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heated rivalry

#harry potter #draco lucius malfoy #draco malfoy #drarry #harco #harry james potter #art #heated rivalry #hpdm #hpdm fanart

Trick or treat? Happy Halloween! 🍁🍁🍁

#harry potter #draco lucius malfoy #draco malfoy #harco #drarry #harry james potter #art

Evil Draco Malfoy-Potter, Harry Potter's husband, is the scariest thing in the world lol

#harry potter #draco lucius malfoy #draco malfoy #drarry #harco #harry james potter #art #harry potter art #hp fanart #draco x harry #draco bottom #sassy Draco

Should I draw a series of autumn drarry?...

The fireplace at the Granger-Weasley home blazed like a dragon's maw, spewing tongues of scarlet flame that licked the soot-blackened bricks, leaving behind ghostly imprints. Shadows, born from this hellish light, darted across the walls like the souls of the damned, trapped between worlds. Hermione sat at a massive oak table that now resembled a battlefield—strewn with scrolls like fallen warriors and books splayed open like wounds. Her fingers, usually so sure, now nervously traced the edge of a piece of parchment, leaving barely noticeable traces of moisture upon it—mute witnesses to a sleepless night.

"You're late," her voice cut sharply, like the crack of a whip, making Harry flinch. She looked up at them, and in her brown eyes, usually so clear, Harry saw a whole storm of emotions—anxiety, like a fine web spun in the corners of her eyes, and horror, carefully hidden behind a mask of rationality, yet still seeping through it like an inkblot on parchment. "I found the answer. And you won't like it."

Draco froze on the threshold, as if he'd turned into one of those marble statues that adorned the gardens of Malfoy Manor. His long, elegant fingers dug into the wooden doorjamb with such force that his knuckles turned white, resembling cemetery headstones. His silver eyelashes trembled, casting tiny shadows onto his sharply defined cheekbones—pale as moonlight on snow.

"Speak," his voice sounded unnaturally even, like the surface of a lake on a windless night, but Harry, who knew him far better than he cared to admit, heard the undercurrents within it—fear, anger, despair.

Hermione stood up, her movements sharp, as if her body resisted every step. She ran a hand over her face, brushing away non-existent dust—a gesture of fatigue Harry had never noticed in her before.

"It's not just a temporal anomaly," her voice trembled like a reed under the pressure of a hurricane. "It's a rift between worlds. If Harry doesn't return by midnight…"

She fell silent, her gaze sliding to Harry, filled with such pity that a coldness settled inside him, as if someone had poured a bucket of ice water down his collar. Her lips, usually so firm and confident, trembled as she finally forced out the words:

"Then both worlds will begin to collapse. And I found out why the mirror broke in Harry's world. It won't work if there are things left unsaid between the partners. It just… won't activate. And if romantic feelings are involved, which both deny…" she paused, her fingers gripping the edge of the table until her knuckles turned white, "it can explode."

Harry felt the floor drop from under his feet, as if someone had yanked the rug out from under him. His palms grew clammy with sweat, and his own pulse pounded in his ears—loud as a drumroll before an execution.

"You mean…" his voice dropped to a whisper, his face turned pale as the parchment of an ancient manuscript left in the sun.

Hermione suddenly smiled—a warm, almost maternal smile that seemed out of place amidst the universal horror, like a flower breaking through a crack in the asphalt.

"It's simple. In your world, you love Draco. Draco loves you. That's the whole secret."

The silence that followed these words hung in the room, thick and heavy like London smog, filling every corner, every gap between the books, every fold of their clothes. Harry turned to Draco—he stood motionless, staring into the fireplace, his profile seeming as if carved from stone by an ancient master. Orange highlights played on his high cheekbones, emphasizing an unnatural pallor—not marble-like, but rather akin to the wax used for funeral candles.

"How… do we get him back?" asked Draco, without turning his head. His voice sounded muffled, as if coming from the depths of a cave where an echo repeats words but strips them of all feeling.

Hermione sighed, adjusting her glasses. Her fingers trembled as she pushed a strand of hair away—this gesture, usually so habitual, now looked almost ceremonial, like the final movement before an execution.

"You need to repeat the ritual in front of the mirror. But there's a condition…" her gaze shot straight into Harry's eyes, piercing like an icy needle, "you must sincerely want to return. Not just understand the necessity, but truly want to. With all your soul. With all your heart."

Harry clenched his fists so hard that his nails dug into his palms, leaving red half-moons—marks that seemed to scream of his inner turmoil. A real storm was raging in his chest, comparable only to those raised by Voldemort in his days of power—he had seen what his world could be like. He had seen what Draco could be like. These memories burned within him brighter than the fire in the hearth, leaving burns on his soul that, he knew, would never heal.

When Hermione retreated to the kitchen for water, her footsteps sounding like hammer blows on an anvil, Harry took a step toward Draco. His heart was pounding so hard it seemed audible in the room's silence—loud, arrhythmic, like the drumbeat of a savage before battle.

"Listen," he began, his voice betraying him by trembling like a leaf in the wind. "If I… in my world… if I wanted to…" the words stuck in his throat like fish bones, sharp and relentless.

Draco slowly turned his head. His silver eyebrows, elegant as moth wings, shot up.

"I beg you, Potter," his lips twitched in a near-smile, but his eyes remained serious, deep as a pool in a forest lake, "spit it out."

Harry took a deep breath, feeling the air burn his lungs as if he were inhaling fire, not oxygen.

"If I wanted to court you," he blurted out in one breath, like a spell that cannot be uttered in parts, "where would I start?"

The silence that followed this question was so loud it rang in his ears like a bell toll after an explosion. Draco stared at him with wide eyes—his gray irises seemed almost transparent in the firelight, like smoky quartz through which one could see the soul. His lips, pink and slightly chapped from excitement, parted, revealing a straight line of white teeth—perfect, like pearls in a queen's necklace.

"You…" he paused, and in that pause, a whole eternity fit, "are you serious?"

"Absolutely," Harry felt heat spread across his cheeks like molten gold, filling every pore. His green eyes, usually so clear, now burned with determination, like emeralds in torchlight. "I saw what you could be like. And now… I want to try."

Draco laughed—sincerely, without the usual sarcasm. The sound of his laughter filled the room like the chime of crystal bells shattering the icy silence.

"Well, firstly," he crossed his arms over his chest, adopting a pose Harry had seen a thousand times at Hogwarts, but which now looked different—not defensive, but rather… expectant, "you'll have to stop calling me 'Malfoy' in a tone that suggests it's a curse. As if you're biting into a piece of rotten meat. I know that's what you call me here. But I'll wager in your world you still use my surname."

"Draco," Harry tried the name on his tongue, and it felt surprisingly right, like a key fitting a lock that had been considered rusted shut for decades.

"Secondly," Draco pondered, his long fingers began to drum on his own elbow—rhythmically, like a woodpecker on a tree, "I can't stand it when people touch my books without asking. Especially the first edition of Edmund Grunt's 'Dark Arts.' And being late. Punctuality is the politeness of kings, as my father said. And if you ever call my father an 'old snake' in my presence…"

"I think I can restrain myself," the corners of Harry's lips twitched into a smile that began in the depths of his emerald eyes and slowly crept down, like the sun below the horizon.

Draco continued, and a mischievous glint appeared in his eyes, like a child planning a mischief they're sure will be forgiven:

"I also like black coffee. No sugar. No milk. None of those silly foams they like to smear on top. And I hate being disturbed while reading. Especially if it's the middle of a sentence… And especially if it's something important."

"Wait," Harry frantically reached into his robe pocket, pulling out a crumpled piece of parchment and a piece of graphite that left black marks on his fingers, like ash after a fire. "Slower, I'm writing this down."

Draco snorted but patiently dictated, stretching out the words like a candy he wanted to savor:

"Coffee—only black, like a night in the Slytherin dungeon. Chocolate—dark, at least seventy percent, so it's bitter. Flowers—white lilies, but not the kind they put on graves, I'm not dead yet, after all. Although," he thought, "daffodils are acceptable too. Gifts—books or something useful, none of that sentimental nonsense like hearts and plush owls. Although…" His gaze became dreamy, "a first edition of something rare, I wouldn't refuse to accept that."

Harry diligently wrote it all down, occasionally looking up to capture not just the words, but also the expression on Draco's face—how his lips curved into a half-smile, how his silver eyelashes cast shadows on his cheeks, how his voice softened when he spoke about books.

"And most importantly," suddenly Draco's face became serious, as in a theater when the curtain falls and the actors stop pretending, "if you're really set on this… be prepared for my father to give you hell. A real one, with cauldrons and pitchforks. And that's if we're lucky, and he doesn't call all his acquaintances who avoided Azkaban from the Ministry for help."

"I survived Voldemort," Harry smirked, carefully folding the parchment and tucking it inside his robes, right next to his heart, where it warmed like a living thing. "I think I can handle your father. Although…" he paused, "maybe we should start with something less extreme? A cup of coffee, for example?"

"Harry," Draco suddenly said quietly, so quietly it was more a movement of his lips than a sound, as if he feared loud words would shatter the fragile moment like a crystal glass. "Do you really want to go back? To… try?"

Harry involuntarily remembered the memory vials standing on the shelf. He remembered their shared smiles—sincere, unfamiliar to him in reality. Their intertwined fingers—his, tanned and scarred, and Draco's—pale, elegant, but just as strong. How happy they could have been… And he nodded, feeling something warm and heavy nestling in his chest, like a cat settling down for the night.

"Yes. I have to try. Besides, when I return to my world, your Harry will return to you."

Draco took a deep breath, his chest rising under the thin fabric of his shirt, which clung to his body like a second skin. He closed his eyes for a moment—a moment as long as a century, as short as a sigh—as if gathering strength for a final leap.

"Then let's go. Hermione has probably got everything ready by now. And if we don't hurry," his lips trembled, "this world will fall apart like a house of cards in a hurricane."

The return journey turned out to be simpler than they had expected, but more terrifying than they could have imagined. Hermione had already set up the mirror in the center of the living room, surrounding it with complex runic circles that glowed with a dull blue light, like fireflies in the fog. The air above them shimmered, as over a sun-scorched stone in the desert, distorting the outlines of objects, making them ghostly, unreal.

"Are you sure?" she asked, adjusting her glasses, behind which her eyes seemed huge, like an owl's. Her fingers trembled as she handed him a glass of water—the glass shook so much that the water sloshed like a sea before a storm. "In your world, you've been unconscious for almost a day. Ron is in a panic, everyone thinks you've been cursed. Your…" she hesitated, "your Draco even came to the hospital. Sat by your bed. Didn't let anyone near. Even apologized because he thinks it's his fault."

Harry felt a stab of guilt—sharp as a knife and warm like blood seeping from a wound. The image of his friends worrying about him squeezed his heart like a vice. But another image—of Draco sitting by his bed—made his heart beat faster, like a bird in a cage.

"I have to go back," he said, and in that moment, he knew it was true. He truly wanted to. He wanted to see his Draco. He wanted to try. He wanted…

He turned to Draco. He stood two steps away, his face an impassive mask, but his fingers were clutching the folds of his robes so tightly that the fabric was about to tear, exposing everything hidden beneath.

"Don't say goodbye," said Harry, and his lips stretched into a smile that didn't reach his eyes, like the moon visible during the day—pale, almost transparent. "We'll see each other again. Somewhere else. At another time. In… in my world. And you'll see me in yours."

Draco snorted, but there was something warm in his eyes, something Harry had never seen in his own world—as if someone had lit a candle in a dark room everyone thought was abandoned.

"Good luck, Potter." His voice sounded almost tender, like the whisper of wind in the leaves. "You'll need a lot of patience. And courage. And possibly firewhisky. Lots of firewhisky."

Harry took a step toward the mirror—and the world around him swam, spun, dissolved in a whirlwind of light and color, like watercolor in the rain…

He came to with a sharp pain in his temples, as if someone had driven a red-hot nail into his skull. Ron's voice called to him through the fog, as if from under a thick layer of water—distant, distorted, but so familiar:

"Harry! Harry, can you hear me? Blimey, if you don't answer, I thought…"

He slowly opened his eyes, feeling his eyelids heavy as lead shutters. The white ceiling of St. Mungo's ward swam before his eyes like a ghostly vision. Ron's face, twisted with anxiety, leaned over him—his freckles looked like dark spots against a deathly pallor. Hermione grabbed his hand, her fingers cold and trembling like leaves in the wind.

"What… what happened?" his voice sounded hoarse, as after a long silence, like the creak of unoiled hinges.

Ron sighed heavily, his red eyebrows, usually so cheerful, were now drawn together in a single line of worry.

"You collapsed in the Department of Mysteries, mate. Were out for a whole day. We thought…" his voice trembled like a reed in the wind, "we thought you wouldn't wake up. Draco even…" he faltered, exchanging a look with Hermione.

His hand reached for his pocket—inside lay a crumpled parchment with precious notes that, it turned out, he had managed to carry across the boundary of worlds. The first step toward something new. Toward someone who had always been nearby, but whom he had never truly seen.

Until he ended up in a world where their fates were woven differently. And now, having returned, he knew—this story was only just beginning.

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

#harry potter #draco lucius malfoy #draco malfoy #drarry #harco #harry james potter #art #fanfic #ao3 #ao3 fanfic

The morning found them on the doorstep of the Granger-Weasley home. Harry nervously fiddled with the cuff of his shirt – the very one Draco had handed him that morning, carrying the faint scent of lavender soap. London fog enveloped the street, giving everything around it blurred, unreal outlines.

"Are you ready?" Draco stood beside him, his fingers clenching and unclenching the handle of his umbrella. Yesterday's melancholy had been replaced by tense composure, but Harry noticed the corner of his mouth trembling.

"No," Harry answered honestly. "How can I be ready to explain to Hermione that I'm not… her Harry?"

Draco let out a sharp breath through his nose – almost a laugh, but without a trace of amusement.

"Believe me, she's seen far stranger things."

He raised his hand but hesitated before the owl-shaped door knocker, suddenly uncertain. At that moment, the door swung open by itself, and Hermione stood before them – but not the one Harry knew. Her hair was neatly styled in an elaborate updo, and instead of her usual jeans and sweater, she wore an elegant burgundy dress. But what struck him most were her eyes – they looked at Draco not with hatred, but with… concern.

"Finally!" She grabbed Harry's arm and pulled him into the house. "I was starting to worry. Draco said you…"

Her words cut off as she looked closely at his face. Hermione's eyes narrowed, and Harry felt a familiar tingling sensation – she was using a light "Legilimency."

"Oh my god," she whispered, taking a step back. "It's true. You're… not him."

The living room they entered was cozy but completely unlike the one Harry remembered. Photographs stood on the mantelpiece: Hermione and Ron with children, he himself with Draco on some beach… and one that made Harry's breath catch – all of them together, Ron grinning with an arm around Draco's shoulders.

"Sit down," Hermione pointed to the sofa, then turned sharply to Draco. "You too. Tell me everything from the beginning."

They talked for a long time. Harry – about the mirror in the Department of Mysteries, about the flash of light. Draco – about how Harry had frightened him that morning. Hermione listened, occasionally inserting precise questions that made them both fall silent and exchange glances.

"So, you claim that in your world, you and Draco…" she paused, searching for the word.

"Hate each other?" Draco snorted. "Yes, that sounds plausible."

Hermione stood up and began pacing the room, her fingers twisting a strand of hair – a habit that had survived from her school days.

"Temporal anomalies aren't uncommon after the war, but this…" she stopped in front of Harry. "You have to understand, everything is different here. After the Battle of Hogwarts…"

"He knows," Draco interrupted. "I already told him about the wand."

Hermione nodded, but her gaze became distant, as if she were looking through them into some faraway past.

"You didn't abandon him," she said quietly to Harry. "When everyone turned their backs on the Malfoys… you testified in their defense. You saved Draco from Azkaban."

Harry felt his face burn. He looked at Draco, but the other man was staring into the fireplace, his fingers gripping the armrest of the chair convulsively.

"I… can't imagine myself doing that," Harry admitted.

"And I couldn't imagine you kissing him," Hermione laughed unexpectedly, and her laughter had a nervous edge. "But as you can see, life is full of surprises."

She walked over to the bookcase and pulled out a thick leather-bound folio.

"I need time to study this. In the meantime…" she shifted her gaze to Draco, "you should show him."

"Show me what?" Harry asked warily.

Draco stood up abruptly, his face turning to stone.

"No. That's too much."

"He needs to understand," Hermione insisted. "Otherwise, how will he believe that this world…"

"Fine!" Draco almost shouted, then clenched his fists and took a deep breath. "Fine. But not here."

He grabbed Harry's hand and pulled him toward the door. His fingers were icy.

"Where are we…?"

"Hogwarts," Draco threw over his shoulder. "Where else?"

Traveling via the Floo Network left Harry slightly disoriented. When the veil of green flame dissipated, he saw a familiar room – the Headmaster's office at Hogwarts. But instead of Dumbledore or McGonagall, sitting at the desk was… Severus Snape.

Alive.

"Potter," Snape said in the same contemptuous tone as in Harry's memories. "And Malfoy. To what do I owe…"

"We need to get into the Restricted Section," Draco cut him off sharply. "It's urgent."

Snape raised one eyebrow, his black eyes flicking to Harry as if seeking confirmation. Harry could only nod, too stunned to speak. Snape alive. Snape is Headmaster. How many more surprises did this world have in store for him"

"Very well," Snape said finally. He rose from the desk, and Harry noticed he limped – on his left leg. "But I warn you, if you break anything else…"

They walked through familiar yet so alien corridors. Here and there Harry noticed changes – new paintings, the absence of certain ghosts. But the strangest thing awaited him at the entrance to the Restricted Section.

"Homenum revelio," Snape intoned, pointing his wand at the stone griffin statue. It came to life and stepped aside, revealing a hidden door.

Draco entered first, his shoulders tense under the thin fabric of his shirt. Harry followed him – and froze.

Before him was a room filled with… memories. Dozens, hundreds of silvery thoughts floating in special glass vessels. Each had a neat label with dates.

"What is this?" Harry whispered.

"Our history," Draco answered. He walked over to one of the vessels and carefully took it from the shelf. "Your… his memories. Our memories."

He handed the vial to Harry. Harry hesitated for only a moment before bringing it to his temple and pouring out the silvery contents"

The world around him dissolved…

…and he saw himself – younger, more tired – standing in a courtroom. Before him sat Draco, pale as death, in prisoner's robes. Their eyes met, and the Harry-in-the-memory said firmly:

"He saved our lives. More than once. I testify in his defense."

The scene shifted. Now they stood in the ruined drawing-room of Malfoy Manor, and Draco, trembling all over, was clutching a wand pointed at his own father.

"Enough!" he shouted. "I won't be a part of this madness anymore!"

Another turn – and now they were sitting together on the roof of Hogwarts, passing a bottle of firewhisky between them. Draco was crying. Harry was hugging him.

The last memory was the brightest. They stood in this very room, only it was empty then. Draco was nervously biting his lip, and the Harry-from-this-world took his hands.

"Are you sure?" Draco asked, his voice trembling. "After everything I…"

"Shut up, Malfoy," Harry smiled and kissed him.

The memory ended, and Harry came to on the floor, drenched in cold sweat. Draco sat nearby, his face hidden in shadow.

"Do you understand now?" he whispered.

Harry didn't answer. He couldn't. A storm of emotions raged in his chest – confusion, fear, disbelief… and something else he didn't dare name.

Snape, who had been silently observing them from the doorway, suddenly spoke:

"It seems you two have much to discuss. I shall wait outside."

When the door closed behind him, Draco got to his feet. In the light of the magical lamps, his face seemed carved from marble – beautiful, but lifeless.

"I know what you must feel," he said. "Disgust. Confusion. Maybe even pity. But believe me, your… his love wasn't a mistake. We saved each other."

Harry stood up, still feeling the taste of that kiss on his lips – foreign, yet so real.

"I don't know who I am here," he admitted honestly. "And I don't know how to get home. But…" he looked at the shelves of memories, "I'm starting to understand."

Draco nodded, and something flickered in his eyes – maybe hope, or maybe just the reflection of the lamps.

"Then let's go. Hermione has probably found an answer by now."

They left the room, where Snape was indeed waiting for them, arms crossed over his chest. His black eyes bored into Harry, as if seeing right through him.

"Found what you were looking for, Potter?" he asked with his customary sarcasm.

"I don't know, sir," Harry replied, and it was the pure truth.

Snape snorted, but to Harry's surprise, he put a hand on his shoulder – a gesture bordering on paternal concern.

"Then return to Granger. And… try not to make a mess of things."

"I… Draco, I need to be alone… Will you wait outside, okay?" Harry mumbled. Draco nodded, heading for the exit. Potter wandered the castle corridors, remembering his school years. It felt as if time had stopped here. In one of the offices, he saw Dumbledore's portrait and snorted. The portrait smiled at him.

"Ah, Harry, my boy," the former Headmaster on the canvas was munching on lemon drops. "What brings you here? You haven't been to the castle since you announced your relationship with Draco."

"I… It's hard to explain, but I'm from another world. Everything is different there, and Draco and I hate each other. But here… He's completely different."

"Different? He differs from the Draco you know?" the portrait Headmaster chuckled kindly.

"Absolutely. This Draco… He's caring, kind, loving, and vulnerable…" Harry whispered, looking at Dumbledore's smiling face.

"And what makes you think he isn't like that in reality?"

"Well, I've seen it! When we interact, he's arrogant, nasty, and horrible!" Harry huffed.

"Oh, my boy… What if I told you this world is an alternate course of events? The characters don't change here. Only the events do. Here – Draco threw you his wand, and that became the turning point. So Draco isn't arrogant, nasty, or horrible at all." The Headmaster chuckled, causing wrinkles to appear on his face.

Harry froze, feeling his heart pound wildly in his chest. The portrait's words hung in the air like a spell ready to overturn all his notions of the world.

"Are you saying…" he swallowed, feeling his throat go dry, "that Draco was always like this? That the problem is with me?"

The portrait smiled, adjusting his half-moon spectacles.

"One needn't find a problem in everything, dear boy. Sometimes it's enough to simply… look from a different angle."

Harry turned to the window. Beyond the leaded glass, a blizzard was raging, turning the castle towers into blurred silhouettes. All his memories of Malfoy now seemed just as blurred.

"But he…" Harry clenched his fists, "he always mocked Hermione! And Ron! And me!"

"And did you yourself never provoke him?" Dumbledore asked softly. "Never answered malice with malice? Never rejoiced when Snape punished him?"

Harry felt hot waves creeping up his cheeks. Episodes he had carefully repressed surfaced in his memory – his own sarcastic remarks, moments when he had deliberately made Draco look foolish in front of the whole class…

"War is a terrible teacher," the portrait continued. "It forces us to see the world in black and white. But reality, Harry, is always somewhere in between."

Footsteps sounded outside the door. Draco stood in the doorway, his fair hair disheveled by the wind, his cheeks red from the cold. In his hands, he held two steaming mugs.

"I… thought you might be cold," he uncertainly offered one mug to Harry. "Hot chocolate with cinnamon. You… you always liked it in bad weather."

Harry took the mug, and their fingers touched again. This time, he didn't pull his hand away. The warmth from the drink spread through his palms, mixing with a new, strange feeling in his chest.

"Thank you," he whispered.

Draco nodded, his eyes flicking to Dumbledore's portrait, then back to Harry.

"Hermione sent an owl. She's found something."

Harry took a sip of the hot chocolate – perfect temperature, with the slight bitterness of dark chocolate. Exactly how he always liked it.

"Then let's go."

They walked down the corridors side by side, and for the first time, Harry noticed how their steps synchronized. Draco glanced at him from time to time, as if he wanted to say something, but remained silent.

"Why did you throw me your wand?" Harry asked unexpectedly. "That day… When Voldemort…"

Draco stopped, his face in the torchlight seeming carved from pale marble.

"Because it was the right thing to do," he answered simply. "And because… I couldn't just watch anymore."

He turned to walk on, but Harry unexpectedly grabbed his sleeve.

"In my world…" he struggled for words, "you wouldn't have done that."

Draco slowly turned around. There was no offense in his eyes – only sadness.

"Are you sure?"

That simple question hung in the air like a challenge. Harry wanted to say "yes," but the words stuck in his throat. How many times had he actually given Draco a chance to prove himself? How many opportunities for reconciliation had he missed?

"I don't know," he admitted honestly. "Maybe… I just didn't want to see."

Draco nodded, and tiny wrinkles appeared at the corners of his eyes – traces of a smile that never quite formed.

"Then let's find Hermione. Maybe she knows how to get you home… to your Draco."

They started walking down the corridor again, but a new understanding now hung between them. Harry stole a glance at his companion – at his proud profile, his slender fingers clutching the mug, the slight frown between his eyebrows. And for the first time, he thought that perhaps the mirror in the Department of Mysteries hadn't shown him an alternate reality…

But simply another side of the truth.

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

#harry potter #draco lucius malfoy #draco malfoy #drarry #harco #harry james potter #fanfic #art #ao3 fanfic #ao3

Consciousness returned slowly, as if through a layer of murky water. The first thing Harry felt was an incredible softness beneath his head. He was lying on down pillows, sinking into them as if into a cloud. A heavy woolen blanket, embroidered with silver threads in intricate patterns, warmed his body. The air was filled with scents – the sweetish smell of chamomile, the freshness of mint, and something else, bitter and astringent, perhaps valerian root or wormwood. This strange cocktail of smells tickled his nostrils, making him grimace.

"Finally."

The voice sounded right above him, and Harry recognized it instantly – the same velvety timbre, the same intonations, but... without the usual sarcasm, without that icy contempt he had grown accustomed to over years of rivalry.

Harry forced his eyes open, and his eyelids obeyed with difficulty, as if someone had weighted them down with lead. The light from the wall sconces was harsh on his eyes, and he squeezed them shut before trying again.

Draco Malfoy sat before him in a carved oak chair by his bedside. But this was not the arrogant pure-blood prince Harry remembered. His usually impeccable platinum hair was disheveled, as if he had run nervous fingers through it many times. His pale face seemed even more colorless than usual, with dark circles under his eyes as if he hadn't slept for several nights in a row. He was wearing a simple house shirt with an unbuttoned collar, not his usual expensive robes. But what struck Harry the most were his eyes – grey, like a winter sky, they looked at him with such fatigue and... anxiety that Harry involuntarily felt a pang of something akin to pity.

"Where..." He tried to sit up, but the world suddenly swayed before his eyes, the colors blurring into a kaleidoscope, and he fell back onto the pillows.

"Don't move," Draco frowned, a vertical line appearing between his eyebrows. "You slipped into oblivion for twelve hours. Again."

Twelve hours. Harry closed his eyes, trying to gather his scattered thoughts into a coherent whole. Fragments of memory surfaced: the mirror in the Department of Mysteries, strange runes, a flash of blinding light... and that other world where he and Draco... No, it was impossible.

"You said we..." Harry's voice betrayed him with a tremor, and he hesitated, not daring to say it out loud, as if the words could materialize the nightmare.

"Together?" The corner of Draco's lip twitched in what was supposed to be a smirk, but there was not a trace of mockery in his eyes. "Yes. For three years now."

Harry swallowed. His throat was so dry that each swallow was an effort, as if he'd spent a week in the desert. His fingers unconsciously clenched the edge of the blanket, feeling the soft wool dig into his skin.

"But how? We were..."

"Hated each other?" Draco stood up and walked to a tall arched window. Behind him, the lights of nocturnal London twinkled – yellow, red, white, like scattered jewels on black velvet. "War changes people, Potter. Perhaps in your world we are enemies, but here..." he turned, and there was something in his gaze that made Harry's chest unexpectedly constrict. "Here it's different."

He paused, and Harry saw his fingers nervously pleating the folds of the curtain.

"After all of it... after the trial, after I was acquitted..." Draco's voice grew quieter, "you were the only one who didn't turn away. I was acquitted because of you. You vindicated my mother and me."

Harry couldn't believe his ears. Him? Supported Malfoy? In his world, it seemed as impossible as the sun turning blue.

"I don't remember..." he whispered.

"I know," Draco cut him off sharply, and for the first time, familiar notes of irritation sounded in his voice. "You've said."

He began pacing the room nervously, his bare feet silent on the Persian rug. His long fingers clenched and unclenched, as if searching for something to hold onto, some anchor in this suddenly unsteady world.

"You don't understand what it's like..." he spun around abruptly, and Harry saw his hands were shaking. "I spent three years thinking I'd finally earned at least a drop of happiness. And now..." his voice broke, "it's as if you've been replaced."

Silence hung between them, thick and awkward, filled with everything left unsaid. Harry reached for the crystal glass of water on the nightstand, but Draco was faster.

"Here," he handed the glass, and their fingers touched for a moment. Draco's skin was warm, almost hot, and Harry involuntarily pulled his hand back as if burned.

"Thanks," he mumbled, taking a sip. The water was cold, with a slight taste of lemon and honey – strangely, that was exactly how he always liked his water.

"What now?" Harry asked finally, placing the glass back on the carved wooden coaster.

Draco sighed, his shoulders slumping under an invisible weight.

"Now we go to Hermione."

"To Hermione?" Harry couldn't hide his surprise.

"She's the best in magical anomalies," Draco shrugged, and there was something incredibly alive, human, in that gesture. "And... she knows about us."

Harry nearly choked on his last sip of water.

"She... knows?"

"That we're a couple? Yes," Draco grimaced, and an expression Harry couldn't decipher crossed his face. "And believe me, she liked it about as much as you do now, at first."

Harry imagined Hermione's reaction – her wide eyes, open mouth, maybe even a fainting spell – and involuntarily winced. In his world, she would definitely not approve of such a union.

"When are we going?"

"As soon as you can stand," Draco walked to the door, his silhouette outlined against the faint light from the corridor. "I'll... give you some time. If you're hungry, come down to the kitchen, I'll fix you breakfast."

He left, leaving the door ajar, and Harry was alone with his thoughts, as chaotic as the patterns on the brocade bedspread.

The room was spacious but cozy, furnished with a taste that hinted at the influence of both owners. Photographs hung on the walls in silver frames: he and Draco at some official function, both in black robes with silver embroidery, smiling, but not for the camera – their smiles seemed genuine; them in Hagrid's hut, where Draco was examining something in his hands with disgust but also curiosity, and Harry was laughing, his hand on Draco's shoulder; a picture by the Black Lake where Draco was asleep, his head resting on Harry's shoulder, and Harry was looking at him with an expression he had never seen on his own face...

Harry looked away. It was too much. He couldn't look at this evidence of someone else's, yet so real, life that seemed both alluring and frightening.

He stood up, ignoring a slight dizziness, and walked to the window. London sparkled below, alive and alien, filled with lights that seemed to wink at him, mocking his confusion. Somewhere out there was his world, his real life, where Draco Malfoy remained his sworn enemy, not... whatever he was here.

"I'll find a way back," he whispered to the glass, which now bore the mist of his breath. "Even if I have to join hands with Draco Malfoy again to do it."

Harry sighed and headed for the door. The house he walked through felt both familiar and alien. The walls were adorned with paintings he would never have chosen but which somehow seemed appropriate. One of them depicted the Potter family crest, strangely intertwined with the Malfoy crest.

The thought of a life with Malfoy didn't evoke his usual nausea and disgust – only a strange confusion, a fear of the unknown, and... something else he couldn't or didn't want to define.

Draco was in the kitchen, leaning against the marble countertop and smoking. Cigarette smoke swirled in the air, creating intricate patterns in the light of the pendant lamps. Harry grimaced – he hated the smell of tobacco.

"Since when do you smoke Muggle cigarettes?"

Draco didn't answer immediately, just took another deep drag, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling. In the lamplight, his profile seemed especially sharp, almost carved from marble.

"Listen, Mal... Draco," Harry corrected himself, feeling how strange his name sounded without the surname. "I... I understand how you must feel. But maybe there's a way to send me back to my world? And then the Harry from this world will return?"

Draco finally turned to him, and in his eyes, Harry saw something that made his chest ache again.

"I don't know. I really hope so."

"I'm sorry... I... I really didn't want this to happen," Harry whispered. And for the first time, he saw Malfoy differently – not as a sarcastic, spoiled brat, but as a man who had lost something important. Perhaps even the most important thing.

"I know. Are you hungry?" Draco stubbed out his cigarette and walked to the stove. "Presumably, you also like bacon, eggs, and hash browns."

Harry couldn't help but smile. That was indeed his favorite food. His stomach rumbled, as if confirming Draco's words. The other man moved to the stove where breakfast was sizzling in a pan and began plating the food. His movements were precise, measured, but there was a certain automatism to them, as if he was doing it to avoid thinking about what really mattered.

Malfoy now seemed like a living thundercloud – dark, impenetrable, full of hidden energy. He was deeply lost in his thoughts, and Harry suddenly realized he genuinely felt sorry for this man, even if he was his enemy. Although, in this universe, they weren't enemies, right?

"Can you... tell me everything? How it was here. The war must have been different here too," Harry mumbled around a mouthful of crispy bacon.

Draco sighed and sat down opposite him, pushing his own plate away.

"Well... Voldemort was defeated during the Battle of Hogwarts."

"I know that. How did I defeat him?"

"Well, Hagrid carried you in dead, you turned out to be alive, I threw you my wand, and you defeated him," Draco said matter-of-factly, but something complex flashed in his eyes at those words.

"Can you elaborate on the wand?"

Draco picked up his own wand from the counter – elegant, made of dark wood with silver inlays.

"Didn't you have that? When you stood up alive, I threw you my wand. Hermione and Ron shielded me from the Dark Lord, and you defeated him with that wand," he twirled the wand in his fingers. "This very one."

They talked for a long time, and Draco told him everything about this world – how he and Hermione worked on rehabilitating former Death Eaters, how Ron didn't accept their relationship at first but then came to terms with it, how he, Draco, was accepted into the Department of Mysteries thanks to Harry's recommendation...

Harry listened, and the more he learned, the more he felt this world differed from his own in the most unexpected details. But deep down, in a place he rarely looked, a strange understanding was growing – he wished it were the same in his world. That enemies could become friends, that hatred could transform into something else, something brighter and warmer.

And that understanding frightened him more than any spell.

©Silver threads of fate. Chapter 3.

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The darkness was slowly receding, as if reluctantly releasing his consciousness. Harry first felt warmth – unfamiliar, enveloping, and then smells: expensive linen sheets, lavender pillows, and that painfully familiar minty trail of perfume.

Just like Malfoy's...

He groaned, trying to open his eyes. His eyelids felt impossibly heavy. When he finally managed to unstick his lashes, he was met not with the white ceiling of the hospital wing, but with a high ceiling adorned with elegant molding – exactly like at Grimmauld Place, but... not quite.

"What the hell?"

Harry tried to move and felt a strange weight on his chest. Something warm, breathing evenly and calmly. He slowly lowered his gaze.

And his heart stopped.

Draco Malfoy was asleep, his face buried in Harry's chest. His platinum hair was splayed over Harry's shoulders in silky strands, shimmering in the morning light. One of Draco's hands lay on his chest, fingers unconsciously clutching the fabric of the shirt – not his shirt, because Harry knew for a fact he never wore this damnably soft silk.

"This is a dream. It must be a dream."

He pinched his wrist – the pain was sharp, real. His heart began to beat so hard it felt like it would break free from his chest.

"M-Malfoy..." His voice sounded hoarse, unfamiliar. He shoved the sleeping figure in the shoulder. "Wake up."

Draco grumbled discontentedly, his nose wrinkling, and without opening his eyes, he nuzzled his face into Harry's neck. Hot breath burned his skin, sending shivers down his spine.

"Five more minutes," he mumbled, and his hand unconsciously reached up, fingers tangling in Harry's black hair.

Harry jerked back sharply, throwing Draco off of him.

"Ow!" Draco fell onto the mattress with an indignant cry and finally opened his eyes – silvery, clouded with sleep. "Harry? What's wrong?"

"What's wrong?!" Harry scrambled out of bed, his legs tangling in the sheet. "You... We... what..."

His gaze darted around the room, catching on details: their clothes, neatly folded on a single chair, two pairs of shoes by the door, standing so close together...

And then he saw the mirror.

The reflection hit him like a blow to the solar plexus.

It was him – but not quite. His hair was longer, his face lacked the usual dark circles under his eyes. And on his neck... Harry touched a dark mark with trembling fingers.

"Are you on about that dream again?" Draco yawned and stretched, revealing a strip of pale skin on his stomach. "You were tossing and turning all night."

"What dream?!"

Draco froze. His eyebrows slowly crept upward.

"You know," he made a gesture with his hand, but his fingers were trembling, "that nonsense of yours about 'another reality' where we hate each other."

Draco slowly rose from the bed, his bare feet sinking into the thick pile of a Persian rug woven from silk threads in all shades of moonlight. Every step he took was silent, graceful, as if he were moving through water, not on a solid surface. Harry involuntarily froze, mesmerized by this fluid grace, so unlike the sharp movements of the Draco he knew.

As Malfoy approached, Harry felt the air fill with a subtle aroma – a mix of mint, winter morning, and something faintly sweet, perhaps expensive cologne or a magical potion. His fingers, warm and surprisingly soft for someone accustomed to holding a wand, touched Harry's shoulder with such caution, as if he were afraid of crushing a fragile butterfly.

"Are you all right?"

Draco's voice sounded gentle, but deep within those silvery eyes swirled anxiety, like a stormy sea under thin ice.

The touch burned Harry more than any spell. He flinched back violently, hitting his back against the dresser. Crystal potion bottles swayed, emitting a melodic chime, like the cry of frightened birds. One of the vials fell, shattering on the marble floor, and a thick liquid the color of moonlight spread across the surface, emitting a spicy aroma.

"We..." Harry licked his dry lips, tasting the bitter flavor of fear on his tongue. His heart was hammering so hard it seemed about to shatter his ribcage. "You and I..."

Draco tilted his head, and at that moment, a ray of sun breaking through the stained-glass window painted his face in blue and gold highlights.

"Together?" His lips twitched, revealing for a moment perfectly straight teeth. "Did you really get your brains addled last night?"

He tried to smile, raising an eyebrow in his habitual arrogant manner, but his voice betrayed him with a tremble, revealing the fear he was so diligently hiding.

Outside the window, an owl suddenly flew by, its wing hitting the glass with a dull thud. Somewhere below, in the garden, laughter rang out – bright, carefree, so unlike the tense silence in the room. Someone's voice cheerfully called out a name, answered by the chime of crystal tableware.

Harry felt the room begin to swim before his eyes. The walls breathed, contracting and expanding, and the patterns on the wallpaper came alive, intertwining into strange, frightening symbols.

"The mirror," he whispered, feeling cold sweat trickle down his back. "It's..."

Draco suddenly grabbed his arm. His fingers dug into Harry's skin with such force that red marks immediately appeared on the pale skin.

"If you're joking, it's not funny," he hissed, and something wild, almost animalistic, flashed in his eyes.

But Harry no longer heard him. The world around him turned into a kaleidoscope of blurred images. Black dots danced before his eyes, merging into strange patterns, and a ringing started in his ears, as if someone had struck a crystal bell. The last thing he saw before a dark wave engulfed him completely was Draco's wide-open silver eyes, full of genuine horror, and lips twisted in a soundless cry, forming his name.

---

Consciousness returned slowly, like the tide washing over a sandy shore. First, Harry felt the soft leather of the sofa beneath his back – expensive, smooth, probably from the hide of some exotic creature. Then the smell of wood smoke reached him, mixed with the aroma of medicinal herbs – wormwood, sage, and something else, bitter and astringent.

"Ah, our traveler returns," a calm, velvety voice, brimming with the wisdom of many years, sounded above him.

Harry forced his eyes open. An elderly man in the emerald robes of a healer was leaning over him. His face, lined with wrinkles, resembled old parchment inscribed with thousands of stories. Deep-set eyes shone with kindness, but sadness lurked in their depths.

"Mr. Potter, you gave us quite a scare," the healer continued, but his eyes remained serious, as if he saw something more than just a fainting spell.

Harry tried to sit up, but weakness shackled his body like invisible chains entangling every muscle. His gaze automatically fell on the figure by the fireplace – Draco stood with his back turned, his silhouette sharp and angular in the flickering firelight. His shoulders were tense to the limit, his fingers clutching the folds of his robes so tightly that his knuckles were white and the fabric seemed about to tear.

"He says he doesn't remember the last three years," Draco said, not turning around. Each word fell like a stone into a deep well, causing an echo in the room's silence. "What is it? A curse?"

The healer shook his head, and his long gray hair, braided in an intricate plait, swayed like cobwebs in an autumn wind.

"More like... a temporal displacement," he uttered, carefully choosing his words.

Harry struggled to prop himself up on his elbows. His head was spinning, and a lump formed in his throat.

"What?" His voice sounded hoarse, foreign.

"Mr. Potter," the healer sighed, and his breath smelled of mint and ancient books, "it seems your consciousness... is not from this world."

Silence hung in the room like a thick blanket, so dense it seemed one could touch it. Even the fire in the fireplace seemed to freeze, holding its breath, its flames motionless, not daring to break this tense pause.

Draco slowly turned around. His eyes – usually cold as a winter morning – now burned with a strange light. It wasn't anger, not hatred, but something much more complex – a mixture of pain, hope, and despair, all intertwined.

"So," he spoke each word with icy clarity, as if carving them into stone with a knife, "you're really not my Harry?"

Harry felt a chill run down his spine, as if someone had traced an icy finger along his skin.

"No," he whispered, and the word sounded like a verdict.

Draco closed his eyes. His long, fair lashes trembled, casting shadows on his pale cheeks.

"Damn it," he exhaled, and those two words held a universe of pain.

The healer carefully rose to his feet, his bones creaking like old floorboards in an abandoned house.

"I... shall leave you now," he said softly. "You need to talk."

When the door closed with a quiet click, Draco strode sharply to the window. His shoulders were tense under the thin fabric of his shirt, which clung to his back like a second skin.

"Three years," he whispered, looking into the garden where sunlight played on the leaves. "Three years, and now..."

Harry stood up, feeling his knees tremble. The air in the room had grown thick, difficult to breathe.

"I didn't mean to..." he began, but the words stuck in his throat.

"Stop it!" Draco turned around sharply. Tears welled in his eyes, but he wouldn't let them fall, as if considering it a sign of weakness. "You have no idea..."

He didn't finish. His hands clenched into fists, nails digging into his palms, leaving crescent marks on the tender skin.

Harry suddenly realized he wasn't just seeing irritation. This was pain – real, deep, like an unhealing wound that only got worse each day.

"Since I don't remember anything..." he said quietly, taking an uncertain step forward. "Tell me. Tell me what I was like... here."

Draco laughed – bitterly, joylessly, like a man who had lost his last hope for salvation.

"You want to know? Fine."

He stepped forward, and now they stood so close that Harry could feel his breath – warm, with a slight taste of mint tea and something else, perhaps expensive wine.

"You were the one who saved me after the war," Draco began, and his voice trembled on the last word. "The one who didn't let me break when the whole world turned its back. Who..." he paused, gathering strength, "who loved me, despite everything."

Harry felt something clench in his chest – a strange, warm, yet painful feeling, akin to nostalgia for something he had never known.

"And now," Draco moved so close their chests were almost touching, "you don't even know who I am."

They stood frozen, looking into each other's eyes. Harry suddenly realized how little he actually knew Draco – the real Draco, not the bully boy from Hogwarts, but the man standing before him now, with his pain, his fears, and... his love?

"Help me remember," Harry whispered, and his voice sounded almost like a prayer.

Draco closed his eyes. His long lashes trembled like the wings of a caught butterfly.

"God..." he exhaled.

And then something unexpected happened.

Draco kissed him.

Roughly. Desperately. As if he wanted to prove something – to himself or to Harry. As if this kiss could awaken memory, reclaim what was lost, fix what was broken. His lips were hot, slightly rough, and his hands held Harry so tightly it felt like they might break his ribs.

Harry didn't push him away.

When Draco finally pulled back, his eyes shone with a wet gleam, and his lips trembled.

"Remember?" he whispered, and his voice held a last shred of hope.

Harry slowly shook his head.

"No."

Draco took a step back. His face became stony, a mask hiding a storm of emotions.

"Then... then I don't know how to help you," he uttered, each word a struggle.

He turned and left, slamming the door so hard the windowpanes rattled and a crystal vase fell from a shelf, shattering into a thousand pieces.

Harry was left alone – in a stranger's house, in a stranger's life, in a stranger's body.

Outside the window, a bird began to sing – a cheerful, carefree trill, so incompatible with his state. Somewhere below, people were laughing, living their ordinary lives, unaware that someone's world was crumbling nearby

And he stood there, touching his fingers to his lips, which still burned from Draco's touch, and thought that he had never felt so lost, so foreign in this seemingly familiar world.

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The cold amber light of an October morning filtered through the stained-glass windows of the Minister's office, casting the oak parquet in a disturbing shade of honey. Harry stood frozen in the doorway, his fingers involuntarily digging into his palms, leaving half-moons of nail marks on his skin.

The air was filled with the pungent scent of parchment and old wood, mixed with the subtle aroma of expensive perfume—a minty, icy scent that he would recognize among a thousand.

"Did you call me?"

His own voice sounded strange, harsh, like the sound of glass hitting stone. Harry saw Malfoy's shoulders twitch at the sound, although he continued to study his nails with feigned indifference.

Kingsley looked up, and his smile reminded Harry of a mask—benevolent but inscrutable.

“Ah, Potter. Just in time."

His fingers tapped the table in a strange rhythm, as if marking the beat of a forgotten march. The parchment before him was scarlet with blood-red seals, like fresh wounds on the yellowed skin of the document.

Harry felt a shiver run down his spine as his gaze swept over the familiar profile. Draco sat in his chair with the elegant nonchalance of an aristocrat, but his eyes—those cold, mercury-colored pools—studied Harry with the same curiosity with which he had once examined the rare creatures in Hagrid’s classroom.

“It’s about the Dark Lord’s artifact project,” Kingsley said, running his finger across the parchment, leaving a faint, damp streak. “A mirror has been discovered in the Department of Mysteries, and we can’t seem to activate it.”

"So let's say," Harry crossed his arms over his chest, feeling his pulse racing beneath his robes. "What does that have to do with me? And with..." he paused, savoring the moment before delivering the blow, "Mr. Malfoy?"

The last words fell into the silence of the room like drops of poison into clear water. Harry saw Draco's cheekbones tense beneath his pale skin, but he didn't even flinch.

Kingsley sighed, folding his hands in a prayer-like gesture.

"Your magic, Mr. Potter, has a unique stabilizing power. And Mr. Malfoy," he nodded in Draco's direction, "is an expert in ancient runes and, let's just say, well-versed in the Dark Lord's legacy. Therefore, the two of you will be responsible for activating it."

The air in the room suddenly became thick, as if filled with lead dust. Harry felt his jaw clench and his blood pound in his temples. He glanced at Malfoy, who was sitting calmly, but his long fingers were methodically smoothing a crease in his expensive jacket, as if trying to erase an invisible stain.

"Whatever you say," Harry hissed, taking the folder. His fingers trembled as they accidentally touched the cold parchment.

As they stepped out into the corridor, the heavy oak door closed behind them with a thud that sounded like the lid of a coffin. Draco spun around, and his hair, now more platinum than just light, fell in silvery strands over his shoulder.

"I'm well aware of your... attitude towards me, Potter," his voice was even, but Harry noticed a slight flutter of his eyelashes. "But this is a matter of national importance. Can you at least silence your inner martyr for a while?"

Heat spread like hot wine down Harry's neck.

"All you do is insult me," he turned sharply, feeling Malfoy's robes brush against his sleeve, a fleeting but burning touch.

The elevator to the Department of Mysteries moved painfully slowly, creaking like an old ship. Harry stood staring at the metal door, but his entire being was focused on the reflection in the polished surface—a tall silhouette behind him, his pale face ghostly in the dim light.

When they reached their destination, a massive iron door loomed before them, etched with runes that pulsed with a dull blue light. Harry waved his wand, feeling the ancient magic resist and cling to his spell like a living thing. With a crack, the shield fell, and the door creaked open, releasing a cloud of dust that smelled of time and oblivion.

Inside, the air was thick, as if saturated with black magic. Draco led the way, his black robes billowing like the wings of a raven, and his silver hair shining in the darkness like moonlight on water.

"Kingsley said to go all the way to the dead end," his whisper was hoarse, as if an invisible thread was passing through his throat.

Harry did not respond. His attention was drawn to a large mirror hidden beneath a cloth the color of dried blood. It reminded him of the Mirror of Erised, and something in his chest tightened, whether it was fear or longing, he could not say. What desire would it show him now? The family he had never known? Friends he lost because of the war? Or...

Draco pulled the cover off with a jerk, and a cloud of dust rose into the air, making Harry cough. But as the dust settled, his eyes were drawn to the surface of the mirror. The runes around the edges glowed with a dim green light, like the eyes of a predator in the dark.

"There are a lot of ancient symbols here,"Harry muttered, more to himself, feeling a chill run down his spine.

"God,you're so perceptive," Draco's voice was sarcastic, but his fingers trembled as he ran them over the carved frame. "It says here... that to activate, two magicians must combine magic. Through physical contact."

They looked at each other,and silence hung in the air, thick as smog over the London rooftops. Harry slowly reached out his hand, feeling his heart pounding somewhere in his throat.

Draco grinned—it was a strange, crooked grin—but took his hand. His fingers were surprisingly warm and... trembling. When Draco began to recite the spell,his voice was clear, but Harry felt his own palm growing damp. The runes on the mirror flared a blood-red, then a dazzling white.

The light was so bright that Harry felt it burning through his eyelids, straight into his brain, burning away all thought.

The last thing he heard before the world exploded into a million pieces was Draco's incoherent scream,more like his name.

And then there was only darkness, thick and sweet as tar.

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