Azkaban had changed since the fall of Voldemort. The Dementors were gone, but the darkness remained—thick, oppressive, and ever-present. As Harry entered the prison's narrow corridors, flanked by guards, his footsteps echoed off the stone walls. Every step forward felt like a descent back into the war, back into the part of his life he'd tried so hard to leave behind.

And at the center of it all was Draco Malfoy.

Harry had prepared himself, or at least he thought he had, for what he would see when he came face-to-face with his old enemy. But nothing could have prepared him for the strange mixture of emotions that surged through him as he stood in front of Malfoy's cell.

Draco sat in the corner, head bowed, his once-blonde hair now lank and long, brushing against his shoulders. When he looked up, his eyes locked on Harry's, and for a brief moment, neither of them spoke.

"Potter," Draco finally said, his voice low, a hint of amusement dancing around the edges. "I wondered when you'd come."

Harry clenched his jaw. "This isn't a social call, Malfoy."

Draco stood slowly, unfolding from his crouch with a feline grace. Despite the years, despite the confines of the cell, there was still something sharp and dangerous about him—something that set Harry on edge.

"I hear you have a problem," Draco said, pacing leisurely to the bars, his pale fingers curling around them as he leaned closer. "Murders, if I'm not mistaken. Quite nasty ones at that."

Harry stiffened. How did he already know? "We need your help."

Draco's lips curled into a smile—a slow, mocking thing. "The great Harry Potter needs my help? How the tables have turned."

"Don't flatter yourself," Harry snapped, his frustration bubbling up. "This isn't about you. It's about stopping a killer."

"And you think I have the answers you need." Draco's voice was a purr, his silver eyes gleaming with something dark and dangerous. He tilted his head, studying Harry, his gaze almost predatory. "Tell me, Potter, what is it you're afraid of? That this killer will outwit you? Or that, deep down, you might understand them better than you'd like?"

Harry swallowed hard, forcing himself to hold Draco's gaze. "I'm not here to play games."

"No," Draco mused softly. "But I am."

A long silence stretched between them, thick with tension. Harry could feel it—the shift in the air, the subtle current of something twisted and unspoken. Draco was toying with him, pushing buttons, testing limits. And what unnerved Harry most wasn't the provocation—it was how much Draco seemed to know about him.

"You want my help, Potter?" Draco whispered, his eyes never leaving Harry's. "Then give me something in return."

"What do you want?"

Draco leaned in, his voice barely above a whisper. "I want you."

Harry's breath caught. He could feel the weight of those words—how they dripped with a dangerous, seductive undertone that made his skin crawl. "What does that even mean?"

"I want to see what makes you tick," Draco continued, his voice almost hypnotic. "I want to understand why the Chosen One is so different from the rest of us. Why you think you can always play the hero and never get your hands dirty."

"I'm not—" Harry started, but Draco cut him off.

"You're not what, Potter? A killer? A monster? We're not so different, you and I."

Harry's pulse quickened, but he forced himself to stay calm. "Tell me what you know, Malfoy. Or I'm leaving."

Draco chuckled softly, stepping back into the shadows of his cell. "Bring me the files. Show me what you have. Then we'll talk."

Harry turned sharply on his heel, refusing to look back as he exited the prison. But Draco's voice followed him, lingering in the darkness like a ghost.

"We'll see who you really are, Potter."