The Moment Harry Lets Go
Peter's words lingered in the air, thick with intent.
You're mine now, sweetheart.
Harry could have laughed.
Could have brushed it off.
Could have run.
But he didn't.
Because for once—for once—he didn't want to.
He was so tired of running.
So tired of pretending he didn't want this.
So instead of pulling away—
He met Peter's gaze, steady and unflinching.
And smirked.
"Oh?" Harry said, voice quiet but teasing. "And what exactly does that mean, Hale?"
Peter's eyes darkened, his smirk growing sharper. "It means you can stop pretending."
Harry hummed, tilting his head. "Pretending what?"
Peter took a step closer, until there was nothing between them.
"That you don't belong here," Peter murmured. "That you don't want to be ours. That you don't want me."
Harry's breath hitched, but he didn't deny it.
Because he couldn't.
Because Peter was right.
Damn him.
So Harry did the only thing he could do.
He closed the distance—just enough to be bold, but not enough to surrender.
And whispered, "You think you know everything, don't you?"
Peter chuckled, voice rich with amusement. "Oh, sweetheart," he murmured, eyes gleaming. "I know you."
And that?
That was far more dangerous than any magic Harry had ever wielded.