"Come along," Lucius says, standing from the table after lunch. "Let's not waste any more time."
He leads them through a series of hallways, their footsteps echoing off the marble floors until they reach a door at the end of a corridor. With a wave of his wand, the door swings open to reveal a large room lined with bookshelves and a high ceiling where floating orbs illuminate an array of objects below; crystal phials holding various potions ingredients, parchment scrolls, several quills, and an assortment of thick spellbooks.
The air hums with magic, a tangible current that prickles against Harry's skin as he steps inside. This is no ordinary study; it's a training ground for wizards, built for practice and mastery, each object carefully curated by years of use.
Lucius moves to the centre of the room, pulling out one of the chairs around a long wooden table. He motions for Harry and Draco to sit before selecting a book from one of the shelves.
"The spells we will be covering today are advanced," Lucius begins, flipping through the pages until he finds what he's looking for. "But I believe you both possess enough magical maturity to handle them."
Harry watches, intrigued but cautious, as Lucius starts explaining the incantations and wand movements required for each spell. The elder Malfoy's voice is steady, authoritative, yet devoid of arrogance.
"You may struggle initially," Lucius admits, demonstrating the precise flick needed for one charm. "These spells are beyond N.E.W.T. level, after all. But remember, the key lies in understanding the nature of the magic itself rather than merely replicating the actions."
There's an unspoken reassurance between the lines, a tacit acknowledgement that failure isn't just acceptable—it's expected when pushing one's limits. It's a stark contrast to the unforgiving standards Harry has encountered at Hogwarts, where every mistake feels like a mark against him.
"But I've seen your potential, Harry," Lucius continues, locking eyes with Harry. "Your ability to produce a corporeal Patronus at such a young age speaks volumes about your innate power."
For a moment, Harry can only stare back, surprised by the praise—and even more so by who it's coming from. But then he nods, accepting the compliment with a quiet thank you. If he is to learn anything here, he must set aside old grudges, at least for now.
Under Lucius's watchful gaze, Harry rises to his feet, wand in hand. He takes a deep breath, steadying himself as he repeats the incantation under his breath. His arm sweeps forward, mimicking the movement Lucius demonstrated earlier. A faint light bursts from his wand tip, fizzling out almost immediately.
"Well done, Harry," Lucius comments, standing next to him. "Again."
Hours meld into one another as Harry delves deeper into the nuances of each spell. Draco observes quietly, occasionally chiming in with suggestions or corrections. The intensity of the session leaves little room for banter or rivalry—only mutual respect forged in the crucible of shared knowledge.
With each successful casting, Harry feels something loosen within him, a knot of self-doubt unravelling bit by bit. Today, there is no Boy-Who-Lived or Chosen One—just Harry, learning and growing, bolstered by words of encouragement instead of derision.
"Excellent, Harry!" Lucius exclaims when Harry finally manages to cast a particularly complex shielding charm. The energy ripples outward from his wand, forming a translucent barrier that shimmers with raw power. For a heartbeat, he stands frozen, awestruck by the sheer force of his own magic.
"I knew you could do it," Lucius murmurs, a hint of approval in his usually stoic features. "You have great potential, Harry. Don't ever let anyone convince you otherwise."
Draco claps Harry on the shoulder, a rare smile playing on his lips. "Impressive, Harry. You're getting the hang of this."
"Thanks, Draco." The gratitude comes naturally, surprising Harry with its sincerity. Old animosities seem distant now, blurred by the focus of their common goal.
"Now that we've completed today's training," Lucius begins, his voice cutting through the air like a blade, "let us turn our attention to matters of equal importance. The political landscape of our world is in flux—more so now than ever."
"The dynamics of power are shifting," he continues, pacing before the grand fireplace, flames casting long shadows across his stern features. "To navigate these treacherous waters, one must understand the forces at play and the alliances that hold sway. You, Harry, find yourself at the centre of this storm," Lucius adds, turning to face him fully.
"Your influence, whether you wish it or not, extends beyond the reaches of Hogwarts' walls. An alliance with the Malfoy family could offer protection—and, more importantly, knowledge, so I propose an arrangement," Lucius announces after a moment's pause. He doesn't wait for a reply before continuing, "In addition to your magical education, I will provide insights into the intricacies of our society—the alliances, the feuds, the laws that govern us all. The library holds centuries of wisdom on such topics, but I picked these out for you."
With a flick of his wand, several books levitate from their shelves and float towards Harry. They land softly on the table next to him: A Comprehensive Guide to Wizarding Law, The Rise and Fall of Dark Magic, Unveiling Power: Politics in Magical Britain.
"We'll convene regularly to discuss what you've learned; consider them open forums where all questions are welcome, but remember this, Harry. Knowledge alone does not make one powerful—it's how one applies it that counts," Lucius instructs, his gaze steady on Harry. "It requires critical thinking and strategic planning. These sessions aim to equip you with both."
Lucius leans forward, placing his hands flat against the table's polished surface. "Use this opportunity wisely, Harry. Your standing in the wizarding world offers a unique perspective that can shape the course of events. Be prepared to leverage it when necessary."
As evening settles over Malfoy Manor, its grandeur softened by flickering candlelight, Harry finds himself seated at the long dining table once more.
The atmosphere is surprisingly relaxed, an unexpected reprieve after hours spent delving into complex spells and intricate politics. The tension that had knotted Harry's muscles earlier dissipates as Narcissa gracefully pours elf-made wine into delicate crystal goblets.
"Tell me, Harry," she begins, her voice soothing against the clink of silverware and hushed conversations, "what subjects do you enjoy most at Hogwarts? And what interests do you have outside of schoolwork?"
Harry hesitates, unused to such genuine interest in his thoughts and feelings. But as he meets Narcissa's gaze—expectant yet patient—he senses no ulterior motive, only curiosity.
"I like Defence Against the Dark Arts," he admits, tracing the intricate patterns on his plate with his fork. "And flying... I love Quidditch." His cheeks flush slightly as Draco snorts from across the table, but Harry continues undeterred. "I also enjoy reading about magical creatures and their habitats."
Narcissa nods, encouraging him to continue. For the first time since stepping foot inside the manor, Harry feels seen—not as a pawn or threat but as a person with dreams and passions. This shift in dynamics is disconcerting yet not entirely unwelcome.
"You're excellent on a broomstick," Draco chimes in suddenly, drawing Harry's attention. "Best Seeker Hogwarts has seen in years. Wouldn't be surprised if you went pro after graduation."
Surprise flashes across Harry's face, followed by a cautious smile. "You think so?"
Draco shrugs nonchalantly, though his grey eyes hold a spark of competitiveness. "Course. Makes the game more interesting when there's actual challenge."
A sense of camaraderie settles around the table, subtle but undeniable. Harry leans back in his chair, his gaze drifting towards the ceiling's ornate plasterwork. He thinks of the Dursleys' cramped cupboard under the stairs, or even Dudley's second bedroom, then glances at the opulent surroundings—a stark contrast that highlights how much his life has changed.
"Come on, Harry," Draco says, pushing back from the table after they've finished eating. "There's something I want to show you."
Harry follows him through a series of corridors, each more grand than the last, until they stop before a pair of double doors. The elaborate carvings depict scenes from ancient wizarding lore—battles won and peace treaties signed.
"This used to be my playroom when I was younger," Draco explains, pushing open the doors. He steps aside to let Harry enter first. "Mother and Father built it for me...for us in case there were any other children." His voice trails off, leaving an unspoken admission hanging in the air—the absence of siblings, the isolation that comes with being an only child.
"But since it's just been me all these years, the room has been largely unused." Draco walks over to one of the plush armchairs by the fireplace, dusting off the seat with a flick of his hand. "I thought we might as well use it while you're here. Make it our own space, away from everything else."
The room is spacious yet inviting, with high ceilings and a roaring fire that casts a warm glow across the polished wooden floor. Bookshelves line the walls, filled with volumes on every subject imaginable—from history and herbology to advanced spellcasting techniques. In one corner stands a sleek black piano, its keys gleaming under the soft light.
Draco watches Harry take in their surroundings, noting the way his green eyes linger on the shelves brimming with books. It's a look Draco recognises—one born out of curiosity and a thirst for knowledge.
"Make yourself at home, Harry," he says, sinking into the adjacent chair. "We've got plenty of time to kill."
Harry nods, moving towards the bookshelves. He runs his fingertips along the spines, feeling the embossed letters under his touch. Each title promises a world waiting to be discovered—a chance to delve deeper into magic's mysteries.
For now, though, he settles into the armchair opposite Draco, letting the warmth from the fire seep into his bones. As he leans back, closing his eyes, the day's events replay in his mind like a film reel stuck on loop—each scene adding another layer to this new reality unfolding before him.
"Have you ever thought about what you'd do after Hogwarts, Harry?" Draco asks, breaking the silence that has settled between them. "You know, aside from defeating the Dark Lord."
Harry's eyes flicker open, meeting Draco's steady gaze. It's a question he hasn't allowed himself to consider much—not when survival has been his primary concern for so long. The most he'd ever figured was that he'd be an Auror if he lived long enough to see it through. But now, with his life seemingly free from the immediate threat of Voldemort, perhaps it is time to consider what he wants rather than merely what is expected of him.
"I've thought about it," Harry admits slowly, shifting in his seat. "I thought I should be an Auror, help clean up the Ministry, make things right."
"And is that what you want?"
The certainty in Draco's voice catches Harry off guard. He isn't used to taking his desires into account, let alone being asked to articulate them. For years, his life has been dictated by expectations, leaving little room for personal aspirations.
"I don't know," Harry confesses, shrugging slightly. "Part of me likes the idea, making sure no kid has to grow up like I did, but…"
"But you're not sure if it's your dream or just another expectation placed on you." Draco finishes Harry's sentence without missing a beat, as though reading the uncertainty etched across Harry's face.
"Exactly."
There's a pause, filled only with the crackling of embers and the distant hum of the manor settling into night. Then Draco speaks again, his tone softer than before.
"For what it's worth, I think you'd make a good Auror, Harry. But I also think you'd do well in anything you choose. You have a knack for defying odds."
A ghost of a smile tugs at Harry's lips, mirroring the faint curve of Draco's own mouth. It's a strange moment—one marked not by rivalry but by understanding, however fleeting.
"What about you, Draco?" Harry asks, leaning forward slightly. "What do you see yourself doing? Will you follow in your father's footsteps?"
Draco stiffens, his grey eyes hardening like steel under scrutiny. The mention of his father brings with it unspoken pressures, a legacy fraught with dark implications. Yet despite this, Draco answers honestly, baring a part of himself he rarely shows.
"I thought about it—the family business, politics—it all seemed predetermined. But recently…" He trails off, glancing away as if searching for words among the dancing shadows. When he finally continues, there's a note of defiance in his voice, a determination born from inner turmoil. "Recently, I've wondered if there might be another way. A path where I can use my knowledge and skills for something meaningful."
"Like what?" Harry prompts, genuinely curious.
"Perhaps something in Potions," Draco muses, his eyes narrowing as he considers the possibilities. "I've always had a knack for it. There was a time when I thought about becoming a Healer, but healing is... messy. But with Potions, I could create new ones and improve existing ones. Make real progress without getting my hands dirty."
"I think by definition, Potions involves getting your hands dirty," Harry points out, and Draco rolls his eyes. "But I see what you mean. I couldn't imagine you dealing with patients unless you were examining them to categorise symptoms or something."
"Exactly," Draco says, a small smile playing on his lips. "There's so much we don't understand about illness because we just wave our wands and expect everything to be fine. I'd love to develop ways to get more data."
Harry pauses, considering how to word his question. "So you'd want to do it like—like Muggles do?"
"Merlin, no!" Draco exclaims, looking horrified. "My father told me they cut people open just to find out what's wrong."
"They don't usually," Harry assures him. "It's all very controlled. They take blood samples and use machines to scan the body—it's painless, for the most part. Even when they cut you open, they knock you out for it and give you painkillers after, and that's a last resort if the scans don't show anything."
Draco frowns, mulling over Harry's words. "Blood tests... Scans... That doesn't sound too barbaric."
"No, it's not," Harry confirms. "And sometimes, it's the only way to figure out what's really going on inside someone."
"Interesting," Draco murmurs, and for a moment, Harry thinks he sees a spark of curiosity in those grey eyes.
"Anyway, it's late," Draco says, standing up. "We should get some rest."
Harry follows suit, his body aching from the day's activities. They walk back to Harry's room in silence, each lost in their thoughts. Draco pauses when they reach the door, looking as though he wants to say something else. The words linger on his tongue, caught between years of animosity and the tentative truce they've found over the last few weeks.
"For what it's worth," Draco begins, his voice barely above a whisper, "I'm glad you're here, Harry. Perhaps we can learn a thing or two from each other."
The sentiment hangs in the air, so foreign yet so sincere that Harry finds himself unable to respond right away. When he does, his voice is just as quiet, betraying the vulnerability he's always kept hidden behind emerald eyes and glasses askew.
"Thanks, Draco. I think... I'd like that."
Draco gives a curt nod, seemingly relieved that the words have been spoken aloud. "Oh, and remember—I am next door if you need anything."
"Goodnight, Draco."
"Goodnight, Harry."
With that, Draco walks away, leaving Harry alone with his thoughts. As he closes the door, Harry leans against it, letting out a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding. Relief washes over him, followed closely by apprehension. The world outside may be falling apart, but within these walls, Harry senses a chance at something he never thought possible: understanding, maybe even friendship, with Draco Malfoy.
Shaking off the lingering tension, Harry prepares for bed. He changes into the pyjamas provided—black silk, too fancy for his taste but undeniably comfortable—and brushes his teeth with a conjured toothbrush. Despite the luxury surrounding him, Harry can't escape the feeling of being an intruder in a world far removed from his own.
He slips under the covers, staring up at the ornate ceiling. His mind races through the events of the day—the attack, the rescue, the revelation of this bizarre sanctuary. But most of all, he thinks about Draco—not the arrogant boy who taunted him at Hogwarts, but the young man bearing the weight of his family's sins while trying to carve his path.
Thoughts whirl in Harry's head, blurring the lines between friend and foe until exhaustion overtakes him. As sleep pulls him under, he clings to the image of Draco's hesitant smile, a beacon of light in the darkest of places.
A dull ache throbs behind Harry's eyes as he drifts into an uneasy slumber. Dreams, or rather nightmares, come unbidden, each more vivid than the last.
He's back in Privet Drive, trapped inside that wretched cupboard under the stairs. His body is small again, too thin, too weak. He can hear the Dursleys' laughter above him, their voices cruel and carefree. Then the door creaks open, and a large hand reaches for him.
"No," Harry whispers, but his voice is lost in the darkness.
The grip around his arm tightens, pulling him out of the cupboard. Uncle Vernon's face looms over him, twisted with rage and satisfaction. "Thought you could escape us, did you, boy?"
Harry tries to fight back, but he's powerless against the brute strength of his uncle. A fist flies towards him, and then—
Harry wakes with a start, gasping for air. Sweat clings to his forehead, trickling down his temples. The sheets are tangled around his legs, evidence of his struggle against the haunting memories.
His heart hammers against his ribcage, echoing the terror that lingers even now. He raises a shaky hand to his face, half expecting to feel the sting of a fresh bruise, but meets only smooth skin instead. For a moment, Harry just lies there, trying to convince himself it was only a dream. But the fear feels too real, the pain still throbbing in phantom echoes across his body. With every ragged breath, he fights off the panic clawing at his throat.
Get up, he tells himself, pushing against the mattress. It's just a dream. Just a bloody nightmare.
But his limbs don't respond; they're heavy, anchored by the weight of his past. Images flash before his closed eyelids—his aunt's sneer, Dudley's mocking laugh, his uncle's belt—and with them comes a wave of nausea that churns his stomach.
"Breathe," he mutters between clenched teeth, counting to ten as Madam Pomfrey once taught him during a particularly nasty bout of panic.
Despite his efforts, the room spins around him, the grandeur of Malfoy Manor blurring into a grotesque parody of comfort. Each ornate fixture seems to leer at him, the walls closing in until they're nothing more than bars on a cage. His chest constricts further, the lack of air turning his vision white around the edges.
Just when Harry thinks he might pass out, a soft knock echoes through the chamber. It's so faint he almost dismisses it as another trick of his mind, but then it comes again, persistent, grounding.
"Harry?" The voice is low and tentative—a stark contrast to the commanding tone that usually accompanies it. There's a pause, then another knock, louder this time.
Harry doesn't answer. Instead, he curls tighter into himself, willing his heartbeat to slow and his breaths to even out. But the darkness is relentless, pressing in on all sides, and Harry feels as if he might shatter under its weight.
The doorknob turns slowly, and light spills into the room as the door creaks open. Draco steps inside, his silver eyes wide with something akin to concern. He crosses the room in long strides, stopping at the edge of Harry's bed.
"May I?" he asks, gesturing towards the space next to Harry. It's a simple question, but it holds so much more—permission, understanding, and perhaps even a hint of compassion. The old Harry would have told him to sod off, preferring to suffer alone than accept comfort from a Malfoy. But that was before everything changed, before their lives became irrevocably intertwined by circumstances beyond their control.
Without waiting for a response, Draco eases onto the mattress, careful not to jar Harry too much. His presence is like a balm against the chaos swirling within Harry, grounding him back to reality.
"You were thrashing about," Draco says quietly, breaking the silence that has settled between them. "I heard you from my room."
Harry chances a look at him, surprised by the softness in Draco's gaze. It's disconcerting, seeing this side of Draco—the one who shows concern instead of contempt, offers help instead of hexes. Yet, there's no denying the relief that washes over Harry at his proximity.
"Just a nightmare," Harry mutters, though they both know it's more than that. Nightmares don't leave one shaking and gasping for air, reliving past traumas as if they're happening all over again.
Draco nods, as if he understands all too well. His hand hovers over Harry's shoulder, a silent offer of comfort. "We all have them," he admits, and there's a weariness in his voice that suggests he's speaking from experience.
Harry's heart stutters at the confession, caught off guard by the shared vulnerability. Despite himself, he leans into Draco's touch, craving the contact, the reassurance that he's not alone in his torment. "Why are you here?" he rasps, not entirely sure he wants to hear the answer.
"Because... because we're stuck together, aren't we?" Draco replies, half-joking, half-serious. "Might as well make the best of it." But there's a shadow behind his eyes, a flicker of something deeper, something unspoken.
They sit in silence, each lost in their thoughts, the line between enemy and ally growing blurred. The nightmares recede, pushed away by the warmth seeping through Draco's fingers and into Harry's rigid muscles. For the first time since he woke, Harry's breath comes easier, the terror of his dream losing its grip on his battered psyche.
Draco and Harry return to the sitting room, a fire crackling in the hearth as they settle into plush armchairs. The air is thick with tension and uncertainty, the enormity of their situation hanging over them like an oppressive cloud.
"Tomorrow," Draco says, his voice steady despite the flicker of apprehension that passes over his sharp features, "we need to start discussing our next steps. Everyone's been so focused on the big picture—Father, the Dark Lord, even Mother. They're all caught up in this war and the politics around it. And yes, it's important. But no one has mentioned what we're actually supposed to do when we go back to school, and I know it's a little over a month off, but they have no intention of telling us what to do - it's down to us now."
Harry nods slowly, comprehension dawning. He has spent the past few weeks immersed in books and records, trying to make sense of a world that has been turned upside down. His singular focus has been on uncovering the truth about Dumbledore, piecing together a narrative that is as damning as it is unbelievable. But Draco is right. The immediate future holds challenges of its own. What will happen when they return to Hogwarts? How are they supposed to act, to pretend?
"I don't want to go back to behaving the way we were, but I also don't know how to not raise suspicion," Harry admits.
"That's the part I am concerned about, too," Draco confesses. "I know that this potential war is more complex than just light and dark. There will be alliances we'll have to form, even if it means crossing old lines… maybe some of those lines were drawn incorrectly from the start."
Draco leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "But one thing is certain—we cannot let Dumbledore know about this too soon."
Harry agrees; the headmaster's manipulations have become apparent, and the last thing they want is to alert him before they're ready. But there are others—friends—who deserve to know the truth.
"We can't keep Ron and Hermione in the dark either. They're my best mates," Harry insists, "They've been through hell and back with me."
"I'm not suggesting we do," Draco replies quickly, holding up a hand to forestall further protest. "But... consider this: What would cause less suspicion? You suddenly being friendly with Slytherins or me reaching out to Granger and Weasley?"
A muscle twitches in Harry's jaw as he considers Draco's point. It makes a twisted sort of sense. If anyone could convince Ron and Hermione that something was amiss, it'd be Draco Malfoy playing nice.
"And if you think about it," Draco continues, "it might be easier for everyone involved if I seem to be moving towards 'the light' rather than you towards 'the dark.'"
Harry stares into the dancing flames, the implications of Draco's words sinking in. He doesn't want to be labelled as dark, but neither does he wish to be seen as purely light—not anymore. Not when both sides harbour secrets and lies.
And as Harry has come to understand, dark magic itself is not inherently evil. All spells classified as dark demand an emotional component, but that doesn't make them evil or harmful by default. Draco had pointed out early on that even the Patronus Charm—a shield against darkness if there ever was one—requires a deep emotional connection to cast, making it officially a dark spell. Harry has found more and more instances supporting this idea, blurring the once clear lines between light and dark.
"Neutral," Harry finally murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. "I want... no, I need to be seen as neutral—for now, at least." It feels strange admitting it aloud, but right—a small step towards reclaiming his own narrative.
The corners of Draco's mouth twitch in what might be approval. "Then we work towards that. Together."
They sit in silence, each lost in thoughts of the future—a future that rests on shaky alliances and shared secrets. As the firelight casts long shadows across the room, something shifts between them. The chasm narrows, bridged by mutual understanding and the faintest glimmer of trust.
"Now, I think we ought to get a few more hours of sleep," Draco suggests, and Harry wonders if Draco brought up the topic of Hogwarts to distract him from his nightmare… it gave him more to think about, but nothing frightening.
The morning sun filters through the heavy drapes of Harry's room at Malfoy Manor, casting a warm glow over the polished furniture. The quiet is almost unnerving after the chaos of his dreams. He sits up, blinking against the light and rubbing his scar out of habit.
"Master Potter? Are you awake?" Taffy's voice is soft as he enters with breakfast. "I has your favourite."
Harry manages a small smile towards the house elf before turning his attention to the food laid in front of him—fresh fruit, toast, eggs, and bacon arranged neatly on fine china.
"Eat well, Master Potter," Taffy says, bowing low. "It will help you feel better."
As Taffy leaves, there's a knock at the door. Before Harry can respond, it opens, and Narcissa steps inside. Her gaze is gentle, yet searching, taking in his pale features and dishevelled hair.
"Good morning, Harry." She takes a seat beside him. "How did you sleep?"
"Alright, I suppose." Harry shrugs, avoiding her eyes. There's no point denying the nightmare that had woken half the house.
Narcissa nods, her hand hovering over his for a moment before she finally rests it atop his own—a brief touch meant to reassure rather than intrude. "Taffy told me about last night. You're safe here, Harry."
"I know, but..." Harry pauses, unsure how to explain how he felt.
"But what, dear boy?"
Harry sighs, pushing away the plate of untouched food. "My head just feels... full. Like it's going to burst with everything I'm trying to understand."
"You have been through so much, Harry, more than any young wizard should ever have to endure," She pauses, her fingers tracing invisible patterns on the armrest of her chair. "But remember this—you are strong. And you are not alone. Not anymore."
There's an intensity to her words that gives Harry pause. He looks at her, really looks at her, and sees something he didn't expect—compassion.
"You may find it difficult to believe," Narcissa continues, her silver-blue eyes meeting Harry's, "but Lucius and I want nothing more than to see you succeed, to see you thrive. Whether you choose to stand with the Dark Lord or walk away from everything, we will protect you as fiercely as we would Draco."
Harry stiffens at the mention of Voldemort. Even though they're aligned against Dumbledore together, the idea of standing with the man who killed his parents still turns his stomach. But Narcissa's final words wash over him like a balm, soothing the jagged edges of his fear.
"Walk away?"
The words leave his mouth before he can catch them, a reflex to the seemingly impossible notion hanging in the air between them. Harry's hand tightens around his fork, the cool metal pressing into his skin as if grounding him to this moment.
Is it possible? Could he really just step back from it all—the prophecy, the expectations, the looming war—and simply live?
He'd mentioned it Draco when he asked because a part of him did want that, but he hadn't truly considered it an option, not until now when the choice is laid bare before him. The idea of walking away feels foreign and almost forbidden, like a secret path veering off the main road that he's not supposed to take yet calls to him nonetheless.
Voldemort had presented the idea during their dinner together, but Harry had dismissed it then. A trick, perhaps, or a test of loyalty. But now, hearing the idea from Narcissa, along with the promise of safety regardless, it takes on new weight. A choice—a real, tangible choice—might be within his grasp after all. But what would it mean to choose himself over the destiny that's been thrust upon him?
"It is an option that I think you should take into consideration—this war isn't yours to fight, even if the Dark Lord and Dumbledore think otherwise. But I think that for now, regardless of where you stand, you need to focus on learning and growing stronger," she tells him. "If uncovering every one of Albus's transgressions means putting yourself in harm's way before you're ready... Well, that benefits no one—not you, not us, and certainly not our cause."
Her voice carries a note of authority that brooks no argument but also a warmth that eases the tension in Harry's shoulders. "Some secrets must be left for another day," she adds quietly. "For now, let them lie."
Harry nods slowly, the weight of her words settling around him. Despite the urgency clawing at his gut, he knows she's right. He can't rush into this battle blinded by anger and driven by vengeance. That's what Dumbledore would expect—and, in a way, exactly what Voldemort would want.
"Thank you, Narcissa." His voice is barely above a whisper, but it holds a sincerity that surprises even him. Here, in the heart of enemy territory, he's found allies where he least expected them. Maybe, just maybe, he isn't as alone as he thought.
With a subtle nod, Narcissa stands, her robes rustling softly against the floor. "Rest, Harry," she instructs, moving towards the door with the grace of a queen leaving her court. "And remember, you have friends here. More than you realise."
The door closes behind her, leaving Harry alone with his thoughts. Friends. The word echoes in his mind, strange and unfamiliar in this context. Yet as he glances around the opulent room once again, he can't deny the truth of it.
He's here, under their protection, because they chose to help him. Because they saw value in aligning with him despite everything. Because, in their own twisted way, they care. Or at least, they seem to.