'I reckon you should just tell him.'

I don't listen. I never do.

'Fuck off, Parkinson.' I say as she snickers with Zabini. I hardly poke at whatever I'm meant to be eating with my fork. My appetite has long gone since the pungent potion we made the lesson before.

It's only the two of them that know.

'Lovesick, Malfoy?' Zabini jokes when he notices my full plate. 'Can't eat, can't sleep . . .'

'The pair of you, I swear to fuck—'

'—Harry Potter?'

'Parkinson!' I snap. They just laugh harder. Luckily, nobody turns to look as I cautiously scan the other tables.

'Oh, you're so paranoid,' Parkinson waves her hand at me dismissively. 'Tell him and your worries will be over.' I lift my eyebrows up to the heavens.

'Over? They'd only just begin.' I scoff.

'Time is running out, you may as well.' Zabini adds as he swallows his soup. I roll my eyes.

'Why would time run out? I have two years to tell him.'

They glance at each other. I don't know why.

'You're an idiot, Malfoy.' Parkinson says before scoffing down more food as an excuse not to talk. My stomach grumbles furiously until we head to our next lesson.

Weeks pass. Months pass. He still doesn't know. Today, Granger and Weasley look as dead as I feel.

Granger is crying silently. Her cheeks are red, her eyes are red. Weasley is clutching her to his chest, his skin white and streaked with tears too. They look pathetic. Potter isn't there comforting either of them. He must not have woken up yet. I should tell him today.

'What's wrong, Granger?' I say across the long, empty tables. We must've been lingering in the Hall for a while. Everyone else has eaten their breakfast. 'Where's Potter?' I hate myself for genuinely wanting to know.

'Fuck off, Malfoy.' Weasley snaps at me before Granger crumbles into a fit of noisy sobs. I chuckle, but my friends can hardly smile with me. I've seen Weasley exasperated, but he's never looked more exasperated than this.

'Well, where is he?' I ask again, trying my best to aggravate him further, to push him off the edge. 'Is he in his bed crying as well?' I say with false pity. 'What's wrong with the lot of you?'

'He's dead.' Granger chokes out.

The words play over in my head a few times. The words catch in my throat as I try to say them back to mock them. He can't be dead. I feel a flame of panic light up inside me, but it's quickly extinguished by the fact that they're joking. They have to be.

'You're lying.' I say.

'I wish I was.' She whispers. 'It's not like you care, I don't know why I'm wasting my breath—'

'I—' I don't care. I don't. I'm not meant to. But the feelings I have suppressed are coming up to the surface and now I can't say I don't out loud. She's lying, and for some reason, her lying makes my stomach churn. '—you're right.' That's the first and last time I'll admit that. Granger resumes to her tears and Weasley keeps a watchful eye on me until I turn round again. My friends are open-mouthed, ashen with horror. I can't imagine why. At least I know they're lying.

'Problem?' I snarl. They say nothing. I get up from the table, expecting them to follow. Crabbe doesn't. Goyle doesn't. Parkinson does. Zabini hesitates. I don't beckon them to follow; I don't care if they don't.

My brisk walk nearly turns into a run. Parkinson's shoes rapidly click against the floor as she traces my footsteps. I don't have to see her face to know that she's desperate to ask something.

'Malfoy?'

There it is.

'What?'

She gulps.

'Do you really think Potter's dead?' She says it breathlessly as I pick up the pace, and a few other students do a double take. Most of them screw their faces up at us.

'Of course I don't,' I scoff. 'Don't tell me you believe her.'

'I'm not a fool,' She says. 'I can tell when someone is lying.' I don't know if she's referring to me or Granger, but it can't be me. I'm not lying.

I don't know where I'm going, but I know I want to escape Parkinson. I know there's no point—she's like a dog on a leash.

Down some hallway, I catch Professor McGonagall with a handkerchief pressed up to her eye. Hay fever is my best guess.

'Mr Malfoy,' She says suddenly. I pause abruptly, already two feet away from her. A few kids stare, looking away when they catch McGonagall's eye. 'Have you seen Miss Granger or Mr Weasley at all?'

I could lie. I won't gain from it.

'Great Hall.' I say sourly. Why does she care? Potter isn't dead.

She nods and moves on. I think I see her shoulders shudder. She sniffs. It has to be my imagination.

I walk for a bit longer before realising that the clicking of Parkinson's heels are no longer following me. Voices fill my head, overlapping the underlying thought that Harry Potter was definitely far from dead.

'Who'll be their Seeker now?'

'Shut up, Jaspar—'

'Whose Seeker?' I say suddenly, my eyes freezing on a witch and wizard no older than twelve. Both of them Slytherins. I've never seen them in the common room before. They cower beneath me.

'The—the Gryffindors',' the boy called Jaspar stammers. I furrow my eyebrows.

'Why, what's wrong with him?' I bark. They start at my sudden outburst. I almost feel pity for them. The girl's face is draining from blood like everybody else I've passed today. Her hands are trembling. So are Jaspar's.

'I'm sorry you haven't heard.' The girl says, more confidently than her friend. My fingers curl up into fists at my sides, digging into the flesh of my palm. My stomach is twisting more than ever.

'What's wrong with him?' I repeat. My voice cracks. They don't laugh at that. It sounds like they've gone mute. 'Can he not play?'

'Corpses can't play Quidditch, Malfoy, unless they're an Inferius.' A familiar voice. Snape. I spin around. He's staring at all three of us with a grim frown. At least he wasn't crying. He had to be joking, too. 'Your first lesson is with me in only ten minutes. I'd get there promptly if I were you.'

My stomach aches so terribly that it suddenly goes numb, this sensation spreading through my body; I can barely feel my feet on the way down to Snape's classroom. Every step I take down, I hear everyone's voices orbiting my adamancy. He's dead . . . I'm sorry you haven't heard . . . do you really think Potter's dead?

Half an hour into this Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson and I still don't believe it. I glance over to where Weasley and Granger normally sit—they aren't here. Neither is Potter. Their stupid lie seems to get them out of a lot.

'Turn to page four hundred and fifty-three.'

The normal sound of the whole class flicking over pages to get to the allocated one is muted from half of the room. Weasley and Granger aren't here, but neither are some of their friends. Some of the Slytherins aren't even here. Dotted around the room, there are multiple empty seats between students.

Usually, this lesson can lead to many imbecilic mishaps. Someone or something is always shrieking or gasping or exploding, but nothing of the sort happens today—the room is filled with Snape's cold-faced Slytherins with the odd Gryffindor here and there, practising nonverbal spells. Parkinson inhales sharply when she glances at me, and I know it's not because she thinks this task is challenging—she thinks Potter is dead. My face stiffens to prove that that's the last thing I think he is.

After the lesson, people keep telling Granger and Weasley as they mill around the school that oh, I'm so sorry for your loss, Harry was always really nice to me, helped me in class, did good for our school, I really can't imagine how you feel.

They feel nothing, idiots. They're lying.

I hate Harry Potter so much that I like him. My mother tells me that there's a fine line between love and hate, which makes me grimace and threaten to vomit every time she says it. I never intended on liking him. I should be convincing myself that he's a twat, a narcissistic arse. That him being dead—which he isn't—doesn't make him a good person, or any more likeable. I should say that he wastes his time on Mudbloods, wastes his time on blood traitors, and wastes his time overall. That he is a waste. But I can't. He is not dead.

Death does not deserve him.

Another lesson passes. Theory. Exam techniques. Same things, over and over. But the class is half empty again.

Potter sits in front of me, which gives me an excellent advantage to toss things at his head and send the kindest of notes over to his desk. He'd always tell me to fuck off, and it'd be worth it with the reaction I always manage to rise out of him. Sometimes I'd tug at his hair and dodge a punch in the process.

Now that Potter's chair is empty and his desk isn't cluttered with Granger's countless amount of notes, the goalless inclination to get his attention can no longer be replenished. There isn't even a Weasley to agitate.

The next day is the same. It's in the Daily Prophet. It's everywhere. Rumours, rumours, rumours. I don't read it. It's all to get money, to make up a good story—I know how it works. I've been part of the procedure before.

Granger is getting better at keeping up her act, crying at any possible moment. Weasley just looks thinner than he is, if that's possible. People hug them a lot. I feel sick every time I see it happen.

'This is getting ridiculous.' I snarl as Weasley's sister cries as she hugs him. Some of her teardrops fall into his cereal, but he clearly wasn't eating much of it anyway. My friends frown at me, almost pitifully. 'He isn't dead, how many times—?'

'Malfoy, when will you listen?' Parkinson whispers. It's not sharp enough to be a hiss. She sounds more sorry for me than the rest of them. They have no reason to be. 'He's not here any more!'

'Where is he, then?' I say, my voice getting louder. 'Where was he? Where did they put him?' I'm standing up now. So is she, wordless. People are staring. Zabini growls at us to sit down. Crabbe and Goyle stare at us in awe.

'We found him in his bed, dead.' A girl's voice. Not Parkinson's. 'I checked his pulse. Twelve times . . . before they took him away.' Granger. She's standing too, shivering. The whole school is spectating, tension flooding the crowd, filling their lungs. They don't breathe until we say another word. Our dissension is their oxygen. Even Dumbledore is watching.

'I did everything they do, you know. When wizards find someone who might be dead.' Weasley said, standing up. 'Then when that failed, I hugged him. His skin was cold. He was heavy—he's never been heavy, Harry hasn't . . . you've seen him . . .'

He looks like he might fall down and cry again. I keep a cold countenance.

'The worst part, Malfoy,' Granger continues, 'is that he died angry.'

My organs crumple.

'Angry?'

She swallows. 'Can you guess why?' Everyone's at the edge of their seats. I say 'Why?' silently.

It's Voldemort, probably. I'll have to hear one, dragged out soliloquy about how the Chosen One had to suffer knowing that Voldemort was after him, and died angry because he didn't kill him first.

'It was you.' Longbottom mumbles, hunched over in his seat. All eyes dart to him or to me. I can't tell if it's a guess or a statement. I knit my eyebrows together. My body shrinks. Granger takes his free hand, slowly lifting him up to his feet. 'I heard him that night.'

I swallow. 'What d'you mean?' I speak fast, as if pace will make it hurt less.

'He—he was screaming,' Longbottom began. 'when the others were out studying or something.' I almost snorted. They most definitely were not studying.

'Nights before that, too . . . about you. I couldn't make out what he was saying. I could only hear your name . . . over and over . . . he was so, so mad—'

'I don't believe you.' and I really don't believe him. I don't believe Granger and her little sob fests or Weasley and his poor attempts at a cry. 'I won't believe any of you until I see him myself.'

'Draco,' Dumbledore. Somehow, now he is only within arm's reach. Even though the Hall is cold, his voice is warm. 'Come with me to my office.' He doesn't seem to be crying, either. His eyes still glitter with the same mystification, filled with the inability to never bewilder me. It's irritating. Looking around the room in a sweeping movement, I see that Weasley is now pulling Granger into her seat and the Hall is slowly spiralling into tense chatter.

Without thinking twice, I follow Dumbledore, doing my best to numb my thoughts. He couldn't actually show me Potter's dead body, could he? Isn't that illegal?

As Dumbledore says the password, he lets me into his office and gestures to a seat. Begrudgingly but silently, I sit.

'You were never close, were you?' He says, fumbling about a cabinet until he reveals a metal basin, carvings of runes circling it and strange stones fitted here and there. A silver substance—indistinguishable between liquid and gas—clouds the inside. A Pensieve. I shake my head at once.

'No, never.'

'Why are you so determined he's alive?' He asks. It feels like an interview. I shrug.

'He can't be dead,' I mutter. 'It's all been laid out for him, his life, he's meant to die with some Mudblood wife and kids, not before the Dark Lord—?'

'And what makes you think he wanted a wife?'

I screw my face up, puzzled. 'What?'

Dumbledore taps the edge of the basin, gesturing me over to it. I wander over to it. I swear I see faces in the clouds, but all of them morph into Potter's. A quiver runs through every inch of my flesh. I dip my face in further, the clouds coming together to form a scene like the beginning of a play.

The scene is still Dumbledore's office, but the jewel-like colours aren't shining with the same luminosity. Nothing is different—only Potter is in the room with Dumbledore instead of me.

Potter ruffles his extremely dishevelled hair as he's offered a seat. Even his bright green eyes look dimmer. His hands are twisting around each other like dancers curling their limbs around one another, stiff and calculated. One thing he definitely has not done is calculate what he's going to say.

'What is it you wanted to discuss, Harry?' He pours him tea and offers sweets. Our current situation is not worth such a warm welcome. Potter shuffles in the chair uncomfortably. I feel the sudden need to shift in my seat, too.

'Well, it's Malfoy, Professor.' My chest burns at the sound of my name—I'm not sure if it's anger or curiosity. Dumbledore calmly paces around the room.

'And what about Mr Malfoy?' He says, popping a sherbet lemon in his mouth. Potter shuffles uneasily again. 'Caused trouble?'

'No, not that,' Potter shakes his head. 'Well, I mean, there is that, but there're a few things I don't understand . . .'

'Elaborate, please,' Part of me doesn't want him to.

Potter swallows. 'He always seems to be where I am,' Oh, don't get so full of yourself, Potter. It's called coincidence. 'and I, for some reason, always look for him when he's not.' Dumbledore pauses momentarily, but then continues to wander. My heart pauses.

'So you care about him?'

'No!' Potter interjects. 'No, I don't care about Malfoy.'

Dumbledore doesn't look anywhere near as perplexed as I'm feeling. 'If you're always checking on him, Harry, you must care to some extent.' Potter swallows again.

'I don't know.' He mumbles sheepishly.

'Why don't you ask him to be your friend?' Dumbledore offers, finally returning to his own seat. Friends? I want more than that. Potter nearly splutters at the suggestion.

'I don't want him to be my friend.' He states firmly with a cold chuckle. Dumbledore carefully pushes his half-moon spectacles up his nose. I'm glad the feelings are mutual.

'How is Ginny Weasley?'

'I—I'm sorry?' But Potter heard him fine, so Dumbledore doesn't say it again. 'She's . . . fine.'

'Just fine?' Dumbledore pushes. Potter sighs.

'Yeah, I s'pose.'

'Do you look for her when she's not there, too?' My organs feel like they're being squeezed when the silence drags out. It seems that Potter's forgotten all of the English language. 'And is she always looking for you?'

'I doubt it.' Potter murmurs. Dumbledore blinks slowly, registering everything as he picks up another sherbet lemon.

'Have you worked it out, Harry?'

Potter screws his face up. 'You think I fancy Malfoy?'

'I don't lie, Harry,' He says. 'So if you want perfect honesty, I think you're denying it.' I think I might be sick at the way Potter looks at him.

'Why d'you think that?'

'Well, you've come here today to not discuss Lord Voldemort or Death Eaters or Horcruxes. You tell me that, above all of this, Draco Malfoy is the first thing on your mind. You could easily discuss Draco with Ron or Hermione, but you've chosen not to—not in this context, at least. Instead, you come to me, and I am the only homosexual wizard you know at this school.'

'But Malfoy is a Death Eater—'

'But you're not talking to me about that, are you?'

Potter's face burns bright red within seconds. I didn't even know Dumbledore was gay. He parts his lips to speak, but nothing comes out. Dumbledore looks satisfied with his conclusion. 'Am I right?'

'If you put it like that,' huffs Potter. 'But I don't like Malfoy. I never could.'

'Well, Harry,' Dumbledore says, dropping his third sherbet lemon into his mouth. 'I think you've surpassed liking Mr Malfoy.'

'Oh, well—all right, theoretically . . .'

'Only theoretically, of course.'

Potter can't swallow this time.

'What would I do if I did?' For some reason, the wave of sickness that has washed over me throughout this conversation does not hit me now. Maybe I've accustomed to the pain. Nonetheless, the silence that settles has never felt so unnerving. Dumbledore still looks calm and collected. This seems to not be the first time he has dealt with such a somewhat mundane situation.

'The most logical thing to do is tell him,' Potter's breath hitches. 'but you don't want to do that.'

'What then, Professor?' He sounds desperate. His voice cracks. My lungs feel like they may collapse from holding my breath. I let a small exhale escape.

'In a theoretical situation,' Dumbledore continues, playing along. 'I would tell him regardless of the fear. It's hard to be honest, but it's better than lying. You know the Muggle saying—courage isn't not being fearful, it's being fearful and doing it anyway.'

'Harry Potter's gay . . . that'll go down well with Ginny.' Potter mumbles to himself. 'Ron and Hermione would kill me . . .'

'Ron and Hermione don't strike me as the types who would hate you over such a thing.' Dumbledore frowns. He rarely seems to do that.

'And what if—theoretically—Malfoy doesn't . . . reciprocate, sir?' Now I can't breathe. Him even debating the choice is driving me insane.

'I doubt he won't, Harry.'

'Oh, he won't, Professor, he hates me . . .' Potter hangs his head in despair. He presses his slender fingers to his face. That's not true, Potter. It's not true at all. 'I'd rather die than hear him laugh at me again.'

The words stick. The way "die" drips from his dry tongue feels like hot acid flooding my ears. I feel my shoulders squeeze together and my head is spiralling. He'd rather die than tell me how he feels. How he felt.

The scene perishes before my eyes. Potter morphs into a cloud once again. I pull my heavy head out of the Pensieve. Dumbledore suddenly looks tired. Upset. Very, very unlike himself.

'Harry began to be distant. Hermione and Ron went to visit Hagrid a lot after they noticed—without him, of course,' He said as I wipe the droplets from the Pensieve's substance off my face. 'You see, he tried many ways of telling you: writing different letters to you that he never sent, asking me different ways to say it to you every time he failed to find the words. His friends tried to pry him open, but he'd only snap shut again.

'He had many theories about you, and what you were doing, and it drove his friends insane. To even discuss the topic of liking you . . . he was in too deep now, and he was drowning in the secrets he kept.'

'You don't die from stress.'

That would be stupid of you, Potter.

'You can,' Dumbledore counters, 'but Harry did not die from stress, or suicide, or because of you at all. That is not your fault.'

'Whose fault, then?' Homicide. It has to be. Harry Potter did not just go to bed and wake up dead. If he is dead, that is.

He falls silent. 'It is not my place to say, Draco.'

'Tell me,' I say with false confidence. I start to feel for my wand in my robes. 'Whose fault is it that he's dead?' Could be dead. I don't know that. Dumbledore merely blinks.

'I cannot say—'

'Tell me!' I demand again, my throat catching on the air. I can't kill him like Voldemort wants me to. I can't torture him into telling me. My hand leaves where my wand is hidden. 'Please, please tell me.' I sound as desperate as Potter was in the Pensieve.

'You were never close, were you?' He repeats. I can't believe we're going full circle.

'No—no, we weren't. But I should still know why he's dead, like everybody else.'

'Nobody else knows why. Not even his friends.' I would imagine that having friends that had no idea why you had died would be painful. I couldn't imagine the same pain from any of my friends or vice versa. We're only friends because it's convenient, not because we like one another.

'I can tell them.' I don't want to, but they deserve to know more than I do.

'Again, Draco, it is not my place to say.' Dumbledore stands up again, a clear indication that it's time for me to leave. But I can't, not yet.

'Professor, I have to know—'

'You will know. Give it time.' I don't have time. Time has been slipping through my fingers like sand inside an hourglass.

Before I can protest further, I am out the door and in my empty dorm.

I stay in my dorm for a while, aimlessly taking in every little scratch and dent each of us may have added into the decor over the span of six years. Somehow, Potter has inserted himself into my circle of friends, even though I know he would never be there: I can imagine him carving his name into this wood in front of me; I can imagine him mesmerised by the Great Lake lapping up against the windows; I can imagine telling him that his eyes match the revolting water he's staring at; I can imagine him smacking me for saying that.

'Draco?' Parkinson's voice is muffled behind the door. She's only ever called me that if it's serious. She's never serious. How long have I been here? 'It's—what time is it, Zabini?—it's ten thirty. You've been in there for the whole day.' My eyes don't even feel tired until she says that.

'So what?' I shout.

'The others want to come in.' I'm sniffing. I rub at my nose as though that'll make it stop. I can feel the pity radiate through the door. 'Just let them in, Draco.'

'They can wait.' I say flatly. I could care less if they sleep on the floor tonight.

'Oi, Malfoy, just open up!' There's a sudden pound on the door, and this voice doesn't belong to Parkinson. Weasley. Somebody shushes him straight after his outburst. Who let him in?

'Leave me the fuck alone!' I bellow.

The door creaks open. Parkinson, Zabini, Weasley and Granger all stand, beyond hope. They all hate each other. They all hate me. My friends must've told them by now.

'It's all right to admit it.' Granger says, dropping down into a crouch next to me. I forget that I'm even cross-legged on the floor. My instinct is to move away—her blood is dirty, she is dirty—but I don't move a muscle. In fact, I let her shuffle closer when she does.

'Admit what?' I ask, playing dumb.

Granger sighs. 'That he's gone,' She pauses. 'and you wish you told him you loved him before he went.' Gone. Went. Those are strange things to say. Where did he go? Why couldn't he fucking stay here?

'You know, Malfoy, Harry had a ton of letters that we found,' Weasley chips in. 'and he really lived up to what he said.'

'What do you mean?' I have a list of ripostes, but I use none of them. There's no point in picking a fight now.

Weasley hesitates.

'He really did love you until his dying days.'

I am on fire.

I feel the calloused pretence I'd wrapped around myself like a ball of string uncoil. I plunge into Granger's weak, gauzy arms, and we're holding onto each other, pure or dirty blood. I scream, and I don't care if the whole castle can hear me. My throat is burning, but I keep crying. I feel flames of the food I haven't eaten gnaw at my insides. All the pain intensifies like a candle setting fire to an oil-spilled carpet. It hurts more when I try to envision his face, pale as snow, dead. I try to imagine his smile, but I can't.

Then I think about how I can fall asleep tonight and wake up. He can't.

I wish he'd wake up.

The others leave for breakfast, then first lesson. They give me sympathetic stares, but say nothing. It's Monday. I want all of my days to be over.

'You've got to come, Malfoy,' Parkinson says through the crack of the door. She pushes it open a bit further. I wish she wouldn't. 'It's Defence Against the Dark Arts first.' Fantastic. 'Snape'll want to see you.' Snape would not want to see me if he knew I was crying over Harry Potter, let alone want to see me at all.

'Go without me.' I croak. I seem to have woken up crying. 'I'll be fine here.'

She bangs her head against the door, and it pushes open a crack more. 'Please, Draco.'

'Pansy, if you know better, you'll leave me alone,' I've never called her Pansy before. It's a pretty flower, but an ugly insult for a gay man. 'Just go.'

After a few more moments, I feel her presence disappear. I don't want to think about how unimpressed Snape is. I don't want to think at all, but my mind won't shut up. Every teacher today is going to hate me, especially if they heard me making fun of everybody who stayed off days before.

More hours pass. Nobody comes to find me. I'm thankful for that; I feel so empty with only a wordless mind of mindless words. I am crumbling from the flames licking at every wall inside my body. My heart is pounding so fast that it may as well be dead. I would easily trade my life for his.

The water in the window falls into a darker, more repulsive green as more time passes. I can't count a single moment of today that I haven't had a fucking sob. Every now and then, I hear the clamour of curious students in the common room as they come and go. I fear they'll come in to see me, which is a conceited thought seeing nobody never wanted to see me before. Nothing would change. Crying seemed to be more exhausting than the studying they're doing.

Finally, a rap on the door. I partially expect it, but I don't want it. A shiver drags down my body from my head like somebody had cracked an egg there. 'Draco?' Dumbledore. I don't even know if he's allowed in here, but he's the headmaster, so I don't put it past him.

'Yeah—yes, Professor?' I say. He clears his throat.

'I have a visitor here for you.' I wobble to my feet, warily twisting the doorknob. Visitor? A Gryffindor is my first guess.

Peeling the door open, I nearly start at the sight.

My mother's blue eyes look washed out. Sleep deprivation curls underneath her eyes, over her frail shoulders and hangs under her sharp jaw. She looks thinner. She has the air of someone who has not smiled or eaten properly in days. Something, for the first time appearance-wise, we share.

My eyes water. I profoundly do not care who else can see me as my mother presses my ailing body into a tight hug. I haven't hugged her like this in years. In fact, the last time I remember crying and hugging her at the same time was when I broke my leg at the age of . . . what? Five? Six?

Hugs are never long enough with my mother. Every inimical thought that melts away in the short embrace comes back again in its full form as soon as she lets go.

But today, she doesn't let go. I silently thank her for that.

Dumbledore leaves as I bring her into the dorm. He understands without being told.

I squeeze her tighter this time.

'Why does he have to be dead?'

I ask Mother many questions. When I was four, it was always the immature questions. The questions that had an obvious answer. Eight years old? The questions that couldn't be answered, shouldn't be answered. When I was twelve, they were typically about the Dark Arts. In every situation, she always had an answer, even if it didn't feel sufficient to me.

Now, at sixteen, I am tacitly asking her why I am pining for a dead boy, why I am crying over him like I've broken every bone in my body at once, and I am certain she does not have an answer.

But then she breathes in deeply. I feel her chest rise and fall like she's blowing out a birthday candle.

'Because of us.'

I don't think I need to mention my wand thrashing or glass breaking or guttural screaming. I don't have to mention how many times I swore and how many times I cursed death upon her and my father. I hate him so much already that he's lucky he's not here to be killed. I wouldn't have hesitated. She hasn't even explained what she means by because of us, but my mouth is hot and my tongue is too busy ridding all of the venom coating it.

'Are you finished?' is all she says with glossy eyes as I glance around at the mess I've made, glass littering the floor and paper ripped here and there. I am quivering with rage. I can only imagine the steam bursting out of my ears. My tears stain the floor as I fall to my knees as a sign of defeat. She, very carefully, treads around the room, even analysing what hasn't been destroyed—there isn't much of that here.

'It was the Dark Lord, as I'm sure you have figured,' Mother muttered. 'Powerful Legilimens . . . he saw through you like your mind was glass.'

'You're blaming this on me?' I spit. She ignores me.

'When he set you the task to kill Dumbledore, he threatened that he'd kill you if you didn't,' She inhales. 'But then he changed his mind.' I stay silent. I need to know everything.

'He saw that, much to his distaste, you loved Harry Potter, whether you had known that at the time or not. He let your father and I know. He let Bellatrix know. It didn't surprise me. Your father and aunt, however—it shocked them. Nearly every Death Eater found out.'

No wonder Parkinson and Zabini were so intent on me telling Potter. I never fucking listen.

'Bella, though, she was furious, and begged the Dark Lord for permission to kill Potter instead of you. He declined. He wanted to kill him. You hadn't—and still haven't—killed Dumbledore. He grew tired, but Bella was beyond exhausted, so when the Vanishing Cabinet—'

'She killed Potter.' I finish. My mother nods.

'Poison. He ate something dry one night, and she made sure he lacked a drink. He put it off until he went to bed, just to find a glass and he tiredly filled it with water—and Bellatrix had already put a few drops of the poison in there. Nobody would have been quick enough to save him. The Dark Lord was . . . well, his emotions were indescribable.'

I am speechless. I don't know who I want to kill more—my aunt for the murder, or the fact that I even liked Potter in the first place for this all to happen. Being on the Dark Lord's side means a life of loyalty or death. Since the beginning, I always preferred the latter.

'Kill me.' I say. I mean it. My mother springs back.

'Draco, I'm not going to—'

'Kill me, please kill me, make it end,' I plead, gripping onto her robes, still on my knees. 'Kill me, I'm begging you to kill me, this is my fault, I should die, please, please kill me, Mother, please kill me . . .' I glance at her wand, hopefully pressing her to do it. 'I will never bear you a pure-blood child, I can't. The bloodline will end anyway, just make it end sooner, end my suffering, please . . .'

She is crying at these words. She doesn't even look for her wand. I am not at peace.

'Kill me!' I demand. 'You only want me alive because I am the only Malfoy heir, but I would rather die than have that title. I want to die, you're only prolonging the pain. Please end it for me.'

'Draco . . .'

'I usually only ask for material things,' I beg, my grip on her robes so tight that my hands go numb. 'This is much easier. It doesn't cost anything.'

'Much easier?' She croaks. 'Killing my own son is easier?'

I laugh. 'Don't pretend you love me. You don't. Nor you or Father do.'

She is breathless from sobs. 'That is a lie.'

I can't breathe either.

'Then why did you let Harry die if you knew I was in love with him?'

The silence rings out for much longer than it has in a while. I let it. I have never admitted that I was in love—it was a temporary crush, a passing fancy. It was hardly love, I had decided. Zabini would laugh. Parkinson would make another witty joke.

'Let me take you somewhere, Draco.' I hesitate as she reaches for the door. 'Trust me. It'll be the last time you'll have to.'

Our walk to Hogsmeade is one that is more silent than you could ever imagine. Mother grips onto my arm and I shudder as we Apparate into Godric's Hollow. I've never been here, but I know this is where the Potters lived before they met their demise—and here, I presume, was the hardest place for Harry Potter to visit.

We only walk so far until we meet a tiny church, the stained windows forcing themselves to look brighter than they are. It feels like I have a filter over my eyes which anything bright bedims when I look at it. I already know what I'm going to see as soon as we quietly saunter through Church Lane.

The small graveyard is inadequate for the people who have been buried here. Many names I pass are completely foreign to me, until I come to James and Lily Potter.

The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.

It isn't the cold that makes me shiver.

Only so far from his parents, Harry Potter's name is engraved into a headstone, along with another epitaph.

It is ill luck that the enemy destroyed me first.

I fall to my knees. I'm honestly surprised that I haven't cried out all my tears. I am completely undone.

'Why didn't you wake up?' I ask into the air, my breath leaving a trail of warm oxygen. 'Tell me why.' I am so close to the grave that my head nearly kisses it. 'You were not meant to die, why are you dead, why are you . . .'

'Wake up!' I scream. I can tell Mother's first instinct is to stop me, but she knows the pain, so she lets me. 'Wake up, wake up, fucking get up!' I strain every inch of my vocal cords, my throat roaring like a bonfire. I explode.

My bones are melting and my flesh is burning. This pain is more searing than any other curse. My blood is boiling and I wish, for the first time ever, that it wasn't pure. I wish I told him. I wish I didn't waste my time.

And he will never even know that.

I obviously never went to the funeral. A year passes and I don't regret that I didn't. I find that as my father, who is on the cusp between disowning me and not, forces me to date pure-blooded women, all of the ones I pick usually have dishevelled black hair and bright green eyes. Father loathes every single one, but it's natural that he prefers them over Harry Potter.

My dorm is normally empty. My friends know I need the space, whether they like me now or not. When I go to the Great Hall, they demean him, and I silently go back to my dorm when they do. Parkinson slips her tongue sometimes. Zabini never does.

Dumbledore comes to me and brings an armful of unsent letters, all meant for me. I tell him I am meant to kill him. He tells me—well, he tells me a lot, including the fact that he knew. He commends my bravery, although I know they're empty words. Soon, there is hardly a pair of arms I haven't cried into.

I pry open every envelope within seconds. Most of the letters finish halfway. He probably saw Weasley coming his way and hid them under his bed. Splotches of ink cross out several words.

Draco, I think I l̶o̶

Unfinished.

D̶r̶a̶c̶o̶ Malfoy, we need to talk about

Another.

Malfoy, is it okay if we talk? Meet me at the Astronomy Tower at e̶i̶g̶h̶t̶ ̶s̶e̶v̶e̶n̶ nine

And another.

Most of the letters go like that, until I find one piece of parchment that has so many scribbles over certain words he didn't want me to see, his handwriting more disorderly than ever.

Draco Malfoy,

Don't read on if your friends are around. Trust me on that. I don't really know how to tell you out loud. I̶ ̶d̶o̶n̶'̶t̶ ̶e̶v̶e̶n̶ ̶k̶n̶o̶w̶ ̶h̶o̶w̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶t̶e̶l̶l̶

I think I̶ ̶l̶o̶v̶e̶ I'm in love. I know you don't care b̶u̶t̶ ̶n̶e̶i̶t̶h̶e̶r̶ ̶d̶o̶ ̶m̶y̶ ̶f̶r̶i̶e̶n̶d̶s̶. I thought this might make you laugh. You don't laugh any more. I̶ ̶w̶i̶s̶h̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶w̶o̶u̶l̶d̶

You're probably wondering who. I̶t̶'̶s̶ ̶n̶o̶t̶ ̶G̶i̶n̶n̶y̶

I'll let you guess.

Harry Potter

I wish he gave it to me. It wouldn't make me laugh. If I thought it was someone else, I would probably cry. If I hadn't already cried enough, for fuck's sake.

But you know how this goes. You know that Dumbledore is meant to die, or I do.

My father can't possibly hate me more than he does. My mother can never control his rage. He can never control his rage. The end of the year is nearing, and there is no way on earth I can kill Dumbledore now. I simply can't.

It is nearly midnight. The sky had been rid of all the stars. The wind is merciless. I feel nothing less than cold. Rather than feeling I will never be happy again, I know I can't be.

I stand in front of Voldemort. The world is closing in. I shut my eyes, ears beating to the rhythm of his laughter. My heart skips seven beats at the very least. He won't stop laughing. They won't stop laughing. Faggot, queer, pansy. He has had his wand aimed my head for a while now. The torment never ends.

Until it does.

I smile.

Parkinson's voice rings in my ears.

'I reckon you should just tell him.'

I see him. He doesn't look happy, but happy to see me. His bright green eyes aren't dim any more.

'Why didn't you wake up?' I whisper. He frowns. I frown back.

'Why are you asleep?' He asks. My bottom lip trembles.

'I want to stay here.' I croak. He shakes his head.

'But you aren't here.'

I blink and look around me. A lesson. A clock ticks. A teacher paces. A classroom is full. This is not the first time I have heard him. I want to believe that he is dead. Nothing will let me. I shut my eyes again.

He's so close I could kiss him. 'I won't wake up, Draco.'

I don't listen. I never do.