Under Crete Lies a Labyrinth

by Saladita12

Five years after the war, Grimmauld Place lies in ruins, its magic unpredictable and restless. Yet Harry refuses to let it go—it's the last piece of Sirius he has left. Desperate to restore order to the chaotic house, he turns to the one person who might be able to help: Draco Malfoy, who the house recognises as the Black heir. Big mistake.

6. Chapter 6: I Let You Cut Me Open

Surprise!

In honour of my birthday, I have decided to treat you guys, gals and nobinary pals with a double upload. Woop woop! Not at all influenced with the fact that this is one of my favourite chapters, nope!

Alas, I had to have this betaed and then edit it real fucking fast, so xD it ended up being a mid-week update raaather than a double update weekend. Oops! My bad hahaha

Anywho, hope you guys like it! Your comments give me HP points to keep going 3

(See the end of the chapter for .)

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It was infuriating how the house seemed to take delight in their discomfort.

The hallway they were walking on stretched endlessly before them, winding and looping as if the house itself couldn't decide where it wanted them to go, but the inclination was now steep and difficult to traverse. Harry was annoyed to think that his first hiking experience had been inside his own damned house. And, as was the custom for Grimmauld now, the walls were warped, plaster cracked and crumbling to reveal jagged wooden beams that jutted out like ribs in some grotesque, half-rotted skeleton. The air was still damp and heavy, tinged with the faint metallic tang of old blood—from what orwho, Harry didn't even want to imagine—, and Harry's wand felt uncomfortably warm in his hand. Still, he gripped it tighter, his knuckles white.

Malfoy was now walking ahead, his strides precise but wary, his wand arm stiff at his side, the tension in his movements betraying his outward composure. Harry couldn't help but watch him with mild irritation, his own trainers crunching softly on the debris-strewn floor. He half-expected a biting remark about the state of the house—complaints about the dust, the peeling wallpaper, or the dim lighting that cast long, eerie shadows across the corridor. He was unnervingly quiet, his sharp features set in an expression of focused detachment, and the silence only heightened Harry's unease, every creak of the house sounding louder in the stillness. His nerves pricked at the absence of Malfoy's usual biting remarks, the quiet somehow worse than the snide commentary he'd become used to. In Harry's mind, when Malfoy was quiet, it usually meant he was plotting something.

"You'd think your lot would've sprung for some bloody renovations in the last century," Harry muttered under his breath, glancing warily at Malfoy, baiting him.

"If you're implying I have any association withthisdisaster, Potter, kindly keep your assumptions to yourself. My aesthetic sensibilities wouldnevertolerate this level of neglect."

Harry rolled his eyes, refusing to let out the laugh that was growing in his chest. "Yeah, that's the real tragedy here—the peeling wallpaper."

The silence between them returned, thick and awkward as they pressed onwards. It was always awkward with Malfoy. The kind of silence that wasn't just the absence of sound, but the absence of commonality; a weight, pressing down on Harry's chest with the reminder of too much unsaid. Malfoy, still ahead of Harry, sidestepped a particularly dubious section of the floor with the practised agility of someone accustomed to navigating obstacles. Where exactly he got used to it, Harry didn't know, but if his lithe thighs were anything to go by, the ferret was a usual hiker.

Surprised by his own thoughts, Harry scowled and looked away.

Hearing something crack behind him, Harry cast another glance over his shoulder, his gut twisting. The shadows seemed thicker here, like they were alive, shifting and curling at the edges of his vision. Half-expecting one of the Black family's dour-faced ancestors to materialise and sneer at him, he quickened his pace. He hated this house. It wasn't just dark magic or the suffocating sense of history packed into every crevice—it was the feeling that he didn't belong, that the house preyed on his very thoughts. That it knew him, his regrets, his weaknesses. Like it was waiting to strike. If it weren't for the memories of Sirius, he'd have sold it long ago.

He shook off the thought. Paranoia wasn't going to help.

"Stop lagging behind, Potter" Malfoy snapped over his shoulder, his voice cutting through the silence like a whip, startling Harry. "If you get eaten by a cursed staircase, I'm not explaining it to Granger."

Harry rolled his eyes but said nothing, unwilling to give Malfoy the satisfaction of a retort. Instead, he forced his attention to the path ahead—or what passed for one. The hallway twisted unnaturally, its layout a mockery of logic. It dipped and rose without warning, curving as though it had been designed by a lunatic with a severe case of vertigo. The walls pulsed with an unsettling irregularity, narrowing sharply in some places only to expand into wide spaces in others.

It felt alive in a way no building should.

The heavy atmosphere pressed against Harry like an invisible weight, the air thick with the tang of old magic. His skin prickled with an almost electric sensitivity, every nerve attuned to the possibility of something lurking just out of sight. It was as if unseen fingers trailed over his arms and neck, leaving behind an itchy, unsettling awareness. Each step forward felt heavier than the last, the house seeming to feed on their discomfort. He shuddered, his breath hitching involuntarily, and used his free hand to scratch at his wand arm, the sensation crawling over his skin refusing to dissipate.

And, at that moment, the doxies came.

They erupted from a jagged crack in the floor like an angry, buzzing tide, their black, glittering wings slicing through the air as they swarmed toward Harry and Malfoy with glinting claws. The tiny creatures were a blur of darkness, each one no larger than a fist but moving with unnatural speed and precision, their bodies shimmering like oil slicks, and eyes glowing an eerie, predatory red as they closed in.

The sound was deafening—a maddening hum that reverberated through the narrow hallway, amplifying the already suffocating sense of dread. Malfoy stumbled back, his wand snapping up instinctively, but the swarm was too fast, too overwhelming. One creature darted toward him, claws narrowly missing his face as he jerked to the side, his pale features twisted in a rare expression of genuine alarm.

"Bloody hell!" Harry shouted, stumbling back as the first wave of doxies lunged at his face.

Malfoy swore loudly, his usual composure vanishing quicker than a demiguise as he ducked and shrieked. "Potter,dosomething!"

"Stupefy!" Harry bellowed, sending a red jet of light into the swarm. Several doxies dropped to the ground, twitching, but the rest pressed on, their tiny fangs bared and dripping venom.

"Not enough!" Malfoy yelled, his wand flashing as he fired off precise, rapid spells that Harry couldn't recognise. His movements were almost graceful, though his panicked expression ruined the effect. "Next time,youcan lead!"

"Noted!" Harry shouted back, swatting away a particularly persistent doxy as it tangled in his hair. "Fucking…!Ow!"

The fight against the devilish little fairies felt endless, their spells barely managing to keep the vicious swarm at bay. Around them, the hallway seemed to mock them, its flickering shadows elongating with each spell cast, as if the house itself delighted in their struggle and wanted to make it more difficult for them. Harry's breath came in short, ragged bursts, his wand arm aching from constant casting. The acrid scent of singed wings and charred wood filled the air, mingling unpleasantly with the metallic tang of adrenaline cursing through their veins. At one point, his foot caught on a loose floorboard slick with dust, sending him sprawling forward. He barely avoided a face-first plunge into the jagged crack where the doxies had erupted from because a strong tug at his collar saved him from getting a new facial scar; jerking him upright just as one of the creatures buzzed past his head, its claws narrowly missing his ear.

"Try not to die, would you?" Malfoy snapped, his tone as sharp as the spell he cast to obliterate another doxy. His usually pristine hair was dishevelled, streaked with grime and doxy dust, and his immaculate clothes had suffered several unfortunate scorch marks.

Harry wanted to retort—something cutting about Malfoy's concern sounding suspiciously genuine—but another wave of the swarm descended, and all he could do was mutter under his breath and fire off another hex. Then, finally, after what felt like an eternity, the swarm began to thin, the surviving doxies retreating into the shadows with an eerie, chittering hiss.

Harry bent over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. "Ihatethis house."

"Not as much as it hates you, it looks like," Malfoy retorted, brushing himself off with exaggerated disgust. His tailored trousers were dotted with tiny tears, on top of the small burns.

Harry glared at him but didn't bother responding. Instead, he pointed to the newly formed door at the end of the hallway. It had appeared as soon as the doxys had retreated, reminding Harry of Dudley's video games for a second. He could almost hear the annoyingturu-ruru-rurunsound in his head, as if it were some kind of achievement.

"Let's just keep moving."

Malfoy huffed, but seemed to agree with him, and they approached the door cautiously, wands at the ready. Harry pushed it open, bracing himself for whatever fresh horror Grimmauld Place had conjured this time. A blast of hot air struck him like a physical blow, forcing him to stumble back a step before he could steady himself. He swallowed hard and stepped inside, his breath catching as his eyes adjusted to the dim, flickering light.

The room was enormous, its cavernous walls stretching farther than seemed architecturally possible for Grimmauld—though Harry had long since stopped doubting magic's knack for the surreal. It was hot, a heat so strong that it seemed to seep into Harry's very marrow and melt it. Sagging shelves lined the walls, burdened with ominous artefacts that reeked of dark magic and thousands of old, heavy tomes. A faint greenish glow emanated from some of the objects, casting jagged, shifting shadows that danced across the room like imps in the night. An enchanted candelabra hovered near the centre, its flickering red flames sputtering as if struggling to stay alight(, as if the atmosphere was chilly, instead of the scorching heat that surrounded them. The light revealed more sinister details: dark spell books bound in cracked leather—and by Merlin, Harry prayed it wasanimalleather—, their spines spattered with long forgotten etched runes. Glass displays dotted the space, their contents grotesque and alarming—a shrivelled hand gripping a blackened wand; a necklace with dozens of glittering rubies pulsing faintly with dark energy; a dagger that floated and moved as if someone was twirling it, its blade shimmering and opalescent.

Harry stepped forward hesitantly, the air thick with a magic so dark and heavy that it clawed at his lungs like the talons of a phoenix. It wasn't just hot—it felt suffocating, hostile, as though the room itself resented their intrusion. Harry felt he couldn't breathe without choking, every breath was an effort as the magic clung to his throat like tar, and each inhalation like swallowing lumps of red-hot coal. He glanced over at Malfoy, who stood a few feet away, his pale face illuminated by the eerie light, making him look like a tragic ghost.

"You're not bothered by this?" Harry asked, his voice rough and strained.

Malfoy's lips twitched in a faint, humorless smirk.

"This is child's play compared to my father's collection," his eyes flicked nervously toward a particularly grotesque artefact—a skull mounted on a pedestal, its hollow sockets glowing faintly red. "Though evenhewouldn't keep something as dark as that."

Harry didn't respond, his mind flinching at the thought of Malfoy growing up in a place like this. Moving his gaze away from the blonde, it caught on the shelves, where several of the objects looked disturbingly familiar. Memories surged unbidden—flashes of the war, of Death Eaters wielding cursed objects not unlike these, their laughter echoing in his mind as he watched curses tear through innocents. His stomach twisted.

"Potter," Malfoy's sharp voice cut through his thoughts. "Stop gawking. The exit isn't going to find itself."

Harry tore his gaze away from a cursed mirror that had drawn him in—its surface showed not his reflection, but something else he hadn't been able to catch. He shuddered and turned to Malfoy. "If you're so clever, why don't you find it?"

Malfoy ignored him, already moving toward the far wall, where a massive door loomed. Its surface was carved with intricate serpentine designs that coiled and writhed unnaturally, almost as if alive. Malfoy paused, his hand hovering over the handle, and glanced back at Harry with a flicker of hesitation.

"This," he said dryly, "is either our way out… or another disaster waiting to happen."

Harry sighed, gripping his wand tighter. "Only one way to find out."

In the end, it indeed ended up being their way out.

Of the cursed collection room, that is.

The air still felt thick, like a suffocating blanket that clung to Harry's wet skin as he walked through what looked like an old laundry room. His body was now aching from the previous encounters, both physical and emotional. What time was it? He felt so tired already. How had it been less than a day since they'd been trapped in here, he had no idea. It felt like much longer had passed, and who knows, maybe it had. It certainly felt like it. His legs made out of lead, each step he took seemed to carry an additional weight, the dense magic of the house pressing against him, as if it were closing in, tightening like a noose. Beside him, Malfoy moved with that same perpetual air of nonchalance that he insisted on putting up; though Harry couldn't shake the feeling that he too was on the edge, the fine threads of composure threatening to snap at any moment. They had already walked through countless rooms already, some dark and dreary, each one offering a glimpse into the dark and twisted past of the Black family, and other completely fine—for Grimmauld Place, at least.

It didn't take them long to find their way out of the washing room, only to find themselves in yet another crumbling corridor, this one resembling a gallery hallway. It was like walking through a dilapidated museum, a collection of moments frozen in time. A reflection of grief, loss, and despair, woven into the very fabric of the house. Like the house itself had absorbed the sorrow of its occupants, the darkness of their hearts lingering in the very air they breathed. The tapestries that hung on the walls, though magnificent, seemed to bear the weight of sorrowful memories—each stitch a pledge to regret and loss. The Black family had been shaped by their tragedies, Harry thought, their very echoes forever haunting these halls. He could almost feel the presence of Sirius, his once fiery and defiant spirit now reduced to the cold remnants of the tragic tale of a man gone mad with isolation and grief. Sirius had fought against the very foundation of the Black family, breaking free from their expectations and the darkness that had consumed his bloodline. Yet, despite all his bravery and defiance, his heartbreak had never truly left him—even his final days were marred by betrayal and an untimely death. Harry could still picture the haunted look in Sirius's eyes during their last moments together, the weight of his family's magic bearing down on him even as he fought to protect those he loved.

And then there was Regulus. Harry had never met him, but the stories were impossible to ignore. Regulus Black, the younger brother, a prodigy who had been once devoted to the Dark Lord, who had turned away from his own choices, realising the true cost of his actions only too late. His decision to try to destroy the Horcrux in the locket had been an act of redemption, but it had come too late; and Regulus had paid the ultimate price, lost forever in the depths of a lake hidden away inside a cave, never to see the light again. Even in death, Regulus had never truly escaped. His sorrow, too, lingered here, trapped between the walls of this house, a reminder of the weight of choices that could never be undone; could never be enough.

Harry's heart ached as he thought of them both—two brothers, bound by blood, torn apart by the very family they were born into and that swore to protect them. The house felt like a prison even now, not just for the living but for the dead as well, the Black family's ghosts forever wandering, unable to find peace.

They moved in silence down the hallway, their footsteps echoing off the cold wooden floor. A thin layer of dust dulled the gilded mountings of some of the tapestries, while cobwebs hung like ghostly shrouds in the corners. At the far end of the corridor, a door loomed, its dark wood unmarked and strangely untouched by the decay that pervaded the rest of the house. It felt deliberate, as if the house itself was leading them somewhere, urging them forward into the unknown.

And now, they found themselves in a room that felt different.

It was pristine, almost too pristine, the untouched furniture and polished surfaces standing in stark contrast to the rest of the house. It only took Harry a moment to realise that Kreacher must've kept the room, keeping it clean and'up to standard', even as the years went on with him alone in this ruin of a house. His heart hurt at the thought. The walls were adorned with photographs—faded images of a woman whose stern, beautiful face seemed out of place among the remnants of the house's neglect. Harry's eyes were immediately drawn to the figure in the pictures. The woman's face was cold, proud, but her eyes told a different story. There was something in those eyes that Harry couldn't place at first—something that pulled at his chest, something… haunted.

It took him a moment to realise who it was.

Walburga Black.

In her youth, she bore an uncanny resemblance to Sirius, her high cheekbones and sharp jawline strikingly familiar to Harry. It was more than just the structure of her face, though—it was the intensity in her gaze, the way her lips curved into a smirk that mirrored Sirius's most arrogant expressions. The resemblance was so stark that it caught Harry off guard, making his heart constrict in his chest. For a fleeting moment, he could almost imagine Sirius standing there instead of her, full of life and rebellion, unburdened by the darkness that had clung to him for as long as Harry had known him. But the woman in the photographs lacked Sirius's warmth, his irreverent charm and cheer; there was a coldness to her that unsettled Harry. The similarity was haunting, not comforting, as if it was a reminder of what Sirius might have become had he been wholly consumed by the weight of the Black family legacy.

In one particular photo, she was standing tall, a sharp, authoritative figure, her gaze defiant and full of pride. In the next one, however, her expression had changed. She still stood tall, shoulders straight and posture rigid, except she now carried a baby in her arms. The difference in her expressions was subtle—her eyes a little duller, the corners of her mouth drawn down just slightly. As Harry moved around the room, he noticed that the photographs seemed to become more erratic, as if they were chronicling her fall into despair and bitterness. Her once-immaculate appearance was slowly unravelling, the photographs capturing the slow, steady decay of her mental state. Harry could almost feel the weight of her depression pressing down on him, making him bite his lip. There was an unease that settled in his stomach, a sickness that curled around his insides as he looked at the images of the woman who had given birth to someone he loved so dearly; the fading remnants of her life bitter and grey.

The once-proud matriarch of the Black family had become a hollow shell in her last years, her eyes empty, her face gaunt and tired. And this dark corner of the house had become a monument to her sorrow.

It was a sobering reminder that the house wasn't just a home for the Blacks; it was a monument to pain. Every inch of this place seemed soaked in the bitterness of lives unlived, promises broken, and regrets that had no place to go but fester within the walls. And those very walls themselves seemed to radiate with the weight of Walburga's despair, her sorrow lingering in every corner like grime.

Next to him, Malfoy had been quiet the entire time looking at his great-aunt, his gaze moving over the photographs with an expression Harry couldn't quite read. But when he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost reverent.

"She didn't just lose her sons and husband, did she?" Malfoy's words were almost a whisper, as if speaking louder would disturb the delicate atmosphere of the room. "She lost herself, too."

Harry didn't respond immediately. He didn't want to acknowledge the truth of Malfoy's statement, the rawness of it. He didn't want to think about how much he understood it. How much he knew the feeling of losing yourself, of becoming a shell of the person you once were, of being trapped in a place where there was no way out.

He didn't want to think about how much a woman he had always hated for what she had done to Sirius mirrored the darkness in his own heart.

There was a long pause before Harry finally spoke, his voice rough with emotion he didn't want to face.

"She was consumed by it," Harry muttered, his eyes still fixed on the images that seemed to follow him wherever he went. "Grief. Anger. Pride. A need for control. Bigotry. You can feel it all around," he motioned to the room, the photographs of Walburga dancing all around them. "Her feelings are still alive in this house."

Malfoy looked over at him, his face unreadable. "For grief, and all in middle street the Queen, who rode by Lancelot, wailed and shrieked aloud, 'This madness has come on us for our sins'," he said, his voice soft and low, laced with an emotion that Harry couldn't quite place.

What did that mean?

Harry looked away from Malfoy when the blonde turned to look at him, his grey eyes stormy, lost at sea.

"Let's go. It's not like we can help her," he didn't expect Malfoy to answer, and he didn't. Yet none of them moved. There was nothing more to say. Instead, they both stood there, surrounded by the echoes of Walburga Black's slow unravelling into lunacy, both aware of the omnipresent weight of the house's pressing in on them, urging them forward. There was no sense of comfort here.

After what felt like an eternity but was actually no more than thirty seconds, Malfoy turned toward the door, his movement abrupt, as if he'd had enough of the room's miserable atmosphere.

"We should keep moving," he said, his voice quiet but resolute. "We're not here to dwell on the past. We need to find your senile elf and the core."

Harry nodded, grateful for the distraction, even if it was just a temporary reprieve. He didn't want to linger any longer in Walburga's sanctuary of sorrow. They both moved toward the door, but as Harry reached for the handle, he couldn't help but glance back one last time at the photographs, at the woman who had been consumed by grief. And for a brief moment, he wondered if he, too, was on the edge of being consumed by the weight of his own madness.

With a soft, almost imperceptible sigh, Harry turned away and followed Malfoy out of the room, the door closing behind them with a finality that seemed to mark the end of something. But there was no time for reflection now.

Walking through the house as they had been doing, it was hard not to feel the weight of the Black family crushing them, the centuries of power and influence that hung like a shroud in the air. Harry glanced over at Malfoy, whose face was unreadable, though Harry could sense a faint tension in his posture. As they moved further down a narrow corridor that must've been used by human servants once upon a time, Harry couldn't help but wonder what Malfoy thought of his Black family heritage. Did he still see them as a source of pride, a lineage to uphold, or were they simply an inescapable shadow clinging to him? The walls of the corridors they traversed through were almost always lined with portraits of his mean-faced ancestors, their eyes following him and Malfoy as they passed, rarely saying a word. He wondered if Malfoy ever felt trapped by their legacy, by the weight of expectations that came with a name so steeped in power and prejudice. Did he now despise them for the ideals they embodied, or was he, deep down, still tethered to them, unable to fully let go of who he had been raised to be?

Did he, too, cling to ghosts of the past?

Malfoy's usual brazenness was momentarily absent, replaced by something quieter, something more reflective. Harry found himself wondering if Malfoy resented the Black family the same way he had once resented his own—The Dursley's bigoted cruelty, the suffocating loneliness, the hatred and neglect he couldn't seem to escape even in his adult years. The thought of the Malfoys being so similar to the Black family—believing the same blood supremacist bullshit, using the same methods to lord over their family members—must've been something Draco had had to reckon with.

But Harry didn't ask.

He wasn't sure if Malfoy would answer, or if he even wanted to know the truth. After all, even after everything they'd been through, it was still hard to read him. However, Harry couldn't shake the feeling that, foronce, they were in the same fight.

The next room they found themselves in around half an hour later felt… different. The air seemed heavier, if that was even possible, not with the suffocating sorrow of Walburga's despair, but with something sharper, rawer. Newer. There was no escape from it—bitterness clung to every surface, desperation saturating the space as if the walls themselves bore the scars of anger, arguments, and unrelenting grief. It was as if the very room had absorbed years of tension, of moments that tore through it like a tempest. Harry immediately recognised it, and his heart lurched painfully, rising all the way to his throat, threatening to choke him with the force of his emotions. His chest ached, a hollow, gnawing ache that radiated outwards as he took in the faded bedspread, the clutter of books, and the photographs still scattered on the night stand.

It was the room Sirius had used during the war.

The room was decked out in Black, Victorian furniture but it remained unmistakably Sirius. The bed, barely made, was draped with a faded quilt, its once-rich colours dulled by time. A small desk sat in the corner, littered with scraps of parchment and a broken quill, while a battered pair of what looked to be leather boots was thrown carelessly under the chair.

With a pang, Harry looked around. He had precious memories in this room. Of Sirius inviting him over to try his first sip of wine one night after dinner, before he'd had to return to Hogwarts. Of Sirius shifting into his animagus form to make Harry some company when the nightmares about Cedric hit him so hard he felt his heart bruise. Of telling Sirius about Cho, and his godfather's absolute delight as he teased Harry for getting his first girlfriend. Of Sirius muttering angrily about being left behind when Harry was going back to school.

Even now, he could faintly smell his musky, overpriced antique cologne; tobacco, sandalwood and something distinctly Sirius—wild, defiant, and deeply lonely.

It must be the intensity of it that brought tears to Harry's eyes.

Even so, the room was a mess. The furniture had been scattered and overturned in some sort of violent outburst, and the remnants of Sirius's belongings lay strewn across the floor, forgotten. Harry's eyes were drawn to the crumpled pair of leather pants that lay discarded on the bed, as if thrown in urgency. He tried very hard not to remember the last night Sirius had been in this room, of why this place looked in so much disarray. But everything around him was nothing but a painful reminder of the man who had been a father figure to him, a man who had fought and suffered for so long just because he loved like no one else. Only to be consumed by the first embers of war.

There was a shattered mirror on the wall, its cracked surface reflecting a fractured image of the room—like a reflection of Sirius's own fractured state during his time in this awful house. A prison disguised as a home. Harry's chest tightened as he looked at the wreckage of the room, the remnants of Sirius's anguish clear in every single corner. It felt too real, too raw. The air itself seemed charged with the residual magic of his godfather's desolation, the pain of a man who had lived his life in hiding, never truly able to escape the ghosts of his past. He had tried to escape this necrotic place all his life, only to be made its prisoner twice over.

Malfoy, too, seemed affected by the room, though he hid it well behind his usual Malfoy mask of indifference. But Harry could see it in the stiff set of his shoulders, the way he moved through the room with a tense deliberation, unwilling to touch anything but with his pale hand hovering over Sirius' things. Harry didn't want him touching anything. Hell, he didn't feel the right to touch anything himself. But he said nothing as Malfoy walked around, his silver eyes ravenous. For all his bravado, there was something in the way Malfoy held himself that betrayed hints of vulnerability Harry hadn't noticed before.

It was all in his eyes. Those Black, grey eyes. So similar to Sirius' and yet so different.

They stood in the room for a few moments, neither of them speaking. The brittle silence stretched between them, heavy with the weight of their respective memories and histories. And for a moment, Harry closed his eyes and allowed himself one last moment to think of Sirius—his godfather, the man who had died trying to protect him, the man who had given him the one thing he had never truly had: a family.

It was Malfoy who broke the silence, his voice as detached as ever. "This place… it's not just a house. It's a graveyard."

Harry nodded, his throat tight. "Yeah. A graveyard of memories."

They didn't speak again as they stood there, both hesitating on what to do, and Harry could feel his chest tightening more and more as the minutes passed, the raw emotions threatening to spill over. His breath came in shallow, uneven gasps, and his fingers trembled at his sides. The room felt like a coffin, the memories pressing down on him, suffocating, cloying dirt burying him alive. He had to get out—now. Harry's pulse thundered in his ears, a frantic drumbeat that drowned out everything else. The ghostly echoes of Sirius's voice chased him like a spectre, its sound too sharp, too close. The memories were too loud—too much. Sirius's laugh—I killed Sirius Black, I killed Sirius Black—, his frustration, his pain—they all swirled around him, suffocating, each fragment of memory a razor blade scraping at his insides. He could almost feel Sirius's hand on his shoulder, the weight of the guilt, the guilt that wrapped around him like a hand against his throat. It was too much, too overwhelming. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think.

He had to get out of there; it didn't matter where. He had to leave.

So, he ran.

The moment Harry bolted from Sirius's room, he felt as if he was leaving Sirius behind in that crumbling tomb of a room. The door slammed shut behind him with a heavythud, the sound reverberating like the earlierBombardain the dimly lit hallways. His trainers pounded against the uneven floorboards as he ran blindly through the endless maze of rooms and corridors, the suffocating air of Sirius's room clinging to his lungs like toxic smoke. His chest heaved, but it wasn't from the exertion—it was from the sheer pressure of it all. The memories. The grief. The guilt. They were coiled around his ribs, constricting like a snake that wouldn't loosen its grip.

Sirius was gone, and Harry hadn't done enough to save him. Grimmauld Place felt like a temple to that failure, each creaking floorboard whispering accusations he couldn't ignore. The magic in the house felt alive, maliciously so, as though it were feeding on his raw emotions, amplifying them until they were unbearable.

"Potter!" Malfoy's voice echoed from somewhere behind him, high and agitated. Of course, Malfoy was following him. Because, of course, he couldn't even have a breakdown in peace.

Harry didn't answer. He didn't stop. His legs moved as ifImperiusedto do so, his hands occasionally brushing the warped walls of the corridor for balance as he turned corner after corner, the flickering candlelight casting distorted shadows around him. The house shifted as he moved, twisting and bending itself into something that felt like a living, breathing obstacle course. One that was trying to trap him.

Or maybe it was trying to force him to confront everything he was running away from.

"Potter, stop running, for Circe's sake!" Malfoy sounded out of breath, and there was something desperate in his tone, as though Harry's emotional spiral was makinghimpanic as well. "You're making the bloody house worse!"

Harry ignored him. The pounding in his ears drowned out Malfoy's voice. His heart was racing, his mind a blur of anger and sadness and that godforsaken helplessness that had been his constant companion since Sirius fell through the veil. He didn't know where he was going—there was nowhere to go, really—but he couldn't stop. Stopping meant thinking. Stopping meant feeling. And right now, that wasn't an option.

Another door appeared ahead of him, to his left, its dark wood gleaming faintly in the dim light. Harry reached for it without hesitation, pushing it open and stumbling inside. The room was cold and dark, the air thick with an unsettling stillness. It looked like a drawing room—ornate furniture covered in dust sheets, a long-forgotten fireplace framed by a mantle filled with tarnished knick-knacks, and heavy curtains that were drawn tight against the windows. A single couch sat in the centre of the room, its upholstery torn and its stuffing spilling out like entrails. The silence was suffocating, pressing down on him like a physical weight.

Harry bent over, bracing his hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath. His lungs burned, his chest tight, but the whirlwind of emotions inside him was far worse. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind the raw ache of everything he'd been trying to suppress. It was too much. Everything was too much.

He heard the door creak open behind him, and Malfoy's urgent voice cut through the silence like a gunshot.

"Do youeverstop running?" Malfoy snapped, his tone dripping with ire. "Honestly! Are you trying to get yourself killed? Because I've got to tell you, Potter, it's starting to feel like that's your life's mission."

Harry straightened up, wiping a hand across his sweaty forehead as he turned to glare at Malfoy.

"Bloody well fuck off, Malfoy!"

Malfoy finally fully stepped into the room, closing the door behind him with an air of finality. His pale face was flushed, his platinum hair even more dishevelled after the chase. "Oh, excuse me for wo— for not wanting to be left alone in this murder house," he drawled, crossing his arms over his chest. "You're the one who keeps insisting we need to stick together, remember?"

Harry turned towards him with a quick movement, his hands trembling as they itched to reach for his wand. Glaring at him, he said, "Stop following me, Malfoy. Just leave me alone."

"Oh, sure, becausethat'llwork out brilliantly for you," Malfoy shot back, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "You're stomping around this cursed house like an angry, headless hippogriff, and now we're both going to die in here because you can't regulate your emotions."

Harry's fists clenched tighter, he could feel his uneven nails digging into the palm of his hand, his heart still pounding. "I didn't ask you to follow me!"

"No," Malfoy retorted, a single droplet of sweat travelled from behind Malfoy's right ear and down the valley of his quivering throat, "but someone has to make sure you don't do something monumentally stupid."

"You don't get it, do you?" Harry said, his voice low but trembling with barely-contained anger. He straightened, his green eyes blazing as he looked at Malfoy. "Everything, everything—it's always your family's fault. Your family is cursed! Tainted! Everything they touch turns to rot! Just likeyou."

Malfoy flinched, his expression stricken, as if Harry had slapped him. For a second, he was still, his mouth gaping like a fish. But then, his expression darkened, grey eyes narrowing.

"Pardon me?" he said, his voice dangerously soft, a sharp contrast to Harry's boiling rage.

"You heard me," Harry snapped, his emotions spilling over in a torrent. "Sirius was never happy here because ofyou. Your family. Your lot poisoned this place, made it a prison for him, caused it to rot. He couldn't escape it, no matter how far he ran, just like he couldn't escape his own bloody name. And you—you're just as bad. Your family's curse follows you wherever you go."

"Don't you dare talk about my family like that," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "You think you're the only one carrying the weight of the past, Potter? Newsflash: you don't have a monopoly on guilt."

"Oh, really?" Harry spat, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. "You think I've forgotten? Katie. Ron. Dumbledore. Sixth year. You let the Death Eaters into the school. You tried to kill him. And don't you dare say it wasn't your choice, because we both know you still went through with it! You're no victim, Malfoy. You're just a coward."

The words hit their mark, and Harry could see the way Malfoy flinched, his carefully constructed mask cracking. The blonde's face was pale, his eyes looked like liquid silver and threatening to spill out like droplets of mercury. For a moment, Harry thought he might have gone too far. But then Malfoy's eyes flashed with something raw and unfiltered—something that made Harry's stomach twist uncomfortably in its intensity.

"You think you're so bloody righteous, don't you?" Malfoy snarled, stepping closer, his voice rising. "You think you've got the moral high ground because you are Saint Potter, the Chosen One, the golden boy of the wizarding world. But you're not so innocent, are you?"

Harry's jaw clenched. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Sixth year," Malfoy said, his voice trembling now with a mix of anger and something rawer, something vulnerable. "The bathroom.Sectumsempra.You nearly killed me, Potter. Youcut me open. I was bleeding out on the floor of that bathroom, and all you got was a slap on the wrist. Do you even remember? Or did you forget because it wasmeyou almost killed?"

Harry's breath caught in his throat, the memory flashing in his mind unbidden: the way Malfoy had crumpled to the floor like a puppet without its strings, paling as blood poured from the gashes Harry had inflicted. He remembered the horror he'd felt at that moment, the realisation of what he'd done, of seeing the blood on his hands, while Malfoy bled out in front of him.

He'd tried to bury it, to forget it—to make himself believe it had been the righteous thing to do, but Malfoy's words dragged it back into the light.

Malfoy's voice broke as he continued, the sound of it frail and small, his hands trembling at his sides. "Three days later, you were parading around with the Weaselette on your arm, a huge smile on your face after the Quidditch win… while I was still bleeding in the Hospital Wing. Do you know what it's like to wake up every morning and seeyourscars staring back at me in the mirror? Do you? And you—you…"

Harry opened his mouth to respond, but the words died in his throat. He wanted to defend himself, to say that Malfoy had been about to cast the Cruciatus curse at him, that he'd been protecting himself. But deep down, he knew it wasn't that simple. The guilt he'd carried for years twisted in his chest, smothering him.

"You almost killed me, Potter," Malfoy said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "And you didn't even care."

"That's not true," Harry said, his voice hoarse, but it felt weak even to his own ears. The image of Malfoy, pale and bleeding on the bathroom floor, unable to leave his mind, and the nausea that his guilt brought forward was almost as painful. "I—Malfoy, I didn't mean—"

"Don't you dare say you didn't mean it, spells don't work if you don't mean them" Malfoy snapped. "It doesn't change the fact that youdidit. And you moved on like it didn't even matter. LikeIdidn't even matter."

Harry's defences crumbled under the weight of Malfoy's words, of his pain, now so transparent and raw that even Harry could see it dancing in those mercurial eyes of his. He had never thought about it that way—not really. He had always justified his actions by telling himself that Malfoy had almost used an Unforgivable Curse on him; that he hadn't known the curse. But now, standing here, hearing the tremor in Malfoy's voice, he couldn't deny the truth.

He had wanted to hurt Malfoy, that much was true.For enemies, it had said. And Malfoy had been just that, an enemy he had to stop. Not a child in over his head, not someone to help.

Neither moved, and the silence that followed was heavy. It was the kind of silence that made you stop in your tracks in the middle of the night. It felt unnatural, poignant.

But then Malfoy's voice cut through the quiet, low and trembling with emotion.

"You think you're the only one who's suffered, Potter? You think you're the only one who's lost people? You're not. And you're not the only one who's been rejected, either."

Harry frowned, confused. "What are you talking about?"

Malfoy's gaze met his, and once again, Harry saw something fragile in those mercurial eyes of his—something so ephemerous it might slip from his fingers if he dared linger.

"After the war," Malfoy said quietly, "I tried to thank you. At the Ministry, after my trial. I—I wanted to apologise. To make amends. I even offered you my hand, but you… you looked at me like I was nothing but scum. Like I didn't even deserve to breathe the same air as you, much less freedom."

The silence that followed Draco's words was suffocating, as if the house itself were holding its breath, waiting for the next blow to land. The distant creaks and groans of Grimmauld Place seemed to amplify, the dark magic of the building rising and making him shudder. The walls wept in streaks, dark water dripping down in uneven rivulets, and the air grew thick and damp, carrying the faint, acrid scent of mildew and old grief.

Harry's stomach dropped as a memory resurfaced. He could still see it—the cold, sterile corridor of the Ministry, Malfoy's pale hand extended toward him, the way his dry lips had pressed together in a fragile attempt at courage.

The image slammed into Harry with the force of a Bludger, and for a moment, he was standing in the corridor outside of Courtroom Ten in Level Ten of the Ministry of Magic; and staring down at Malfoy, still fresh from his trial. The air had felt thick with tension that day—heavy with the fresh grief and violence of the war. He had watched Malfoy then, eyes scanning over the wreckage of a young man who had once been the epitome of arrogance and entitlement. But back then, Malfoy had looked nothing like that.

The sight of him now haunted Harry, though at the time he had found it righteous. Malfoy had been reduced to a shell of the person he'd been before the war. The man in front of Harry in that corridor wasn't the same confident, smooth-talking Draco Malfoy from Hogwarts. He had been a shadow of himself—ill, malnourished, and broken.

.

Malfoy's gaunt face is a testament to months of neglect. His skin clings to his bones like wet paper, pale and waxy, stretched tight over sharp cheekbones that have lost all semblance of softness. His once-pointed chin juts awkwardly, crooked where it hadn't been before, and framed by limp, matted hair hanging in greasy clumps, streaked with filth and the faint coppery stain of blood—his own? Malfoy's hollow eyes, sunken deep into his skull, carry a haunted emptiness, as though every ounce of hope has been siphoned away by the Dementors, leaving behind only shadows of fear and despair. The clothes he is wearing—if they can even be called clothes—are torn and hanging in tatters, their threads frayed and filthy, clinging like ghosts of the wealth and arrogance he once embodied. His frame is skeletal, ribs pushing against the thin fabric, his movements stiff and laboured, as if every step carries the weight of a thousand lashes.

Harry has seen cruelty in the war, has witnessed horrors he can't shake even in the quiet of his nightmares, but watching Malfoy being dragged into the Ministry's unyielding, antiseptic corridors stirs something unnameable in him; something he doesn't want to look too closely at. The corridor itself is stark and unwelcoming, all steel and dark stone, lit with a cold, almost artificial brightness that turns Malfoy's pale skin a sickly shade of grey. The air reeks of bureaucracy and judgement, sharp and metallic, tinged with the sour tang of sweat from the onlookers who have come to see the last Malfoy meet his reckoning. Shackles bind his wrists, heavy and rusted, cutting into his irritated skin with every movement, their clinking echoing like a death knell through the cavernous hall. He shuffles forward, his back bowed, his head down—whether out of shame, exhaustion, or the crushing inevitability of what awaits him, Harry can't tell. He can't help thinking that the proud boy who once strutted through the halls of Hogwarts is nowhere to be found.

For a moment, Harry wonders what it must be like for Malfoy to live under the shadow of his father's choices, to carry the weight of a name that has become synonymous with cruelty and death. Has he fought against it, even in the privacy of his own mind, or has he simply surrendered to it, too weak to resist the tide? The thought doesn't spark sympathy in Harry—right now, it only fuels his resentment. Malfoy has been a cog in the machine, another piece of the machinery that ripped apart Harry's world.

The trial is over now, after hours of heated arguments and testimonies, the Ministry has delivered its verdict. Malfoy is to walk free, but only just. His release is shackled with conditions that ensure he will remain under their thumb for the next decade. For the first four years, his magic is to be severely restricted, barely more than a Squib, with every spell monitored for even the faintest hint of darkness. This restriction is to be lifted after four years, but with the understanding that if Malfoy ever produced a dark spell again, he was to be sent directly to Azkaban. On top of that, his movements will be tracked, his life micromanaged by the Ministry, with curfews and surveillance ensuring he can never stray too far from the grip of justice. It isn't redemption they offer him—it's punishment disguised as mercy, a leash rather than a noose.

And yet, it's freedom, a bitter mockery of the justice Harry feels he deserves.

When the chains are finally removed outside the courtroom, Malfoy stands still for a moment, as if he can't quite believe it, as if the absence of the weight is something he can't quite comprehend; Harry wonders if months in Azkaban will do that to you. His eyes lock onto his mother almost immediately, and he makes his way toward her like a starving man. She is, of course, waiting for him, her proud posture now reduced to something fragile as though the weight of her family's trials had crushed her spirit, her once-imposing figure dwarfed by the son she embraces. Her arms wrap around him as though she can shield him from the world, her small frame trembling as she clings to him. Malfoy's face, so hollow and empty, softens in her embrace, his bony arms wrapping around her as though she is the only solid thing in a world that has crumbled around him.

Harry's stomach churns as he watches the exchange from the other side of the corridor. It isn't fair. Malfoy doesn't deserve that embrace, doesn't deserve the comfort of a mother's love when so many have been robbed of it by people like him. Even though Harry had testified for the blonde—and his mother, but not his father—, even though he had given the evidence that had ultimately secured his release, Harry still isn't able to let go of the anguish that simmers inside him. His mind is still too clouded with grief—too consumed with everything he had lived through and died for, to look at the situation clearly. In his mind, he isn't ready to forgive, wasn't ready to see Malfoy as anything but the enemy he had fought so hard against. Rage bubbles up in his chest, hot and suffocating, burning against the grief that has already consumed so much of him.

Malfoy doesn't deserve this freedom. He doesn't deserve anything.

"Potter," comes Malfoy's voice, weak and broken, cracking like brittle glass. He steps toward Harry, his movements hesitant, uncertain and heavy, his shoulders curling inward as if bracing for a blow. "I—" he falters, his hand twitching at his side before he stretches it out, trembling, towards Harry. His pale fingers hover in the air, hesitant, his eyes glistening with something Harry can't—or won't—name.

Harry stares at him, his hands curling into fists. The sight of Malfoy, broken and desperate, should satisfy him, should feel like justice served, but it doesn't. It only makes the anger worse, an ugly, twisting thing in his gut. Malfoy's hand shakes, his breath hitching, as if he can feel the weight of Harry's silent judgement bearing down on him.

"I didn't do it for you, Malfoy," Harry spits finally, his voice like shards of ice. The words slice through the air between them, cold and unforgiving. "I did it to pay my debt to your mother. You deserved to rot in Azkaban with your father."

Malfoy flinches as though struck, his hand dropping to his side. His face, more open than Harry has ever seen it, crumples, as if the words had cut deep enough to expose his bleeding heart. His shoulders sag, his eyes becoming watery, like pools of quicksilver. The defeat in his posture is almost unbearable to look at, a proud dragon finally being struck from the sky, but Harry doesn't care. He turns and walks away, leaving Malfoy standing there, his shadow stretching long and thin against the cold, unforgiving light of the corridor.

.

The memory started to fade, its edges blurring as Harry's breath hitched in his chest, and he came back to the present. The room felt like suffocating, just how the Ministry corridor had felt back then. His pulse was racing, his heart thundering against his ribcage. Malfoy's words were still echoing in his mind, the sense of regret in his voice sinking into Harry's thoughts. But no matter how much he tried to push it down, the lingering tension between them felt unbearable.

Harry exhaled sharply, trying to push the memories back into the dark recesses of his mind. He could still hear the cold edge in his own voice as he told Malfoy off, the dismissiveness of his tone that had cut through whatever shred of hope Malfoy had managed to muster. After the war, he had been so angry, so consumed by his own grief and bitterness, that he hadn't understood the vulnerability in Malfoy's gesture. He hadn't seen the boy who was trying to make things right, he had just seen the boy who had been a Death Eater. And knowing what he did now about how much Malfoy had suffered for his choices, choices that had been made trying to save his parents…

It had felt justified at the time, hadn't it? After everything they'd been through—everything Draco had done—whyshouldHarry forgive him so easily?

But now… now it felt cruel. Needlessly cruel. He had barely thought about that day in years, had pushed it aside along with many other moments from the war and its aftermath. He hadn't spared a thought for Malfoy beyond his own annoyance at the man. Harry had been angry, and so self-involved that he hadn't even tried to see the person Malfoy might have been trying to become.

And now, that knowledge made his stomach churn with shame.

"Malfoy, I…" Harry started, his voice low and hoarse, but Malfoy cut him off sharply.

"Don't," Malfoy snapped, his voice trembling with barely contained emotion.

Harry flinched, the rawness in Malfoy's voice cutting through him like his very ownSectumsempra. He opened his mouth to argue, to say something—anything—to make it right, but Malfoy wasn't finished.

"Do you have any idea how much it took for me to approach you that day?" Malfoy demanded, his grey eyes blazing with anger and something far more brittle, something that threatened to dissolve in his tears. His magic crackled in the air around him, the faint scent of it mixing with the dampness. "I spent months,months, in that hellish cell trying to figure out what to say to you. I wrote letters—dozensof them—trying to put it all into words, trying to make sense of everything that had happened. Trying to understandwhyI was wrong, how to make it better. And then, when I was finally free and ready to face you, to… to extend some kind of olive branch, you looked at me like I was scum. Like I shouldn't evenexist."

Harry's chest tightened, the force of Malfoy's words settling heavily on his shoulders. He wanted to protest, to argue that it hadn't been like that, but his memory betrayed him. Because ithadbeen like that. Hehadlooked at Malfoy as though he were insignificant, as though his intention to apologise didn't matter. And, hadn't he died in a war trying to stop people from looking at others like he had looked at Malfoy?

"I was trying to be better," Malfoy continued, his voice breaking slightly. "I wanted to—Fuck, I don't even know what I wanted. I just… I wanted to change. To prove that I wasn't the same person I was at Hogwarts, or during the war. But you—" His voice faltered, and he looked away, his jaw tightening as he tried to hold himself together. "You made it very clear that I didn't deserve that chance."

The words hung in the air between them, heavy and sharp, like shards of broken glass. Harry stared at Draco, his heart pounding in his chest, and for the first time, he truly saw him—not as the boy who had tormented him at school, not as the Death Eater who had almost killed Dumbledore, but as a man who had been just as broken by the war as he had. A man who had tried, in his own way, to make amends, and who had been denied the chance.

"Malfoy," Harry said again, his voice quieter this time. "I'm—"

"If you say you're sorry, I swear to Morgana, I'll hex you," Draco interrupted, his voice sharp, but it trembled like a newborn fawn. His hands were tightly wrapped around himself, a mockery of a hug, self-soothing in its loneliness, and his magic sparked faintly in the air around him, uncontrolled and volatile.

Harry closed his mouth, swallowing the apology that had been on the tip of his tongue once more. He didn't know what else to say, didn't know how to fix this. Could it even be fixed? The silence stretched between them for the hundred time today, heavy and constricting, and Harry felt the tendrils of it wrap around him like a vice, making it hard to breathe.

"I was a coward," Harry admitted finally, his voice barely above a whisper. The words felt like they were being dragged out of him, raw and painful. "I was… so angry, so broken after the war. At you, at myself, at everyone. I didn't know how to deal with it, so I didn't. I just—" He gestured vaguely, struggling to find the right words. "I shut everything out. And when you came to me that day, I didn't… I couldn't see it for what it was. I just saw the person you used to be, and I… I didn't want to deal with it."

Malfoy's eyes flicked to him, the anger and the hurt in them dimming slightly, though his expression remained guarded. "And now?" he asked, his voice quiet but laced with bitterness. "What do you see now, Potter?"

Harry hesitated, the question catching him off guard. What did he see? He saw the same sharp cheekbones, the same piercing silver eyes, the same arrogance and obnoxiousness that had defined Draco Malfoy for years. But he also saw the cracks—the fragility, the pain, the effort it had taken for Malfoy to stand here and bare his soul.

If he was very honest, he didn't know who this Draco Malfoy was.

"I see someone who deserved better," Harry said finally, the words tumbling out before he could second-guess them. "I see someone who tried, who keeps trying. And someone I… I should've tried to understand."

Malfoy's lips parted slightly, his expression flickering with something that might have been surprise before he schooled it into feigned detached indifference. He kept his arms around himself, looking away again, but not before Harry caught the faint tremor in his hands, how he kept biting at his bottom lip. The air between them was no longer charged with anger, but with something far more difficult to define. It felt like hurt. So much hurt.

How much more were they meant to harm each other before they learnt to leave each other alone?

Harry rubbed his face with his hands, the skin over his cheekbones rough from the scrape of stubble. He felt raw—exposed in a way that made him want to bolt again. But Malfoy was still there, and Harry wasn't sure if he could run away from him a second time, especially after all the things they'd said.

He wasn't sure if hewantedto.

.

It must've been past midnight already.

The flickering light of a single candle cast long, wavering shadows across the walls, distorting the patterns of the faded wallpaper. Even in the dancing light of the candle, the room had a stillness that felt almost unsettling, the air heavy with the weight of words both said and unsaid. The faint scent of dust and aged wood filled their lungs as they each attempted, and failed, to find peace in their makeshift sleeping arrangements. Amidst the stifling silence between them, Grimmauld Place had apparently noticed their exhaustion and had made sure to provide the bare minimum. Away with the drawing room and in with the… well, with the random, rickety bedroom—no extra blankets, no pillows beyond the ones on theonedouble bed they both studiously avoided looking at. Neither of them had even glanced at it when it appeared. It might as well have been invisible, as far as they were concerned.

And there was one bed.Harry rolled his eyes. For a second, he wondered if the bloody house had been reading those old, gaudy romantic novels that some Black member had hidden amidst the "13th Century Remedies for Mice, Lice and Ticks"section near the back of the Black library.

Not that he had read the books! He had just stumbled into them while organising the bloody library.

Harry decided to sit in a stiff lounge chair, arms folded tightly across his chest, one leg dangling off the edge as he tried to ignore the crick forming in his neck. Every creak of the floorboards, every groan of the house settling in the night, made his nerves prickle. His wand was tucked into the waistband of his denim trousers, and he found himself touching it occasionally, as though to reassure himself it was still there. His mind raced, flipping restlessly between the argument with Malfoy, Sirius's room, and the ever-present spectre of his regrets. No matter how much he tried to focus on the cracked ceiling above him, his thoughts kept circling back to Malfoy. The blonde was curled awkwardly on the two-seater sofa on the other side of the room, one arm slung over his eyes as if to block out everything around him. It was way too small for him, his long legs hung over the armrest, his body contorted in a way that made Harry wince just looking at it, not that his own position was any better.

Malfoy had been silent for so long that Harry wondered if he'd finally managed to fall asleep, but then he shifted, letting out a frustrated huff that echoed in the quiet room. The shared silence between them wasn't comfortable. It was thick and tense, like the aftermath of a storm where the air was still charged, waiting for something—anything—to break the stand-off. They both instinctively knew the house had forced them into this situation, its uncanny awareness of their mutual exhaustion and unease leaving them no choice but to stay in the same room. But that didn't make it any easier. If anything, it made it worse.

Harry's stomach churned. He wanted to say something, to break the silence, but every possible word felt inadequate. Malfoy had made it clear that he wouldn't appreciate any kind of apology, no matter how deserved it was, and casual conversation felt laughably out of place. So instead, Harry stared at the ceiling and tried to will himself into some semblance of calm.

Harry shifted in the lounge chair, trying to make himself comfortable, but the chair was clearly not designed for sleeping. The armrests dug into his sides whenever he tried to lean back, and the uneven springs creaked loudly with every movement. He exhaled through his nose, his eyes going back to the cracked ceiling above him. His body ached—not just from the chair, but from the absolute shitstorm of a day they've just had. His mind refused to quiet, replaying their argument on an endless loop.

The words they had hurled at each other felt like phantom bruises, lingering and sore. He wasn't sure which stung more—Malfoy's accusations or his own. There was a bitter truth in both, and it made Harry feel raw, as though the walls he'd spent years building around himself had been ripped away in mere minutes. He hated how exposed he felt, and he hated even more that Malfoy was the one who had done it.

He faced the wall, his back rigid, his breaths slow and measured. But he wasn't asleep—Harry knew that much. He could tell by the way Malfoy shifted occasionally, turning onto his back and letting his arm drop to his side, and then back to laying on his back. His sharp profile was illuminated by the faint glow of the candle, and Harry found his gaze drifting there despite himself. Malfoy's face was drawn, his features tense even in the supposed stillness of the moment, and Harry wished it detracted from his beauty. He looked as worn out as Harry felt, and for a fleeting second, Harry wondered what was going on in his head. Was he replaying the argument too? Was he regretting the things he'd said, or was he holding onto his anger like a lifeline?

Dinner had been strange. Sad, little cucumber sandwiches and pumpkin juice were manageable enough, though neither of them had touched the juice after the first sip—and Merlin was it strange to discover that neither of them liked the stuff. But it was the sticky tarte Tatin that lingered in Harry's mind, but not for any sane reason. He had watched, baffled, as Draco had taken a bite and his entire expression softened, his eyes brightening and his cheeks flushing—just for a moment, before he had schooled his features back into neutrality. Malfoy had wordlessly pushed the plate toward Harry, as though offering him a piece of something precious, and Harry, though hesitant, had taken it. The taste was unfamiliar but absolutely delicious, the sweetness of the pear balanced by the warm spiciness of the ginger. Sure, it was no treacle tart, but, for a brief moment, they had shared something unspoken, an exchange that felt almost… human.

But now, the silence stretched between them like a barrier neither of them knew how to cross.

Harry sighed quietly, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. "This is ridiculous," he muttered, mostly to himself.

"What is?" came Malfoy's voice, sharp and low. He didn't move, still facing the wall, but his tone carried the faintest edge of irritation.

"This," Harry said, gesturing vaguely around the room, even though Draco couldn't see him. "All of it. The house, us being here, the… the bed we're both pretending isn't there, the fact that I'm squashed in this bloody chair when there's a perfectly good alternative right in front of us."

Malfoy finally shifted, turning his head slightly to glance over his shoulder. His expression was unreadable in the dim light, but Harry could see the faint arch of his eyebrow.

"You want me to share a bed with you, Potter?" His tone was mocking, but it lacked the usual bite. "How forward, men usually offer me dinner first."

Harry rolled his eyes, though the comment still managed to send a flicker of heat up his neck and ears. "That's not what I meant, and you know it."

"Do I?" Malfoy said, his voice cheeky and softer now, almost teasing. He turned back toward the wall, but Harry could see the faintest hint of a smirk on his lips. "Because it sounded a lot like you were propositioning me, you deviant."

"Malfoy," Harry groaned, letting his head fall back against the chair. "You're ridiculous."

Malfoy didn't respond, but Harry could hear the faint huff of amusement that escaped him. The silence returned, but it felt… softer. Harry shifted again, trying to ease the ache in his back, but the chair seemed to protest louder with every movement.

After a moment, Malfoy spoke again, his voice quieter this time. "You're not going to sleep like that."

Harry looked over at him, surprised. Malfoy still had his back to him, but there was something in his tone that made Harry pause. It wasn't quite concern, but it wasn't derision, either. It was something in between, something hesitant and skittish, like a little mouse stealing a tiny piece of cheese in the dark.

"I'll manage," Harry said, though he didn't sound particularly convincing.

Malfoy sighed, the sound worn-out and resigned. "Potter, if you insist on martyring yourself over a chair, at least do it somewhere else. That creaking won't let me sleep either."

Harry stared at him, baffled. "You say you're trying to sleep, but you're lecturing me instead?"

Malfoy shifted again, rolling onto his back so he could glare at Harry properly. In the faint light from the hallway, his pale features were smooth, like sculpted marble, his expression exasperated. "I'm not lecturing you. I'm suggesting, for the sake of my own sanity and your poor back, that you stop making that infernal racket and do something practical. Like using the bed."

Harry snorted. "What, and leave you to that sofa?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "Oh, please. I've slept on worse."

Harry hesitated, torn between the instinct to argue and the curiosity of inquiring further, but the undeniable ache in his back decided for him. The bed did look more comfortable than the chair—or the sofa, for that matter. But the thought of actually using it felt… strange. Like admitting defeat. Or worse, inviting something he wasn't sure he was ready for.

"Fine," Harry said eventually, pushing himself up from the chair with a groan. "But only because I'm tired of listening to you complain."

Draco's lips twitched, but he said nothing as Harry crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed. It creaked slightly under his weight, but it was sturdy enough. He leaned back cautiously, his body tense, as though expecting the house to protest. When nothing happened, he let out a slow breath and allowed himself to relax—just a little.

Draco settled back onto the sofa, his movements slower now, less restless.

The quiet between them stretched through the night, punctuated only by the occasional groan from either of them shifting in their sleep. Harry lay on his back on the double bed, the mattress surprisingly soft beneath him, staring at the darkened ceiling. His mind spun relentlessly, replaying the day's events, each memory as sharp and vivid as the moment it had happened. He glanced at Malfoy, whose figure was a pale outline curled on the small sofa. His back was to Harry still, his breaths soft but uneven—Harry could tell he wasn't asleep. He doubted either of them would find much rest tonight. The brunt of their argument still hung between them, unresolved despite their earlier banter, festering like an old wound reopened and left untreated.

Harry exhaled through his nose, frustrated at his own inability to let go of it. Malfoy's words had cut him deeply, exposing parts of himself he hadn't wanted to think about, let alone confront. And yet, it wasn't just the anger that lingered. There was something else, something uncomfortable and unfamiliar, twisting in his chest whenever he thought about the raw honesty in Malfoy's voice. His very own heartbreak.

Across the room, Malfoy shifted again, letting out a soft sigh. His silhouette was rigid, his body still too tall for the sofa, his legs awkwardly bent. Harry frowned, the sight nagging at him. He wasn't sure why it bothered him so much—Malfoy had insisted on taking the sofa, after all—but the longer he lay there, the harder it was to ignore.

"Malfoy," Harry said quietly, his voice cutting through the stillness.

There was a long pause before Malfoy responded, his voice low and slightly hoarse. "What now, Potter?"

Harry hesitated, second-guessing himself, but the words spilled out anyway. "You're never going to sleep like that."

Malfoy let out a soft, humorless laugh. "Brilliant observation, as usual."

Harry propped himself up on one elbow, his brow furrowing. "I'm serious. That thing looks like it's about to fall apart, and you're too tall for it."

"Your concern is touching," Malfoy drawled, though the usual bite in his tone was absent. "But, in the wise words of Ms. Gloria Gaynor, I'll survive."

Harry blinked owlishly at the Muggle reference, perplexed at Malfoy's casual way of dropping it on Harry, as if he hadn't repudiated even the notion of denims during their school years. Shaking his head, he sighed, running a hand through his fluffed up hair. He didn't know why he cared so much, anyways, but he just couldn't shake the image of Malfoy, curled up and uncomfortable, trying to make himself smaller. It was so unlike the Draco Malfoy he remembered—arrogant, self-assured, larger than life—that it unsettled him.

"Just come to the bloody bed," Harry said finally, the words sounding awkward even to his own ears. "It's big enough for both of us."

Malfoy turned his head slightly, just enough for Harry to catch the faint glint of his eyes in the darkness. "Offering to share again, Potter? I'm beginning to think you are after my innocence."

Harry rolled his eyes, though his cheeks burned at Malfoy's repeated insinuations. "Don't make it weird, Malfoy. It's just a bed. And I'm not about to let you complain about being sore tomorrow."

Malfoy made a little choked sound, but didn't respond immediately, and Harry could feel him watching, as though trying to gauge his sincerity. He remained on the sofa, arms crossed defensively, his back as straight as the sagging piece of furniture allowed. The sofa creaked ominously under his weight, the sound drawing Harry's gaze to the precarious angle of its legs. The silence stretched on, charged and uncomfortable, broken only by the soft rustling of Harry shifting on the bed. Malfoy's refusal to move was as resolute as it was absurd. His body language screamed defiance, as if conceding to Harry's suggestion would be a greater defeat than enduring the night's discomfort in that rickety thing.

Then, without warning, the inevitable happened.

A sharpcrackrang out, splitting the quiet like a whip. The front legs of the sofa gave way with a violent jolt, sending Malfoy tumbling forward. His arms flailed briefly, scrambling to catch himself, but it was futile, and he crashed unceremoniously to the floor. He landed on the floor with a muffledthud, the sofa groaning ominously as the rest of it collapsed in slow motion behind him, its broken frame splayed out in a pathetic heap.

The thud reverberated through the room as Malfoy sprawled across the floor, his dignity shattered alongside the pathetic piece of furniture. He lay there for a moment, unmoving, as if willing the house to swallow him whole. Dust motes swirled in the air around him, the wreckage of the sofa a poignant statement to its refusal to cooperate with his stubbornness.

Harry froze for a beat, stunned by the sheer absurdity of the moment, before a laugh burst out of him—loud, unrestrained, and entirely unrepentant. "Well," he managed between gasps, clutching his stomach, "looks like the house agrees with me."

Malfoy groaned, his face pressed against the dusty floorboards. "I hate this bloody house," he muttered venomously, his voice muffled by the floor.

"And it hates you back," Harry quipped, his grin stretching wide as Malfoy lifted his head just enough to glare daggers at him. "Maybe it's trying to teach you some humility," Harry continued, still grinning and thorougly amused.

Malfoy glared harder, his cheeks red like apples and lips potuy, though his expression quickly shifted to one of weary defeat as he pushed himself upright. The sofa, now a pathetic heap of splintered wood and sagging upholstery, creaked ominously behind him—a warning, most likely. He stared at it for a long moment, as if willing it to magically fix itself, before letting out a long, beleaguered sigh.

"Fine," he muttered, brushing dust off his robes with sharp, jerky motions. "But if you even think about hogging the covers, Potter, I swear—"

"Yeah, yeah," Harry interrupted, scooting over to make room. "Just get in before the house decides to drop us on our heads again."

Malfoy's scowl deepened, but he said nothing, instead picking himself up with as much dignity as he could muster. He looked like he wanted to crawl up into a hole and die, but after a long, uneasy pause, he began to make his way toward the bed.

Harry shifted over, making room on the far side. "It's not cursed, you know," he said dryly, patting the mattress.

Malfoy stopped at the edge, his jaw tightening as if debating whether he could stand one last jab. "The bed, or you?" he fired back finally, his voice cool but strained.

"Both, unfortunately for you," Harry replied, his grin reappearing.

"Fine," he said, his tone clipped. "If you snore, I'm slappingSilencioon you."

Harry smirked faintly. "Right. Because hexing me has worked out so well for you in the past."

Malfoy muttered something under his breath—something that sounded suspiciously likeinsufferable, bespectacled git. He paused for another moment, as though considering whether this was truly a good idea or he should make a run for it, before ridding himself of his Oxfords and, climbing into the bed with the air of someone conceding a battle they hadn't wanted to fight in the first place. He stayed on the very edge of the mattress, his body rigid, as if putting any more distance between himself and Harry might undo the sting of the situation. They lay unnaturally on their backs in tense silence, their bodies stiff and carefully angled away from each other, as though the mere thought of contact might ignite another argument. The bed was wide enough to keep a safe distance, but the awareness of Malfoy's presence was impossible to ignore. Harry could feel the faint heat radiating from his side, could hear the soft rustle of Malfoy's breathing, and it made his skin prickle.

"See? Not so bad," Harry said after a moment, his voice softening slightly.

Malfoy huffed, but there was no real malice in it and the tight set of his shoulders loosened just a fraction. If anything, he sounded… tired. Worn down in a way that Harry recognised all too well.

Silence fell again, and, yet again, it felt slightly different. Harry was tired of keeping track of the types of silences that sprouted between them. It felt… not lighter, exactly, but less constricting. Harry found himself oddly relieved that Malfoy had spoken, hoping it was just to make a cheeky comment rather than something more profound. Cheek would be familiar, at least, and familiarity was something he could cling to in the midst of everything else. He was too tired for anything more heartfelt.

Malfoy, however, seemed intent on honesty today.

Eventually, though, Malfoy's voice broke the silence once more, soft and hesitating in the darkness of the night. "Potter, I—This house… it's not just you it's messing with."

Harry blinked, surprised by the admission. He turned his body to look at Malfoy, who was still staring at the ceiling, his expression carefully blank.

"What do you mean?" Harry asked, his voice low.

Malfoy let out a soft, humorless laugh. "I mean, this house isn't just dredging upyournightmares, Potter. It's got its claws in me, too."

Harry frowned, curling up slightly, unknowingly shuffling closer to Malfoy. "Like what?"

Malfoy's jaw tightened, his eyes flicking to Harry's briefly before darting away in a rush. "You've already seen, haven't you?" he said, his tone suddenly defensive, yet terribly vulnerable, and Harry couldn't help but imagine a wounded fox in a bear trap when he looked at him. A flash of Malfoy's childhood room, of cried and pleas flashed through Harry's mind, though he quickly shook his head to get rid of it. "I'm sure your heroic saviour complex will find a way to make it all about you anyway."

Offended, Harry bristled, his frustration bubbling to the surface. "For Merlin's sake, Malfoy, I'm just trying to—"

"To what?" Malfoy snapped, sitting up abruptly. He folded his legs up towards his chest and put his arms around them. He seemed to do that a lot, when he felt vulnerable. Was it to protect himself from the world, or to soothe a hurt he knew nobody would give him comfort for? Closing his stormy eyes, he leaned forward, his pale hair falling into his face. "To play the hero? Tofixme? Newsflash, Potter, not everything can be fixed. Least of all me."

Harry opened his mouth to retort, but the words died in his throat. Malfoy's eyes were liquid mercury once again, his usual mask of apathy cracked wide open for Harry to see behind, and all he could see was the raw edge of something tender just beneath the surface.

And it terrified him.

"I'm not trying to fix you," Harry said finally, his voice quieter. "I just… I don't know. I thought maybe it'd help if you talked about it."

Malfoy let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head before resting it against his knees, his eyes closed. "That's rich, coming from you. You're the one who's spent the entire day bottling everything up and pretending you're fine."

Harry flinched again, the words hitting a little too close to home. He wanted to argue, to defend himself, but he couldn't. Malfoy wasn't wrong.

They stared at each other for a long moment, the tension crackling between them like static electricity. Eventually, Malfoy sighed, running a hand through his hair as he untangled himself, and he turned on his side to lie on the mattress once more. "Forget it," he muttered. "This house is getting to both of us. Just… go to sleep, Potter."

Harry hesitated, torn between pushing further and letting it go. In the end, he nodded, settling back into his previous position in bed. The room was quiet again, the only sound the faint creak of the ceiling above them. The night stretched on, slow and unforgiving, as the house seemed to breathe around them. The room had grown colder, or perhaps that was just his own powerlessness suffocating him.

Harry turned his head slightly, hoping to not get caught, his gaze catching on Malfoy's outline. The blonde's pale hair glinted faintly in the dying candlelight, his face turned toward the wall next to him as though trying to shut out the world—or maybe Harry. His arms were folded tightly around himself once again, his legs bent towards his chest. For all his sharp words and arrogant demeanour, Malfoy looked… young. Or younger than he actually was, really. Not physically—he'd grown taller and prettier since their school days, and now stood around three inches above Harry, much to his mortification—but, at that moment, with the shadows clinging to him, he looked like someone weighed down by more than his body could carry. Harry swallowed hard and turned back to the ceiling, his thoughts a chaotic mess. He'd wanted to close the distance between them earlier, to say something meaningful, something that might ease the tension. But every time he opened his mouth, the words felt wrong—too clumsy, too inadequate. He wasn't sure what he was even trying to achieve. Malfoy wasn't his friend, wasn't someone he felt at ease, or even remotely comfortable, with.

And yet, Harry couldn't shake the gnawing feeling that he needed to try.

The house seemed to agree. The oppressive silence between them felt almost deliberate, as though Grimmauld Place was urging them to speak, to bridge the gap it had so carefully orchestrated. But neither of them moved. Neither of them spoke.

The chasm between them remained, and Harry hated how much it bothered him.

Once more, it was Malfoy who broke the silence. Slowly, he turned once again towards Harry, his curled up posture unchanged in its softness. His voice was smooth, almost velvety, and hesitant, which surprised Harry in the quiet room.

"Do you ever wonder," he began, his words slow and deliberate, "if it would've been better to just… disappear after the war?"

Harry turned his head sharply, his eyes narrowing as he tried to read Malfoy's expression. But the other man was still facing away, his voice detached, as though he were speaking to the room rather than to Harry.

"Disappear?" Harry echoed, his voice raspy and just as hesitant as Malfoy's.

Malfoy let out a humorless laugh, the sound barely more than a breath.

"You wouldn't understand. Everyone wanted their piece of you after the war. They still do. You're… untouchable. The darling of the wixen world, adored by the masses. But for people like me…" He trailed off, his voice tight with something Harry couldn't quite place.

Harry frowned, his chest tightening. "People like you?"

Malfoy turned then, his silvery grey eyes locking onto Harry's. They were soft and striking, and there was that something that Harry couldn't quite identify in the dark. "Yes, Potter. People like me. People who spent the war on the wrong side. People who had to claw their way out of the mess their families dragged them into, only to find that no one will ever let them forget it."

Harry opened his mouth to respond, but Malfoy pressed on, his voice gaining confidence.

"You think it's over, don't you? After the war? That everyone just gets to move on, to be normal again? That the world is now reformed and better to live in? Maybe for your lot that's true. But for me—for people like me—it never ends. Everywhere I go, I see the way they look at me," his voice cracked slightly, and he closed his eyes, his jaw tightening as though trying to rein himself back in. "They look at me and refuse me entrance to stores, move their children away as if I was a leper… I can't even look for a decent job to provide for my mother without people demanding to see my Mark."

Harry sat up straighter in his chair, his heart pounding. He didn't know what to say, didn't know how to respond to the naked honesty in Malfoy's words. It was the first time he'd ever heard him speak like this, without the usual layers of sharp coldness and arrogance. He sounded vulnerable, yes, but also lost. So very lost.

Harry understood that.

"I…" Harry started, his voice faltering. "I don't think it's over. Not for me, either."

Malfoy's head snapped back toward him, his mercurial eyes narrowing in suspicion. "Oh, really? Tell me, Potter, what exactly hauntsyou? What could the great Chosen One possibly have left to atone for?"

Harry flinched, but he held Malfoy's gaze.

"Plenty," he said quietly. "I may not have a Dark Mark, but I have my very own mark," he pointed towards his famous lighting-shaped scar, the pale lines that travelled from his forehead and cut into his right eyebrow, down and almost hitting his eyelid. "And… I've done things I can't forgive myself over. Things I'll never be able to forget, or atone for. The war didn't just take people from me—it turned me into someone I don't even recognise half the time."

Malfoy stared at him, his expression unreadable, almost foreign in his angular face. For a moment, Harry thought he might laugh or throw another snide comment his way before turning away to sleep. But then Malfoy's shoulders slumped, and he leaned back against the bed-frame, his head tilting up toward the ceiling.

"Maybe we're both cursed, then," Draco said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

Harry didn't respond, but he felt the weight of Malfoy's words settle in his chest. They lay in silence for a long while, the house creaking softly around them in its own eerie lullaby. The chasm between them was still there, but maybe, just maybe, it wasn't quite as wide as it had been. He had never expected Malfoy to be one for deep conversations in the dark, and he had certainly never imagined he'd be receptive to these conversations with him. Had never thought them to give each other a chance like this. But… it felt liberating, kind of. As much as he loved his friends and found family, they were not immune to the Boy-Who-Lived ideal. The Weasleys, particularly, tended to treat him as a celebrity, a hero, someone above normal wix.

He just wanted to be Harry.

And, the realisation that Malfoy was one of the few people—and probably the first—to treat him like a normal bloke rather than an idealised persona, was sobering in ways Harry didn't feel ready to explore yet.

Closing his eyes with a sigh, he rested his head against the pillow. Sleep still eluded him, but for the first time that day, he didn't feel entirely alone.

As the minutes dragged on, the uncomfortable tension in the room began to ease, settling into something quieter, something fragile. The silence wasn't comfortable or companionable—not yet—but it no longer felt like it was suffocating them in its hostility. It was as though all their earlier words, jagged and raw and vulnerable as they'd been, had chipped away at some of the walls they'd both spent more than a decade building.

Harry's eyes remained shut, though his mind refused to quiet. Malfoy's words replayed in his head, weaving in and out of his own guilt and regrets.Maybe we're both cursed.The phrase clung to him, wrapping itself around his thoughts like a vine. He had spent so long feeling like the weight of the war was his alone to bear, but hearing Malfoy's admission had shaken something in him. He had never truly considered what it must have been like for Malfoy—what it was still like.

Next to him, Malfoy shifted again, letting out a frustrated sigh. He had been still for longer than Harry expected, and the sudden movement drew his attention. Harry opened his eyes just enough to see Malfoy looking at him, his face resting on his arm as he stared at Harry with the same unreadable look from before. The dim light from the flickering candle cast shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp planes of his cheeks and the dark hollows under his eyes. With a startle, Harry noticed that Malfoy had a little mole under his right eye and a small, silvery scar on the left side of his chin.

"Malfoy," Harry said suddenly this time, his voice cutting through the quiet of the night. It wasn't sharp, though—just… tired.

Malfoy blinked, the softness of his features morphing into a tired mask. It wasn't a good one, not by a long shot. Harry could still see his earlier softness in his eyes.

"Yes?"

Harry didn't look away from him, his gaze remaining fixed on that small mole. "Do you ever feel like…" He trailed off, his lips pressing into a thin line before he forced himself to continue. "Like no matter what you do, it'll never be enough?"

Malfoy stared at him, clearly taken aback by the question, but too tired to react more openly; he had been on the brink of sleep, it seems. Still, the look in Malfoy's face told Harry that the blond wasn't sure what he'd expected Harry to say, but it certainly wasn'tthat. For a moment, it seemed like Malfoy didn't know how to respond. But then Harry saw the way his shoulders tensed, as though bracing for Harry to mock him or dismiss him entirely, and the words came out before he could think twice.

"All the time," Malfoy admitted softly.

Harry's head surged forward slightly, his green eyes locking onto Draco's. For a moment, they simply stared at each other, their shared admission hanging heavy in the air.

"I thought you'd say no," Harry said finally, his tone tinged with something not even he couldn't quite place.

Malfoy gave a small, humorless laugh. "Why would I say no? I've spent most of my life trying to live up to everyone's expectations. And failing. Repeatedly."

Harry frowned, his brows knitting together. "What do you mean?" he said, equally as soft.

Draco's lips twitched into a small, almost self-deprecating smile as he shook his head lightly, the faint movement stirring a few stray strands of blond hair. "I didn't save my parents. In the end, what good did I do? Like you said, I'm a spineless coward, just like my father."

Harry flinched back at the reminder of his own targeted remarks against Malfoy.

"That's not true," Harry said quietly, his voice rougher than he intended. "You—" he faltered, unsure how to phrase what he wanted to say without it sounding hollow. "You're not your father. You could've stayed on their side, but you didn't. You saved me, more than once.Youmade those choices, and those choices matter."

Malfoy's eyes flicked up to Harry's, a shadow of something complicated passing through them—disbelief, maybe, or doubt. "That's rich coming from you," he said, though there was no bite in the words, they sounded wistful. "The great Harry Potter, telling me choices matter when you've spent most of your life being lauded as a hero, no matter what you did."

"That's not how it feels," Harry muttered, looking away, his hands balling into fists in the worn fabric of the duvet.

Malfoy tilted his head slightly, studying Harry as if trying to read something in the lines of his face.

"No?"

Harry exhaled through his nose, his jaw tightening. He could feel Malfoy's eyes on him, mellow with exhaustion but somehow still managing to pin him in place, and it made him want to look away, but he didn't. Instead, he fixed his gaze on a that small mole against pale skin again.

"No," Harry said finally, his voice low and heavy. "It's like… no matter what I do, it'll never be enough to make up for all the people I couldn't save."

"You saved the world from a megalomanic mass murderer," replied Malfoy, disbelieving and poignant.

Harry rolled his head forward, hiding half his face in the pillow.

"Saving the world didn't bring anyone back, did it? It didn't save Remus. Or Dobby. Or Tonks. Or Fred. Or—" He stopped himself, the lump in his throat making it impossible to continue. He didn't need to say the name. He didn't need to saySirius.

Couldn't.

Malfoy's gaze warmed, just barely, as he studied Harry's profile. He didn't offer any words of comfort—he wouldn't know how, even if he wanted to—but his expression wasn't as guarded as it usually was. There was something almost understanding in the way he looked at Harry, something that made Harry feel a little less exposed. He had never told this to Ron, or Hermione. He knew they'd understand, but, for some reason

"I told you," Draco said after a long pause, his voice fuzzy with sleep. "Cursed, the both of us."

Harry let out a slow breath, nodding. "Yeah, you did."

As the darkness settled fully into the room, the creaking and groaning of Grimmauld Place seemed to grow quieter, as if the house itself was watching, waiting. The candle on the table flickered one last time before sputtering out, plunging the room into darkness. Harry heard Malfoy shift next to him again, the sound of the springs creaking under his weight. Across the room, Malfoy let out another soft sigh, the sound barely audible over the stillness. He was exhausted—bone-deep, soul-deep exhausted. He needed to sleep.

The bed was warm, and soon, he found himself snuggling further into his pillow. Listening to Malfoy's even breathing, Harry finally allowed himself to close his eyes.

.

My face cast for young Walburga was Lily-Rose Depp, btw! And after seeing her in Nosferatu, she has solidified to me as Walburga Black when young!

"...For grief, and all in middle street the Queen,
Who rode by Lancelot, wailed and shrieked aloud,
"This madness has come on us for our sins."
So to the Gate of the three Queens we came,
Where Arthur's wars are rendered mystically,
And thence departed every one his way…"

Excerpt from "The Holy Grail" (1862), Idylls of the King [1859-1885, Lord Alfred Tennyson
Link: ./camelot/text/tennyson-the-holy-grail