soft, repetitive sounds of pages turning and the occasional crack of the fire. Draco sat across the room from Harry at the small wooden table, bent over yet another book about magical law, though his focus seemed to be slipping with each passing minute. His wings, though stronger now, still had a slight twitch to them whenever he moved, like they were itching to spread but unwilling to fully do so yet. It still bothered him, that feeling of being incomplete.

Harry was sprawled on the bed again, as usual, his legs tangled in a blanket, his back propped up against the wall. He had given up trying to read any more of the ancient texts—his attention span wasn’t quite built for hours of dry reading—and instead, he kept stealing glances at Draco, watching him in that quiet way that had become all too familiar.

“You know, if I could just reach over and smack that book out of your hands, I’d do it,” Harry said lazily, his eyes squinting at the text in Draco’s hands. “You’ve been at it for hours, mate. Maybe try taking a break?”

Draco scoffed, but there was an underlying weariness in his voice as he answered, “I’m fine, Potter. Just trying to get this done so we can finally have a clear option for us when we leave here.” He waved a hand vaguely in the air, indicating the village or their home, Harry wasn’t sure. “It’s not like I can doing anything else, can I?”

Harry chuckled, shifting on the bed, his body still relaxed but his tone suddenly more serious. “You know you don’t have to figure everything by yourself, right? You’re not the only one stuck in this mess.”

Draco’s lips curled into a small, rueful smile. “Yeah, well, that’s a whole lot of responsibility for one person to handle, don’t you think?”

Harry’s eyes softened, but he didn’t press. He watched as Draco went back to the book, his brow furrowing slightly in concentration. For a moment, Harry felt the weight of the silence stretch between them again, but this time, it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was familiar. He let it hang there, just for a few more seconds, before he shifted uncomfortably on the bed and stretched his legs out.

It was moments like these that Harry noticed how much more fragile Draco seemed lately, even with his sharp remarks and guarded expressions. He was still Draco Malfoy—the sarcastic, proud, insufferable Slytherin—but there was a vulnerability that Harry couldn’t ignore. He could see it in the way Draco was so careful with his wings, how he’d often hesitate before leaning against the bed, or how his voice would soften when he thought Harry wasn’t paying attention.

Finally, Harry made up his mind. He pushed himself up off the bed, walking toward the small table where Draco was still sitting. He didn’t say anything as he reached Draco’s side. Instead, Harry simply plopped down beside him, uninvited, his shoulder brushing against Draco’s.

Draco looked up in surprise, blinking rapidly. “Harry—what the hell—?”

“You’re too stiff,” Harry said, his voice annoyingly casual as he shifted closer. “Loosen up a bit.”

“I’m not stiff. I’m just—” Draco broke off as Harry pressed his shoulder into his side again. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” Harry said, grinning. “But you’re the one who’s been reading for hours when you look like you can barely keep your eyes open. Maybe you just need a little distraction.” Harry’s hand slipped down onto Draco’s wrist, and before Draco could protest, Harry gently tugged his hand away from the book. “I’ll read for you, if you’d like.”

Draco looked at him incredulously. “You?” He raised an eyebrow. “Please. Can you even read.”

Harry tilted his head, his grin widening. “You need to stop pretending you don’t like it when I do this. It’s basically my job now, right?”

“Your job?” Draco asked, as if the idea was preposterous.

“Yep,” Harry said, nodding dramatically. “Official caretaker of the fragile, broken Malfoy heir. I’ll write up a contract if you’d like. Maybe even send an owl to The Daily Prophet to make an announcement.”

Draco let out a groan of frustration, but the faintest smile tugged at his lips. “You really are insufferable.”

Harry didn’t let go of Draco’s wrist. Instead, he pulled it over toward him, pressing Draco’s hand gently into his own. Draco stiffened, but Harry’s fingers slid between his, squeezing just lightly.

“Potter, what the hell are you doing?” Draco grumbled, his cheeks flushed.

“I’m caregiving, Draco. Remember? You’re in need of tender loving care.” Harry’s voice was playful, though there was a quiet sincerity behind it. He ran his thumb gently over the back of Draco’s hand. “You know, you’re the one who always acts like you don’t need anyone. But it’s okay. I’m here.”

Draco’s jaw tightened, his eyes flicking away, but he didn’t pull his hand away. “I don’t need need all of this, Harry honestly…” he muttered under his breath. But even as he said it, he couldn’t help but let out a little sigh as Harry’s thumb continued to trace small circles on his hand. It felt… different. The warmth of Harry’s hand, the steady pressure, something about it made the tension in Draco’s body slowly begin to ease.

“Sure you don’t,” Harry teased, nudging Draco’s shoulder again. “I mean, you’ve been doing such a great job with this whole ‘getting better’ thing on your own.”

Draco couldn’t help but huff, a soft chuckle escaping him. “You’re insufferable.”

“You’ve said. And you’re irritably cute when you’re trying to pretend like you’re not enjoying this.”

Draco’s cheeks flushed brighter, but instead of pulling away, he allowed his hand to remain in Harry’s. “I hate you,” he muttered under his breath.

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry said, his grin softening into something more genuine. “But you’re not asking me to leave, so I think I’m doing alright.”

For a moment, they sat in silence, their hands still intertwined. Draco could feel the soft pulse of Harry’s magic, faint but steady. It was… soothing, in a way he hadn’t expected. And though he still wasn’t sure how to react, how to deal with the fluttering sensation in his chest, he found himself not pulling away.

Instead, he leaned his shoulder into Harry’s slightly, a subtle gesture that didn’t escape Harry’s notice.

“So, are you just going to sit here all night and try to make me feel better?” Draco asked, his voice laced with a hint of sarcasm.

“Absolutely,” Harry answered, the teasing back in his voice. “I’m really good at this.”

“Well, just… don’t expect it to be easy,” Draco muttered, but there was a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’m still a Malfoy, you know. We have very high standards.”

“I know,” Harry replied softly, squeezing Draco’s hand just a little tighter. “And you’re still the one I like the most. Total nutter I am.”

Draco turned his head slightly, meeting Harry’s eyes. There was something in Harry’s gaze—something soft, but unrelenting, and it made Draco’s heart ache in a way he couldn’t ignore.

“Alright, Potter,” Draco muttered, shifting to get more comfortable. “You win. But don’t go getting any ideas about all this ‘tender care’ stuff. I’m not a puppy.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Malfoy,” Harry said, his voice gentle. “But you do know… you don’t have to hide it, right?”

Draco shifted his weight, his chest tight, but for the first time in a long while, the tightness didn’t feel like a barrier. It felt like something that was starting to loosen, bit by bit.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Just don’t take advantage of my magnanimous hospitality.” Draco lifted his nose in the air with that aristocratic authority he always had about him. Harry couldn’t help but snort at him.

“Don’t worry. I know my place,” Harry said, smiling softly as he moved his hand further up Draco’s arm.

Draco’s breath hitched ever so slightly. He didn’t look at Harry right away, but Harry could feel the tension in his hand—the way Draco’s fingers subtly clenched against his movement, almost like he didn’t want to admit how much he was feeling, how much he was affected by Harry’s simple act of affection.

“I don’t —” Draco choked back on his words, his voice quieter than before, though there was a subtle softness to it now.

Harry grinned, his thumb brushing the top of Draco’s hand. “I’m just doing my job, Malfoy. Just… taking care of you.” He paused, his smile softening. 

Draco glanced up at him, catching Harry’s gaze. For a moment, he didn’t say anything. His lips pressed together in that way they always did when he was trying to hold back—his guard still firmly in place. But the walls were starting to crack, and Harry could see it in his eyes.

With a deep breath, Draco shifted slightly, inching closer, until his side brushed against Harry’s. His shoulder barely touched Harry’s, but it was enough to make Harry’s pulse quicken. Draco’s arm remained in Harry’s, but this time, he didn’t try to pull away. Instead, he reached back up for Harry’s hand, let his fingers curl just a little tighter, his thumb moving slowly over Harry’s palm in a subtle mirror of the gesture Harry had just made.

“You’re… not exactly subtle, Potter,” Draco muttered, but his voice was so low now, the teasing edge gone. “You’ve got this whole ‘do-gooder’ act going on, and it’s actually kind of annoying.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Annoying, huh?” He grinned, his fingers gently tightening their hold on Draco’s hand. “I thought you liked me like this. You know, the ‘warm, reliable Potter’ routine. It’s growing on you.”

Draco rolled his eyes, but there was no real heat behind it. He didn’t pull his hand away. Instead, he let his head tilt ever so slightly toward Harry’s shoulder. “Don’t get too cocky, you over grown cocker-spaniel.”

Harry chuckled softly, the sound warm and easy, and for a moment, Draco allowed himself to relax into the quiet rhythm of Harry’s touch. It wasn’t a grand gesture, nothing flashy, not like the brief kissed they shared before. It was just the way their hands fit together, the way Draco leaned just a little more into Harry’s side, and how their bodies seemed to align in a subtle, unspoken connection. Harry’s thumb still moved against Draco’s skin, slow and reassuring, a steady beat in the silence of the room.

“You’re not as irritating when you’re quiet,” Draco muttered, his voice still soft. “I can actually get used to this.”

Harry’s grin softened into something gentler, and for a second, he rested his head against Draco’s. “Yeah? Well, good. Because this is how it’s going to be from now.”

Draco tensed again, but this time it was less about pulling away. He just took a deep breath and let his body relax against Harry’s, just a little more. He could feel the warmth radiating from Harry, and despite himself, he didn’t want to pull away. The feeling of Harry’s hand still holding his, the warmth of his shoulder against his own, the comforting presence of him… it was more than just physical. It was grounding, like a tether that had been lost and was now starting to find its way back.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. It was just the two of them, sitting on at their small table, their hands intertwined, their bodies leaning just a little closer to one another. The silence was no longer awkward, no longer filled with tension. It was… comfortable.

Chapter Text

The rain had begun to fall outside, tapping lightly against the roof of the shack. The air inside was warm and comfortable, the fire casting soft shadows across the room. Harry had spent the last hour or so flipping through an old magical herbology book, his brow furrowed as he tried to make sense of yet another complicated formula. But despite his best efforts, his attention kept drifting back to Draco, who was sitting across the room, looking even more disheveled than usual, his shirt slightly askew, wings fluttering as if he couldn’t get comfortable.

Draco was trying to read. He really was. But every time his eyes tried to focus on the page, his gaze would inevitably flicker over to Harry, who was sitting just far enough across the room to be distracting. It was like Harry’s presence had this constant pull on him. The warmth, the smell of him, the way Harry would catch his eye and then go back to pretending he wasn’t watching.

Draco finally dropped the book onto the table with a small huff, crossing his arms and glaring in Harry’s direction. “Harry,” he said, his voice a little too pointed. “I don’t know why you insist on sitting like that. I can hear you breathing over there. What is this, some sort of bizarre challenge?”

Harry, completely ignoring the fact that he was still perched awkwardly on the edge of the bed with a book in his hands, raised an eyebrow and flashed a grin. “I’m just existing, Pigeon. You can try it sometime. It’s an underrated skill.”

Draco’s expression flickered for a moment, and his lips curled into a smile, even though he clearly didn’t want to admit it. “You’re impossible,” he muttered under his breath, but the faintest hint of amusement was now in his voice. “And don’t call me that.”

Harry stretched, letting the silence linger between them for a few seconds before he spoke again. “You know,” he said casually, his voice teasing, “you should probably work on being less grumpy. It’s a bit of a look you’re going for, but I think I prefer you when you’re not in full-on sour mood.”

“I am not grumpy,” Draco shot back immediately, but there was an unmistakable lightness in his tone now. “I am just tired of being trapped in this nine hundred square foot room with you. Also, I have standard. Years of forced etiquette that would simply be lost on you.”

Harry raised his hands in mock surrender. “Oh, of course. I’m just too laid back, I get it.” He leaned back and threw Draco a teasing glance. “It’s just the way I’ve always been. No high standards here. I’m sure you’d have a lot to teach me.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed, and he leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “You could stand to be a little more like me, Heir Potter. I know I certainly don’t mind being the standard of excellence.”

Harry couldn’t help but laugh at Draco’s overly dramatic tone, even though Draco was clearly trying to keep up his usual snarky front. “You? The standard of excellence? I’ve seen you trip over your own feet. You’re more of a standard of self-sabotage, if you ask me.”

“Oh please,” Draco said, rolling his eyes. “I’m practically perfect. You should be lucky to even be in my presence.”

“Lucky?” Harry asked, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “Let’s not get carried away now. We both know you’re just begging for compliments. Are you going to sulk the whole night, or are we going to have a real conversation?”

Draco turned his head toward the fire, pretending to look disinterested. “I don’t need compliments from you. Or anyone. I mean, have you seen me lately? I could pass for The Francisque Joseph Duret Angel Statue, in Paris. ”

Harry couldn’t help but notice the subtle shift in Draco’s tone. Even though he was playing it off as indifference, there was a vulnerability to his words that Harry wasn’t used to. He leaned in slightly, his grin softening as he watched Draco carefully.

“Well,” Harry said with a slight smirk, “I have no idea what that is and you’re not going to get any from me. You’re going to have to earn it.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed as he turned his head back toward Harry. “Earn it? And what exactly do I have to do to earn your compliments, Potter?”

Harry feigned deep thought for a moment. “Hmm… well pigeon, for starters, you could stop being so incredibly, annoyingly Draco Malfoy for just a second.”

Draco scoffed, but there was a glint of amusement in his eyes. “I’ll never stop being me. That’s my charm, remember? And don’t call me that!”

“I’m sure that’s what your mother told you,” Harry said with a wink. “But seriously, Draco, you’ve got to work on the attitude. Maybe try a little less dark lordlying heir and a little more friendly person who has feelings?”

Draco’s eyes widened for a second, his brows furrowing. “I am friendly! You just can’t see it because you’re too busy looking for ways to make fun of me.”

“I’m not making fun of you,” Harry said, his voice suddenly softer. “I’m just trying to get through that ‘I’m an aloof, arrogant bastard’ facade you keep putting on.” He grinned. “You’re more fun when you let people in.”

Draco shifted, but this time, he didn’t retreat. Instead, he leaned a little closer to Harry, though he still kept that trademark aloofness about him. “You’re lucky I let you in at all,” he said in a mockingly serious tone.

Harry grinned, leaning in as well. “Am I? How lucky exactly?”

Draco smirked, his lips curling up slightly at the corners. “If you’re asking for a kiss, Potter, you’re going to have to try a little harder than that.”

Harry’s eyes sparkled with amusement, and he leaned in just a bit closer, their noses almost touching. “Oh, so you do want me to try harder?”

Draco’s breath hitched ever so slightly, and for a moment, Harry thought he might have crossed a line. But then Draco’s lips twitched, and he looked Harry squarely in the eyes.

“You’re insufferable,” Draco muttered, though his voice wasn’t as sharp as it usually was. There was something more there now—something softer. “But I suppose… I could give you a little credit for trying.”

The tension between them shifted, a quiet hum in the air that neither of them quite acknowledged, but both of them could feel.

“Just a little credit, huh?” Harry said, trying to keep his voice light, his breathe brushing across Draco’s lips. He wasn’t sure what exactly had just happened, but there was something more in Draco’s eyes now, something that wasn’t just teasing or sarcastic.

Draco looked at him for a long moment, blinked, then sighed dramatically. “Fine, Potter. You win. I’ll admit you’re not the worst company. For a Gryffindor.”

Harry laughed, the sound light and easy. He leaned back again, his hand brushing against Draco’s as he pulled his legs up on the bed. “I’ll take it. You’re not as bad as you pretend to be either, you know.”

Draco didn’t say anything, but he didn’t pull away either. They just sat there, their hands resting beside each other on the bed, the fire crackling softly in the background, and a shared understanding between them that didn’t need words.

And if there pinkies brushed no one was there to comment on it.

The storm outside raged with full force now, the wind howling against the shack as if trying to tear it apart. The fire in the hearth flickered and crackled, casting shifting shadows on the walls. 

The shack was small. Almost suffocatingly so. The walls felt like they were closing in, even though they hadn’t moved an inch. The air was thick with the scent of smoke, rosemary, and something distinctly Harry. Draco wasn’t sure when the air had started to smell so overwhelmingly like him, but it was impossible to ignore now. It was everywhere—floating in the room, clinging to Harry’s clothes, to the sheets they both shared, even the air itself felt like it was laced with him.

And Draco’s Veela… the Veela within him was restless. It was as if his magic could feel the pull of Harry’s presence in the room. Draco’s wings were restless too, twitching and pulling at the seams of his control. His body couldn’t help but ache in response to the proximity. The Veela part of him trilled with the quiet demand to claim what was already his.

Harry sat across the room, his legs stretched out lazily on the bed. He was flipping through some random book, the kind that Draco couldn’t bring himself to care about. But the way Harry’s fingers skimmed the pages, the way the firelight caught the strands of his messy hair, the way he was so close—it was impossible to ignore. His mere presence made Draco’s breath hitch, his heartbeat quickening.

Everything in him was screaming for Harry’s closeness, screaming for the heat of his touch, the warmth of his skin. But Draco’s human side was still fighting it. Still struggling with the overwhelming need. The Veela’s demand was so primal, so insistent. But Draco wasn’t used to needing anyone. Not like this.

His wings twitched again, and this time, the tips brushed against the wooden wall, making a soft, irritated sound. Draco exhaled sharply, trying to reign in the energy that was building in his chest. The heat—everything Harry—was driving him to the edge.

“Harry,” Draco said, his voice a little more strained than he intended. “You know you’re killing me with all this ‘not talking’ nonsense, right?”

Harry looked up from his book, an easy smile spreading across his face, but there was a knowing look in his eyes. “I’m not doing anything,” he said, his voice too casual. “You’re the one sitting there scowling at the wall. I’m just reading.”

Draco narrowed his eyes, trying not to focus on the fact that Harry’s voice had that effect on him now. That simple tone, that familiarity, was enough to set his skin on fire. He clenched his fists, trying to ground himself. “I can’t think with you sitting there.”

“Then why don’t you do something about it?” Harry teased, pushing himself up onto his elbows, his eyes glinting mischievously. The light in the room seemed to shift as Harry moved, his gaze pulling Draco closer, without even trying. “We’ve been in here for days, Malfoy. What’s stopping you?”

Draco swallowed, fighting the pull in his chest. “Stop looking at me like that.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”

“Like…” Draco faltered, his body betraying him. “Like you want to devour me or something.”

Harry chuckled, but it wasn’t the teasing sound Draco expected. It was quieter. A little softer. “You sure that’s not the Veela talking?”

Draco’s breath caught in his throat, the question stirring something deep within him. He hated how Harry knew him so well. How Harry could see right through the mask he wore, the bravado, the anger. Harry always knew. “You think this is the Veela?” Draco’s voice came out sharper than he meant it to, his hand instinctively reaching up to touch his wing, the sensitive bones twitching as if in response.

“I think it’s both,” Harry said, his voice quieter now, his gaze softening as he looked at Draco. “I can feel it, Draco. I know what it is. Your magical core is nearly refilled. Even your wings are filled with feather’s again.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t look away. He couldn’t. The pull between them was too strong. “Don’t,” he murmured, almost inaudible. “Don’t talk about it. I’m… not ready for it.”

Harry didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he simply moved closer, his steps slow, deliberate. He knew Draco didn’t want him to, but he also knew Draco wasn’t telling him to stop either. There was something in the air now, a quiet understanding passing between them as Harry sat next to Draco on the bed.

Draco’s body tensed instinctively as Harry got close, the warmth radiating off of him almost too much to bear. The Veela thrummed beneath his skin, urging him to close the distance, to feel Harry’s heat, his touch, to pull him in. But Draco fought it, trying to maintain control. He wasn’t a creature; he wasn’t some animal ruled by instinct.

“Harry…” Draco’s voice was strained now, his hand gripping the blanket beneath him. “I can’t… I can’t focus when you’re like this. Let’s open a window. I think we just need some air.”

Harry’s hand reached out to touch Draco’s, his fingers brushing lightly against his. The simple touch was enough to send a jolt through Draco’s system. His heart thudded heavily in his chest as Harry’s warmth seeped into him.

“Maybe you don’t need to focus right now,” Harry said softly, his thumb stroking over the back of Draco’s hand. “Maybe you just need to feel. Let go for a second. We won’t do anything the other isn’t ready for.”

The air between them shifted again, the warmth between their hands almost too much. Draco’s wings twitched, the muscles aching with the need to stretch them out completely, to finally let go and accept the bond. He could feel the hum of his magic, the Veela side of him trying to surge to the forefront, demanding Harry’s attention.

“I don’t know how to do this,” Draco whispered, his voice barely audible, his hand tightening around Harry’s as he licked his lips. “I don’t know how to need someone like this.”

Harry’s eyes softened, his touch gentle. “You don’t have to be afraid of needing me. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, Draco. But I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Draco’s chest tightened, the words sinking deep. He wanted to argue, wanted to pull away and put that wall back up between them. But Harry’s hand was still in his, his touch still there, steady and unwavering.

With a soft exhale, Draco allowed his wings to spread just a little, the tips brushing against the floor. His magic stirred in response, and for the first time in days, he allowed himself to feel it, allowed himself to feel the pull toward Harry.

The bond was still there. He could feel it now, faint but steady, like the echo of something that had always been there, waiting. His magic, his Veela instinct, called to Harry, urging him to close the gap between them. The air was thick with it—thick with the scent of rosemary and smoke and Harry’s presence that Draco couldn’t escape.

Slowly, carefully, Draco leaned into Harry, his breath shaky as his body reacted instinctively to the warmth, to the comfort Harry offered. He didn’t pull away this time. He let his wings relax behind him and allowed Harry to pull him closer.

“I don’t know how to do this,” Draco whispered again, but this time there was a tremor of something softer in his voice. “But I… I need you, Harry.”

Harry didn’t say anything. Instead, he simply pulled Draco in, wrapping his arms around him, holding him close. The simple embrace was enough to quiet the storm raging in Draco’s chest. And for once, he allowed himself to let go, allowed himself to be enveloped in the warmth that Harry offered without hesitation.

Chapter Text

The room was quiet, the only sound being the soft crackle of the fire in the hearth. Outside, the winter winds still howled against the small shack, but inside, it was warm—cozy even. A comfort that seemed to wrap around Harry and Draco like a blanket, keeping the cold at bay.

Draco was stretched out on the bed, the blankets pulled up to his chest. He was lying on his side, one hand propped under his head, while the other rested lazily on the pillow next to him. His wings were fully healed now, the new feathers glistening slightly in the firelight as they stretched out behind him, but they didn’t have the same awkward tension they once held. There was a sense of relief in the way they lay, relaxed and at ease.

Harry was sprawled across the other side of the bed, his legs tangled in the blankets as he lay on his back. He had a book open on his chest, but his attention was elsewhere. He couldn’t seem to stop glancing over at Draco. There was something about him—something soft in the way he looked so at ease, his body relaxed and his breathing slow. It wasn’t just the way his wings were now fully healed. It was more than that. There was a quiet serenity between them, something Harry hadn’t expected to find in the midst of everything that had happened.

“You know, you could try talking to me instead of glaring at the book like it’s about to bite you,” Draco teased, his voice still that mixture of snarky and soft.

Harry glanced up, catching the playful glint in Draco’s eyes. He smirked, closing his book and tossing it aside. “I’m just giving you space. Like you keep insisting you need. I was trying not to add all my brilliant commentary to your morning.”

“Oh, right,” Draco said with a roll of his eyes. “Because your ‘brilliant commentary’ is really helpful.”

Harry laughed, shifting on the bed so he was lying on his side, facing Draco. “Well, you’re not exactly helping me with your attitude, are you?”

Draco raised an eyebrow, but his lips curled into a smile despite himself. “If I wanted help, Potter, I’d ask you. But you’re too busy staring at me, aren’t you?”

Harry’s grin softened, his heart skipping in his chest. “I can’t help it. You’re just… hard to look away from.” His voice was quieter now, more sincere than he intended. “What was it you said? About some angel statue in Paris? You’ve changed, Draco. I can see it. You’re not the same person you were when we first got here. I kinda like the person you’re becoming.”

Draco looked at him, his gaze steady, though there was a flicker of vulnerability there that Harry hadn’t seen before. For a long moment, Draco didn’t speak. He just let the silence linger between them, both of them holding the same tension, the same unspoken words.

“You really are insufferable, Potter,” Draco muttered, though the words were gentle. “But I suppose… I suppose I’m glad you’re here too.”

Harry’s chest tightened, his heart skipping. “You don’t have to say it, Draco,” he said softly. “I know.”

Draco didn’t respond right away, instead shifting a little closer to Harry, the warmth of his body suddenly palpable against Harry’s. There was something comfortable in it—the way Draco leaned in just enough, the way Harry didn’t pull away. Their proximity had become a constant, but it still felt new, still felt important. Like they were figuring out what this was between them, step by careful step.

Harry leaned forward, his arm stretching out over Draco’s side to brush a lock of hair away from his face. The action was soft, tender, and Draco didn’t flinch. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he let Harry’s hand linger on his cheek, his breath hitching ever so slightly.

“You’re not going to make this easy for me, are you?” Harry murmured, his voice quieter now, full of that same sincerity.

Draco’s gaze softened, just a fraction as he looked down at the boy next to him. “You’re the one who made it so damn hard to resist.”

Harry smiled, his thumb brushing lightly over Draco’s cheek, the motion soft and calming. “It’s not about resisting, Draco. It’s about letting go.”

For a brief moment, Draco said nothing. He just stared at Harry, the soft flicker of the fire reflecting in his eyes. And then, before Harry could fully register what was happening, Draco shifted closer, his body pressing against Harry’s side.

Harry’s breath caught, his hand still resting lightly on Draco’s cheek. The moment felt fragile, like something that had been building slowly and was finally tipping over the edge. But this time, it didn’t feel like an accident. It didn’t feel forced.

Draco’s voice was quieter now, almost a whisper. “I don’t… know how to do this. How to just… be.”

Harry’s heart beat faster as he gently cupped Draco’s face, his fingers brushing against his soft skin. “You don’t have to do anything. Just… be with me. Be here.”

Draco closed his eyes briefly, and when he opened them again, there was something different there. Something soft, something that said he wasn’t fighting this anymore. Not the pull between them. Not the connection. Not the feelings he had kept buried for so long.

It was full of courage and determination. 

Without thinking, Harry leaned up, his lips brushing against Draco’s in a soft kiss. It was hesitant at first—just a brush of lips, but it felt like everything had led up to this moment. And when Draco didn’t pull away, when his hand reached down to rest on Harry’s shoulder, Harry deepened the kiss, the warmth of Draco’s lips against his sending a wave of heat through him.

For a moment, there was nothing but that—just the feel of Draco’s lips on his, the warmth of his body pressed close, the steady rhythm of their breathing. The world outside didn’t matter. The storm, the worries, the fears—they were all gone, swept away in the softness of the kiss.

When they finally pulled away, Harry’s forehead rested against Draco’s, their breaths coming out in soft pants.

“Is this real?” Draco asked, his voice low and vulnerable, his hand still resting on Harry’s shoulder.

Harry smiled softly, his thumb tracing the line of Draco’s jaw. “It’s as real as it gets.”

Draco let out a breath, his chest rising and falling. He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again, there was a quiet acceptance in his gaze. “I think I can live with that.”

And just like that, the tension between them dissolved. The air was warm again, the fire still crackling softly in the hearth. They didn’t need to say anything else. The words had been spoken already, in the softness of their kiss, in the closeness between them.

They stayed like that for a long time—just holding each other, just being together. It was simple, but it was everything.

And Draco’s Veela trilled. 

Harry sat on the edge of the bed, still feeling the warmth of the small room wrapping around him. Draco was just getting up, stretching out his wings lazily, the feathers now fully healed and fluttering behind him with a relaxed grace. The quiet comfort of the morning, the shared closeness between them, seemed to fill the room, and Harry couldn’t help but feel that for once, there was peace. A kind of peace they hadn’t had in weeks.

But as if on cue, the sound of a knock broke through the soft moment, sharp and insistent, making both of them freeze. The knock was loud enough to carry through the thick walls of the shack, breaking the spell that had settled over them. Harry and Draco exchanged looks, both of them instantly on edge.

“Who the hell could that be?” Draco muttered, annoyance flashing across his face. His wings twitched with sudden tension, his body on high alert.

Before Harry could answer, the door creaked open, and Nessa stepped inside, her expression grim. She didn’t wait for an invitation—she simply entered, closing the door softly behind her. Harry felt the shift immediately. The atmosphere in the room, which had been so soft just moments before, felt suddenly heavy again.

“Nessa?” Harry asked, his voice full of concern. “What is it?”

Nessa didn’t waste time with pleasantries. She looked between Harry and Draco, her face set in a determined expression. “I just came from Liora’s,” she said, her voice low. “The Ministry’s escalating the search for Sirius Black. They’ve already started combing the woods—Aurors and Dementors.”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat. He felt a cold knot form in his stomach as the weight of the words hit him. The Ministry was getting more aggressive. They were already in danger, but now it was even worse. “Aurors?” Harry repeated. “And Dementors?”

Draco’s face had already turned pale at the mention of the dark creatures, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. “What does that mean for us?” he asked, his voice sharp, though there was a flicker of fear beneath it that Harry hadn’t expected.

Nessa’s gaze softened slightly as she looked at Draco, but she didn’t offer any comfort. “They’ve got a team of Aurors patrolling the forest, and the Dementors are sweeping through, looking for any trace of Sirius. They’ve been trying to locate him for days, but now… they think he’s closer than before.”

Harry felt a weight settle in his chest, heavier than it had been in a long time. “He’s been breaking into places already,” Harry said, the unease in his voice clear. “What’s to stop him from coming here?”

Nessa hesitated for a moment, her lips pressed into a thin line. “They’re worried he’s trying to finish what he started—hunting you both. The Ministry believes he’s working with werewolves in the area too.” Her voice dropped lower, as though saying it aloud made it even more real. “Strange wolf-like creatures have been seen near the Forbidden Forest, near places where Sirius was spotted.”

Draco’s expression twisted with frustration. “Werewolves?” he asked incredulously. “Sirius is working with werewolves now?”

“It’s not confirmed,” Nessa said quickly, her eyes flickering toward Harry. “But it’s one of the theories being discussed. They think it’s part of a larger plot. And it’s not just Harry he’s after. Both of you are in danger.”

Harry’s heart clenched, and his eyes flicked toward Draco, whose face was now drained of color. “Do you think it was the wolves who attacked during Draco’s first heat? You don’t think that’s part of it do you? I mean what do we do?” Harry asked, his voice soft but resolute. “We can’t keep hiding. We need to figure out what’s going on. We need answers. I can just sit back and let them try to get at him again.”

Draco’s voice cut through the tension in the room. “We stay here, then,” he said sharply, his eyes meeting Nessa’s. “We continue to stay hidden until we have to leave.”

Nessa looked at Draco for a moment before nodding. “That’s one option,” she said. “But the truth is, the Ministry is starting to narrow in on the area. They’ll be searching the forest day and night. You won’t be able to stay hidden forever. They still have no idea you’re here, but they’re getting closer.”

Harry frowned, feeling the pressure mounting on him. He wanted to do something—anything—but there was no clear solution. The Gryffindor and wolf in him screamed to act. To defend. The Dementors made him feel suffocated. And if Sirius was involved with werewolves, it only meant more danger for them both.

The wind was bitter as it whipped through the trees, its icy fingers reaching through the cracks in the walls of the shack. Outside, the sky was a muted gray, and the air smelled of snow. Another winter storm was on the horizon, and the normally soft blanket of cold had turned unforgiving, like it was trying to push them into the earth. But the world outside wasn’t enough to keep Harry and Draco inside the shack forever. They had supplies to gather—firewood, food, water—and though Draco grumbled about it, Harry was fairly certain that even he didn’t mind the excuse to get out for a while.

The back garden of the shack wasn’t much to look at. It had been left mostly untouched in the years before Harry and Draco had found their way here. But Harry had turned it into something useful during his first summer there—growing herbs and vegetables, and even building a small cellar and a makeshift smokehouse to preserve the food with the gentle guidance of Harek. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Draco followed Harry through the snow-covered path to the well, his boots crunching against the frost as they moved. The air between them was quiet, but not uncomfortable—more like the silence of two people who had spent weeks in each other’s company and didn’t need to fill the space with words. Harry pulled the rope, the sound of the bucket creaking as it hit the water below, but the tension still lingered between them. Every time Harry looked at Draco, he could see the change—the bond, the soft intimacy that had developed between them. It was difficult not to be aware of it.

“Think we’ll need more wood before the storm comes again?” Draco asked, his voice low but cutting through the air.

“We’ll manage,” Harry replied, his breath visible in the frigid air. “There’s enough for a few days, I think.”

Draco gave a half-nod, his attention shifting to the small smokehouse off to the side. It wasn’t much more than a structure made of wood and stone, but it had served them well so far. The supplies were getting low, though. “I’ll check the cellar,” Draco said, turning toward the small wooden door embedded in the ground.

“Thanks,” Harry said, tying the rope tightly around the bucket as it reached the top of the well. He set it aside, then moved toward the smokehouse to grab what they could use for the next few days.

But as he approached the edge of the garden, something caught his eye. A flicker of movement—barely perceptible—underneath the low-hanging branches of an old tree near the back of the shack. It was so sudden that Harry barely registered it before it was gone. His first instinct was to ignore it—just the wind or something else—until his feet seemed to move on their own.

He walked cautiously toward the spot, trying to make as little noise as possible, the crunch of the snow underfoot growing louder in his ears. And then, just as he was about to turn away, he saw it again. A large, black shape huddled underneath the low branches, almost blending with the shadows of the tree. The creature’s dark fur seemed to absorb the light around it, and for a moment, Harry thought it was just a trick of the wind—until the creature moved.

Harry froze, his breath catching in his chest. It wasn’t a wolf or some wild animal. The creature had the build of a dog, but there was something strange about the way it carried itself—almost human, in the way it crouched and kept its head low. It didn’t growl or bark, but it didn’t run either. It just… watched him.

“Hello?” Harry called softly, taking a hesitant step closer. He wasn’t sure why he was doing it. It was instinct, or curiosity, or both. But the animal didn’t flinch at his voice. Instead, it raised its head slightly, its dull grey eyes staring back at him with an intensity that made Harry’s heart skip a beat.

“What are you doing here?” Harry asked quietly, but his voice cracked slightly, unease creeping up his spine. The creature didn’t respond, but Harry could feel the weight of its gaze. He was close enough now that he could see it clearly—its fur was matted and black, its body massive, but its form wasn’t menacing. It wasn’t anything evil, just… odd.

“Hey, you okay?” Harry asked again, though his voice was more gentle this time. The creature made no move to approach him, but it also didn’t shy away. It just continued to watch him, the air growing thick with tension as Harry took another step forward.

The creature’s fur bristled slightly, but it didn’t growl. Instead, it gave a soft whine, like a sigh, and Harry couldn’t help but take another step forward, his curiosity getting the better of him. But before he could get any closer, Draco’s voice suddenly cut through the air.

“Harry?” Draco called as he came over from the cellar, stepping up behind him, his voice sharp and annoyed. But when he saw the dog, he froze too. “What in Merlin’s name…?”

The black dog’s eyes flickered in Draco’s direction, but it didn’t move, and Harry barely heard Draco’s footsteps in the snow as he walked closer. When Draco arrived beside him, he immediately froze, his gaze snapping to the dog. His eyes narrowed in a mix of irritation and confusion.

“What the hell is that?” Draco asked, his voice almost a hiss. He stepped forward, and the dog lifted its head, watching him with the same eerie, glowing eyes.

“It’s just a dog. I think it’s the same one that helped you in the woods,” Harry said, though his voice didn’t sound as sure as it should have. The creature didn’t seem dangerous, not really. But the way it watched them, as if it understood every word, made Harry uneasy.

“A dog, the same one?” Draco said incredulously.

The dog made no move to approach them, but it let out a low growl, the sound vibrating in its chest. Draco tensed, his wings shifting behind him, ready to shield them both if necessary, but Harry reached out a hand, resting it gently on his shoulder. “It’s not going to attack. I don’t think it’s here to harm us. It protected you before remember?”

The dog’s growl softened, but it still didn’t move. Harry took a cautious step back, and the dog finally moved, standing up slowly and stretching its massive form. Its body was tense, like it was waiting for something.

Draco’s eyes flicked to Harry, his expression a mix of confusion and skepticism. “You’re sure this thing isn’t a threat?”

Harry met Draco’s gaze.

“You’ve got that look on your face again,” Draco said, voice laced with frustration. “Like you’re planning to do something stupid. Like try to bring it home and let it bunk with Ivy.”

But Harry didn’t move. He couldn’t pull himself away from the dog. There was something… familiar about it. He couldn’t explain why, but he felt an odd pull, like he was being drawn toward it.

“Harry?” Draco’s voice was sharper this time, his impatience clear. “Get away from it.”

Reluctantly, Harry tore his eyes away from the dog and glanced back at Draco. “It’s fine, Draco. It’s not doing anything. I just… I don’t know. I think we should—”

Before Harry could finish, the dog shifted again, its massive form moving with surprising speed. It darted past Harry, its fur brushing against his arm as it made its way toward the edge of the garden. Harry instinctively reached out, but the dog was already too quick, disappearing into the trees.

“What?” Draco spat, his wings ruffling in annoyance. “It’s gone now, Potter. Are you done with your mysterious animal encounter?”

Harry stood frozen for a moment, staring at the spot where the dog had disappeared. His heart was still pounding in his chest, but there was a strange feeling in his gut—a sense of something unfinished.

“I don’t know,” Harry murmured, his voice uncertain. “But that wasn’t just a normal dog.”

“Whatever it was,” Draco snapped, “it’s gone now. So maybe we should stop trying to find more weird things out here and go inside before we freeze to death.”

Harry nodded absently, but his mind was still whirling. He felt a strange debt to the dog. He couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t just any random creature. It was something else.

As they walked back toward the shack, Harry couldn’t help but glance over his shoulder, half-expecting to see the black dog following them. But there was nothing. The woods were silent, and the dog was gone.

Chapter Text

The wind outside howled through the trees, the winter storm intensifying with each passing hour. Snow had begun to drift heavily, covering everything in a thick blanket of white. The shack, though warm and fortified against the elements, still groaned under the pressure of the relentless storm. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows on the walls, but inside, Harry and Draco remained mostly still—each lost in their own thoughts.

Draco was curled up in a chair near the window, reading through a thick tome about magical creatures—something that had long since lost his attention. His eyes kept flicking to Harry, who was sitting on the bed, staring out the window. The sight of Harry’s gaze lingering on the black dog outside, the creature who had been loitering near the shack for days, was starting to become a regular occurrence.

Harry didn’t know what drew him to the dog. Maybe it was the odd familiarity of the creature’s presence. Maybe it was the pull in his gut, that strange feeling that this dog was something more, though he couldn’t put it into words. Maybe it was a weird form of guilty he had that this dog protected Draco when he couldn’t. All he knew was that every time he tried to shake the feeling, it was there again. The dog. Watching.

Draco’s gaze shifted away from the book, his brow furrowing. “You’ve been staring out that window again.”

Harry didn’t respond immediately. His eyes were still fixed on the snowstorm, though his mind was miles away, following the path the black dog had taken as it trotted through the snow, its massive body nearly swallowed by the swirling white. 

“I’m just… watching,” Harry said softly, though it came out more like an apology than an explanation. “The dog’s been here for a while now.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “You’re obsessed with it. It’s just a dog, Potter.”

Harry turned his head to look at Draco, his voice taking on a more serious tone. “It’s not just a dog. There’s something off about it.”

“Of course, there is,” Draco said, rolling his eyes. “It’s too big, too… strange. It’s just hanging around like it’s waiting for something. But it’s not like it’s going to turn into a werewolf or—”

“Draco, it’s not about size or shape.” Harry’s voice dropped, his eyes returning to the window. “It’s like it knows something. I feel it when I look at it. Like there’s some connection. Like my magic or…or the wolf in me knows something weird with it. It’s hard to explain.”

Draco crossed his arms, his wings folding slightly behind him. He had taken to keeping the out more as to help restrengthen them. “You’ve really lost it, haven’t you?” His voice carried a mix of amusement and something more defensive. “We’ve been holed up here for weeks. Maybe you’re just seeing things.”

Harry felt a pang in his chest, but he didn’t let it show. He wasn’t imagining things. The pull, the way the dog stared at him—it wasn’t normal. And it wasn’t something he could just brush off, not when it felt so tangible, so present.

“I’m not imagining it,” Harry said quietly, his hand instinctively reaching toward the window as if to get a closer look at the dog through the frost-covered glass. “It’s… connected somehow.”

Draco sighed, frustration creeping into his voice. “What do you want me to say? You want me to go out there and ask it? Oh, hello Mr. Dog, why are you stalking us?”

Harry shot Draco a look, but it wasn’t one of irritation. Instead, it was more resigned. He knew Draco didn’t understand. But that didn’t change the pull Harry felt. He couldn’t explain it, but the presence of the dog—of something—was making his heart beat faster.

The wind outside picked up again, the snow turning into sheets of white that pounded against the walls. It was easy to forget the dangers of the outside world when they were holed up like this, but the sense of dread still lingered at the edges of Harry’s thoughts. The Dementors were out there, searching for Sirius Black, and there was still the ever-present threat hanging over them.

Draco stood up from the chair, walking over to Harry’s side of the room. He didn’t say anything at first, just stood next to him, his posture tense. Harry could feel the shift in the air, the same mix of uncertainty and longing that had been building between them for weeks now. Draco was still a mystery, still full of walls and sharp edges, but there was something in his gaze now—something softer, something that made Harry’s chest tighten.

“You should get some rest,” Draco said, his voice low. “You’re not going to get any answers from staring out that window.”

“I know,” Harry replied, though he didn’t move away from the glass. “But I can’t stop. It’s like… like the dog’s waiting for me to do something.”

Draco didn’t respond right away. Instead, he stood beside Harry, his gaze flicking from the window to Harry’s face. The two of them were so close, and yet the space between them felt vast. The connection they’d shared since the moment they’d come to this place had only grown stronger, but it was still so new—still so fragile.

“Probably to let its flea-bitten, mangy butt inside,” Draco grumbled before sighing a little too loudly. “Maybe it’s not the dog that’s waiting for something to happen,” Draco said his voice almost a whisper. “Maybe it’s you.”

Harry let out a breath, expelling all of the air from his lungs. Draco wasn’t wrong. It probably did want to be let in and it probably was him that was wanting something exciting to happen. 

“I don’t know what to do,” Harry murmured, his voice cracking. “Everything’s so… out of control right now. I can’t keep up.”

Draco didn’t say anything, but Harry could feel his presence beside him, steady and constant, just as it always had been. After everything, after all the fights and the distance, Draco was here. They were here, together.

“I’m not going anywhere, Potter,” Draco said softly, resting his chin on Harry’s shoulder. “We’ve got plenty of time. The dementors will leave eventually. The Ministry would be ruined if they kept them guarding a school for more than one school year.”

Harry glanced up at Draco, a faint smile pulling at the corners of his lips. The weight of everything felt a little lighter, the uncertainty softened by the warmth of Draco’s touch.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Harry whispered, his heart beating in his chest.

Draco didn’t respond with words, but the brief, almost imperceptible brush of his lips on Harry’s shoulder was enough. He didn’t need to say anything more.

They both turned their attention back to the window, to the black dog still lingering in the yard, its form barely visible in the storm. The wind howled, and the snow fell harder, but neither of them moved. They stayed in that quiet, suspended moment, knowing that there was still more to face. But for now, they were together, and that was enough.

The next morning as Draco stirred a potion over their lit fire, he watched as Harry pretending to not still be watching the dog that refused to leave their cottage doorstep no mater how cold it had become. If Draco was being honest with himself, something he never liked to do, he would say even he was worried about its survival rate. 

But Remus had been adamant about not allowing anyone or anything inside until the forest was cleared. Because even though they couldn’t leave, it didn’t mean nothing else could get inside. 

“Harry,” Draco sighed as he watched Harry forgo all pretenses as had moved to stand at the window. Again.

Harry didn’t reply. In fact, it was as if he hadn’t heard him at all.

His voice was sharper than usual, irritation seeping through the words. “It’s not like it’s doing anything. Leave it be.”

Harry blinked, his attention snapping away from the window, but there was a strange weight in his chest. He didn’t know why the dog fascinated him so much, why it felt so important, like there was something he was missing. “I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice quieter than he expected. “I just… I don’t know why it’s still here. It hasn’t left.”

“It’s a dog, Potter,” Draco muttered, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. “It’s probably just trying to find food or shelter. It’s not exactly complicated.”

Harry didn’t respond right away, his gaze lingering on the small shape in the distance, the black form that always appeared on the outskirts of the yard, waiting. The air felt heavy around him, thick with something he couldn’t place—something familiar, but unsettling.

Harry started wringing his hands and nibbling on his bottom lip.

Draco sighed dramatically, his voice dropping to a softer tone. “It’s not like it’s going to bite you,” he said, though his words carried a hint of something else—an unease that he tried to hide behind his usual snark. He pushed himself off the wall and walked closer to Harry, the soft rustle of his wings the only sound breaking the stillness of the room. “If you want to stare at it, just… don’t let it make you paranoid. It’s probably nothing. Just a stray dog looking for warmth.”

But Harry’s eyes remained fixed on the black shape, the dog standing still at the edge of the yard, as if waiting for something. Harry’s mind raced. It wasn’t just a stray dog. He could feel it in his gut. Something about it was familiar. Something about it called to him.

Without realizing it, Harry found himself moving toward the door, his hand reaching for the handle. The room seemed to hold its breath around him, the world outside muffled by the storm, but his thoughts were still racing. He couldn’t stop the pull.

“Harry, where are you going?” Draco asked, a mix of annoyance and concern in his voice.

“I just… need to see it closer,” Harry said, his voice thick with an emotion he couldn’t name. “I need to understand why it’s here.”

Draco frowned, but Harry was already opening the door, stepping out into the cold air. The door slammed shut behind him, but Harry didn’t look back. He wasn’t sure why he was doing this—why he felt the need to confront this dog—but the tension in the air, the strange pull he felt toward it, couldn’t be ignored.

As soon as he stepped outside, the cold air hit him like a slap, biting through his clothing and making his skin prickle with the chill. The wind carried a sharp scent—something wild, something familiar. Harry glanced around, his eyes searching the snow-covered yard, and then he saw it again. The dog, standing near the edge of the trees, its head low, its eyes glowing faintly in the dim light.

The creature didn’t move as Harry approached, but he could feel it watching him. There was an odd connection between them, something deep and inexplicable. Harry’s breath hitched as he stepped closer, his boots crunching in the snow, but still the dog didn’t move.

He stopped just a few feet away from it, his heart racing. The dog’s gaze locked onto him, and for a moment, everything else disappeared. It was like the world narrowed down to just this moment, this interaction.

“You’ve been watching us,” Harry said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “But why?”

The dog’s glowing eyes flickered, and Harry thought he saw a flash of understanding in them. But before he could say anything more, the creature let out a soft, almost questioning whine. Then, in a fluid motion, it turned and bolted toward the trees, disappearing into the white blur of the storm.

Harry stood there for a long moment, his heart pounding in his chest, his mind racing. What had that been? Why had it looked at him like that? He couldn’t explain it, but he could feel the sense of urgency, the pull. He knew he couldn’t ignore it anymore.

“Harry!”

Draco’s voice broke through the stillness, and Harry turned to see Draco standing in the doorway of the shack, his face a mixture of frustration and concern.

“What the hell are you doing ? You’re going to freeze to death! Remus and everyone well will dig up your dead body, preform some stupid ritual in the woods, raise you from the dead, and then kill you again.” Draco snapped, his eyes narrowing. But his voice softened a fraction when he saw the look on Harry’s face. “What happened? Where did it go?”

Harry didn’t answer right away, his thoughts still reeling. “It… it just ran off,” he said, his voice shaky. He turned back toward the spot where the dog had been, but there was nothing now—just the snow and the trees, the same as it had been before.

“Maybe you should stay inside, Harry,” Draco said, his voice quieter now. There was a strange concern in his eyes, though he was still trying to hide it behind his usual sarcasm. “You’re not exactly dressed for a hunt.”

Harry nodded absently and made his way back to the door. As he stepped inside, the warmth of the shack hit him again, and he could feel the tension in his shoulders start to ease. But the pull to that dog, the strange feeling of being watched—it lingered in the back of his mind.

“Maybe it was nothing but a dumb dog not knowing any better,” Draco muttered, closing the door behind Harry. But Harry could tell by the look on Draco’s face that he didn’t quite believe it either.

“I don’t think so,” Harry said softly, his voice low. “There’s something about it. Something… familiar.”

Draco didn’t respond, but Harry saw the way his wings twitched nervously behind him.

The room seemed to hold its breath as the storm raged outside.

Chapter Text

The wind howled through the trees, the cold air biting at their skin as Harry and Draco made their way across the snow-covered yard. The storm outside had been relentless, but the isolation was starting to weigh on them both. The world felt even more enclosed in the grip of winter, the shack standing as their only sanctuary against the frozen wilderness that surrounded them. The snow outside had turned everything into a blank canvas, one that Harry and Draco had been stuck staring at for far too long.

They had been holed up here for weeks now, and even though there was nothing to be done about the cold, the storm, or the ever-present threat of the Dementors and Sirius Black, Harry couldn’t help but feel like something was missing. Something more than the tangible danger. It was like the world was closing in on them, pushing them into corners they couldn’t escape from.

“You know we can’t stay out here too long,” Draco said, his voice biting as he flicked snow off his shoulders. “The storm’s only getting worse, and you’re already starting to look like a frozen idiot.”

“I’m fine,” Harry muttered, brushing the snow off his coat and staring out toward the trees. His breath misted in the cold air, the world around him blanketed in snow and silence, but his mind kept wandering back to the dog—the large black dog that had been hanging around the shack for days now. Every time Harry looked out the window, the dog was there, standing in the distance, its glowing eyes fixed on him.

Draco let out an exaggerated sigh as he moved to stand beside Harry, his breath fogging in front of him. “You’ve been staring out at the bloody thing all morning, Harry. What, are you waiting for it to come and ask for help?”

Harry frowned, his eyes narrowing at the spot where he had last seen the dog, now just a dark shadow on the snow-covered ground. “I don’t know,” Harry muttered, his voice thick with frustration. “I just… I don’t understand why it’s here. Why it won’t leave. It’s like it’s trying to tell me something.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “It’s just a dog, Harry. A big dog, sure, but still a dog. The fact that you’re so obsessed with it makes me wonder if the Dementors have already sucked your soul out.”

“I’m serious,” Harry said, turning to look at Draco. “Every time I look at it, it feels… familiar.”

Draco rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath. “Of course it does. Everything’s familiar when you’re staring at it for hours on end. I bet you’ll start thinking it’s some kind of sign next. Maybe the dog is going to be your new best friend.”

Harry didn’t respond immediately, still fixated on the trees where the dog had been. But Draco was right about one thing: the dog had become a constant presence. And Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that it was more than just a random creature. It was connected to something—something he couldn’t yet understand.

“I’m going to find out what it wants,” Harry said, his voice quiet, but firm. Before Draco could protest, Harry moved toward the door.

“What?” Draco snapped, his voice rising in annoyance. “No, you’re not going anywhere, Harry. I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but you’re not chasing after some bloody dog in the middle of a storm.”

“I have to know what it wants,” Harry replied, already turning back towards the vast expanse of the woods. “I can’t just sit here and wait for it to leave.”

Draco was right behind him, grabbing his sleeve with an exaggerated huff. “Oh, of course you can’t! You’ve got to run after it like some dog whisperer, right?”

Harry shot Draco a frustrated look, trying to push past him, but Draco wasn’t backing down. “Are you out of your mind? You’re not going out there, Harry! It’s freezing, and you’re going to—”

“I’ll be fine,” Harry muttered, though his words lacked conviction. He was already feeling the pull of the dog’s presence again. The air outside seemed to thicken with a strange anticipation, and Harry couldn’t ignore it any longer.

“You’re going to freeze to death!” Draco’s voice grew sharper. “It’s a dog, Harry. You’re going to go out there and get yourself murdered by a stray?”

Draco’s words hit Harry like a slap, but they didn’t stop him. Instead, they drove him forward. There was something about the dog that he couldn’t explain, but he needed answers. He needed to understand why the dog wouldn’t leave.

Harry finally shoved past Draco, who let out a dramatic sigh and groaned. “Fine, go ahead, be a bloody hero. Go follow the giant beast. Maybe it’ll lead you to some werewolf camp or straight into the arms of Sirius Black.”

Harry turned to face Draco as he stepped just past their gardens edge, the cold biting at his skin like a thousand needles. “It’s not like that,” Harry muttered under his breath, but he wasn’t sure Draco could hear him. He was already focused on the dog again, his heart beating faster as he stepped out into the yard.

The wind hit him immediately, colder than he had anticipated, and the snow whipped around him like stinging needles. He squinted through the storm, searching the yard for any sign of the dog. But there was nothing. The world was a blur of white, the trees heavy with snow, but no sign of the creature.

“Where are you?” Harry muttered, his breath coming in sharp puffs.

Draco stood at the door, watching Harry’s retreating form with narrowed eyes. “You’re going to get yourself killed, Potter. And I’ll be here, freezing to death, waiting for you to get back and explain why you’re so incredibly stupid.”

Harry didn’t answer him, his focus entirely on the spot where he’d last seen the dog. The yard was eerily quiet now, save for the howling wind and the crunch of snow under his boots. He moved carefully, step by step, until the sound of something—a rustling, faint but distinct—caught his attention.

His heart skipped a beat.

There, near the edge of the yard, hidden beneath the heavy branches of a tree, was the black dog again. It was staring at him, just like it always did, its glowing eyes fixed on Harry as if waiting for him to approach.

It didn’t growl, didn’t move, but it didn’t seem to fear Harry either. It just stood there, its massive form blending with the shadows, waiting.

“Hey…” Harry said, his voice soft, unsure. “What are you doing here?”

The dog didn’t answer, of course. But Harry could feel that strange connection again, the same feeling that had been tugging at him ever since the dog first appeared. He didn’t know why, but he couldn’t stop himself from taking a few more steps toward it.

The dog shifted slightly, its body moving in a slow, fluid motion. It wasn’t threatening. But it wasn’t friendly either. It was… just there.

As Harry stepped closer, the dog turned its head slightly, its eyes locking onto Harry’s. And then, without any warning, the dog darted into the trees, vanishing into the storm with the same speed and grace that it always had.

Harry stopped in his tracks, his breath coming fast. He didn’t know why he felt this pull, but it was there, stronger than ever. The dog was important. It wasn’t just an animal—it was something else, something Harry couldn’t explain.

“Potter!” Draco’s voice rang out again, this time laced with frustration. “Don’t you even think about it!”

But Harry didn’t answer. He just stared into the trees, his heart still pounding, trying to make sense of the strange feeling gnawing at him. The dog was gone again, but the tension remained.

Draco’s footsteps crunched behind him, and Harry turned to face him, a little out of breath. “It… left again,” Harry said softly, his voice tinged with frustration. “I don’t know why, but… there’s something about it.”

“Something about it?” Draco repeated, throwing his hands up. “It’s a bloody dog, Potter! What’s it going to do? Lead you to your doom?”

Without thinking, Harry grabbed a length of rope from the garden edge and tied one end around his waist, the other end loose in his hand. He knew what he was doing was risky, but it didn’t matter. He had to get closer. He had to understand why this dog kept appearing, why it wouldn’t leave.

“Potter!” Draco yelled, his frustration rising as he stormed toward Harry. “You’re not doing this! You’re not going to rope yourself into some bloody mess!”

But Harry had already started walking toward where the dog had disappeared, the rope in his hands feeling like a lifeline. The snow crunched beneath his boots as he walked with determination, trying to ignore Draco’s protests behind him.

He scanned the tree line, his breath visible in the frigid air. And then, he saw it. The dog, smaller than he had remembered, was huddled at the base of a hollow tree, its dark fur matted with frost, and its breathing shallow and uneven. Harry’s heart clenched as he saw the outline of bones beneath the dog’s thin coat. It had been too long since it had eaten, too long since it had found shelter.

Harry stopped a few feet away, his chest tightening as he looked at the dog. It was shivering, its once glossy fur now matted with ice and snow. The creature’s body was almost skeletal, its ribs visible through the frost-covered fur. Its eyes, though, still glowed faintly, fixed on Harry as though waiting for something. It wasn’t moving, but it wasn’t running away either.

“Hey,” Harry said softly, his voice barely above a whisper as he approached the dog cautiously, not wanting to startle it. “It’s okay.”

The dog didn’t growl, didn’t bark, just stared at Harry as he slowly moved closer. His hand was trembling as he reached out, but the rope in his other hand was steady. The tension in the air was palpable, the world silent around them. Harry didn’t know what he expected the dog to do, but this wasn’t it. It wasn’t like the dog had been before—full of strength, intimidating. This time, it seemed… broken. Weak. Like the world had pressed too hard on him for too long.

Harry swallowed hard, his breath clouding in the freezing air. He crouched down, careful not to make any sudden movements. The dog blinked slowly, its eyes still glowing faintly, as though it were too tired to respond to the world around it.

Tentatively, Harry looped the rope around the dog’s neck. It didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. Instead, it seemed to sink deeper into the hollow of the tree, huddling against the cold. Harry tied the rope gently, his fingers brushing against the dog’s cold fur, feeling the uneven, shallow breaths the creature took.

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispered, though he wasn’t sure who he was apologizing to. The dog, or himself. “But I can’t leave you out here like this.”

Just as Harry finished tying the rope, the dog shifted. Slowly, it backed away from Harry’s touch, retreating deeper into the hollow tree. Its glowing eyes never left Harry’s, but it moved with a strange, cautious grace, like it was reluctant to leave, but it had to.

Harry froze, the rope still dangling loosely in his hand. The dog wasn’t running—not like before. It was just waiting—waiting for him to follow, to make a move.

But before Harry could take another step forward, the dog turned, slipping out from the tree to disappear back into the forest, its massive form slipping between the trees, melting into the shadows as though it had never been there.

Harry stood still for a moment, staring at the spot where the dog had been, his heart still racing. The world felt quieter now, emptier. The strange pull he had felt was gone, but it left something behind—an emptiness that Harry couldn’t explain.

Draco’s voice broke through the silence, but Harry barely heard him at first. “See? Told you it was just a stray.”

Harry didn’t respond right away. He was still staring into the forest, his thoughts racing. The dog had been right there, so close. He should have followed it. He should have—

“Harry?” Draco’s voice was closer now, tinged with frustration and something else—concern? “What the hell are you standing there for? Did it bite you? Are you alright?”

Harry finally turned to face Draco, the rope still dangling loosely in his hand. “It’s… gone again,” he said quietly, though he didn’t know if Draco would understand. He wasn’t sure he understood himself.

Draco stepped up beside Harry, his eyes flicking toward the empty spot where the dog had been. “So, what, it let you put a rope on it, and then you just let it leave? Really?”

Harry sighed, dropping his shoulders. “I don’t know. I just… I thought I could help. I thought I could understand why it’s here.”

Draco’s expression softened, though he quickly masked it with a sharp roll of his eyes. “Well, congratulations, Harry. You’ve almost got a puppy to go along with you pet snake. Too bad you can’t keep it. Probably because said snake would be right pissed at you and try to eat it. This is all for the best if you ask me. Because I am not going to be the one who has to explain to Remus why you let some random, probably knowing out luck, cursed dog into our house.”

Harry didn’t answer while Draco ranteed, his eyes still focused on the trees. The black dog had been there, and he knew, without a doubt, that it would come back. He wasn’t sure when, or why, but he couldn’t let it go. Not now.

“You know,” Draco continued, crossing his arms, “I’m starting to think that maybe you need to be tied up to something, too. Just to stop you from running off and getting yourself killed.”

Harry shot him a look. “You know, for someone who complains about everything, you sure do spend a lot of time caring about all the shit I do.”

Draco gave him an exaggerated, bored expression. “I’m just making sure you don’t go get yourself killed. Someone has to babysit you, Potter.”

Harry smiled slightly. “Well, thanks. But I can handle myself. And maybe the dog is trying to tell me something. I don’t know what yet, but I’ll figure it out.”

Draco looked at him with skepticism, but there was something softer in his eyes now. He stepped closer, his voice quieter. “Just don’t get yourself killed trying to figure it out. I’d prefer not to deal with your messes on my own.”

Harry chuckled, feeling a strange warmth in his chest. “Don’t worry, Draco. I think I’ve got it covered.”

Chapter Text

The winter storm had finally begun to abate, the wind no longer howling like a wild beast against the shack’s walls. The snow still fell in soft drifts, but the world outside was starting to look a little less suffocating, the dark clouds parting ever so slightly to reveal a pale winter sky. January was fading into February, and though the days still held a bite of cold, there was a subtle shift in the air. The storm had left its mark, but with it came the promise of some kind of peace.

Harry found himself standing at the back garden wall more often now, gazing out into the slowly clearing yard. It was here, near the garden’s edge, that he’d been leaving scraps for the black dog. At first, it had been an experiment—just to see if the creature would come closer. But over the past few weeks, it had become routine. Harry would finish his dinner, set aside the scraps, and carry them to the back wall, where the dog seemed to appear at precisely the same time each evening.

Harry wasn’t sure why he did it. Maybe it was because of the way the dog always lingered in the distance, its glowing eyes watching him. Maybe it was the kindred feeling it invoked seeing how thin the dog was, Harry had also never been a stranger to hunger either. Maybe it was something else entirely, something he couldn’t put into words.

But, tonight, the routine felt a little more significant. The weather had calmed enough that he could finally step outside without feeling like he was walking into a blizzard. He hadn’t seen the dog yet, but Harry wasn’t worried. He had started to feel like the creature was just… there, waiting for him, always watching, but never showing itself completely.

Draco, as usual, was inside, either reading or moping around the shack. Harry had noticed a change in him as well. Draco seemed more restless these days, his wings twitching or stretching out when he was deep in thought, his frustration growing every time Harry went outside. But there was no denying the change in both of them—they had become more comfortable with the quiet, more accustomed to the isolation and above all more comfortable with one another. It was their reality now, and they were learning to adapt.

But Harry couldn’t help feeling like they needed something more—something that would keep them connected, even after they left the village at sixteen. The discussion of the many different possibilities of finding a magical loophole to keep them together, to ensure that no one would be able to separate them when the time came. Harry’s magic was fine. His connection to the world around him, to his wolf, felt secure. But Draco, ever the strategist, had been obsessing over magical laws, ancient rituals, and loopholes to ensure their future. If it wasn’t so stressful, he may have found it enduring. They had spent countless hours combing through old tomes provided by Remus, looking for something—anything—that could provide a way to be together after they left.

And Harry was determined to find it. He wasn’t about to let anything tear them apart.

As he placed the scraps of food on the back garden wall, Harry let his mind wander to those possibilities, his thoughts mixing with the faint sound of snow crunching beneath his boots. He hadn’t seen the dog yet, but the feeling of being watched was still there. It was strange, but Harry could feel it now—deep in his chest—like a tug at his core.

He had just turned to head back inside when the sound of footsteps crunching in the snow caught his attention. He froze for a second, wondering if Draco had come outside to see what he was doing. But the footsteps were too slow, too deliberate. And when Harry turned, he saw Remus standing in the doorway of the shack, his tired but warm eyes meeting Harry’s.

“Remus!” Harry exclaimed, suddenly feeling lighter at the sight of the older man. He hadn’t seen him in what felt like weeks, and his presence was a welcome relief.

Remus was quickly ushered inside, shaking off the snow from his cloak before closing the door behind him. His eyes swept over the room, taking in the familiar sights, before settling on Harry. “It’s good to see you both,” he said quietly. “How have you been holding up?”

Harry smiled, though it was more of a tired grin than anything. “We’re managing. The storm’s starting to die down, so that’s something.”

Remus nodded, his expression softening. “I heard. It’s a relief. But I know you two have been cooped up here for a while now, so I thought I’d sneak out and come by with a little update.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “What’s going on? Anything new?”

“Quite a lot, actually,” Remus said, his tone shifting slightly. “But first, how are you both? Still managing to keep your heads above water?”

Draco, who had been sitting at the table, looked up. “As if we have much of a choice,” he muttered. “It’s either read ancient books or talk about our feelings, right?”

Harry shot Draco a look, but Remus just chuckled softly. “I can see you’re still as charming as ever, Draco.”

Draco rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.

“Now,” Remus continued, sitting down on the edge of the table, “I have news. It’s about Sirius, mostly. And the Ministry.”

Draco’s attention snapped to him immediately, his expression guarded. “What about the Ministry?” he asked, his voice sharp.

Remus hesitated for a moment before answering. “Sirius Black has been making waves again. The Ministry believes he’s trying to get his hands on something. But the real issue is that he broke into the Gryffindor common room. He was spotted there—destroyed Ron’s bed, left quite a mess, but disappeared before anyone could catch him.”

Harry’s stomach twisted at the mention of Ron. The idea of Sirius getting closer to his one-time friends made him feel a sense of dread settle deep in his chest.

Remus continued, “There’s no clear motive, but they’re concerned that he’s targeting the school. He’s been elusive, but the Ministry is still working to track him down.”

“So, what are we supposed to do?” Harry asked, his frustration building. “We can’t just sit here forever while he’s out there, getting closer.”

Remus shook his head. “Not much has changed in that regard. We stay put for now. The Ministry has their hands full with this, but I’ll keep you updated as I hear more.”

Harry nodded but was still uneasy. “What else?”

Remus seemed to hesitate before answering, a small smile creeping up his face pulling on the scars there. “There’s something else… Slytherin beat Ravenclaw, and Gryffindor beat Ravenclaw too. So, the final match is coming up—Gryffindor against Slytherin.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Oh, that’ll be fun.”

Draco scoffed. “As if I care about Quidditch right now.”

Remus smiled softly. “You don’t have to care about the match, but I thought it might bring you a small moment of distraction.” He turned to Harry with a knowing look. “Besides, you’ve always been a fan of the game, Harry.”

Harry shrugged, though there was a glint of something in his eyes. “Maybe a little. But the danger’s always been the real game, hasn’t it?”

Remus sighed, his expression becoming serious once again.

“Anyway,” Remus continued, “I came to see how you both were doing. And, I’d like to teach you something—something important, if you’re up for it.”

Harry looked at him curiously. “What is it?”

“Expecto Patronum,” Remus said, his voice low but serious. “It’s the most powerful charm against Dementors. And you’ll need it if you’re going to be ready for whatever comes next.”

“It is,” Remus agreed, “but with the Dementors closing in, a Patronus could make the difference between life and death. It’s a powerful charm, and though it’s difficult to learn, I think you both have the potential.”

“Dementors,” Harry murmured, feeling a chill run through him at the mention of the creatures. “We need something… anything.”

Remus gave him a reassuring smile. “We’ll take it step by step. It’s not going to be easy, but with practice, I know you can both do it.”

After a few practice runs and Draco figuring out how to incorporate the wand movements to a wandless one that could be used with their armbands, the boys decided to move outside after weeks kept lockeed away.  The once relentless winds had died down to a whisper, and the sky, which had been bruised and gray for what felt like ages, was beginning to clear. A few shy rays of sunlight broke through the clouds, painting the snow-covered ground in pale light.

Harry stood outside the shack, his fingers feeling the smooth Ash of his armband. The deer antler inlay was warm against his skin, the amethyst glimmering faintly in the daylight, reacting to the subtle hum of his magic. The Eldertree armband had become a constant presence on his wrist—both comforting and frustrating in its power.

Draco stood next to him, his own Yew armband pressing against the fabric of his sleeve, a darker resonance with its Thestral wings and smoky quartz at its core. The Yew wood, a shade darker than Harry’s Ash, had a sharp, ancient feel to it. And though Draco wasn’t particularly thrilled to be outside practicing, there was a subtle intensity in his eyes as they both tried to focus on the spell they had been attempting to master.

“Come on, Draco,” Harry said with a sigh. “We can’t just pretend we’re not learning this because it’s dangerous.”

Draco didn’t even look at him. “Yeah, because standing here freezing my arse off with you in this blizzard is so much better.”

“You’re not going to get the Patronus unless you actually try,” Harry shot back, trying to keep the impatience out of his voice. He couldn’t deny that he was frustrated, but there was a deeper, more resonant feeling at play, something that went beyond just this spell.

Draco gave a sharp grunt but didn’t argue. “Fine, Potter. But don’t expect me to be your cheerleader while we’re out here playing with magic we don’t even understand.”

The quiet vibrational hum between their two armbands was louder now, and Harry could feel it. The connection between them, the ever-present aether-thread, felt more alive than before. It was almost like the spell wasn’t the only thing they were trying to perfect—it was their bond, their connection that was subtly shifting and growing, just as their magic was. It had taken them weeks to rebuild their tether from the ground up. What had started as a soft, barely there hum after their first kiss, was now back even stronger than before. 

Harry sighed, his breath a fog in the chilly air. “Expecto Patronum,” he said quietly, his voice low and focused. The words felt like a thread pulling through his chest, the image of a silver stag flickering in his mind. But instead of the bright, solid Patronus he was trying to summon, only a wisp of light came from his hands. The amethyst inlay sparked, singeing Harry before sending a faint pulse of magic through his body, but it disappeared before it could take form.

Draco raised an eyebrow. “That was fantastic, Potter,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Maybe if you try a little harder, you won’t look like a failure.”

Harry didn’t let Draco’s words get under his skin, though. He knew the other boy was frustrated. Instead, he focused on the pull between them. The hum of their tether had become more pronounced, like a soft, invisible threads connecting their magical cores. He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the resonance, the aether-thread running between their two souls. The Yew wood felt strong beside his Ash, like the magic itself was responding to their shared purpose, to the trust that had begun to form between them.

“I’m trying,” Harry said under his breath, focusing on the connection they shared rather than the words alone. It was more than just casting a spell. This was about them. Their bond. Their magic was linked, deeper than either of them could truly understand. An untapped well of potential. 

He reached for it again, trying to channel the energy through his armband. He could feel the deer antler nestled against his skin, the amethyst glowing in time with his heartbeat. The resonance in the air between them intensified, a low hum that vibrated deep within Harry’s chest.

“Expecto Patronum,” Harry said more forcefully this time, a thread of conviction running through the words.

The air around him crackled as a small, glowing figure emerged from the tip of his armband. It wasn’t a full Patronus, not yet, but it was there—a wispy, ethereal creature, faint and fleeting, shimmering in the dim light. It flickered before dissipating into nothingness.

Draco didn’t speak right away, but Harry could feel his gaze. Harry turned to look at him, noticing the faintest spark of surprise in Draco’s eyes. It was brief, almost imperceptible, but it was there. Draco’s lips curled into a half-smile.

“Well, that’s more than nothing,” Draco said quietly, his voice softer than usual. “Better than the last time.”

Harry smiled back, though his pulse quickened. “You’re not completely useless then.”

Draco snorted, but the edge of irritation was gone. “Yes, just a full well of potential for you to dip into.”

Harry’s smile faded slightly as his heart beat a little faster. The air around them hummed again, a soft vibration under his skin, as if their armbands were resonating more deeply than before. Draco’s Yew wood felt close, their magic syncing in ways that Harry didn’t fully understand.

There was a moment of silence, a pause between them that felt pregnant with unspoken words.

“Come on,” Harry said, his voice quieter now. “Your turn.”

Draco’s gaze flicked to Harry, and for just a moment, his usual snarky armor softened. He raised his arm, the Yew band gleaming as it glowed faintly, matching Harry’s own as he closed his eyes and thought of a happy memory. 

“Expecto Patronum,” Draco muttered, his voice a little more focused than before.

The air around them crackled again, and this time, a brighter wisp of silver shot from Draco’s armband, swirling in the air before flickering out.

Draco exhaled sharply, but there was no anger in it this time. “It’s a start,” he said, his tone softer. “Now, we just need to figure out how to make it stick.”

Harry nodded, his heart still thumping a little faster than usual. “We’ll get there,” he said quietly, turning toward Draco. “We’ve already made progress.”

Draco rolled his eyes, but there was something in his expression that wasn’t entirely dismissive. “Just need happier memories I suppose,” he muttered. “Kind of hard to do in the middle of nowhere.”

They both stood there, the soft hum of their armbands still vibrating in the air, their magic connected in a way neither of them fully understood. Harry felt the strange tug at his chest again, the pull between them growing stronger. It wasn’t love—not yet—but it was something else. Something important. Something that was shifting, taking shape in ways Harry couldn’t yet explain.

“Alright, then,” Draco said, brushing snow off his coat and breaking the silence. “Let’s go again.”

Harry smiled, looking out at the snow-covered landscape. It felt a little lighter now, the air a little less heavy. Maybe they were on the right path after all.

Chapter Text

The light was soft in the shack that morning, filtering through the small cracks in the wooden walls. The winter storms of months past had finally retreated, but the early morning still held onto the chill of winter. Outside, the sky was pale blue, the first signs of spring creeping into the world—birds chirped and flitted through the branches outside the window, unbothered by the lingering cold.

Inside, however, the warmth of the fire and the soft bed made it easy to forget the world outside. Draco was sprawled across the bed, his limbs stretched out carelessly, half his body covered by the blanket, the other half completely exposed. Harry lay beside him, his chest rising and falling slowly as he watched the soft rise and fall of Draco’s own chest.

For a moment, Harry just laid there, his thoughts drifting. The silence between them was comfortable, a rare reprieve from the tension of their lives. The warmth of Draco next to him felt different now, more familiar than it had before.

As Draco stretched again, his shirt lifted, exposing a thin strip of pale skin just above the waistband of his sleep pants. The soft, smooth curve of his lower back caught Harry’s attention, and before he could stop himself, his mind drifted. He couldn’t help but notice the way Draco’s skin looked so… delicate in the early morning light.

Blushing furiously, Harry hurriedly turned his head, trying to shake the thoughts from his mind. He suddenly felt overheated, even though the room was still cold. 

Focus, Harry, he told himself. He hadn’t even realized he was holding his breath until the tension in his chest started to ease.

Desperate for a distraction, Harry jumped out of bed and headed straight for the window. “I should probably open these up,” he muttered to himself, his voice a little more rushed than usual.

But just as he reached the window and threw it open, a sharp, high-pitched yelp filled the room.

Draco’s voice echoed through the shack, and Harry turned around to see him nearly falling off the bed in his attempt to cover himself with the blanket. His face was flushed with shock and indignation. “What the hell, Potter? It’s still freezing outside! Do you have no sense of reality?!”

Harry, grinning now, leaned on the windowsill and peered out at the world, enjoying the fresh air. “What? It’s a nice day. The birds are out, aren’t they? Spring is practically here.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed as he whined his displeasure. “Oh, don’t even talk to me about spring, Harry. That bird outside has no sense of how cold it is. I swear, it’s like you two are related.”

Harry couldn’t help but laugh, a carefree chuckle that seemed to catch Draco off guard. “I’m the one related to birds now, am I?”

Draco huffed and yanked the blanket back over himself, sitting up with his arms crossed. “Oh yes. You and the crows are practically twins. Always screeching about something, stealing all my shit and ruining the peace.”

Harry shot him a teasing look over his shoulder. “Well, someone has to make sure you don’t fall back into your grumpy self. I think I’ve done a good job of making sure you stay happy as a lark.”

Draco rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it. “I am not an actual bird, thanks. Just… allergic to the idea of freezing my arse off while you enjoy the sound of the bloody birds.”

“Birds aren’t that bad,” Harry teased. “I mean, I live with you don’t I? They’re better company than a grumpy Slytherin in the morning.”

Draco shot him a sharp look, but his lips quirked at the corners. “I’m not grumpy,” he muttered, though Harry could see the small hint of amusement in his eyes. “I just don’t appreciate being attacked by a draft that you invited in.”

Harry walked back over to the bed, sitting down next to Draco and reaching over to ruffle his hair in the same way he had done countless times in the past few weeks. “Sorry, I didn’t realize you were so delicate, Malfoy.”

Draco slapped his hand away, his face flushed with frustration, but there was a playful glint in his eyes as he snuggled back down into the nest of blankets. “I am delicate,” he said, voice suddenly soft but laced with a smirk. “And I’ll be reminded of it every time you do something as reckless as opening a window in the middle of a blizzard.”

Harry laughed again, but there was something else in his chest, something that felt warm and comfortable now, as if the tension between them had started to dissipate, and they were beginning to settle into something new. “Alright, I’ll close the window,” Harry said, giving Draco a soft look. “But only because you look so pathetic right now.”

Draco shot him a withering glare, but his lips twitched upward again. “You’re a disaster, Potter.”

“I’ve been called worse,” Harry teased, standing and walking back to the window to close it.

The room seemed warmer now, quieter, as Harry settled back beside Draco. There was a certain peace between them, even though the world outside was far from peaceful. They had found a rhythm in their isolation, something that felt right, even as the weight of the future still loomed over them.

Draco shifted next to him, finally settling back into the warmth of the blanket. “Fine,” he muttered, “but next time, warn me before you decide to ruin my morning with cheerful birdsong and your Gryffindor personality.”

Harry glanced over at him, his heart beating a little faster than usual. “I’ll be more careful with my morning rituals your highness,” he said, feeling the unspoken words hang in the air between them. For a moment, everything felt simple, like they were just two people, sharing a morning together without the weight of the world pressing down on them.

But Harry knew that wouldn’t last forever.

Still, in that moment, with Draco by his side and the warmth of the room surrounding them, it was enough.

The birds outside were still singing, their songs mingling with the sounds of the shack. And for the first time in a while, Harry felt at peace.

Chapter Text

The first signs came softly.

It began with a sound, not quite heard, but felt—like the memory of music lingering in the bones. Harry sat by the hearth, polishing one of the bowls with an old scrap of linen, when a flicker of warmth pulsed through the band on his forearm. He paused, glancing down. The wood of the armband was glowing faintly beneath the veins of crystal embedded in it, the amethyst shards catching the firelight with a shimmer that wasn’t just reflection.

Across the room, Draco was hunched over a stack of weathered parchment, copying notes Nessa had scrawled about seasonal runes and protective ward circles. He hadn’t noticed anything—yet.

Harry tilted his wrist, watching the glow fade and then pulse again, a rhythmic heartbeat that seemed to echo his own. Curious, he whispered a quiet, wandless Lumos. The band responded instantly—the inner runes illuminated with a surge of light that climbed his skin like warmth rising from deep inside him.

“Draco,” he said quietly.

Draco didn’t look up. “Mm?”

Harry stood, walked over, and held out his arm. “It’s doing something again.”

That got Draco’s attention. He sat up straight and grabbed his own arm, tugging back the soft sleeve of his jumper. The yew-wood band on his arm—darker, with smoky quartz and striations that looked like wings caught mid-motion—was already glowing too.

“Did you cast something?” Draco asked, narrowing his eyes. “Or think something stupidly Gryffindor?”

“I just—cleaned a bowl.”

“Very magical of you.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Then I tried Lumos, and it—flared.”

Draco’s gaze dropped to the band again, thoughtful now. He touched the runes gently, brushing his thumb along the carved edges. “They react to intent,” he murmured. “And maybe resonance.”

“What kind?”

Draco didn’t answer. Instead, he stood up, squared his shoulders, and stepped closer. “Try again. Something… more powerful.”

Harry licked his lips, suddenly nervous. The air between them had shifted—not just magically. It always did lately. Ever since the Yule gifts, since the illness, since the shack became not just safe but home.

He reached out with one hand. “Accio journal.”

Nothing happened.

Draco lifted an eyebrow. “Brilliant.”

“I wasn’t ready!”

Harry concentrated, grounding himself in the warmth he felt. Not the room’s warmth—their warmth. Shared survival, stubbornness, mornings that began with birdsong and arguments and ended with silence that didn’t feel empty.

He tried again, wandless of course, this time directing it to the book on the shelf behind Draco. He didn’t say the words aloud.

It flew into his hand as if pulled on a string.

The armbands flared to life.

Both of them gasped. The symbols on their bands ignited—not just the known runes, but tiny ones hidden in the grain itself. Glowing, vibrating, emitting a soft, low tone. Not a hum. A song.

Harry’s hand dropped the book.

“What—” he started.

But Draco was already moving. He grabbed Harry’s wrist and pressed their forearms together, skin to skin, band to band.

The sound grew clearer. Melodic. Deep. Resonant like a cello or a long bell echoing down a well. They could feel it in their ribs, their spine, even behind their eyes.

“It’s responding to us,” Draco said breathlessly.

Harry nodded, unable to speak. He didn’t pull his arm away.

Their magic surged. Harry could feel the current of it between them—a push and pull like a tide, like breathing. It wasn’t just casting—it was feeling. A chord struck in harmony, the forest’s pulse vibrating with their own.

Draco looked stunned. “This… this isn’t just some protective charm, Potter.”

“No,” Harry whispered. “It’s us.”

The song peaked, then slowly began to fade.

Their arms still touching, their breathing matching, they stood in silence as the glow diminished. The room felt changed, like they’d peeled back a layer of reality and glimpsed something old and watching.

A low growl broke the silence.

Both boys turned sharply. The black dog was standing at the open door.

Harry blinked. “How—how long has he been there?”

Draco took a step back. “I didn’t hear the door open.”

The dog’s amber eyes were fixed on their arms. Not on their faces. Not their wands carelessly left in a wicker basket by the doorway. Their armbands.

Draco crouched a little, frowning. “Did you feel anything change when he appeared?”

Harry was still staring. “No. But he saw it. I think he heard it.”

The dog padded forward a few steps, slowly, almost cautiously. He didn’t growl again. He sat on the rug, curling his tail over his paws, and simply looked at them.

“Well, he’s creepy,” Draco muttered.

Harry exhaled, heart still racing. “Yeah. But I don’t think he’s here to hurt us.”

Draco crossed his arms. “Then why’s he always watching? Every time something weird happens, he’s nearby. He’s not a pet, Harry.”

“I know.”

Neither of them said what they were thinking: the dog had been there after the dementor. After Draco collapsed. After Harry nearly tore apart the forest looking for him. The dog had been there through it all.

And now… now he’d witnessed the armbands sing.

The dog finally looked away, turned, and trotted to the corner of the shack. He laid down near the hearth, but his eyes didn’t close. He watched the fire as if guarding it.

Draco sat back down slowly. “It’s growing stronger. Whatever this is. Whatever we are.”

Harry didn’t deny it. Instead, he took the book still on the floor and tucked it under his arm.

“I think we should try again tomorrow,” he said.

Draco met his eyes. “Agreed. But this time, we don’t hold back.”

Outside, the wind stirred the trees, and in the distance, a bird called out for the first time that season. The forest was waking up. And so were they.

The next morning broke soft and pale, draped in the hush of the forest waking from its winter slumber. Harry was out early, chopping wood near the outer edge of the clearing. Draco could hear the steady rhythm of it from inside the shack—the dull thwack of axe against bark, followed by the occasional grunt or curse when the log didn’t split quite right.

Draco stood at the small window, arms folded over his chest, eyes fixed on the patch of trees beyond the well. His breath fogged the glass, but he didn’t wipe it away.

The warmth from the previous night—the resonance of the armbands, the way they’d stood so close, feeling that magic stir between them—lingered in his chest like a low ember refusing to go out. And yet… he was restless. Uneasy. Pulled taut under the skin.

The dog had watched them all night. Draco had heard the soft huff of its breathing, the shift of its paws on the stone floor. It hadn’t slept.

Now, it was gone. Vanished sometime before dawn.

Draco turned from the window and reached for his boots. The pull in his chest was too strong to ignore.

The snow had mostly melted in the places where the sun touched, leaving behind patches of stubborn frost and wet earth. Draco followed no path in particular, only the whisper of instinct and the knot of emotion he couldn’t seem to unwind.

He found the dog near the riverbank. Curled in a shadowed hollow beneath an old oak, the black mass of fur barely stirred when Draco approached. It lifted its head, ears twitching.

“I know you’re not just a dog,” Draco muttered as he dropped to sit a few feet away. His voice sounded smaller in the open air. “But you don’t feel dangerous.”

The dog said nothing, of course. But its eyes blinked slowly, as if acknowledging the words.

“I don’t know why I’m talking to you,” Draco admitted, fingers curling in the hem of his sleeve. “Except that I don’t have to pretend with you.”

The wind moved through the branches, soft and cold. A single leaf fluttered to the forest floor.

Draco swallowed. His throat ached.

“I used to think if I just did everything right—spoke the way I was taught, acted the way I was expected—I’d be loved,” he said quietly. “That someone would look at me and choose me.”

The dog cocked its head.

“I’m not talking about family. Not really. My mother tries, in her way. My father… well.” He smiled bitterly. “There’s always a legacy to uphold.”

He dug his fingers into the earth. Cold and damp.

“But when I started changing—when the veela part of me woke up—I realized something horrible.” He glanced at the dog, breath catching. “I’m not even human enough to be loved that way. I’m something else now. Something… other.”

The dog’s eyes didn’t blink.

Draco’s voice cracked. “Harry doesn’t see it yet. Or maybe he does and just… hasn’t figured out what it means. But soon, he’ll pull away. He’ll be afraid. Everyone always is.”

His shoulders shook, but he forced the tears back. He hated crying in front of people. Even animals.

“I can feel it inside me,” he whispered. “The instincts. The longing. I wake up craving warmth, closeness, someone’s hands on me, someone’s voice. And I think about him—Merlin help me—I ache for him.”

The confession rang out like a bell struck too hard.

The dog stood up. Walked toward him slowly. And then, without a sound, sat beside him and pressed its head against his arm.

Draco froze. The warmth of the animal bled into him, grounding him.

“I don’t know what you are,” he said, barely louder than breath. “But thank you.”

They sat like that a long while, until the sun reached higher and the chill began to fade.

When Draco returned to the shack, Harry was inside again, stacking firewood and muttering to himself about damp socks and broken axe handles.

Draco stepped into the doorway, hesitated. The words clung to the roof of his mouth.

Harry turned around. His expression softened the moment he saw Draco’s face.

“You alright?” he asked.

“No.”

Harry didn’t move. Didn’t push. Just waited.

Draco walked forward. “You said your home is wherever I am.”

“I meant it.”

“I think this is my home now,” Draco whispered. “Not just the shack. Not the village. You. And I’m terrified because I don’t know how to keep that. I don’t know how to be what you need without becoming something I don’t recognize.”

Harry blinked. “Draco—”

“I’m not human in the way I used to be,” Draco said, rushing now, before he lost the nerve. “And I know I’ve been cruel and selfish and dramatic. But I feel things too. I feel this. Between us. It’s real, isn’t it?”

Harry crossed the room in two steps and took Draco’s hand.

“Yes,” he said. “It’s real.”

Draco shuddered.

Harry’s voice was gentler now. “I don’t care what you’re becoming. Whatever it is, I want to face it with you.”

“I’m scared I’ll lose control,” Draco whispered.

“Then I’ll catch you.”

Silence.

Then Draco leaned in with such hesitance, slow, as if unsure he was allowed to and Harry met him halfway.

Their lips touched, soft and trembling, like the moment before a spell releases. Not urgent. Not rushed. Just there between them, warmth shared between the broken pieces of two boys trying to make something whole.

When they pulled apart, neither of them spoke. They didn’t need to.

Behind them, unseen in the shadows just beyond the window, the black dog sat silently, guarding.

The wind shifted two days later.

It wasn’t the kind of shift Harry could explain—not with temperature or scent. It was deeper than that. Like something in the woods had stirred and left a hole behind. Even the birds were quieter, their calls shorter, clipped.

Harry woke with a start that morning, heart racing, the remnants of a dream still clinging to his skin like cold sweat. Flames. Screaming. A voice—no, two voices—speaking in unison but saying different things. Runes carved into wood, flickering with blood and moonlight. He couldn’t remember what they’d said. Only that one of them had been his.

He rubbed at his armband absently, still half-draped in the tangled sheets. Draco lay beside him, hair mussed, mouth slightly open in sleep. Peaceful, for once. Almost soft.

Harry didn’t want to wake him. He needed answers first.

The carved box sat beneath a crooked floorboard beneath their bed. They hadn’t looked at it since Yule, not properly. At the time, they’d both been too preoccupied with healing, nesting, and trying to survive the bitter cold.

But now… something about the air tugged at Harry’s memory. Something was calling.

He knelt, pried the board up, and slid the box free. It was warm—warmer than it should’ve been. The wood pulsed faintly under his palms.

He sat back against the edge of the bed and opened the lid.

Inside, nestled in folds of tattered velvet, was a circular disk carved from something that looked like petrified bone and tree resin. Its surface was etched with ancient runes, some of which Nessa had taught them. Others were unfamiliar—wild, jagged things that didn’t belong to any system Harry recognized.

He lifted it out gently.

The room dimmed.

A low whine came from the doorway.

Harry looked up.

The black dog stood there, eyes locked on the artifact in his hands. Its fur bristled slightly along its spine, though it didn’t advance.

“Is it dangerous?” Harry whispered, half to himself.

The dog didn’t move.

A sound rippled through the room then—not from outside, not even from the dog—but from the disk itself. A hum. A rhythm like thunder rolling far away, like a heartbeat trapped in stone.

Then it began to glow.

Harry dropped it.

The disk didn’t break. Instead, it opened.

Not like a box. Like a mouth.

Flames erupted upward in a swirl—contained, controlled—but wild around the edges. The fire held shape, held form. It wasn’t a natural flame. It danced in a circle and revealed flickering images in its heart.

Draco jolted awake.

“What the hell is that?” he rasped, rolling out of bed, bare feet on the floorboards.

Harry didn’t answer.

Because the flames had spoken.

They whispered in broken riddles. Their voices echoed, layered, male and female, ancient and trembling with power.

“The aether-thread must not fray…
Or the storm shall find its new anchor…”
“One will burn to cleanse the world.
One will bleed to bind it.”_

The disk crackled. The images shifted.

Harry saw a forest burning—no, this forest. Trees collapsing. A silver figure flying through ash.

Then—two figures kneeling beneath a blood-red moon. Their faces blurred, but their hands clasped. The armbands shone between them like beacons.

Then darkness. A hole in the earth. A serpentine scream swallowed by stone.

Harry flinched, stumbling back.

Draco caught him, holding him upright.

“What is it showing you?” Draco asked, voice low, scared.

“I—I don’t know,” Harry managed. “Prophecy. Or warning. Or… both.”

The flames snapped once more. The final image flared—

—an infant wrapped in green silk, placed into a cradle carved with twin serpents. Beside it, a silver feather and a wolf fang.

Then the flames vanished.

The room plunged into stillness.

The disk fell back into Harry’s lap, inert.

The black dog was growling now. Quiet and low, but unmistakable.

Harry looked at it. “You saw that too, didn’t you?”

The dog didn’t blink. Just padded forward, nose twitching, hackles raised slightly.

“Something’s coming,” Draco whispered. “And we’re not ready.”

Harry felt it in his bones too. This wasn’t just prophecy anymore—it was instruction. A timeline. A reckoning.

He looked down at his armband.

A new rune had appeared.

So had one on Draco’s.

“Did you—?” they both asked at once.

Harry grabbed Draco’s arm, turning it so the rune caught the light.

It looked like a flame, coiled around a starburst. But deeper. More primal. And—oddly familiar.

“We’ve seen this before,” Harry murmured. “In the circle of stones behind the village. Where we made out bands.”

Draco nodded slowly. “Nessa said it was the Binding Mark. That only those marked by fate could unlock the aether-thread.”

Harry’s heart stuttered.

Their armbands had changed after the fire. After the prophecy spoke.

The black dog let out a bark—sharp, loud.

Then he ran to the window and leapt up, claws catching the sill. He was watching something. Tracking.

“What is it?” Draco asked.

Harry moved beside him.

In the woods, something was watching back.

Not Dementors. Not Aurors. Something older. Something waking.

The black dog turned back to them, growled once, and sat again by the fire. Its eyes did not close.

Harry wrapped the disk in cloth and placed it on the table. Then he gripped Draco’s hand tightly.

“We have to go back to the stones.”

Draco didn’t argue.

He just nodded.

The owl came at twilight.

It wasn’t one of the village birds, or even one Harry recognized from Remus’s usual flock that he used in Hogsmeade. This one was smaller, sleeker with its feathers dark like ink, its eyes rimmed in silver. It arrived without sound, gliding through the trees and alighting on the crooked post near their front door, a sealed scroll tied tightly to its leg.

Harry and Draco stood in the doorway, arms brushing as they stared at it.

“Is that…?” Draco started.

“It’s his,” Harry confirmed. “It has to be.”

He stepped forward and untied the scroll, the owl waiting only a beat before taking off into the dusk. The seal was unmarked. A safety measure. No names, no crests. Just folds and ink and urgency.

Harry unrolled the parchment. His hands trembled before he even read a word.

Draco leaned in close as he whispered aloud:

“They’re moving. Ministry sweep begins this Sunday. Dementors confirmed. Aurors assigned to outer perimeter only—for now. Dumbledore claims to have objected but failed to stop it. They believe the forest has turned hostile. They’re wrong. But they’re afraid. You need to stay hidden. I will come with supplies on the new moon. Tell the village. Tell the forest. Do not let it divide you. —R.”

Draco’s face paled.

“Sunday?” he whispered. “That’s in four days.”

Harry nodded slowly. “They’re closing in.”

The silence that followed was thick with a shared truth neither wanted to say aloud.

They were running out of time.

The black dog appeared before they could reach the path into the deeper woods.

Harry had just pulled on his cloak, Draco right behind him, both of them eager to find Nessa and Harek, to warn the village. They’d barely cleared the edge of the clearing when the dog dropped into their path like a shadow cut loose from the trees.

It didn’t growl. Didn’t bark.

But it stood, stiff-legged, tail low, body tense.

“Move,” Draco said, voice calm but cold.

The dog didn’t budge.

Harry stepped beside him. “I don’t think he’s trying to stop us. I think he’s… asking us something.”

“Like what?”

Harry knelt slowly, searching the dog’s eyes. “Do you trust us?”

The dog stared at him.

Harry extended a hand—not to pet, just to offer.

After a long moment, the dog took one step back. Then another. It turned, trotted a few feet forward, and paused, looking over its shoulder.

“He’s guiding us,” Harry said.

Draco groaned. “Great. We have a personal grim now.”

Still, they followed.

The path to the village was darker than usual, as if the trees had drawn tighter together in response to the coming threat. The air smelled like moss and unsettled dreams.

When they arrived at the stone circle behind Nessa’s home, she was already waiting, lantern in hand. Harek leaned against one of the boulders, arms crossed, eyes sharp beneath the edge of his hood. A fire was already crackling in the pit between them.

“You felt it too?” Harry asked.

Nessa nodded, expression grim. “The forest told me. It doesn’t want them here. The Ministry’s magic is… wrong. Loud. Disrespectful.”

Harek grunted in agreement. “The trees will rebel. But that might not protect you if they use fire.”

Draco stepped forward. “We need a plan. If they find the shack—”

“They won’t,” Nessa interrupted. “We’ve sealed it with veils. It looks like collapsed stone now. But the forest’s magic is fickle. If you two are outside the boundaries when they come…”

“We won’t be,” Harry said firmly. “We just came to warn you.”

The dog circled the fire once, then sat beside Nessa, its fur glinting red in the flame’s light.

She looked at it, then back at the boys. “You still don’t know who he is, do you?”

Draco stiffened. “What do you mean—‘who’?”

“He’s not just a guardian,” she said softly. “There’s purpose in him. Old magic. Maybe more.”

Harry’s thoughts whirled. “He doesn’t feel hostile.”

“No,” Nessa said. “But he watches you like he knows what’s coming.”

Harek dropped a stone into the fire. It sparked, sending a ripple of red flame into the air.

“You’ll need to be ready to run,” he said. “If the Ministry gets close, or the Dementors find your scent…”

“We’ll fight,” Harry said quietly. “We’re not leaving each other. Not again.”

Draco met his gaze. “We’re stronger together.”

The fire pulsed suddenly.

Nessa gasped. “Your bands—they’re responding again.”

Both boys looked down. Their armbands were glowing.

And this time, the symbols burned bright enough to illuminate the ground around their feet.

A new rune shimmered to life—on both of them at once.

Nessa whispered, “That one means anchor.”

“Anchor?” Harry echoed.

She nodded. “One of you will be the anchor. The other the thread.”

“What does that mean?”

“Balance. Sacrifice. Bond.” Nessa’s expression darkened. “But it doesn’t say which is which.”

They fell silent.

The black dog stood suddenly. Growled once into the darkness. Then vanished.

Harry’s chest tightened.

“Something’s coming,” he whispered. “We can feel it now.”

“Good,” Harek said. “Then be ready to stand your ground. Because it won’t just be spells you’ll be tested with. It’ll be choice.”

Draco looked at Harry.

“I choose him,” he said simply.

Harry took his hand.

“Then we’ll fight the rest together.”

That night, the two boys laid intertwined as they let the world fade away and only allowed the thoughts of them surround them. Not the ministry, not the wizarding world and not any prophecy. Just the two of them, together at home.

The next morning breakfast was a modest affair: duck eggs fried in butter, a hunk of sour bread from the village stores, and a bit of honey Harry had retrieved from the smokehouse the week before. Draco even managed to slice some of the dried summer apples they’d kept in waxed cloth, arranging them in a small pile on a cracked plate like he was presenting it to a royal court.

Harry sat on the floor, cross-legged and sleepy-eyed, watching Draco bustle about with a faint grin.

“You like playing house,” he said.

“I like having a moment that isn’t about survival,” Draco corrected, ladling egg onto the plate and passing it over. “And I like pretending this is ours. That we can just… live.”

Harry’s grin softened. “It is ours.”

“For now,” Draco said.

The dog stretched in the corner, yawned, and padded over to sit near the door. Its nose twitched toward the wind that slipped through the gaps in the old wood frame.

Harry chewed slowly. “He’s tense.”

“He knows what’s coming.” Draco sighed. “We all do.”

They ate in silence for a while, letting the warmth of the food fight back the chill creeping in through the floorboards. When the plates were scraped clean, Harry stood and rummaged through a small crate near the hearth.

He returned with a carving knife and a smooth piece of dark wood.

“What’s that?” Draco asked, eyebrow raised.

“I started something last time you were sulking in the woods,” Harry said, sitting beside him. “Thought I’d finish it today.”

“You’re charming, truly.”

Harry chuckled. “Hold still.”

Draco tilted his head. “What—”

But Harry didn’t answer. He simply took Draco’s left hand, palm-up, and placed it next to the carved wood in his lap. Then he began to work—slow, careful movements, chipping away with the knife in small strokes.

“You’re carving my hand?” Draco asked, amused and a little unnerved.

“Not your hand,” Harry said. “Just… something to remember. In case—well.”

Draco was quiet then. Watching. Listening to the rhythmic scrape of metal on wood.

Outside, a breeze picked up, carrying the scent of pine and snowmelt. The forest was waking up. And it was listening.

When Harry finished, he held up the carving. It was rough, but it was real: two hands, fingers intertwined, etched with runes that mirrored those on their armbands. Their hands.

Draco stared at it, throat tight.

“You’re such a bloody Gryffindor,” he whispered.

Harry shrugged. “I don’t want to forget what this felt like. Before.”

Draco took the carving, fingers tracing its edges. “We won’t forget. Even if they try to make us.”

The armbands pulsed suddenly.

Both boys looked down.

A new rune had appeared on Harry’s—this one stark, sharp, and unfamiliar. It looked like a twisted spiral curled around a single drop.

Draco’s voice trembled. “I don’t recognize it.”

Harry touched it gently.

It burned.

Not painfully—but like lightning beneath the skin. Like a promise.

He looked up.

Draco’s armband had changed too. Another rune, but softer, more curved. Almost like wings folding inward.

“They’re… opposites,” Harry murmured.

“Complementary,” Draco corrected.

A pause.

“What do they mean?”

Harry didn’t have an answer. But the dog lifted its head and let out a low whine.

Then it walked to the door and scratched once.

Harry stood.

Draco followed.

Together, they opened it.

Beyond the threshold, the forest shimmered.

Not visibly—but in presence. The air was charged. The trees leaned in. Something ancient had taken notice of them.

And far in the distance—too faint to see, but not too faint to feel—the first ripple of the Ministry’s magic began to press against the forest’s edge.

The dog stepped outside and turned to wait.

Harry took Draco’s hand.

Draco held on tight.

“We’ll be ready,” Harry said.

The forest did not answer. But the birds went silent again.

And somewhere in the shack behind them, the carved hands glowed faintly in the morning light—like memory, like magic, like the first note in a song waiting to be sung.

Chapter Text

The woods were quiet, save for the steady crunch of paws on damp earth.

The snow had long since melted, but the late spring storm—savage and out of season—had left its mark. Branches were broken, tree roots exposed, and the path ahead was still slick with runoff from hills that bled mud and memory. Patches of frost clung to the forest’s shaded places like ghosts that refused to melt.

Sirius raced through the forest, wind tugging at his fur, the air thick with the scent of moss, overturned soil, and something sharp—like regret.

Sirius raced through the forest, the wind biting at his fur, cold and sharp like memory he could only hope never to forget. His lungs burned, not from exertion but from clarity. He hadn’t felt this alive in years. Not since Azkaban. Not since James and Lily.

Not since he’d found the shack.

He didn’t like to think about that place. Not too hard. Not yet.

But the image pressed against his thoughts like a ghost.

Two boys. Sleeping close, tangled together in a nest of blankets. Firelight playing against pale wings and scarred skin. One wore his brother’s eyes, the other James’s heart in his smile. They’d been laughing when he first saw them, heads bowed together over something carved and glowing. It was wrong and right all at once—something sacred, something broken, something healing.

A bend in the natural order.

Two boys meant to be enemies. Cast out. Reforged.

It shouldn’t have worked. But it did. And Sirius couldn’t look away.

He’d watched them from the trees for weeks—months really. The veela boy with his proud tilt of the chin and aching loneliness. The wolf-child with grief in his bones and magic like wildfire just beneath his skin. They weren’t just surviving. They were changing.

They were becoming something the world wasn’t ready for.

Sirius didn’t know what it meant yet. But he would.

Later.

Right now, he had work to do.

The rat had slipped again. Fled the castle. Sirius had caught his scent, fresh and panic-sour, near the edge of Hagrid’s hut.

This time, there would be no mercy.

He broke the tree line, paws pounding across the frozen grass of the castle grounds. Moonlight washed the land silver. The Whomping Willow loomed ahead, its branches twitching in anticipation.

He didn’t see the figure watching from the edge of the courtyard.

Remus stood under the shadow of an old statue, eyes fixed on the streak of black racing toward the tree. The wind caught in his coat, his scarf fluttering like a dying flame. He didn’t speak. Not at first.

Then, barely above a breath: “Sirius…”

Behind him, Severus Snape emerged from the darkness, having followed the cloaked werewolf for reasons he wasn’t quite willing to name. His gaze cut sideways at Lupin’s voice.

But it wasn’t the name that froze him.

It was the second word.

“…and Peter?”

Snape’s eyes narrowed.

“What did you say?” he demanded.

But the werewolf was already moving.

The tunnel beneath the Whomping Willow hadn’t changed. Damp. Narrow. Coated in ancient moss and decay. Sirius ran full tilt down the passage, heart thundering in his chest.

When he burst into the wider space near the shack, Peter was already mid-shift—fur shrinking, limbs twisting, eyes wide with terror.

Sirius transformed the moment he cleared the tunnel, wand out. A wand he had admittedly stolen from one of the boys. A black beauty that was a straight and narrow as his owner once was.

“You’re not getting away this time.”

Peter scrambled to his knees, voice high and desperate. “Sirius—Sirius, please—you don’t understand what he promised me—what he would have done if I hadn’t—”

“I understand you sold your soul,” Sirius snarled. “And theirs.”

Peter’s hands trembled. “I—I was weak! I made a mistake! I didn’t mean for them to die—I swear!”

Behind them, Remus entered.

He said nothing. Just looked at Peter like he was already a ghost.

Snape followed moments later. His steps slow. Measured.

Peter saw him and screamed. “Help me! Snape, please—you were always smarter than them and I know you can see the truth. We are alike in that way! I had to survive. You know he would’ve killed me if I didn’t—”

Snape didn’t respond.

He was staring at Sirius.

At Remus.

At the shattered truth laid bare in the eyes of his former classmates.

Sirius spoke first. “Tell them, Wormtail. Tell them what you did.”

Peter’s face twisted. He shook his head, hands trembling.

But the words spilled anyway.

“I gave him the Potters. I was the Secret Keeper. I told him where they were.” A sob caught in his throat. “He would have killed me if I didn’t—but they—they didn’t have to die. I didn’t want them to die.”

Silence.

Remus swayed like he’d been struck. His hands clenched into fists. Years of regret beginning to pile upon his narrow shoulders as the weight of all his decisions were now known to have been misplaced. He had spent years filled with grief and anger. Betrayed by the man he considered his best friend. Lost in the world where nothing made sense anymore. He could feel the bile building up near the back of his throat. All those years.

He knew he should have moved. Should have allowed the wolf in him to take over and exact revenge. But the man in him couldn’t comprehend what he was hearing. The truth laid bare before him felt like a knife slicing open stitches he had spent years mending too. He had thought he was over this part of his part. Over the desperate, aching void that filled his heart now. 

To him, a man who built his pack from nothing, felt as if the last shreds of it were tumbling away. He turned quickly then, as if to reach out with claw tipped fingers to rip that measly beasts heart from his chest. To eat his entrails as everyone around him watched what kind of monster he could really be.

But it was Snape who moved first.

He stepped forward—slow, deliberate. As he always was. Determined in his decisions even when they were wrong. Though this time, neither Remus or Sirius could ever fault him for what he did next.

 His wand lifted with no warning, no announcement. No drama.

A surprising turn of events considering who he was.

But no. 

Just hate.

Unforgiving. Cold. Empty.

The curse that ripped from his wand struck Peter in the chest.

There was no scream.

Just a snap of red light—and then a body hitting the floor, still as stone.

Remus gasped as he wrenched his fists to his chest.

Sirius stared with a heaving breath that hardly escaped his near-hallow chest.

Snape was panting, wand still raised. His hand shook.

“I—” he started. But there was nothing else to say.

Remus dropped to his knees beside the corpse, pressing his fingers to Peter’s throat.

“Dead,” he whispered. “Instant.”

Sirius backed away, eyes wide. “You—you didn’t hesitate.”

“I thought it was you,” Snape said, his voice ragged, torn. The anger and grief all still present. “All these years, I thought it was you.”

He sank to his knees beside the body, breathing hard. His face was pale. There were no tears, but his expression was cracked porcelain—too many emotions crashing at once.

“They killed her,” he said. “Because of him.”

No one answered.

The three men knelt there, surrounded by the weight of it all.

The lie that shaped a war.

The truth that had come too late.

And the corpse of the rat who thought betrayal was survivable.

It was Remus who spoke first as day slipped into night.

“We can’t leave him here.”

The words hung heavy at entrance to the Shrieking Shack, muffled by the dirty walls and the weight of what had just happened. Peter Pettigrew’s body lay sprawled between them, lifeless, still. His mouth frozen mid-plea. One hand curled toward his chest as if trying to hold something in. But there was nothing left.

Sirius said nothing. He stood frozen near the wall, face unreadable. Only his knuckles, white around his wand, betrayed him.

Snape sat on a low outcrop of stone, staring at his shaking hands like he didn’t recognize them.

“I cast it,” he muttered. “I said the words and it worked.”

Remus turned to him slowly. “You killed him.”

“He killed her,” Snape spat back, the words hitting the ground like cracked stone. “You heard it. You both heard it. All these years—blaming him—” he threw a glance at Sirius, who didn’t flinch, “and it was that coward crawling in the dark. Just yards away these last few years.”

Sirius finally moved. He knelt beside the body, not out of mourning, but out of duty. Slowly, he reached forward and unclasped something from around Peter’s neck—a thin chain with a blackened, rusting ring. A Portkey, perhaps, or something older.

He tucked it into his pocket.

Then, softly Snape mumbled: “We need Minerva.”

Remus blinked. “Minerva?”

“She’s the only one who can help us do this right.”

Sirius sneered. “And what is that, Snivelus? You think she’ll condone this? Let you and me just walk away?”

“She will,” Remus said quietly. “Because she knows what happens if the Ministry finds out the truth.”

They looked at one another. Three men bound by loss, by magic, and now by murder.

Minerva McGonagall arrived less than an hour later, drawn not by owl, but by the pull of a coded enchantment Remus had burned into the stones outside the Whomping Willow from when he was just a child himself.

She entered the shack with a grim expression, skirts damp from the forest’s half-thawed mud. Her hair, streaked with more silver than Sirius remembered, was pulled tight beneath her cloak. Her eyes, however, were still sharp enough to cut through lies.

She took in the scene silently—Peter’s corpse, Sirius still in his old prison-tattered clothes, Snape pale and withdrawn, Remus calm but brittle.

Then: “Explain.”

No one spoke at first.

Remus did, eventually, voice steady. “Peter confessed. He gave up the Potters to Voldemort. Severus… acted.”

Minerva’s gaze flicked to Snape. “Is this true?”

Snape met her eyes and in his normal bored drawl replied, “Yes.”

“And it was you who cast it?”

A pause. “Yes.”

She didn’t gasp. Didn’t scold. She only exhaled, long and slow.

“I suppose I should be horrified,” she said, kneeling next to the body. “But I’m not. Considering who is involved that is.”

She reached into her cloak and pulled free a small satchel of dark red powder. “This will ash the remains. Silently. Thoroughly. I’ll handle the Ministry.”

Sirius finally spoke. “You’ll lie for us?”

“I’ll misdirect,” she corrected, lips tight. “I’ll tell them the real rat in all of this slipped away again. That you’re still chasing shadows, Sirius. Let the Aurors think you’ve lost your mind, as usual. That seems to be working in your favor.”

Remus raised a brow. “You’re awfully practiced at this.”

“I’ve spent three decades protecting children and fighting wars I didn’t ask for,” she snapped. “I know which truths deserve burial.”

She stood, dusted off her knees, and looked to Sirius.

“You’ll still need to hide.”

Sirius nodded. “I will.”

“Where?”

Sirius hesitated.

Remus answered for him. “With Harry. And Draco.”

Snape flinched visibly.

Minerva narrowed her eyes. “They’re still alive? You know where they are?”

“Alive and changed,” Remus said as he nodded. “And they don’t trust this world anymore.”

“Neither do I,” she murmured. “But be careful. The forest doesn’t give back what it takes.”

Sirius shifted. “I’m not going there to take anything. I’m going to learn what I missed.”

Snape stood abruptly. “What about me? What do I tell Dumbledore?”

Minerva gave him a long look.

“You tell him whatever lets you sleep at night. Which I suspect means nothing.”

They burned the body in silence.

The spell Minerva used turned Peter to ash in under a minute, leaving nothing behind but a scorch mark on the dirt. She whispered another charm, and the stone floor swallowed it whole.

When it was done, Remus and Sirius remained kneeling.

Snape stood behind them, arms crossed, staring at the space where Peter had died.

No one cried. No one prayed.

But they all felt the shift—subtle and vast.

History had bent.

Again.

Allegiances had changed and the lines were more clear than ever before. 

Hours later, Sirius stood just outside the boys shack, uncertain.

The woods behind him were quiet. Damp leaves and pine needles clung to the soles of his stolen boots. His hair—longer than it should be—was tied back with a strip of worn cloth torn from the sleeve of his dingy prison uniform. He hadn’t shaved. His cloak, passed to him earlier by Severus of all people, was damp from mist. The scent of fire smoke drifted through a cracked window. Someone was cooking. Something with honey.

He hadn’t planned on staying.

Not really.

He was supposed to check on them, confirm they were safe, and then disappear again like the ghost he’d become. Hide in the cave he found just a few miles away. But he hadn’t made it five feet from the clearing before something strange happened.

The shack had recognized him.

Not magically, not overtly. But the wards around the cabin had pulsed as he approached—not in warning, but in acknowledgment. Like a pack letting in a long-lost dog.

That had unnerved him more than anything.

So now he stood, staring at the crooked door, unable to knock.

It opened anyway.

Draco was the one who answered.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t reach for his wand that hung loosely in Sirius’ hand. Just raised a single elegant brow and leaned against the door frame, arms crossed.

“You’re late,” he said flatly.

Sirius blinked. “Pardon?”

Draco gestured toward the hearth behind him. “We made tea. Assuming you’d eventually stop lurking like some wind-worn cryptid.”

Harry’s voice called from inside: “That’s the word of the day, apparently. Cryptid.”

Draco didn’t smile. “It suits him.”

Sirius stared. “You—you knew I was coming?”

“We knew you were watching,” Draco said. “For months.”

Sirius stiffened. “I don’t know what you’re—”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Please. We live with werewolves, and I can smell secrets faster than Harry can ruin a perfectly calm morning. You’ve been sniffing around our garden since before Yule at least.”

Harry appeared behind Draco, shirt loose and sleeves pushed up. He looked older than Sirius remembered. Taller. Quieter.

But his eyes were the same.

“You saw us,” Harry said. “Before we saw you.”

Sirius looked between them and deflated.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he muttered. “I just… I had to see.”

“See what?” Draco asked, sharper now. “Two boys cast out of your world? Remembrance of a past that most people prefer to forget? Or were you checking to see if we’d burned the place down?”

“I didn’t know what to expect,” Sirius admitted. “But it wasn’t this. You—” he looked at Harry, then Draco, then the shared space behind them “—you’ve built something that reminds me of a time when I had something too.”

“We’ve survived,” Harry said. “There’s a difference.”

Sirius stepped forward, lowering his voice. “When I first saw you both, I thought it was wrong. I mean—Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter? Nesting in a shack, warded like a sacred grove, sharing a bed like it was the most natural thing in the world.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed, lips twitching with restrained insult.

“But it wasn’t wrong,” Sirius said quickly. “It was… bent. Twisted in a way that makes the world feel like it’s healing instead of breaking. Like maybe the rules were never right to begin with. It reminded me of when another Potter took in another person from The Black Family.”

The fire crackled behind them.

Neither boy said anything.

Sirius cleared his throat. “I saw the wings. The armbands. The way your magic moved together. I hadn’t ever seen something like that before.”

“You were spying,” Draco said sharply, not bothering to hide the accusation.

“Yes,” Sirius said. “And I’m sorry.”

Draco nodded once. “Fine. You can keep my wand. I don’t use it anymore anyways. Doubt it would even work for me now as is. And you can stay.”

Harry blinked and turned to look at the blonde beside him in disbelief. “What?”

Draco stepped back and waved Sirius in. “If he’s here, we might as well get something useful out of it. We’re not exactly overstaffed. We can keep him in the smoke shack out back, tie him up in the garden or something.”

Sirius stepped into the boys home slowly, though he had been inside as a dog, his shoulders hunched like he expected to be hexed anyway. But nothing happened.

The warmth wrapped around him like a hand-knit blanket.

He noticed little things first with his human eyes and how everything was hand-stitched or carved. The smell of firewood and healing herbs. The stack of books near the bed. The shape of a nest still pressed into the mattress, faintly glowing where the morning sun touched it. It was so different from how he grew up. But in some ways, the warmth of the space reminded him so much of James and his home. Even the home he briefly shared with Lily.

“This is…” Sirius trailed off.

“Home,” Harry finished. “For now.”

Sirius nodded slowly. “It feels like it.”

Draco busied himself with the kettle, but Harry watched Sirius carefully.

“Why now?” Harry asked. “Why come to us now?”

Sirius hesitated. “Because I finished what I started.”

Harry’s eyes darkened as he remember the letter Remus had sent before Sirius arrived. “Peter?”

Sirius nodded.

Draco stilled.

“It was supposed to be my task,” Sirius said, sitting down stiffly near the hearth. “But Remus found me. And—Snape. Of all people.”

“Snape?” Draco said sharply.

“He killed him.”

The room fell still.

Sirius looked up, eyes haunted. “Peter confessed. Gave it all away. And Snape… he didn’t wait. He ended it.”

Draco sat down. “And now?”

“Now the Ministry is going to be suspicious. Minerva’s helping us cover it up, but they won’t believe I’m innocent until there’s a body—and there isn’t one anymore.”

“So you’re a fugitive again,” Harry said flatly.

Sirius nodded.

“Then you’ll fit right in,” Draco said as he passed the shivering man in threadbare clothes a cup of tea.

Sirius barked a laugh.

Harry looked at him. “What happens next?”

Sirius looked between them. Two boys. Two legacies twisted into something new. Something powerful.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I want to be here when you find out.”

Chapter Text

The forest was in bloom.

Not in the explosive, riotous way of spring, but in the quiet richness of early summer—when the leaves had fully unfurled, when the moss softened the steps of even the heaviest footfalls, and when the air carried the slow, golden weight of heat.

Draco woke to the scent of peaches.

Ripe ones. Sweet, sun-warmed, and tucked neatly into a worn wooden bowl beside their bed. He blinked sleepily, then reached out, running his fingers along the fruit’s velvety skin. It was familiar now—this kind of quiet thoughtfulness. The little traditions Harry had created for him in the absence of anything grand.

The scarf from their first winter still hung near the hearth, a little frayed now, but worn soft with use. On the windowsill sat a collection of small, whittled creatures—stags and owls, snakes and foxes—each one carefully carved from forest wood, each with a name Draco had given it in secret.

Harry never made a big show of it.

He just… gave. Every year. Small things, real things.

And now peaches.

Draco sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes as the door creaked open and Harry stepped in, carrying two cups and a small, wrapped bundle.

“You’re supposed to be asleep,” Harry said with a grin.

“You left peaches.” Draco raised an eyebrow. “You know I can’t resist.”

Harry set the bundle beside him. “Well, if I can’t stop you from getting up early, I might as well give you your gift.”

Draco smirked but took the bundle without hesitation. The linen was soft, wrapped in forest twine and tied with a sprig of fresh sage. He undid it slowly, he always took his time with Harry’s gifts, and found a small ring box nestled inside.

He opened it.

The ring was simple: silver, etched with a spiraling vine pattern. The band glinted faintly with a soft runic shimmer carved in Harry’s terrible handwritting, the same glow he now recognized from their armbands. A pale violet crystal, not polished smooth but left with its natural facets, sat nestled in the center.

A promise.

Not just protection. Not just a gesture.

Draco looked up, and Harry’s cheeks were already pink.

“I know it’s not fancy,” Harry said quickly, “but it’s charmed to respond to your magic. It’ll warm when you’re near me, and… I just thought you should have something that’s—yours. From me.”

Draco slid the ring onto his finger. It fit perfectly. His arm band hummed in approval at the gift.

He didn’t say thank you.

He leaned forward and pressed his lips gently to Harry’s, slow and sure.

When he pulled away, his voice was quiet. “You always know.”

Harry shrugged. “I try.”

“I—” Draco swallowed. “I can’t believe you made this?”

Harry shrugged. “Nessa helped. The runes are protective. I thought it might help when we go back.”

Draco didn’t ask where back was. They both knew.

Draco’s throat tightened at the thoughtfulness of the gift. He knew what this meant. Harry would be with him always. Even when their armbands didn’t feel their connection. Even when they were too far apart.

Harry gave a crooked smile before stumbling over his words. The pink still high on his bronze cheeks. “You’re my best— mate. You deserve something good.”

Something clicked inside Draco at that—something wordless and deep, like a hinge turning inside his chest. He had no words for it, so he just nodded and let his veela trill in delight.

It really did fit perfectly.

Draco hadn’t known at the time as he had meander back to the nest with a happy little hum, but Harry had been up since dawn, eyes glowing with quiet determination as he arranged blankets, checked the cake (which leaned a little, but smelled amazing), and fussed with platters of fresh fruit, baked meat pies and a wine that he knew Draco would love. 

Today mattered.

It always did of course. 

He’d celebrated Draco’s birthday every year since they ended up in the woods. Though the green scarf was the first true gift he ever gave him. Last year had been better with fresh berries, a handmade book of protective runes, and a carved comb. Not to mention the endless little wooden creatures he had a tendency to gift him like courting gifts. But this year felt different.

Draco was healing. Changing. Becoming a man.

And Harry wanted today to feel like something they could keep.

Draco stepped into the clearing midmorning, after having returned to bed with a silver ring on his finger and the sweet taste of peaches on his lips, his hair mussed from sleep, tunic wrinkled, a feather still clinging stubbornly to his sleeve. He looked around once before his eyes settled on Harry—and softened.

“You do realize,” Draco said as he crossed the grass, “that I never asked for a celebration.”

Harry grinned. “You say that every year.”

Draco knelt across from him. “And yet, you persist.”

“I like watching you pretend you’re not touched by it.”

Draco smirked, but his ears pinked faintly.

“Thank you.”

Sirius arrived as the sun hit its peak.

He was dressed in similar clothes like the boys, boots muddied from the path, but there was a sharpness to him now. A purpose, direction, even if his smile was still lopsided. Or maybe it was because he was finally well fed after months on the run and years in Azkbhan Prison.

“You throw a good party for a forest shack,” he said, slinging down a satchel.

“We’ve had practice,” Harry replied.

Draco inclined his head. “Still haven’t decided if you’re invited.”

“Touché, not going to hex me if I sit down?” Sirius asked, then opened the satchel. “I did bring gifts, if it’ll help.”

“Not worth the wasted magic Black,” Draco huffed as he poured the man a drink. 

From within, he pulled out a rolled scroll bound with an iron-black wax seal. He handed Draco the weathered scroll. “Pure-blood warding structures. Orion made me memorize them when I was fourteen. Said I’d need them one day to protect what was mine.”

Draco frowned, but he unrolled the scroll and began to read. His brows lifted after just a few lines.

Draco arched a brow. “The Malfoy Lordship?”

“And the Potter one,” Sirius added. “Technically, Harry’s Lord Potter now. And I’ll be Lord Black once I’m cleared. Assuming I don’t die in some absurdly Gryffindor stunt before then. you’ll become under my care.”

Harry blinked. “Wait—what?”

Sirius shrugged. “You’re your father’s heir. And I’m still your godfather. Once my name is cleared, I’ll register you as my ward until you’re of age—unless we find a better loophole.”

Draco looked up sharply. “What kind of loophole?”

Sirius smiled. “One that makes sure you two aren’t separated. Hogwarts won’t know what hit it.”

Harry blinked. “What does that even mean?”

He smiled slyly. “Maybe we’ll even get you both re-sorted. I wonder what house you’d land in.”

Harry flushed. “The Sorting Hat almost put me in Slytherin.”

Sirius coughed. “Excuse me?”

Draco’s head snapped toward Harry.

“You never told me that.”

Harry rubbed his neck. “I didn’t want to be apart from Ron. And you were… well, you.”

Draco looked away, the guilt swimming just beneath the surface.

“Didn’t matter anyway, being eleven and all,” Harry added quickly. “I found you in the end.”

Draco didn’t speak for a while after that.

The small clearing behind the shack had been transformed by midday when the rest of their hodgepodge family began to arrive. Eulah had conjured floating lanterns shaped like tiny forest moths, and Nessa brewed a bubbling cauldron of berry cider that made everyone’s cheeks pink after one cup. Harek stood guard near the treeline, arms crossed, eyes constantly sweeping the forest even though it was peaceful.

Remus arrived just after the sun began to set, looking tired but lighter somehow, his sleeves rolled up, a smile already tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Did you finally sleep?” Harry asked as he embraced him.

“Five hours. A record.”

“You missed the feast,” Draco said, eyeing the near-empty bowl of honey cakes.

“I heard you saved me some,” Remus replied, and pulled a neatly folded letter from his coat. “Also brought updates. Hogwarts is… a mess.”

Draco perked up. “Go on.”

Remus settled on a log beside the fire with a weary sigh. “Gryffindor beat Ravenclaw by a hair. Slytherin’s holding steady. The Dementors haven’t come back now that they suspect that Sirius isn’t at Hogwarts anymore, but the Ministry still has patrols sweeping Hogsmeade. Dumbledore’s under pressure. Half the Board of Governors wants wants him to retire. That specific agenda is being pushed heavily by Lord Malfoy.”

“What’s he doing?” Harry asked as Draco snorted into his cup.

“Holding the line,” Remus said. “But he’s losing favor. And with the Quidditch World Cup coming up… well, let’s just say he’s bracing for another public scandal.”

Draco’s expression turned thoughtful.

Remus glanced sideways and added gently, “You two will be under a microscope again soon. Whether you like it or not.”

Draco murmured, “When have we ever liked it?”

“You’ve grown so much, both of you,” he said as he handed Draco a satchel of potion ingredients and a cracked book on veela theory. “It’s not wrapped properly. I trust you’ll forgive me.”

Draco cracked a grin. “This is better than a wand holster.”

Harry, as ever, looked toward the sky. “You missed the full moon again.”

Remus nodded. “I did.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t transform.”

“No,” Remus said. “And Severus agreed to keep that between us.”

The implications settled like mist. Draco didn’t ask how that agreement had come about. He suspected there were debts between them now, invisible and weighty. 

“Things are changing,” Remus said, sitting beside the fire. “The Ministry is sniffing around the Quidditch World Cup. Rumors about unrest. Dark Mark sightings. It’s still early, but—” his eyes met Harry’s “we need to stay vigilant until you’re both sixteen.”

“We will be,” Harry said with a strong nod of head as he reached for Draco’s hand.

Draco scoffed instead, cheeks pink from spiked berry punch, “we always are.”

Later, as the light shifted and the forest settled into its quiet afternoon hum, Sirius stood near the edge of the fire circle, sipping a cup of strong tea brewed by Eulah.

He’d met all three of the villagers who orbited Harry and Draco’s life—Eulah, Nessa, and Harek.

Nessa had introduced herself with a too-wide smile and ink-stained fingers, eagerly bombarding Sirius with questions about magical bloodlines and wandless dueling. Harek had offered only a nod, his wolf presence quiet but solid, eyes sharp and assessing. Eulah had simply handed Sirius the tea and said, “You’re late.”

They intrigued him. Each of them.

He wasn’t sure which one had unsettled him more.

He found himself watching Eulah now as she wandered barefoot through the grass, humming softly to the flames and occasionally tossing in herbs. She hadn’t asked him any questions. That made her the most dangerous of the three.

Draco passed behind him. “You’re staring.”

Sirius didn’t flinch. “Just observing.”

Draco’s tone was neutral. “They’re protective. Of us. That won’t change.”

“I wouldn’t expect it to,” Sirius said. “They’ve done what our world never could or wanted too.”

Draco looked at him then—really looked. “You mean accepted us or protected us?”

“I mean seen you,” Sirius said. “And let you choose who you are.”

Draco didn’t reply, but Sirius caught the smallest nod as the boy walked away, armband glowing faintly as he moved to stand next to Remus who was quietly watching everyone around him.

Eulah had made her way to Sirius as soon as Draco had left his side. The two of them were mid-debate about forest boundaries and magical property lines. Nessa had dragged Harry over to look at her latest experimental potion, which smelled distinctly like lavender and toasted marshmallow. Harek stood nearby, still as stone but alert.

“They care for him,” Remus said softly.

Draco nodded. “They saved us.”

Remus glanced at him. “You’re not sure about Sirius.”

Draco hesitated. “I’m not sure I want to share him.”

Remus didn’t laugh. “That’s fair.”

“I thought I’d lose Harry to you,” Draco admitted. “Now I’m wondering if I’ll lose him to Sirius instead.”

Remus looked at him gently. “Harry, I am sure you know, doesn’t give his heart away lightly. You know that. But he gave it to you.”

Draco nodded slowly, then looked down at the ring on his hand. It was warm.

“I think,” Remus said, “you might have to accept that family doesn’t just mean one person. Sometimes, it means growing in directions you didn’t expect.”

Draco looked at the three villagers—their strange, mismatched family—and then at Harry, laughing with Nessa, light in his eyes.

“…Maybe,” he murmured.

That night, when the fire had dimmed and the others had gone, Draco lay awake in their bed, Harry curled beside him.

He dreamt of the child again.

The same soft curls, pale skin, eyes of pale green and gold. Small hands reaching up. Runes floating in the air like fireflies.

And a voice—not a child’s, not his own—whispering:

“You must choose who you become. Not just who you protect.”

When he woke, the ring glowed faintly on his hand. The armband hummed against his skin.

The forest was silent.

But something was stirring in the distance.

Chapter Text

Evening light filtered through the canopy in shards of gold and green, casting long shadows across the moss-covered stone paths that led to the elven glade. It was quiet—too quiet. The forest devoid of whispers and wind. Not with fear, but with watching. Waiting.

Sirius adjusted the collar of his shirt as he stepped into the grove. Beside him, Remus walked silently, hands clasped behind his back. He looked less like a professor and more like a question that hadn’t been answered in years.

Liora stood waiting for them, her silver hair coiled in loops and threaded with dried wildflowers. Her robes were embroidered in shifting forest patterns, always moving, always alive. Around her, the trees seemed taller. The roots deeper. The shadows more possessive.

“You’re early,” she said.

Sirius smiled. “You sound disappointed.”

“I’m never disappointed when arrogance has the courtesy to arrive on time.”

Remus snorted softly, earning a sidelong glance from Sirius.

“We wouldn’t ask,” Remus said gently, “if it weren’t important.”

“You mean dangerous,” Liora replied, her voice like wind through high branches. “Say what you came to say.”

Sirius stepped forward. “We’re asking for permission. To take the boys out of the village for one day.”

The glade went still. Even the wind seemed to pause.

“No,” Liora said flatly.

Remus bowed his head. “Liora—”

“You want me to give them a glimpse of a world that would see them ruined,” she continued. “A world that will hunt them again and again until the moment they no longer breathe. Why?”

Sirius hesitated. “Because they need to be children while they still have a chance. To understand that though the world the come from is wrought with danger, it can still be filled with wonder.”

Liora narrowed her eyes. “They are not weapons for your wars.”

“No,” Remus agreed. “But they are not just boys anymore, either.”

There was a long silence, broken only by the soft creak of wood shifting overhead.

“They are too young,” Liora said at last. “Too tender.”

“And yet the prophecy chose them, even here they’re still chosen,” Sirius said, more quietly now. “The world won’t wait until they’re ready.”

Liora’s gaze sharpened.

“You speak as though you understand fate.”

“I understand cruelty,” Sirius said. “And regret. And I know what happens when you try to protect someone so fiercely that you forget they were born to fight and have to hold their dead bodies in your arms.”

That seemed to strike something.

Liora turned, her fingers brushing the trunk of an ancient ash tree. “The Drys will not be pleased.”

“Then let us ask them ourselves,” Remus said.

“You are not of the forest.”

“No,” he agreed. “But we’ve become part of it. Let us speak.”

For a moment, Liora didn’t move. Then she stepped back and raised her hands to the canopy. Her voice changed—deeper, older, strung with something older than elven tongue. She sang, and the trees responded.

Leaves shivered in a breeze that hadn’t existed a second ago. The moss underfoot glowed faintly. And from between the roots of the oldest tree in the grove, they emerged.

The Drys.

They were not what Sirius expected.

They looked like girls, and not-girls. Hair like bramble vines. Skin like bark and starlight. Their eyes held galaxies, and their mouths were full of sap. They whispered in unison, always more than one voice, though no lips moved.

“You come to borrow what is not yours.”

“We come to ask,” Remus said carefully, “for understanding.”

“They are seedlings still. Unpruned. Unbound.”

“But growing,” Sirius said. “Reaching.”

The Drys tilted their heads as one. Then they turned to Liora and whispered through her, not to her.

Liora’s eyes glazed briefly. Then she nodded.

Then, without preamble, the wind picked up and the ghostly song the two men had never heard whispered like a cryptic melody from all around them. 

The Knight, with Dragon by his side, shall be champion—
No nobler cause than a bond that bends storms and fire.
But should the Knight betray the Dragon’s trust,
Victory will come with a ruinous cost:
The Dragon’s wings clipped, pride broken beyond repair,
And no true change shall rise from bitter ruin.
For alone, the Knight is but a man in armor,
And a Dragon scorned is a beast lost to fury’s depths.
Together, beneath the watchful eyes of Eulah,
Whose bracelets hum with spells old as the stars,
They shall learn the language of runes and spirit,
Ink their bond in stone, magic, and breath.
Not for glory. Not for crown.
But for love, reborn—light and storm remade into legend.
Let the stars bear witness,
For the world shall not forget their names—”

Silence followed. The moss stopped glowing. The roots settled.

Sirius was still, breathing carefully, though his heart beat like a war-drum in his chest. Remus stood beside him, shoulders rigid, gaze distant. He had heard the prophecy before—just once, when he first arrived in the village all those months ago.

Never like this.

And the Drys were not finished.

One turned to them—only them.

Her eyes were darker now, catching something older than time. The trees rustled, though no wind moved.

“And for the two who carry memory—
The Wolf who walks between mercy and rage,
The Hound who circles what he cannot name—”

Another stepped forward, curling vine-like fingers toward the soil.

“There will come a reckoning not born of war,
But of devotion. And of return.”

The light shifted again, casting their long shadows together on the bark behind them.

“Each shall find what was never sought:
A hand in the quiet,
A name spoken not in fear,
But in faith. In love.”

A third Drys whispered from behind a tree.

“The world has not forgotten you.
Nor has the forest.
When the time is right,
Love shall take root beneath ash and poison,
And bloom in defiance of what came before.”

And then—

“You will not walk alone,
Though you must part before you are ready.”

The wind finally stirred.

The Drys were gone.

The moss dimmed.

Liora looked at them both, her voice quiet now. “The forest grants them one day. Twenty-Four hours. But no more.”

Remus swallowed, voice low. “And if they don’t return in time?”

Liora’s eyes shimmered. “Then the forest will decide who stays, and who forgets.”

Sirius bowed his head. “We accept.”

Harry’s breath caught in his throat the moment they stepped through the final layer of wards and saw the stadium rise like a mythical beast out of the mist.

The sheer size of it stole his words. Flags the size of houses billowed in the sky, enchanted lights and banners streamed across the horizon, and thousands of tents some plain, some enchanted to shimmer or flicker with illusions, dotted the rolling hills like scattered stars.

He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed this.

The world. Magic, loud and alive. The crackle of enchantments in the air, the roar of crowd spells being tested, and the faint, rising drumbeat of anticipation so strong it made his bones buzz.

He turned to Remus, grinning from ear to ear. “This is mad.”

Remus smiled gently, his hand coming down to pet Sirius in his animagus form. “Yes. And you haven’t even heard the cannons yet.”

“Cannons?” Harry echoed, delighted.

Draco, by contrast, was quiet. His hood was drawn forward, illusion charm hiding the shine of his hair, and his eyes flicked from movement to movement with sharp precision.

Harry noticed. He slipped his hand into Draco’s without a word, warm fingers lacing through cool ones.

Draco didn’t pull away.

“I don’t like this,” Draco muttered, low so only Harry could hear.

“I know.” Harry gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “But I do. And I really want to enjoy it—for a minute.”

Draco exhaled. “Then stay close.”

“Always.”

The World Cup wasn’t just a game. It was a magical carnival.

And it was overwhelming.

Harry stood frozen for a moment, eyes wide, letting the sounds wash over him. He felt Draco squeeze his hand in reassurance.

It wasn’t that he didn’t know Quidditch. He did—he’d played Seeker for Gryffindor during his first and only year at Hogwarts before the forest swallowed his world.

But this?

This was different.

Professional teams. Magical mascots. Thousands of strangers, thier magic layered into the very air.

He gripped Draco’s hand more tightly out of instinct.

Draco glanced sideways and immediately clocked the tension in Harry’s jaw.

And then—unexpectedly—Draco smiled.

“Come on,” he said, voice light, tugging Harry forward. “You’re not really going to freeze up now. It’s just Quidditch.”

“Professional Quidditch,” Harry muttered. “It’s not the same.”

“Oh, it’s better,” Draco said, and for the first time since they’d crossed the wards, he lit up.

“The Irish team is insane this year—Dillon O’Hara’s their new Keeper and he flies like he’s mounted on thunderclouds. And the Bulgarians—well, they’re arrogant bastards, but Krum’s seventeen and already breaking records. The youngest player to ever qualify for a World Cup. Or so Remus has been telling me.”

Draco tightened his grip on Harry’s hand. “I used to watch these matches on charmed glass with my father. I had every collector card. Even had a custom broom designed before—well.” His voice faltered for only a second.

He pressed on. “I was going to try out for Slytherin my second year. Had a speech prepared and everything.”

Harry blinked at him. “You?”

“Don’t look so surprised,” Draco said, mock-offended. “I was very fast. And dramatic. A winning combination.”

Harry gave a small, crooked smile.

“I just… don’t know the teams,” he said sheepishly. 

They were not alone, though most wouldn’t have known it.

Trailing behind them on silent paws was a massive black dog with startlingly intelligent eyes and a knitted Bulgarian flag bandana tied crookedly around his neck. The stitching was so chaotic it was nearly offensive—red and green zigzags that could be flames or the word “GOAL!” depending on which side one looked at.

Sirius blended perfectly into the carnival of absurdity.

He barked cheerfully whenever someone got too close.

Remus carried the air of a mildly overwhelmed guardian to two teens whose excitement and nerves were almost vibrating off them. He offered the occasional polite smile and spoke only when spoken to leaving the boys to drink it all in.

Harry was buzzing with delight.

“Merlin, look at the Irish camp! They have floating shamrocks.”

“And two drunk leprechauns dueling over a cursed broom,” Draco muttered.

Harry laughed anyway, head tipped back, the sound bright and unguarded.

Draco tugged him back by the hand. “Careful.”

Harry turned to him, smile still wide. “You’re beautiful when you’re grumpy.”

Draco’s ears pinked. “And you’re insufferable when you’re happy.”

They hadn’t even made it to their seats before it happened.

The path toward the stadium was thick with foot traffic—families dragging enchanted coolers, wizards arguing about team stats, children darting through with mini broomsticks buzzing underfoot. It was noisy and bright and filled with that particular kind of magical chaos only the wizarding world could create.

Draco had just muttered something biting about overenthusiastic Bulgarian fans when Remus slowed suddenly.

Harry, two steps ahead, paused too. “Remus?”

A man with thinning red hair and a beaming smile approached, a battered green cloak flapping around his legs. His arms were already outstretched.

“Remus Lupin!” the man called. “Well, would you look at that—the portkey worked, then!”

Remus blinked, then smiled warmly. “Arthur Weasley. As punctual as ever.”

Arthur clapped him on the shoulder with the kind of force that might have flattened a smaller wizard. “And what are you doing wandering around with two young lads? These yours?” He chuckled, clearly joking.

Harry, whose features had been carefully altered by Nessa’s charm—his skin a shade darker, eyes hazel instead of green, jaw a bit more angular—grinned like a boy playing dress-up.

“They’re students,” Remus said smoothly, stepping slightly in front of the boys. “From the Forbidden Forest pack. You know how I spend my summers—trying to give magical education to those with… complicated origins.”

Arthur’s brows rose. “You’re bringing them to the World Cup?”

“Field trip,” Remus said, almost cheerfully. “They’re both part-wizard. I thought it time they saw a bit of wizarding society firsthand. Safely.”

“Brilliant,” Arthur said with genuine enthusiasm. “Honestly, the Ministry should be doing more outreach like this.”

Draco, who had been standing stiff and silent, suddenly went still. His fingers dug into Harry’s arm.

Harry looked at him, confused—until he followed Draco’s gaze.

Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy strolled not far off, flanked by two sharp-jawed acquaintances. Lucius’s hair gleamed in the sun like a drawn blade. Narcissa’s posture was flawless, as cold and regal as the Queen of Winter.

Draco exhaled shakily and stepped behind Harry without a word.

Harry, ever the Gryffindor, barely masked a mischievous smirk. He leaned slightly back into Draco’s space, shielding him with casual ease.

Footsteps approached.

“Dad, where’d you—?” Ron Weasley’s voice broke through the din, followed closely by Hermione’s.

Ron stopped abruptly when his eyes landed on the two boys standing beside Remus.

“Er—who’re they?” he asked, frowning, eyes narrowing on Harry first, then lingering longer on Draco’s glamoured face.

Harry raised a brow and spoke in a slightly deeper voice than usual, amused. “You always ask strangers personal questions?”

Ron blinked. “Do I—do I know you?”

Hermione tugged at his sleeve. “Ron, don’t be rude.”

“I didn’t mean—I just—he looks kind of…”

“Familiar?” Harry offered with a teasing glint in his not-green eyes.

Draco muttered under his breath, “This is going to give me an ulcer.”

“Easy,” Harry murmured back.

Remus stepped in. “They’re students of mine. From the forest.”

Hermione blinked. “You teach in the forest?”

Remus nodded. “The Forbidden Forest pack. Many of the children have magical lineage but little structured education. I volunteer during the summer. We’re making an exception this year for these two. They’ve… earned a look at the outside world.”

“Oh,” Hermione said, clearly processing that. “That’s… actually wonderful.”

Ron’s expression twisted with something unreadable, but he stepped back.

Harry, being Harry, couldn’t stop himself and smiled brightly with a mouth full of sharp canines. Ron’s twisted expression morphed into a sickly pallor as he reached to tug Hermonie out of his reach. 

“Well, good luck then,” Arthur said brightly, patting Remus’s shoulder again. “Let’s catch up after the match, if you’re about.”

“Of course,” Remus replied, already nudging the boys gently down the path.

Once they were clear of the crowd, Draco exhaled hard. “That was awful.”

“You did fine,” Harry said. “You didn’t even faint.”

“I nearly hexed Ron,” Draco hissed. “He squinted like a Crup with cataracts.”

Harry laughed. “You are sort of unforgettable.”

Draco muttered something obscene under his breath.

But even so—his grip on Harry’s hand didn’t ease.

And neither did the tension in his shoulders, not until the bright blur of the stadium filled the horizon and the roar of enchanted cheers drowned out the past.

By the time they reached their seats—just high enough for a sweeping view of the pitch but close enough to feel the wind off the players’ brooms—Harry was vibrating with excitement again.

The crowd buzzed with chants, laughter, and magical echoes. Above them, mascots burst like colorful illusions, forming swirling images of leaping unicorns and fiery serpents mid-sky. The pre-show hadn’t even begun, and already it felt like standing inside the heart of a living celebration.

Remus pressed a box of snacks into Harry’s hands and passed another too Draco.

“What’s this?” Draco asked, peering inside. “Are these… fire-dusted honey petals?”

Harry opened his own. There were charmed buttered nuts that refilled every time he reached in, tiny triangular pies wrapped in flaky crusts that let out steam shaped like team logos, and a bottle of sparkling fruit water that fizzed with gold bubbles.

“I’m not complaining,” Draco said, “but how did you afford all this?”

Remus smiled faintly and gave him a sidelong look. “Would you believe… Sirius?”

Harry blinked. “Really?”

“Sirius is the Black heir,” Remus said, voice quiet but steady. “The goblins don’t care about his legal status. Gold is gold, and Sirius’s vaults are untouched. He made me his executor years ago, back when… well, back when none of us thought we’d ever see him again. Just to make sure you were taken care of once you became of age.”

Draco glanced toward the black dog slumped dramatically on the seat beside them, bandana flapping like a flag. Sirius thumped his tail against the bench as if he knew he was being discussed.

“So he’s basically funding us,” Harry said slowly. “Like a deranged godfather with an unlimited Gringotts card.”

“Exactly,” Remus said. “And very little impulse control.”

Draco snorted. “At least he’s useful.”

Harry took a bite of one of the little pies—it exploded with warm cinnamon and spiced meat—and gave a quiet moan of approval.

Draco popped a sugared nut into his mouth, visibly impressed. “Alright, the world has improved in some ways.”

They ate with their shoulders pressed close, letting the buzz of the crowd pull them into the moment. For the first time since stepping outside the forest, it didn’t feel like they were hiding.

They were just boys. At a match. Watching magic unfold.

When the pre-show began, the sky dimmed briefly and the pitch shimmered as the Veela entered.

Draco sat forward immediately, recognizing the gleaming white cloaks and glowing skin.

The Bulgarian mascots were famous for their use of Veela dancers—otherworldly beings whose magic blurred the line between allure and spellwork. They descended in waves of light, hair catching starlight, moving with a grace that looked less like choreography and more like woven light.

Harry leaned closer. “Are they…?”

“Veela,” Draco said, not quite blinking. “Traditional ones.”

Harry watched as the crowd gasped and shifted. Some men stood, enchanted. One wizard in the row ahead dropped his drink entirely.

“Why do they make everyone look so—glassy-eyed?” Harry asked, frowning.

“Because they’re meant to,” Remus said, tone quiet and watchful. “They’re projecting. It’s part dance, part charm.”

“They’re beautiful,” Harry admitted. Then looked at Draco. “Is that what it’s like? For you?”

Draco didn’t answer right away.

Because the Veela on the pitch had stilled.

Every one of them had turned slightly—just enough to shift the energy of the dance. Their eyes weren’t on the crowd anymore.

They were looking up. At him.

Draco stiffened.

The music they were dancing to—already ethereal—shifted. It became sweeter. Higher. Sharper.

Harry noticed. “Are they… singing to you now?”

Remus’s eyes narrowed. “They’ve noticed him. Male Veela are rare enough to trigger a response. Especially unbonded ones.”

Draco’s wings prickled under his cloak.

The Veela began to tilt their heads, their movements slower, more beckoning.

People around them didn’t seem to notice the shift—but Harry and Remus felt it in their bones.

A dozen pairs of glowing eyes flickered in Draco’s direction.

Then the melody sharpened.

Draco stood.

He moved like someone responding to a challenge, not a summons.

Harry reached out, but Remus shook his head. “Let him.”

Draco straightened, eyes hard and full of fire. His own veela nature rose to meet the melody—pride blooming like flame in his chest.

He lifted his chin.

And then—he shrieked.

It wasn’t loud, but it pierced the air like a blade of silver sound. Not rage. Not pain.

Dominance.

A male veela’s voice—challenging, clarifying, declaring.

The Veela below faltered.

And bowed.

Just slightly.

Their song dropped in pitch, returning to its original rhythm, no longer directed at him.

The moment passed.

Draco sat back down with a little huff, face flushed, jaw tight.

Harry stared. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Draco elbowed him. “Don’t make it weird.”

Remus looked faintly impressed. “You’ve got their respect. That’s rare.”

Sirius—still in dog form—gave a low, approving woof and nosed Draco’s leg like a congratulatory nudge.

Draco muttered, “Show-offs, the lot of you.”

But he was smiling, faintly.

And his hand found Harry’s again as the lights came up and the teams took the field.

The announcer’s voice thundered through the stadium, magically magnified to reach every enchanted bench and private box.

“AND WELCOME TO THE FOUR HUNDRED AND TWENTY-SECOND QUIDDITCH WORLD CUP—IRELAND VERSUS BULGARIA!”

The pitch lit up in a storm of green and crimson. Banners exploded into fireworks. The cheers were deafening.

Harry sat back, stunned. The game hadn’t even started yet, and it already felt like flying through a lightning storm.

Draco, beside him, was electric.

“Watch the Irish formation,” he whispered over the roar. “They’ll try the inverted Crescent—O’Hara loves that bluff.”

Harry blinked. “How do you even know that?”

“I read,” Draco said, eyes glittering.

The players shot into the sky in two synchronized waves, brooms flashing under the pitch lights. Immediately, the Quaffle was in play—spinning through the air like a comet, passed between Irish Chasers with dazzling speed.

The Bulgarians countered with brute precision. Krum flew like a hawk, sharp and hungry, cutting through the formation with impossible angles.

Draco was on his feet half the time, gesturing with one hand, gripping Harry’s sleeve with the other.

Harry couldn’t stop smiling.

He understood now why this sport made wizards weep, scream, loose themselves. It was dance and danger, choreography and chaos.

For one long, impossible hour, they forgot everything.

No one was watching them. They were not survivors or runaways or subjects of prophecy.

They were just boys.

Laughing. Shouting. Living.

Even Remus got caught up in it—shouting when Ireland scored with a back-pass through both Beaters, laughing as Sirius barked with every foul. Draco threw roasted nuts at the scoreboard every time the ref called against Bulgaria.

And Harry—Harry watched the sky like it was home.

The scoreboard still blazed with its final verdict—BULGARIA WINS – IRELAND: 170, BULGARIA: 160—as the crowd buzzed in waves of cheers and groans.

People began to rise from their seats, stretching and laughing, shaking their heads or hugging with joy. Paper flags waved loosely, and enchanted confetti drifted down like lazy snowflakes.

Draco exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair. “Well. That was chaos.”

Harry, still flushed with the thrill of it, turned to him with a grin. “I finally understand what you meant about strategy. That keeper’s reflexes were inhuman.”

Draco smirked. “O’Hara has the reflexes of a caged manticore and the temper to match. But Krum’s finish? Even I have to admit that was elegant.”

Sirius, still in dog form, let out a gruff bark and stood, tail wagging slowly. His ridiculous Bulgarian flag bandana had slipped sideways, flapping comically as he stretched.

Remus chuckled. “I think we’ll be hearing about that match for a decade.”

As the crowd thinned around them, the boys stood and began gathering their things. The self-replenishing snack boxes had gone dormant. Harry rolled up the enchanted program, tucking it into his coat like a souvenir. Draco folded his discarded gloves and slid them into a pocket, pausing to glance once more at the pitch.

“I almost forgot what this felt like,” he murmured.

Harry looked up at him. “We could have this again.”

Draco didn’t answer. But he didn’t look away.

They began to make their way up the steps, moving with the slower tide of families and fans exiting the stands. They still had time before their portkey activated—at least a couple of hours—but they’d all agreed earlier to beat the rush, just in case.

“Maybe next time we can bring Eulah,” Harry joked. “Let her hex a referee.”

“She’d hex the entire crowd,” Draco muttered, but his mouth twitched with the start of a smile.

Then—the sound split the sky.

Not a cheer. Not a firework.

A blast.

Low. Grounded. Ripping.

Screams tore through the stadium as the noise echoed, followed by a second, sharper explosion somewhere in the lower levels.

Magic flared in panic.

Lights went out.

One of the remaining flags caught fire, green flames licking up its edge before sputtering violently in a burst of sparks.

Draco grabbed Harry’s arm, pulling him toward the inner stairs. “MOVE.”

“I see them—!” Remus’s voice cut across the din. “To the east—masks—”

Harry looked back just in time to see them appear: tall, cloaked figures in silver masks, forming like smoke on the pitch. Death Eaters.

Sirius barked, a warning.

The stands trembled as people surged in every direction—some Disapparating recklessly, others screaming for loved ones.

Above them, carving into the night like poison in the sky, the Dark Mark unfurled.

Its glow bathed the pitch in ghostly green.

Draco whispered, “No…”

And from the shadows beneath the pitch and the shattered crowd—

Death Eaters began to rise.

Silent.

Steady.

Wands raised.

Chapter Text

The first explosion sent a ripple through the stands.

The second tore the night open like a wound.

“GO!” Remus shouted, voice hoarse above the screaming. “Head for the portkey—through the wards! Into the trees! Sirius and I will watch your backs.”

Harry didn’t hesitate.

He yanked Draco’s hand and plunged into the panicked crowd, ducking a spark of red light as it sizzled past his cheek. The stadium was collapsing into chaos—parents calling for children, witches and wizards vanishing mid-step, smoke thick and acrid in the air.

Draco stayed close, cloak flaring behind him, his glamour still intact but flickering at the edges. His lips moved silently—counting, calculating. His armband glowed against his wrist.

They leapt over the remnants of a broken vendor stand, pushing through a tangled knot of witches screaming in fear into one another’s arms.

“There!” Harry pointed. “Gate six—straight path to the forest line!”

But just as they veered left, a green curse sizzled through the air, cutting them off.

“Protego!” Harry roared—only he didn’t raise a wand.

His armband pulsed hot against his skin, and the shield erupted from his outstretched palm, catching the curse midair with a blast of golden light.

Draco’s eyes widened. “Did you—?”

“I don’t know! Keep running!”

The crowd surged around them again. Smoke blinded them. A child screamed nearby. Harry caught a glimpse of red hair and then a shock of familiar dark curls.

“Hermione?” he blurted, just as three students stumbled past, clutching a frightened house-elf between them.

One of the girls tripped.

Without thinking, Harry let go of Draco’s hand.

“Harry!” Draco shouted as he got pulled through the manic crowd.

“Just two seconds!”

Harry dropped to his knees beside the trembling elf, shielding it with his body as another curse detonated nearby. The armband hissed and sparked as it pulled the shockwave into itself. His magic screamed against his ribs, raw and wild, but held.

The house-elf blinked up at him, eyes wide, then vanished with a pop.

The three students were left behind. Eyes wild with fear. 

“Harry!” Remus’s voice again—far off, warning. “Don’t lose him!”

Harry whirled around—

And froze.

Draco was no longer by his side.

He was across the clearing, just ten or fifteen yards away, scanning the smoke and unfamiliar faces for Harry with frantic silver eyes. He looked like something out of a war painting—hood fallen back, cloak torn, illusion charm faltering, his long white hair had been braided up into a warrior style.

“Draco!”

Harry shoved forward against the panicked crowd of bodies.

But he wasn’t fast enough.

From the shadows just beyond the line of the forest, a figure stepped into view.

Tall. Immaculate. Maskless.

Lucius Malfoy.

He moved with the confidence of a man on familiar ground, untouched by the chaos unfolding behind him as he calmly tucked his wand back into its holster. 

That is until his gaze fixed on Draco. He didn’t speak at first—he only stared, as if his mind couldn’t quite believe what his eyes were telling him.

Draco took a step back—but too late.

Lucius reached out and grabbed him by the arms, pulling him close. “I thought I recognized your voice.”

He pulled the now tall boy into his chest, cradling him like he had never done when he had been an actual child. 

“Draco—Draco,” he breathed, voice trembling. “It’s really you.”

Draco recoiled, trying to wrench free, but Lucius held on, not with violence, but with an awful, desperate tenderness.

“I’ve looked for you everywhere. We thought—your mother thought—” His voice broke. “When she sees you—oh Draco, this is all we have wanted. By Merlin, you’re alive.”

Draco froze.

The glamour faltered—then shattered.

His real face emerged in the flickering light: high cheekbones, pale lashes, hair like moonfire.

Lucius stared at him like he’d seen a ghost.

“You’re alive,” he whispered again, barely audible. “Thank the gods.”

Draco’s expression didn’t soften.

His voice, when it came, was quiet and cold. “Hello Father.”

The screams felt distant now as he watched the scene play out ahead of him.

The fire, the crackling wards, the choked smoke curling into his lungs—none of it mattered. Because there—on the edge of the treeline—Lucius Malfoy had just stepped into view.

No mask.

No rush.

He moved like he owned the sky, robes immaculate, wand sliding calmly into his pocket as though he’d just finished signing a decree. The Dark Mark burned overhead, painting the trees in flickering green.

Draco stood nearby, turned halfway toward the noise. His expression was strained, alert, the glamour across his features already beginning to falter as his magic flared in panic like the wild magic it is.

Lucius didn’t hesitate.

He walked forward like a man finally returning home—and reached out.

Harry stopped breathing. All of his nightmares seemed to be playing out in front of him. All those fears and worries he had confided to Draco all those months ago were happening in real time.

Lucius’s hands gripped Draco’s arms. He leaned close. Said something—low, too soft for Harry to hear. But his expression was clear:

Desperate. Elated.

Draco didn’t pull away immediately.

Then—crack—the glamour broke like shattered ice.

Draco stood exposed in the firelight, his real features bright against the smoke—white-blonde hair falling across his cheek, storm-colored eyes flashing.

Lucius went still.

“Draco…” Harry whispered, a broken prayer.

He took one step forward—

A hand caught his upper arm stopping him in his tracks.

Harry spun, wild-eyed—only to find Remus, ash-streaked and bleeding, gripping the elbow of Hermione Granger with one hand while Hermione herself was guiding two smaller figures with the other.

“Ginny!” Hermione gasped as curses flew past. “Luna, keep your wand up!”

Harry barely registered them. His eyes snapped back to the clearing.

“Remus,” Hermione said breathlessly, “that boy—I thought you said—is that—?”

Her voice dropped. “Is that Harry?”

Remus didn’t answer, just tightened his grip on her elbow.

Behind them, Ron’s voice rose above the din, calling out: “Hermione?! Ginny—Luna! There you are—!”

The group stumbled into a clearing behind Harry.

And Harry—didn’t move.

His eyes were locked on Lucius. On Draco. On the way Lucius held him like a lifeline, the way Draco stood like he’d been carved out of granite and grief and defiance.

Then someone shoved past him—rough, careless.

A Death Eater. 

A man, by his stature, dressed in his finest pure-blood eugenicists regalia. He didn’t even look back as he made his way to his obvious superior . He felt superior in his mask, in his right to kill anyone different from him. 

Harry didn’t even blink as he wrenched his arm away from Remus who was too busy defending the girls. 

Magic flooded his veins.

His armband surged with heat.

He let go.

Lucius hadn’t looked away from Draco.

He was speaking again—quietly, insistently. And then he lifted one gloved hand and made a subtle gesture towards the man who had shoved Harry aside.

Harry didn’t need to guess what came next.

The man was a Death Eater. A loyal one. One who would take Draco by force if Lucius couldn’t persuade him.

The forest seemed to slow.

Harry’s breath hitched.

No.

He couldn’t—wouldn’t allow it to happen. Draco was his.

The rage hit him like a detonation.

Magic rushed up through his chest, clawing at his ribs. His armband flared with wild, searing light. His vision blurred at the edges, his skin burned like it didn’t belong to him anymore.

And then—his body snapped.

One bone at a time.

Not smooth. Not seamless.

Brutal.

His shoulder dislocated with a sickening crunch. His spine twisted and reformed as fur burst through his skin, splitting it along his arms, his collar, his throat.

Harry dropped to all fours, howling through a throat not yet made to shape the sound.

Muscles tore. Re-knitted.

He screamed. Shifted.

Then screamed again.

Someone in the distance gasped, “Is that— is that a werewolf?!”

A second voice—louder—full of terror: “WEREWOLF!”

The crowd shrieked.

The panic reignited like flame on dry leaves.

Harry didn’t hear them.

Didn’t care.

He was no longer thinking—he was feeling. He was moving.

And he was going to tear apart the world if anyone laid a hand on Draco.

Across the clearing, Draco gasped.

His armband went hot—then searing.

A flash of light raced up his arm, and a noise like shattering glass rang out. His breath caught. His knees buckled.

Lucius’s hands slipped from his arms with a startled cry as Draco collapsed, clutching his forearm, where the band glowed like a star caught in a forge.

And then—

His body convulsed.

Magic bloomed outward in a radiant halo, reacting to Harry’s uncontrolled surge—answering it.

Wings burst from his back—feathers tearing through the cloak and skin alike. His jaw sharpened. Veins of silver crawled up his arms as his bones elongated and his face narrowed into something too beautiful to be human.

Lucius stumbled back, eyes wide with horror.

“Draco?” he whispered. “What—what have they done to you?”

Draco rose to his full height, radiant and terrifying.

His eyes glowed like twin eclipses as he looked between his father—and Harry, now crouched low, fully transformed, snarling with bloodlust.

The Death Eater turned to draw his wand.

Too late.

Harry moved.

He tore across the clearing in a blur of black fur and teeth, claws tearing into the earth. His growl became a roar as he slammed into the masked man.

The wand never lifted.

Harry’s jaws closed around the Death Eater’s throat with a wet, final sound.

The man crumpled beneath him, unmoving. He never even had a chance to scream.

Draco didn’t flinch.

Lucius did.

He stared at the wolf—the creature—then back at his son.

And for the first time in his life, Lucius Malfoy looked afraid.

Lucius stood frozen, wand limp at his side, as his son turned away from him like he was nothing more than ash on the wind.

Draco didn’t look back.

Not once.

The veela magic in him surged—fierce, radiant, alive. It shimmered across his wings like lightning caught in silk. His body burned with magic, his pupils wide and wild, nostrils flared, skin flushed with instinct. The magic wasn’t just reacting—it was singing.

Harry.

He turned toward the wolf across the clearing, whose muzzle dripped crimson, chest heaving, claws stained. Harry’s form was massive, primal, teeth still bared from the kill.

Draco’s heart pounded in time with the trilling that started low in his throat.

Every part of him recognized what had just happened.

His mate had defended him.

Not just from a stranger—from his own blood. From the legacy that had hunted him since birth.

And the veela in him couldn’t ignore it. 

Not anymore.

Draco stepped forward—slow, sure. Every move liquid, hypnotic. Wings arched high behind him like a war banner. Magic licked across the grass in silver waves with each step.

All around them, the crowd paused.

Even the Death Eaters, even the Ministry officials who had begun to apparate in a ring around the clearing, slowed as the air thickened with something other.

Something ancient.

Something so primal that men have been hunting down that feeling for centuries in hopes of capturing it for themselves. 

Harry growled once as Draco approached, a warning half-formed in his throat—but he didn’t back away.

Draco didn’t hesitate.

He dropped to his knees in front of Harry’s crouched form and reached forward with trembling hands, black-tipped claws just barely unsheathed, glinting faintly in the moonlight.

His fingers cupped Harry’s jaw—rough fur beneath them—and he tilted the wolf’s face up, gently, reverently.

And then—Draco leaned in and licked the blood from Harry’s muzzle.

The crowd gasped.

The taste—metallic and magic-rich—seared across his tongue like lightning. But to Draco, it was home. Proof. The final note in a song that had been building in his chest since the forest, since the shack, since that first night lost in the woods.

He drew back only slightly, lips parted and painted red, molten silver eyes glowing.

Harry didn’t shift back. He didn’t need to.

He just leaned forward until his forehead rested against Draco’s sternum, a rumble low in his chest.

Around them, the forest burned in green light. The sky flickered with remnants of the Dark Mark. But inside that circle of silver and flame, they were untouchable.

From the edge of the crowd, a ragged voice broke through.

“Harry!”

Lucius flinched.

Across the clearing, Remus Lupin stood with wand drawn, cloak torn at the shoulder, flanked by two children and Hermione Granger. He was shouting again. “Harry—stand down! You have to move!”

Lucius blinked once, throat tightening.

Harry?

“Harry Potter?” someone in the crowd echoed.

Draco rose slowly, the trilling quiet now—but the rush of wild magic and the still unclaimed bond was still thick in the air.

He turned to face the noise.

Harry rose with him, standing at his back, tail flicking once as the wolf’s body blocked the youngest children from view.

Lucius backed up a full step.

“Potter,” he whispered. “That… that’s Harry Potter.”

His voice trembled with disbelief.

He looked at Draco again—at the wings, the eyes, the unrepentant curve of his mouth.

His heir. His legacy. No longer human.

No longer his.

Lucius’s wand lowered to his side.

Draco saw it happen. Saw something inside his father’s chest fold inward—something final.

But he didn’t speak.

He didn’t need to.

He just tilted his head in a bird like fashion as if the entire thing was strange curiosity. To him, a veela with a mate by his side, these humans were nothing in comparison. They weren’t a threat. They weren’t even on his radar. All that mattered was the man behind him. His hot body pressed so tightly against his he could feel it all the way to his toes. 

Someone shouted. A curse fired overhead. More officials appeared.

The moment was breaking.

But the image—the wolf and the veela, side by side, in a ring of broken bodies and burning ash—that would be remembered.

Even if no one believed what they saw.

Even if half the crowd would pretend it hadn’t happened.

Even if Lucius Malfoy would tell himself he must have imagined it.

They had seen it.

And it was too late to stop it.

Chapter Text

The moment shattered like glass under boot.

A single voice barked, “STUN THEM—BOTH OF THEM!”

From all sides, voices shouted spells—some shouted names. Green and red light cracked overhead as Harry lunged forward, still in his monstrous form, blood dripping from his jaw. Draco moved beside him, wings flaring, white and dangerous, his claws still twitching from where they’d cradled Harry’s muzzle.

Spells cracked through the night.

Harry flinched and dodged left as a red beam nearly clipped him. Draco spun, wings slicing the air as another curse fizzled off the aura still humming around his armband.

The crowd was no longer frozen. They were chasing.

“Go!” Remus’s voice again—sharper now, closer. “Run, Harry! Draco—head for the trees!”

Harry didn’t need telling twice.

He turned toward the trees and bolted, crashing through brush and half-trampled tents. His muscles ached from the shift, but adrenaline carried him forward. Behind him, he heard a scuffle—Remus dueling someone, Sirius growling and barking, a girl (Ginny?) shouting something about “Luna’s ankle!”

Draco followed—silent, swift, his wings tucked close. He didn’t look back.

They didn’t speak.

The trees closed in like gatekeepers.