The nighttime corridors of Hogwarts had never been the most pleasant place to wander. But tonight, their ominous silence carried a tangible threat. Harry Potter tried to walk slowly, deliberately, but his feet kept quickening against his will. Though students were strictly forbidden to roam the castle after curfew, he sometimes allowed himself these secret walks — sleep had always been elusive for him. A relic of his wartime past. Oddly enough, the dark, winding halls of the castle had a strange calming effect on him, helping him sort through his thoughts. After these midnight excursions, he usually slept better than ever.
But tonight, there was no peace. Instead, with every step, his unease grew heavier. Even the bluish glow of Lumos trembling across the rounded stones of the ancient walls seemed to shiver with fear. Harry, who'd long learned to trust his instincts, couldn't take it anymore — he broke into a run.
He rounded the next corner and froze.
His fists clenched instinctively. Something dark stirred inside him.
Malfoy — battered, pale, streaks of blood drying on his face — leaned weakly against the wall, eyes half-lidded, looking seconds away from collapse. Around him, a trio of Slytherins — Goyle's bulky frame, Nott's lanky silhouette, and Zabini's wiry shadow — hissed insults into his face. Nott reached out, fingers curling toward the collar of Malfoy's robe with unmistakable malice.
Harry let out a sharp, furious cry — drawing their attention — and yanked his wand free.
The three spun around, startled, hesitation flickering in their eyes. Nott raised his own wand with a scowl, but his grip lacked conviction.
"Piss off, Potter!"
"Go ahead, Nott. Take a shot at the national hero. I dare you," Harry's voice dripped with adrenaline and barely contained rage. "After that, Azkaban's practically guaranteed. And your little friends here? They'll be joining you."
The Slytherins stood frozen. None of them dared lay a finger on the Boy Who Lived.
"Get out. Now." Gryffindor nobility had its limits — especially when faced with bullies ganging up on one defenseless person. Harry's breath came ragged through gritted teeth as he fought to leash the snarling beast rising inside him.
Muttering curses under their breath, the three turned and began to shuffle toward the dungeons.
"Stop!" Harry's shout echoed down the corridor. He'd just noticed — Malfoy's hands were empty. "Where's his wand? Give it back. Now."
Nott turned, sneering, and flung Draco's wand at his feet with a contemptuous spit.
"Don't get your hopes up, pretty boy. This isn't over."
And just like that, they vanished into the shadows.
—
"Potter, fuck off. I've got this," Draco spat blood into Moaning Myrtle's sink, tongue probing a loose tooth, as Harry half-dragged him into the bathroom.
"I can see exactly how 'got this' you are," Harry muttered, eyes scanning the split lip and bruised cheekbone with growing worry. "Let me heal you."
"Potter. Which part of 'fuck off' is too complex for your tiny brain?"
"I want to help, Malfoy."
"Go help your ginger in bed. Wrap it up."
How did this ferret always manage to unravel him with just a few words? Harry grabbed him by the collar and slammed him back against the white tile — but instead of fighting back, Draco just tilted his head back and closed his eyes. He didn't resist. He didn't even react. It was as if he'd already surrendered. Blood trickled from his lip and cheek, his dark lashes sealed him off from the world, and the waxen pallor of his face looked almost… lifeless.
Something inside Harry clenched — fear, pity, something he couldn't name.
"Malfoy… what the hell?" he whispered, as if speaking too loudly might break him.
Draco didn't open his eyes. Harry's fingers, still gripping the lapels of his robe, slowly loosened. He stared dumbly at the wrinkles he'd left behind in the fabric.
"Malfoy," he said softly, placing his hands on Draco's shoulders and giving him a gentle shake. "Look at me. Draco."
"What do you even want from me, Potter?" Draco's voice was hollow, drained of everything but exhaustion. "Wanna fuck me? Fine. Do it and get it over with."
"Malfoy, what the— Have you lost your mind?" Harry recoiled, blinking rapidly. "Or did they… wait, did they actually—?"
Draco jerked away violently — but Harry caught him again. This time, his grip wasn't angry. It was pleading. Desperate. Firm.
"Don't go. Please. Don't leave."
Draco stilled in his arms, submitting silently, bracing for whatever came next.
Harry didn't know what to do. He was terrified to let his old enemy walk away — but he had no idea how to fix this. So he stammered, staring into those empty gray eyes:
"Malfoy. Draco. I don't know what to say to make you stay. I really don't. But I can't let you go like this. Please… understand."
And then — without thinking — he pulled Draco into a tight embrace, pressing the blond head against his shoulder, stroking his hair gently, like you would a frightened kitten.
"Please. Let me help."
Draco didn't pull away. He didn't fight. He just stood there, limp and quiet, letting Harry hold him. One hand kept him anchored close; the other continued to stroke through soft, silken strands.
Then — Harry felt it. A tremor. A shudder running through those thin shoulders.
He'd seen Draco cry once before. It hadn't ended well — for either of them.
This time, he swore it would be different.
"Shh, shh," Harry murmured into the pale hair, smoothing over trembling shoulder blades. "We'll get through this. You won't be alone anymore. I promise."
He held the fragile, trembling boy against him, and something warm and sharp bloomed in his chest — pity, compassion, and a strange, stubborn hope.
After a few minutes, Draco let out one last shaky breath, wiped his eyes, and pulled back slightly. His voice was hoarse, worn thin.
"What do you want from me, Potter?"
And Harry — reckless, impulsive, diving headfirst — blurted:
"I want to be your friend."
"Couldn't you have picked a worse time?" Draco gave a humorless smirk. "I offered you that once. Twice, actually. You said no. I don't ask again. Conversation over."
"I know. That's why I'm asking you now," Harry said, staring intently, searching for any flicker of agreement. "I'm offering you my friendship."
"I don't need your fucking pity. Or your friendship. It's too late. Are you dense, or just pretending?"
Draco shoved him lightly with his shoulder and staggered toward the door.
Harry watched him go, heart aching. Where did he get this much pride? Anyone else in his position would've given up long ago. But this bastard? He sneers. He refuses the only lifeline left.
Two more weeks, and they'll kill him. If not kill him — cripple him. Rape him. Break him. Nott's narrowed, hateful eyes promised nothing good. Harry knew too well what it felt like to carry the weight of everyone's hatred. He'd had friends beside him — people who held him up. Draco had no one. One against all. Especially against Slytherins who, after the war, had nothing left to lose.
And still — this stubborn idiot refused his help.
A strange mix of admiration and dread propelled Harry forward. In two strides, he blocked the doorway, standing squarely in Draco's path.
Draco looked up at him, weary, unreadable. The blood on his lip had dried into a thin crimson line, giving his pale face an almost vampiric, otherworldly look.
"Still not getting it, Potty? Still not computing? Need me to spell it out for you?"
Harry didn't budge.
"Malfoy. Say whatever you want. But I won't let anything happen to you." Suddenly, his eyes sparkled with mischief — an idea had struck. He added casually, "Don't wanna be friends? Fine. I'll handle it anyway."
The determined edge in Harry's voice made Draco flinch.
"What the hell are you scheming now, idiot?"
Harry grinned, clearly pleased with himself.
"I'll tell everyone…" — he hesitated for just a second, gaze flicking to a long crack in the tile — then straightened, voice firm — "I'll tell everyone I'm in love with you. There. Happy?" He exhaled in one rush, grinning defiantly into Draco's stunned face. "That way, if I follow you everywhere and hover like a lovesick puppy, no one'll think twice. And no one will dare touch you."
Draco's gray eyes flew wide — then narrowed dangerously.
"Potter, did you hit your head recently? Did you fall off a broomstick as a kid and never notice?"
"No brooms in my childhood, Malfoy. And you can hiss all you want. I meant what I said. I'm doing it." Harry looked absurdly proud of himself, beaming at his longtime rival like he'd just won the House Cup.
"Don't you dare, you Gryffindor bastard!" Draco looked ready to throttle him on the spot.
But Harry only grinned wider.
"I love you too, Malfoy." He was already slipping into character.
Draco shut his eyes and groaned. He knew Harry too well. Once an idea took root in that stubborn, messy-haired skull, there was no digging it out — not with logic, not with threats, not even with curses.
"May the day you crossed my path be cursed, Potter. May the day I first spoke to you be cursed. May the—"
He never finished his dramatic tirade.
Because the damned Potter just clapped him cheerfully on the shoulder, winked with infuriating promise, and vanished down the corridor — leaving Draco standing there, fists clenched, seething in helpless, furious silence.