Deep in the archives of wizarding history, certain tales are whispered with reverence and fear, their details etched into the collective memory of those who dare to remember. Among these stories, one stands out for its poignancy and tragedy—a story of sacrifice and the unrelenting grip of fate.
It is said that, in every generation, a Black is destined to love a Potter, and, in every generation, it always ends in heartbreak. For every moment of joy, a shadow of despair follows closely behind; for every act of love, there is a corresponding sacrifice. This legacy, steeped in sorrow, binds the two noble houses in an unending dance of love and loss, an unyielding curse that weaves their fates together through time.
This narrative, dear reader, is no different. It is not one of happily ever afters, but of heartache and unfulfilled promises, reminding us that some loves are doomed to end in sorrow, no matter how brightly they burn. The tale you are about to embark on is a stark reminder of the fragile balance between love and destiny, where even the most profound connections can lead to the most devastating of ends.
Since he was a little boy, Draco’s mother had told him stories of Regulus Black. In the dimly lit drawing room of Malfoy Manor, Narcissa's voice would weave a tale of bravery and tragedy, painting Regulus not as the world saw him—a Death Eater—but as a courageous soul who had made the ultimate sacrifice.
"Your cousin," she would say, her eyes distant with memory, "was more than just a soldier in the Dark Lord's army. He saw the darkness for what it was and chose to fight it from within. He gave his life to protect us all, Draco, to undo the very evil our family had embraced."
Draco, wide-eyed and rapt with attention, would listen to these tales, completely in awe. The heroism of Regulus Black was a secret legacy, a quiet rebellion to those who knew the truth against the stark black-and-white morality the world often imposed.
When he was six years old, he visited Grimmauld Place for the very first time. His mother had masked their visit under the pretense of retrieving an item belonging to her dead aunt, a certain Walburga Black. However, Draco suspected that, beneath this veneer of formality, lay a deeper truth—his mother's desperate longing for her departed cousin, and her old way of life.
Guided by his mother's gentle hand, Draco was led into what she solemnly referred to as Regulus’ room, a space pregnant with memories and melancholy. While Narcissa retreated momentarily, ostensibly to attend to herself, Draco knew, without needing to be told, that his mother sought solace in the privacy of Regulus' bath chamber, shedding tears that would remain concealed from his innocent gaze.
Alone amidst the relics of another's life, Draco's curiosity led him to sift through the remnants of Regulus' existence. It was amidst this exploration that he stumbled upon an unassuming silver ring, adorned with a small star and sun on the inside of the band. The ring looked new, as if it had never been worn a day in its life, and Draco knew immediately that Regulus had crafted this for his Wingborn. Though the ring barely encircled his thumb at that young age, Draco has worn it every day, until his hands grew large enough that it fit his middle finger properly.
As he grew older, Draco clung to the idea of Regulus like his story was going to save him from his own despair. On stormy nights, when the Manor's ancient walls seemed to close in on him, Draco would wander to the library and find the hidden corner where the Black family tapestry hung. His fingers, with the ring situated in a way so it wouldn’t catch and ruin the weaving, would trace the silver thread marking Regulus' name, right beside the burn mark of a disowned Black who was never talked about.
In the stillness of those moments, Draco often found himself wondering about Regulus’ mate. He speculated that the portrait on the family tree had been repainted just before Regulus' sixth year at Hogwarts, as evidenced by the Prefect badge pinned to his robes. The vivid feathers adorning Regulus’ cheeks in his portrait hinted at a profound connection, so it was obvious that Regulus had loved deeply. And, every time he caught a glimpse of those glowing marks, Draco's heart harbored a quiet hope, a longing to find his own Marked, a soulmate who would love him as deeply as Regulus had loved his Wingborn.
The identity of his cousin’s Wingborn, however, remained a mystery, lost to time and the secrecy that shrouded his life.
Now, he hadn’t known his cousin, and the chance of ever meeting him had slipped away into the unfathomable depths of time. Yet, there existed within Draco an inexplicable pull towards him. It was as though he beheld a reflection of himself from a bygone era, a soul resonating across the ages with an unspoken familiarity.
In the quiet moments of contemplation, Draco found himself immersed in a profound sense of empathy for Regulus. He longed to believe, with an intensity that bordered on desperation, that Regulus’ Wingborn had bestowed upon him the love that Draco was sure he deserved, before his death.
He used to plead with his mother, his young heart yearning for the completion of the tale, desperate to uncover the identity of Regulus' Wingborn and unravel the mysteries that shrouded his cousin's life. But Narcissa, with a mixture of reluctance and secrecy, would deflect his inquiries, urging him to be patient.
However, there came a solemn moment, a turning point in their conversations, when Narcissa's tone shifted. With a heavy heart, she revealed that Regulus' Wingborn had met a similar tragic fate, succumbing to the war not long after Regulus himself. It was a revelation that silenced Draco, casting a shadow over his curiosity.
It was on that day, two weeks before his first year at Hogwarts, that Draco quieted, and his inquiries ceased. With a steely determination, he pledged to both himself and to the stars above that, when the war finally ended, he would unveil the truth of Regulus Black.
“It's true then, what they're saying on the train. Harry Potter has come to Hogwarts.” Draco leaned casually against the banister, his gaze assessing the messy-haired boy before him.
Feathers covered the bridge of Potter’s nose, etched into his fair skin and trailing just below the lightning bolt scar that marked his forehead. They sparked a flicker of recognition in Draco's mind, a distant memory tugging at the edges of his consciousness, yet remaining frustratingly elusive.
“This is Crabbe and Goyle. And I'm Malfoy. Draco Malfoy.”
Beside Potter, a ginger-haired boy snickered.
Draco's attention snapped to him. “Think my name's funny, do you? No need to ask yours. Red hair, and a hand-me-down robe? You must be a Weasley.” With a swift pivot, Draco redirected his focus to Potter, whose emerald eyes met his with an unwavering gaze. “You'll soon find that some wizarding families are better than others, Potter. You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there.”
He extended his hand towards Potter, expecting a gesture of acceptance, a tacit acknowledgment of his offer. In his mind, he could already imagine his mother's approving smile.
But Potter’s response caught him off guard. “I think I can tell the wrong sort for myself, thanks,” he said, his tone calm and resolute.
Draco's frown deepened, a flicker of annoyance crossing his features.
Just then, those piercing green eyes fixated on the wings adorning Draco’s shoulders, and a glint of curiosity sparked within them. Potter reached out tentatively, his fingertips brushing against the feathers, eliciting an involuntary shudder from Draco—an unexpected reaction that left him feeling somewhat embarrassed.
Potter’s expression softened, and he emitted a low hum of appreciation. Then, in a voice tinged with wonder, he uttered words that sent a ripple through Draco's world. “Your feathers are pretty,” he remarked softly. “They look like the wings on my face.”
Amidst the murmurs of the surrounding crowd, Draco sensed a shift in the atmosphere, an undercurrent of curiosity and speculation rippling through the gathered students. Ignoring the whispers that buzzed around them, Draco remained focused on the boy before him. Their eyes met, an unspoken connection sparking between them, binding them together in a moment suspended in time.
He later supposed that it was at that moment that the bond snapped into place. In the stillness of that shared gaze, Draco felt something shift within him, as though the very fabric of destiny was weaving its intricate threads around them. It was a sensation both exhilarating and disconcerting, leaving him breathless with anticipation for what lay ahead.
But, now, Draco could only focus on how lovely the boy in front of him was—the gentle curve of his features, the mesmerizing depths of his emerald eyes, and the delicate markings adorning his skin, reminiscent of Draco's own pale wings, as he now realized.
Meanwhile, the Weasley boy's astonishment was palpable, his gaping expression betraying his disbelief at Potter’s—no, Harry's — unwitting revelation. Draco observed the scene with a faint sense of amusem*nt. “Harry,” he muttered slowly. “Do you know what that means?”
Harry looked at him with a furrowed brow, a hint of confusion in his eyes. "No," he replied, his voice tinged with uncertainty, "I don't think so." His words trailed off as he noticed the shocked expression on Weasley's face. "Is it... bad?" he asked, his voice soft with concern. "I didn't mean to cause any trouble."
"It means," the Weasley boy began slowly, his voice tinged with a mixture of awe and incredulity, "that you're destined."
Harry's brow furrowed in confusion, his gaze darting between Draco and the Weasley boy as he struggled to comprehend the implications of their words. Sensing Harry's uncertainty, Draco stepped forward again, his expression earnest as he sought to offer reassurance amidst the growing confusion.
"Don't worry, Potter," Draco interjected, his tone measured yet reassuring. "It's not a bad thing. In fact, it's quite rare and rather remarkable." With a reassuring nod, he gestured towards his own feathered wings, a silent confirmation of their shared connection.
"Destined?" Harry echoed, his tone tinged with curiosity. "Destined for what?"
Draco felt a flush creeping up his cheeks at Harry's question, the warmth of embarrassment spreading across his skin.
Suddenly, a girl beside Weasley interjected, her voice confident and matter-of-fact. "Do you not know about the Evolution?" Her bushy brown hair framed her face in a wild halo, and her buck teeth reminded Draco slightly of a beaver. He grimaced.
In contrast to Draco's own wings and the feathered markings on Harry's face, she bore neither wings nor any feathers across the bridge of her nose. In fact, as Draco cast a quick glance around the room, he noticed that almost nobody else did, save for the brown wings adorning the Zabini heir's back.
"Like humans coming from apes?" Harry's voice held a note of skepticism.
The girl rolled her eyes in exasperation. "How can you come to Hogwarts without doing any sort of research beforehand?" She muttered irritably under her breath before composing herself. Standing tall, she turned her attention back to Harry. "No, not like that. I'm talking about the magical Evolution. It happened in 10th century BCE, when the gods bestowed upon wizards and witches additional powers, such as blood magic or the ability to control the elements. From this came the Wingborn and the Marked, who are fated soulmates with a bond that transcends time and space." Her explanation was delivered with the confidence of someone reciting from a textbook.
Draco instantly did not like her, or her clinical way of speaking to his mate.
Weasley, eager to contribute, pushed forward with a chuckle. "Did you really think that you were the only one with those markings?" he teased, clearly amused by Harry's ignorance.
The crimson hue that washed over Harry's cheeks ignited a protective instinct within Draco. He longed to enfold Harry within the safety of his wings, shielding him from the prying eyes of others, and claiming him as his own.
Mine, his mind whispered insistently. Mine, mine.
Harry, seemingly unaware of the possessive thoughts swirling in Draco's mind, reached up to brush a hand over his markings. "I've never seen anyone else with them, not even in Diagon Alley," he confessed, shaking his head in bewilderment. "My aunt always said that my mother must have tattooed them on me before she died."
Draco's heart clenched at Harry's vulnerability, the weight of his words echoing in the tense silence that followed. It was a moment that seemed to stretch on, each passing second filled with unspoken implications.
The girl with the bushy hair broke the silence, her voice cutting through the tension like a knife. "That's absurd," she bristled, her tone laced with disbelief. "Markings like yours don't simply appear from nowhere. They're obviously part of the ancient bond between Wingborn and Marked."
Draco's gaze shifted as he turned to face her, a flicker of annoyance igniting within him. "And what would you know about it, mudblood?" he snapped, his words sharp with disdain.
The derogatory term hung in the air, a heavy silence following its bitter sting. The girl's expression hardened, her eyes flashing with indignation at the slur, but, before she could retort, Professor McGonagall's commanding voice cut through the tension.
"First Years!" she called, her tone commanding attention. "Please enter the Great Hall for the Sorting Ceremony!"
With a small sense of relief, the group began to move. Draco fell into step behind Harry Potter, his gaze fixed on his mate with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension.
Unbeknownst to Draco, McGonagall's keen gaze lingered on them, her eyes flicking between the distinctive markings adorning both Harry and Draco. A knowing look passed over her features as she pieced it together, silently mourning the fate of the second destined Potter-Black pair, already resigned to the tragic destiny that awaited them from the very start.
Harry was sorted into Gryffindor first, and, as Draco approached the Sorting Hat, he found himself wishing fervently, for the first time in his life, that the Hat wouldn’t place him in Slytherin. He yearned to be closer to Harry, to bridge the divide that house rivalry would inevitably create. But the Hat, indifferent to his silent plea, pronounced its decision with unwavering certainty.
"Slytherin!"
That, perhaps, should have been the first sign—a subtle whisper from the gods that everything, down to the Houses they were assigned to, would try and separate them.
The next morning, as the Daily Prophet fluttered onto the tables in the Great Hall, Draco felt the weight of scrutiny and judgment from his fellow students. Whispers buzzed like angry bees, their words sharp with skepticism.
“The Malfoy heir and the Boy Who Lived?” they murmured, voices dripping with doubt. “Don’t his parents support You-Know-Who?”
Draco's eyebrows shot up in surprise as he caught a glimpse of the newspaper, his heart sinking as he read the headline.
There, emblazoned across the front page, was a photograph of Draco and Harry from the previous day, the marks on Harry’s face clearly mirroring Draco’s wings. The article, predictably sensational, speculated on the nature of their bond and its implications within the wizarding world.
Draco grabbed the newspaper, flipping the page hastily to read it.
In a breathtaking twist that has left the wizarding world in a state of shock and intrigue, the Malfoy heir and the Boy Who Lived have been caught discovering an unexpected and enigmatic bond on their very first day at Hogwarts. A photograph, procured by an anonymous source, depicts Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter locked in a gaze so intense, it defies the very foundations of their storied pasts.
What cosmic forces could draw together the heir of one of the most reviled pure-blood families—staunch supporters of You-Know-Who—and the savior of the wizarding world? Could it be the whimsical meddling of the gods, orchestrating a drama of unprecedented proportions?
Eyewitnesses report that during the Sorting Ceremony, young Mr. Malfoy displayed uncharacteristic anxiety as he awaited his turn under the Hat. Some speculate that he harbored a secret desire to join Potter in Gryffindor, a notion that flies in the face of the Malfoys’ well-known allegiance to the Dark Arts. However, the Hat remained unmoved and placed him firmly in Slytherin.
The ramifications of this bond are as profound as they are perilous. With Lucius Malfoy’s notorious connections to Death Eaters, one must question the implications of the Malfoy heir’s apparent bond with Harry Potter.
Hogwarts is already abuzz with whispers. “It’s unthinkable,” one student exclaimed. “Everyone knows the Malfoys support You-Know-Who. Harry will never forgive Malfoy for his family's sins, and who can blame him?”
The stakes are nothing short of cataclysmic. Will this improbable bond usher in an era of unprecedented unity, or will it deepen the chasms within our already fractured world? The entire wizarding community watches with bated breath, hoping for a beacon of hope in these uncertain times.
Only time will reveal whether Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter are destined to forge a new path toward the light, or whether their bond will plunge us back into the shadows from which we have only just emerged.
Stay vigilant as the Daily Prophet continues to uncover every twist and turn in this extraordinary saga. Rita Skeeter, quill at the ready for the next seismic revelation.
Draco’s heart pounded as he read the insinuations about his family’s loyalty to Voldemort and the improbability of any genuine connection between him and Harry. He could feel the eyes of the entire Great Hall on him—judging, doubting, questioning.
Harry, seated at the Gryffindor table, caught Draco’s eye. There was no judgment in his gaze, only a quiet resolve that gave Draco a flicker of hope.
As breakfast dragged on, Draco could feel the weight of the room's tension bearing down on him. It didn’t help when a lone owl swooped across the hall, long after the other owls had retired to the Owlery, and dropped a letter onto Draco’s empty plate.
In his mother's elegant handwriting, the letter contained just one chilling sentence.
He is not worth it.
Their first year at Hogwarts unfolded without major incidents (excluding the Quirrell debacle), and the second year followed suit (apart from the Chamber of Secrets reopening).
Draco diligently adhered to his mother’s counsel, minimizing encounters with his Marked whenever possible. He was acutely aware of the pain it caused Harry—the Marked often felt the bond more intensely than Wingborn during the early stages. This heightened sensitivity allowed Wingborn to disregard their mates for extended periods without repercussion, until reaching a tipping point where Marked often felt compelled to resort to drastic measures just to capture their Wingborn’s attention.
Unlike other Wingborn, however, Draco had always been attuned to his emotions, making this literal torture .
Despite his relentless efforts to distance himself, Draco found himself unable to escape the gravitational pull of the bond. Every moment spent apart from Harry weighed heavily on his chest, suffocating him with a potent mix of guilt and longing. He realized that he couldn't continue this charade indefinitely, tiptoeing around their connection while pretending that everything was normal.
He searched for Harry everywhere, in everything he saw. His senses heightened at the mere mention of the Potter boy, or the sound of his laughter echoing down the corridors alongside the Weasley boy and the muggleborn—Granger, he now knew.
In the flickering candlelight of the Great Hall and the gentle rustle of parchment in the library, Draco glimpsed fleeting traces of Harry's essence, a ghostly presence that haunted his every thought. Each gesture, each word uttered by another held the promise of a fleeting connection to the one he both sought to avoid and couldn't forget.
It felt as though Harry's absence had cast a spell over Hogwarts, transforming the familiar surroundings into a labyrinth of memories and missed opportunities. And though Draco knew, deep down, that he should be the one to bridge the gap between them, he couldn't help but silently plead with destiny for a chance reunion with his Marked, so that he may continue to live in ignorance and cowardice.
At times, he was almost certain that Harry watched him too.
He vividly remembered a moment when he paused to inhale the fragrant bloom of a jasmine blooming in the corridor, only to find, inexplicably, that Harry seemed to change the scent of his expensive cologne to a subtle hint of jasmine. From then on, Draco became fixated on any sight of Harry, hoping to catch even the faintest trace of his jasmine scent lingering in the air.
The worst part was the undeniable surge of happiness that flooded Draco whenever he caught even the slightest whiff of Harry. His mood would soar, and an irrepressible grin would spread across his face, refusing to fade. Each night, Draco fervently prayed to the gods, hoping for just one more chance encounter, and he thanked them profusely whenever their benevolence granted his wish.
Pathetic.
He was so stupid.
It was halfway through their third year that something shifted.
Draco sat in the Great Hall, groaning to Parkinson about his Hippogriff injury. He knew his theatrics would catch Harry's attention—Harry, who always stood up for that oaf teaching Care of Magical Creatures. Deep down, Draco hoped that, if he was dramatic enough, Harry might ask how he was doing.
Pathetic, he knew. But he couldn't help himself.
Draco could feel Harry’s eyes on his back, though, so perhaps he could count this as a small victory.
However, any sense of triumph was short-lived. The moment was interrupted as Finnigan burst into the Great Hall, rushing to the Gryffindor table and shouting, “He’s been sighted!”
Harry immediately turned to Finnigan, his expression betraying his curiosity.
Draco's ears perked up, and he turned his head slightly, his grumbling tapering off as he strained to hear.
“Who?” Weasley asked.
“Sirius Black!”
There was a rustle as Granger grabbed the Daily Prophet from Finnigan’s hands. “Dufftown?” she said incredulously. “That’s not far from here.”
“You don’t think he would come to Hogwarts, do you?” another student asked.
“With dementors at every entrance?”
“Dementors?” Finnigan replied. “He’s already slipped by them once, hasn’t he? Who’s to say he can’t do it again?”
A boy beside him grimaced. “That’s right. Black could be anywhere. It’s like trying to catch smoke. Like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands.”
Draco watched as Harry swallowed, turned on his heel, and quickly left the Great Hall. Despite his feigned injury (which really didn’t hurt at all, if he was being honest), Draco pushed himself up and hurried after him, his heart pounding with curiosity and something else he couldn’t quite name.
Before Draco could react, hands yanked him into an empty classroom, the door slamming shut behind them. He blinked in surprise, only to find Harry crowding him against a wall, his wand pointed at Draco’s pulse point, his eyes ablaze with feverish desperation.
In that tense moment, as Harry pressed him against the wall with urgency in his eyes, Draco couldn’t help but notice how pretty Harry looked—flushed and panting, his features a mix of determination and concern. It was a strange, almost dizzying feeling.
Lovely, Draco thought, unable to stop the word from echoing in his mind. Lovely, lovely, lovely.
But, as Harry’s grip tightened on his arm, Draco’s thoughts raced. This wasn’t the Harry he knew—the one who defended the big oaf of a teacher and wore a grin as bright as the sun. This Harry, standing so close, was raw with emotion, his vulnerability palpable.
“What are you playing at, Malfoy?” Harry demanded, his voice low and urgent. “Are you involved in this?”
Draco swallowed, meeting Harry’s gaze with a mix of defiance and uncertainty. “Involved in what?” he countered, though he was well aware of what Harry was insinuating. Despite his resolve, he couldn't suppress the quickening of his pulse under Harry’s unwavering stare.
Though Draco towered a couple of inches over Harry, the intensity in Harry’s eyes made him feel strangely diminished, as if Harry’s gaze bore down on him from a height beyond physical stature. It was an odd feeling.
Harry hesitated, a flicker of doubt crossing his face before he spoke again, his voice lower, almost a whisper. “Someone in your family must have helped Sirius Black escape. Why is he coming near Hogwarts? Were my parents not enough? Does he want to kill me too?”
Draco’s breath caught in his throat at Harry’s accusations, the weight of his words hitting harder than he expected. He had anticipated Harry’s suspicion due to the Black family connection, but not the direct accusation implicating someone in his own family.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Draco replied, his voice steady. “My family has nothing to do with Sirius Black. I’ve had no contact with him or anyone associated with him.”
Harry’s grip on Draco’s arm tightened momentarily, his eyes searching Draco’s face as if trying to discern the truth. “I find that hard to believe,” Harry said, his voice tinged with frustration and a trace of fear. “There are rumors, whispers. People in your family are Death Eaters, loyal to Voldemort.”
Draco’s jaw tightened at the mention of Voldemort. It was a name few dared to speak aloud, especially within Hogwarts walls. “That’s not me,” Draco insisted, his tone firm. “I’m not like them.”
“But your family…” Harry began, his voice trailing off as if grappling with conflicting emotions.
“My family is complicated,” Draco interjected, a note of bitterness creeping into his voice. “But I’m not involved in any of this. I don’t know why Sirius Black would come near Hogwarts, but it has nothing to do with me.”
For a moment, Harry seemed to waver, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. Draco held his gaze steadily, willing Harry to see the truth beneath the surface.
They stood so close that their breaths mingled in the space between them. Draco’s eyes flickered down to Harry’s lips for just a second, a momentary lapse in his composure that he knew Harry must have noticed.
Harry’s expression softened slightly, a hint of something unreadable passing through his eyes. Draco’s heart raced, suddenly acutely aware of their proximity.
“Malfoy…” Harry’s voice was low, almost a whisper, tinged with a mixture of suspicion and something else Draco couldn’t quite decipher.
Draco swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He knew he had to maintain his composure, to keep Harry from seeing the effect their closeness had on him. “Potter,” he replied, his voice steadier than he felt. “You have no reason to trust me, but I’m telling you the truth.”
Harry searched Draco’s face, his gaze probing and intense. Draco fought the urge to look away, to break the spell of their locked eyes.
After a tense moment, Harry stepped back abruptly, breaking their shared space. His wand lowered slightly, but his guard remained up. “I’m watching you, Malfoy,” he asserted, his tone a mixture of warning and resolve.
Draco nodded. “You always are,” he said softly, reaching forward to brush a thumb against Harry’s markings.
Harry froze.
Their eyes locked in a charged silence, the air thick with unspoken tension. Draco's touch was gentle, almost tentative, yet it carried an unspoken plea. He traced the contours of Harry's markings with a feather-light touch, his thumb lingering over the intricate lines etched into Harry's skin.
For a moment, neither of them moved, caught in the gravity of the moment and the weight of their bond, which was fluttering happily in their pulses. Draco could feel Harry's heartbeat beneath his fingertips, a rhythm that seemed to echo his own.
Harry's breath hitched, his gaze flickering between Draco's eyes and his lips.
Draco's thumb caressed Harry's markings with a tenderness that spoke volumes. It was a silent apology, a confession of longing, and a plea for understanding all rolled into one gentle gesture.
"I..." Harry began, his voice barely above a whisper, his resolve crumbling as the seconds passed.
Before he could finish his sentence, Draco closed the distance between them. He pressed his lips softly against Harry's, a tender and cautious kiss that held the weight of everything left unsaid between them.
The world around them seemed to stop as their lips met for the first time, a rush of warmth and electricity coursing through both of them. It was a kiss filled with uncertainty, yet brimming with unspoken promises—a moment of raw honesty amidst the chaos and uncertainty of their world.
For a heartbeat, time stood still.
And, oh.
It was as if the universe had aligned just for them, just for this moment.
This must have been a reunion of long-lost lovers celebrated in the myths of old, where separated souls found solace in each other's arms, bridging the gaps of time and fate.
After all the effort Draco had invested in catching Harry’s attention, he finally had it. This was a tipping point. From now on, he vowed, promising to whatever being that was listening to his pleas, that he would never let this infuriating man with his captivating green eyes slip away from him again.
In the gentle brush of lips, Draco felt as if he had finally returned home—as though he had been destined to dwell within the sanctuary of Harry’s embrace, where their lips met in perfect harmony, sharing the same breath.
He curled his fingers into Harry’s messy hair, pulling him impossibly closer.
It may be blasphemous to the ancient gods, but Draco couldn’t help but think that Harry must be divine. There was something about the way he molded his body against Draco’s, the soft gasps of air exchanged between their lips, that made Draco want to fall to his knees and worship.
In that moment, Draco finally understood why Icarus of Crete had soared toward the sun with such reckless abandon. Harry—sweet, radiant, untouchable—pulled Draco in with a gravitational force that defied reason, as though he were the sun and Draco a distant star, desperate for his warmth from the edge of the galaxy. Draco felt consumed by the heat of Harry’s touch, willing to risk everything for just one more forbidden taste.
And he thanked every god in existence that they allowed him to touch the flame.
And, as they finally parted, breathless and trembling, Draco looked into Harry’s eyes and saw reflected there the same awe and wonder that filled his own heart.
“Is it always like that?” Harry murmured, his finger tracing gently across Draco’s bottom lip.
Draco’s eyes fluttered closed briefly, savoring the sensation, before he leaned in to press a tender kiss to Harry’s finger. “Is what always like that?”
“Kissing.”
Draco stared at him for a moment before a mischievous grin spread across his face. “Oh, am I your first kiss?”
Harry flushed, playfully batting at Draco’s shoulder. “Shut it.”
Draco chuckled softly, the sound carrying a hint of warmth that matched the soft glow in his eyes. He reached out, capturing Harry’s hand in his own, their fingers intertwining naturally as if they had always belonged together.
“You were pretty good for a first-timer,” Draco poked, his voice laced with affection.
Harry rolled his eyes, but couldn’t suppress a shy smile. “I had a good teacher,” he replied, his tone softening.
Draco’s smile widened, warmth spreading through him at Harry’s words. “I suppose I’ll take that as a compliment.”
They stood in comfortable silence for a moment, each lost in their own thoughts, yet acutely aware of the other’s presence.
Finally, Harry broke the silence. “Wait, who have you kissed before?”
"Are you jealous, angel?" Draco teased lightly, his voice carrying a hint of amusem*nt.
Harry glanced at him, visibly taken aback by the endearing nickname. A flush crept up his neck, his skin turning a delicate shade of pink under his marks. Draco wanted to lick him. "Maybe a little," Harry admitted, his gaze flickering to meet Draco's nervously.
Draco chuckled softly. "I kissed Pansy once during Spin the Bottle," he confessed.
Harry raised an eyebrow, a mix of surprise and intrigue flickering across his features. "Oh," he said softly, processing the information. "That’s it?"
Draco shook his head, his smile widening. "Then, I kissed Nott to figure out if kissing boys was any different."
Harry blinked, absorbing Draco’s revelation with a curious tilt of his head. “And how did that go?” he asked, his tone casual, but his eyes betraying a hint of amusem*nt and something deeper—something Draco couldn’t quite decipher.
Draco shrugged. “Nott was… awkwardly enthusiastic. I think he might have a bit of a crush.”
Harry’s eyes narrowed at the mere thought. “Are you just saying sh*t to hear yourself talk?” he gritted out, his grip on his wand tightening. “Maybe I’ll just go kill him now, is that what you want to hear?”
“Absolutely,” Draco responded, utterly delighted by Harry’s protective reaction. He leaned closer to Harry, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. “But, if you do that, who will entertain me during Potions? Pansy’s monologues on the latest fashion trends can only go so far.”
Harry’s expression softened slightly, a flicker of amusem*nt crossing his features as he realized Draco was teasing. “I suppose I’ll have to tolerate him a bit longer, then,” he replied, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.
Draco’s playful smirk softened into a more thoughtful expression as he met Harry’s intense gaze.
“Although,” Draco began, his voice lowering slightly, “I must admit, none of them compare to kissing you.”
Harry’s eyes flickered with surprise, his guard momentarily dropping as he processed Draco’s words. “Really?” he asked, his voice quieter now, tinged with a hint of vulnerability.
Draco nodded, his gaze unwavering. “Really,” he affirmed softly. “Kissing you... it’s different.”
Harry swallowed, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “Good different?” he ventured cautiously.
Draco’s smile turned affectionate. “Very good different,” he assured him. “It’s like...” He searched for the right words, wanting to convey the depth of what he felt. “It’s like finding something you never knew you were missing.”
Their eyes locked, an unspoken understanding passing between them. Draco’s heart raced, knowing they were on the precipice of something significant, something that had been silently building between them for a long time.
“Maybe... we should find out just how different,” Harry suggested softly, his gaze flickering back down to Draco’s lips.
Draco’s breath caught in his throat, anticipation and desire swirling in the air around them. “I think that’s a very good idea,” he murmured, leaning in slowly until their lips met once more.
The rest of third year and then fourth year passed in a whirlwind of soft, stolen kisses tucked away in hidden corners of the castle. Harry exuded a soft warmth, his demeanor transformed by the return of his godfather. He seemed happier and more content than Draco had ever seen him before.
They kept their burgeoning relationship under wraps, or at least, Draco did. Harry, on the other hand, had told Weasley and the muggleborn girl almost immediately. This became abundantly clear to Draco one morning as he made his way to Divination.
“If you hurt Harry, we’ll kill you,” the Weasel had declared with a seriousness that Draco found laughable. After all, who was Weasley to issue threats to him? But then Hermione Granger leveled him with a piercing stare that silenced his amusem*nt instantly. If he doubted Weasley’s ability to make good on that threat, he certainly didn’t underestimate Granger’s. That girl was utterly terrifying.
One night, just after the second Triwizard Tournament task, Harry burst into the Astronomy Tower, his excitement practically palpable. He thrust something eagerly into Draco’s hands, unable to contain himself.
Draco arched an eyebrow, his curiosity instantly piqued as he looked down at what Harry had given him. His breath caught in his throat.
It was a face he would recognize anywhere, having studied it countless times on his family’s tapestry. The ring on his finger seemed to warm against Draco’s touch.
Regulus Black.
The photograph was aged, its edges worn and the image slightly faded, but unmistakably him.
It captured a moment from a bygone era, perhaps around the time his portrait was painted. Regulus' features were sharply defined, yet softened by a rare smile. It was a side of him Draco had never seen—carefree, with a hint of mischief in his eyes. His cheeks were flushed, either from exhilaration or the cold, bundled up all sweet and soft in a jacket that seemed too large.
Draco's gaze drifted to the bottom of the photograph, where an almost familiar sprawling handwriting revealed: “Taken by J. Potter on October 27, 1978.”
He watched Regulus laugh for a few seconds, his head thrown back and his marks vibrant in the moonlight, until the photograph looped. Draco looked up to meet Harry’s eyes quizzically. “Why do you have a picture of my cousin?”
Harry reeled back, his expression shifting to surprise. He glanced down at the photograph in Draco's hands, then back up at Draco in confusion.
Draco nodded slowly, his gaze steady on Harry's face. "Regulus Black," he clarified, his voice calm. "Sirius' younger brother. Why do you have a picture of him?"
Harry's brow furrowed as he considered Draco's question. "Sirius gave it to me," he explained hesitantly, his eyes flickering between Draco and the photograph. "He said it was taken by my dad back when they were at Hogwarts."
Draco's eyebrows lifted in surprise. "Your father took this?"
Harry just nodded, his expression thoughtful.
Draco hummed. “I didn’t realize they were close.”
Draco studied the photograph again, his mind piecing together the small fragments of information he had gleaned over the years.
"He looks... different," Draco murmured, his gaze lingering on Regulus' smiling face. "Not at all like the stories I've heard."
Harry leaned closer, peering over Draco's shoulder at the photograph. "Sirius mentioned that, too," he said softly. "He said Regulus wasn't always like how his family portrayed him. There were brief moments when he was just a kid, enjoying life."
Draco nodded slowly, still captivated by the photograph in his hands. "It's strange how people can be so different from how they're remembered," he mused softly. He paused, then looked up at Harry. "Do you have a picture of your dad? From that time, I mean."
Harry hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "I do, actually," he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out another worn photograph. He handed it to Draco.
Draco took the photograph carefully, studying it with interest. It showed a group of young wizards, laughing and posing in front of the Hogwarts castle. Among them was a familiar face, with messy hair and glasses, his features strikingly similar to Harry's.
"Your father?" Draco asked, pointing at the young man in the photograph.
Harry nodded, a fond smile on his face. "Yeah, that's him. James Potter." He gestured to the other three wizards in the photo. “And there’s Sirius, of course. Right next to him is Professor Lupin, and then Peter Pettigrew is the one next to my dad.” Harry grimaced slightly at the mention of Pettigrew’s name, his expression clouding briefly.
Draco studied the photograph intently, his mind racing with thoughts. James Potter stood at the edge of the group, his wings unfurled behind him, his arm thrown haphazardly around the shoulders of another young man with sandy blonde hair—must be Pettigrew. Unlike the others in the photo, Pettigrew had neither wings nor marks. Draco wondered, briefly, if Pettigrew's eventual betrayal stemmed from a sense of jealousy or inadequacy among his friends.
Draco's eyes narrowed as they traced the intricate design of James Potter’s wings. While the left one was partially obscured, the right wing was fully visible.
Draco’s heart clenched. He would recognize that feather pattern anywhere.
He carefully laid Regulus’ photo next to James', the silent comparison speaking volumes. It didn’t take long for Harry to understand.
“They were…” Harry breathed, astonishment coloring his voice.
“Mates,” Draco confirmed, his tone soft yet certain.
Harry stared at the photos, his mind reeling from the revelation. "Bloody hell. I can't believe it," he murmured, his eyes flicking between the images. “Sirius never mentioned anything about Regulus and my dad being... involved."
Draco shrugged, his gaze still fixed on the photos. "Maybe he didn’t know, or maybe he thought it wasn’t important. Some knowledge dies with its keepers."
Harry's hand trembled slightly as he reached out to touch the edges of the photographs, as if trying to absorb the truth they held. "They must have kept it a secret," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Given the war and everything…"
Draco sighed softly. "It’s unsettling," he murmured, more to himself than to Harry. "As if history is repeating itself."
Harry looked up, shock written into his features. "You think we’ll end up like them?” he asked, suddenly furious. “Sirius said that my dad’s Marked severed his wings and their connection just months before they died. I would never do that to you.”
Draco tilted his head. “Regulus severed his wings?”
Harry's anger turned to confusion as quickly as it had come about in the first place. "I don’t know all the details," he admitted, frustration tinging his voice. "Sirius mentioned it in passing, said it was one of the darkest times for my dad. He apparently got separated from the group during a full moon and came back with broken wings. He never spoke about it, even to his closest friends. But somehow, Regulus and my dad... it all fell apart before they died."
Draco’s mind raced, piecing together fragments of a tragic past. “If Regulus severed his wings, it must have been under extreme duress,” he mused. “He must have known he was going to sacrifice himself and didn’t want his Wingborn to feel the agony of his death. Severing the bond was his way of protecting your father from the pain.”
Harry’s breath hitched. “Sacrifice?”
Draco nodded slowly, his eyes dark with understanding. “My mother told me that Regulus tried to take You-Know-Who down from the inside,” Draco said. “He knew what he was facing, what it would cost him. By breaking the bond, he tried to shield your father from the worst of it.”
Harry swallowed hard, the weight of the revelation settling over him. “And dad never knew… he just thought Regulus abandoned him.”
“Or worse, betrayed him,” Draco added softly. “It must have been unbearable.”
“How horrible,” Harry murmured, his voice laden with sorrow as he silently mourned for his father and his lost Marked lover. Then, his jaw tightened with resolve. “I won’t let that happen to us, Draco. I won’t lose you like that.”
Harry's words hung heavy in the air, like a vow etched into the fabric of their shared destiny.
Draco's breath caught in his throat.
As he gazed into Harry's eyes, darkened with determination, Draco felt a tumultuous storm raging within him. He wanted to promise Harry the same unwavering devotion, to swear that their love would endure against all odds. Yet, beneath that desire lay a haunting truth he couldn't ignore—the knowledge that their path was fraught with peril, destined to fail at every corner.
Because, even now, he sensed they were hurtling toward a collision course, destined for destruction.
Because, the only flaw in a star is its inevitable fate to burn out.
And Draco would burn. It was the one certainty in his mind now—that he would fight to the end in this war, defending his Marked. Even if it meant defying his family, or following in Regulus' footsteps to root out Tom Riddle’s secrets. Even if it meant betraying his Marked.
He would do anything to shield Harry from this war. He would set the world ablaze, killing anyone in his path, if it meant that Harry would be safe.
"The stars," Draco began softly, his voice trembling slightly with emotion, "they burn bright and fierce, illuminating the sky with their brilliance. But they also consume themselves in that same fire, fading into nothingness." He paused, searching for words that could capture the complexity of their situation. "We are like stars, Harry. Bound together by fate, destined to blaze against the darkness. But... stars, they all burn out eventually."
Harry's expression softened, a mixture of understanding and pain reflected in his eyes. "Then we'll burn together," he said quietly, reaching out to clasp Draco's hand in his own. "For as long as we can."
Draco squeezed Harry's hand tightly, his heart aching. He pressed a kiss to the markings on his cheek, then his lips, and Harry smiled against his touch.
No, he thought desperately. No, we won’t. I won’t let you burn out.
In that moment, Draco whispered a solemn prayer to the celestial realms. He beseeched the stars and all heavenly beings, praying with every fiber of his being. Let it be Harry who is shielded, he implored, for the world craved the light of Harry Potter far more desperately than it did Draco Malfoy.
“He’s back,” Harry sobbed, his fingers clutching at Draco’s robes mercilessly. Draco’s heart ached at the sight, his fingers carding through Harry’s messy hair. The weight of Harry's anguish was palpable, a heavy cloud that settled over them both.
“I know,” Draco murmured softly, his voice laced with sorrow and determination. He held Harry close to his chest, trying to soothe him, his wings curling protectively around them.
Harry’s grip on Draco tightened, seeking solace in the warmth and reassurance of Draco's presence. "I don’t understand," he admitted, his voice breaking with raw vulnerability. “My mother sacrificed herself to kill him. Why isn’t he dead?”
Draco felt a pang of anguish as he held Harry tighter, feeling the tremors that racked his Marked’s body. The aftermath of battle was always brutal, but this was different—Voldemort's return had shattered the fragile peace the world had just begun to build.
“You mean, the mother’s love thing?" Draco asked softly, his fingers tracing comforting circles on Harry's back.
Harry looked up, his green eyes filled with tears that reflected the flickering light of the room. "Mother’s love?" he echoed, voice hoarse with emotion. "No, she practiced blood magic. Her protection charm should have eradicated him forever. It’s impossible that he lived.”
Draco's brow furrowed in deep concern, his fingers pausing momentarily in Harry's hair. He knew only a little about blood magic, a dark form of magic gifted only to the most benevolent of witches after the Evolution. The spells and counterspells that defied conventional understanding, making it one of the most feared forms of advanced magic. But even with his limited knowledge, he knew that the resurgence of Voldemort defied common logic.
"Blood magic... It should have been irreversible," Draco muttered, his mind racing through what he knew of the powerful protection and defense enchantments. "Maybe there's something we don't understand. Something deeper."
Harry shook his head, the disbelief etched on his face as he clung tighter to Draco's robes. "Like what?" His voice cracked with frustration and desperation.
Draco held Harry closer, his own mind grappling with the implications of Voldemort's return. "I don’t have all the answers, Harry," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "But... maybe it's not about the magic itself. Maybe it's about... his will, his obsession with power."
"But that shouldn't be enough," Harry protested, his voice trembling. "Not after everything... not after what my mother did."
Draco nodded solemnly, his fingers resuming their gentle movement through Harry's hair. "I’m sorry, angel. It’s not fair, I know.”
And, as he held Harry until his whimpers subsided and his body fell limp in exhaustion, all Draco could think about was how to protect Harry, to shield him from the darkness that threatened to consume them both.
It was nearing the end of fifth year before Draco faced the truth—a truth that had been lurking in the shadows of his consciousness, elusive yet undeniable. As the days lengthened into early summer, Hogwarts seemed to hold its breath, caught between the whispers of impending exams and the palpable tension that Voldemort's return had wrought upon the wizarding world, still prevalent even a year later.
Draco found himself restless, his thoughts increasingly consumed by the weight of his burden. The corridors echoed with hushed conversations, furtive glances exchanged between students and teachers alike as he passed by, each bearing the invisible scars of a world marred by fear and uncertainty.
It was common knowledge now that his father had re-entered the fold of the Death Eaters. His family’s expectations loomed heavily over Draco, like an impending storm threatening to drench him in the inky stain of a dreaded tattoo.
One evening, as twilight painted the sky in hues of violet and gold, Draco found solace in the quiet solitude of the Astronomy Tower. The cool breeze whispered through the open windows, carrying with it the scent of approaching summer. Leaning against the stone balustrade, Draco gazed out at the sprawling grounds below, the greenery bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun.
His mind drifted back to a conversation he had inadvertently overheard during the holidays, between his father and his crazy f*cking aunt. They had spoken in hushed tones about sacred objects imbued with fragments of Tom Riddle's soul.
He didn’t fully grasp the intricacies of their significance yet. But he knew, with a certainty that chilled his heart, that these objects were the reason Lily Potter’s sacrificial magic hadn’t secured eternal peace. They were the grim justification for the Potters’ futile sacrifice, the cruel catalyst that condemned Harry to a childhood marred by abuse, devoid of his parents' love and protection.
And Draco suspected they were also to blame for Regulus Black's tragic demise. These accursed objects had stolen his cousin from everyone who loved him, torn him away from his beloved Wingborn. They were the malignant force that had turned their narrative into a heartbreaking tragedy.
Draco burned with a fervent desire to obliterate them, to erase their malevolent influence from their lives once and for all.
And, in the stillness of that moment, the truth crystallized with a clarity that left Draco breathless. He knew, then, what he must do to protect his Marked
Yet, woven into this solemn duty was the bitter realization that safeguarding Harry would inevitably demand betrayal. To embark upon this path meant sacrificing trust, jeopardizing the very bond that bound him to Harry.
Well. He must not only jeopardize it; he must shatter it completely.
The alternative was unthinkable.
For, Draco carried the heavy certainty that his fate was sealed—Voldemort and his followers would inevitably discover his treachery, marking him for death. His allegiance, feigned to infiltrate and undermine them from within, meant his demise was all but assured.
And, when he passed, the repercussions would be devastating. Harry would be left adrift in a world where their bond remained but as a haunting echo, a constant reminder of what could have been.
That future was not an option. Draco vowed that Harry would find happiness again—there would be no reality where Harry merely existed with memories of him after he was gone. He would learn to love again, to open his heart to other possibilities.
And so, to ensure Harry's chance at a future untainted by Tom Riddle, Draco swore an oath akin to the tragic heroes of old.
From his youth, Draco had always been fascinated by the legend of Alcestis. When Admetus, her husband, fell gravely ill, facing imminent death's grasp, Apollo intervened with a dire bargain: one must willingly replace him in the clutches of the underworld. Despite Admetus' desperate pleas to friends and family alike, none dared sacrifice themselves for his sake. Only Alcestis, driven by an unparalleled depth of love and devotion, stepped forward to embrace mortality in his stead. With unwavering resolve, she prepared for her journey into death's embrace, bidding farewell to her children and cherished kin with dignity and grace.
Draco would read the legend repeatedly, and sought out novels exploring similar themes of sacrifice. One day, he eagerly showed his mother all the texts he had devoured. He vividly remembers the sorrowful look that briefly shadowed her face as she ruffled his hair and dismissed the stories as nonsense.
Back then, he had thought her disapproval stemmed from a desire for him to read more educational books. Now, he realizes she must have sensed the tragic parallels to his own life. Draco is Alcestis, and he has accepted his role wholeheartedly. His mother, who had raised him and cherished him above all others, and who had witnessed her favorite cousin fall into the depths of a similar sacrifice, must have foreseen the inevitable trajectory of his own story.
He would bind Tom Riddle to a stake and watch the flames consume him, drive a blade deep into his heart, unleash any measure of relentless fury, to achieve Harry's liberation.
He would, gladly, give his own life for Harry.
And so, drawing strength from the memory of his cousin's sacrifice, Draco steeled his heart against the looming specter of doom in his own tragedy.
Their sixth year was marked by an agonizing absence—no stolen kisses, no clandestine meetings. Nothing at all.
Yet, Draco could always feel Harry's eyes on him, a constant, burning presence. He knew that Harry suspected the truth—that Draco had taken the Mark. But Draco knew Harry, perhaps better than he knew himself. He understood Harry's hesitance to confront him, driven purely by the fear that Draco might have, in fact, betrayed him.
And so, the cycle repeated itself. Draco and Harry returned to revolving around each other like they had in their earlier years, trapped in a painful dance, always just out of each other's reach.
One day, however, the dynamic shifted.
It was a dreary Tuesday, and the potions classroom was filled with the usual murmur of students. The air was thick with the scent of simmering brews. Professor Slughorn stood at the front, gesturing towards a row of bubbling cauldrons. “I prepared some concoctions this morning,” he announced. “Any ideas what these might be?”
Granger’s hand shot up immediately, as expected, but Slughorn's gaze bypassed her. His eyes settled on Draco, who had been trying to blend into the background. Draco's eyes widened in surprise.
"Mr. Malfoy?" Slughorn prompted, his voice tinged with expectation.
Draco felt the weight of the entire class's gaze upon him, and more piercingly, Harry's, from where he stood with a battered textbook. He took a deep breath, stepping forward to examine the potions more closely. The liquid in the cauldrons shimmered with a curious hue, and Draco's mind raced to identify them.
“That one there is Veritaserum,” he finally said, his voice steady. “It’s a truth-telling serum.” His gaze shifted to the next cauldron. “And that would be Polyjuice Potion. It’s terribly tricky to make.”
“Correct,” Slughorn replied with a nod, though his expression remained inscrutable. “And the last one?”
Draco's eyes flicked to the final cauldron. The potion within swirled with an iridescent glow, its surface emitting a delicate, spiraling vapor. He hesitated for a moment, feeling the pressure of not only the class’s anticipation, but also Harry's unyielding gaze.
“That one is Amortentia,” Draco said, his voice almost a whisper. “The most powerful love potion in the world. It’s rumored to smell differently to each person, according to what attracts them. For example, I smell… apples, and new parchment,” he hesitated, his gaze flickering toward Harry before continuing, “and… jasmine.”
“Indeed,” Slughorn said, a glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes. “Five points to Slytherin.”
As Draco returned to his seat, he felt the tension in the room intensify, especially with Harry’s eyes still burning into him. He pulled at the collar of his shirt, suddenly feeling quite warm despite the cool air in the dungeons.
After class, as students gathered their things, Draco felt a presence behind him. He turned to find Harry standing there, his expression a mix of determination and apprehension.
“We need to talk,” Harry said, his voice low but firm.
Draco swallowed hard, glancing around to see if anyone was watching. “Fine,” he replied, keeping his tone as neutral as possible. “Not here, though.”
They made their way to an empty classroom, the silence between them heavy with unspoken words. Once inside, Draco closed the door behind them and turned to face Harry, bracing himself for the inevitable confrontation.
“What’s going on, Draco?” Harry demanded, his green eyes searching Draco's face for answers. “Why have you been avoiding me?”
Draco took a deep breath, trying to steady himself against the torrent of emotions threatening to overwhelm him. He met Harry's gaze, the intensity of those green eyes almost too much to bear.
"It's complicated," Draco said, his voice barely steady. "You wouldn't understand."
"Try me," Harry demanded, stepping closer, determination etched on his face. "I deserve to know the truth."
Draco turned away, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "The truth is dangerous, Harry. It's not something I can just tell you without putting you at risk."
Harry's jaw tightened, his eyes blazing. "I'm already at risk. We all are. Voldemort is back, and I need to know where you stand."
Draco felt the weight of Harry's words, the urgency in his voice. This wasn't just about curiosity; it was about necessity, about understanding where Draco's loyalties truly lay.
With a slow, deliberate movement, Draco turned back to Harry. He hesitated. Then, with a trembling hand, he pulled up the sleeve of his left arm, revealing the dark, ominous Mark etched into his skin.
Harry's eyes widened in horror as he stared at the Dark Mark on Draco's arm, the ink stark and malevolent against his pale skin. A storm of emotions flickered across Harry's face—shock, anger, and a profound sense of betrayal. He staggered back, instinctively putting distance between them. Draco could see it all too clearly in Harry's eyes: the painful confirmation of suspicions he had fought so hard to deny. The truth was laid bare, undeniable and devastating.
Draco watched as Harry recoiled, his heart sinking with each step that widened the chasm between them. The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken accusations and shattered trust. Harry’s eyes, usually so full of warmth and understanding, now bore into Draco with a mixture of disbelief and hurt.
“You… You joined them,” Harry finally whispered, his voice raw with emotion. “After everything we’ve been through, after what they’ve done…”
Draco clenched his jaw, unable to meet Harry’s gaze directly. He could feel the weight of Harry’s disappointment like a physical blow, crushing his resolve and leaving him feeling exposed and vulnerable. The truth hung in the air, poisoning the space between them.
“I had to,” Draco managed to say, his voice barely above a whisper. “To protect…”
Harry shook his head, cutting him off, his expression hardening with resolve. “No. There’s no excuse for this.”
Draco felt a surge of frustration and helplessness. He had known this moment would come, dreaded it with every fiber of his being, yet still, he had hoped against hope that Harry would understand. That, somehow, their bond would withstand even this betrayal.
But hope was a fragile thing, shattered now into irreparable shards. Harry turned away, his shoulders tense. The sound of footsteps echoed in the empty classroom as he walked towards the door, leaving Draco standing there, alone with his regrets and the haunting knowledge that he had lost more than he had ever imagined.
As the door closed behind Harry, sealing away their fractured bond, Draco sank to his knees, the weight of his choices crushing him like a vice. In the silence that followed, he cursed the gods with bitter defiance, their unseen hands orchestrating the tragedies that had befallen them and those who came before.
He had chosen duty over love—duty to his family, duty to his Marked—and now he was left to face the consequences: a future without Harry, haunted by the ghost of what could have been. The echoes of their shattered trust reverberated in the empty classroom, a testament to the irreversible rift he had carved between them.
Draco entered the Room of Requirement with a solemn determination, each step measured and weighted by the gravity of his impending actions.
Tonight marked the eve of war, the precipice from which all his choices converged. It was the appointed hour when Draco would unlock the Vanishing Cabinet, usher the Death Eaters into the heart of Hogwarts, and fulfill his dark mandate—to assassinate Albus Dumbledore.
But first, there was another task, perhaps the only thing that could shield Harry from the encroaching darkness, as Draco faced the certainty of his own demise after defying the order to kill Dumbledore.
He had to sever their bond.
Draco had delved deep into the Restricted Section of the library, scouring ancient tomes and forbidden scrolls. Yet, nowhere had he found mention of a Wingborn voluntarily severing their own wings. The excruciating pain it would bring was not a burden any Wingborn wished to bear, nor did they desire the permanent destruction of their bond.
Draco stood in the dimly lit Room of Requirement, the weight of his decision pressing heavily upon him. The faint echoes of his footsteps reverberated off the stone walls as he paced, the flickering torches casting dancing shadows around him. In his hands, he held a worn parchment, its edges frayed from countless readings.
He had researched into every obscure text, combed through every hidden corner of the library in his quest for a solution, yet every avenue led to the same unwelcome conclusion: there existed no known ritual, spell, or potion capable of severing the bond without inflicting irreparable harm upon the Wingborn. Typically, a Marked only resorted to destroying their wings in dire situations—when they felt utterly cornered by circ*mstances, society, or, in certain tragic cases, by their very own Wingborns.
Closing his eyes, Draco tried to steady his trembling hands. His heart ached with the knowledge that he was about to inflict pain upon himself and upon Harry, the one he loved more than life itself. But he could see no other way to protect Harry from the darkness that threatened to consume them both.
If Voldemort were to unearth their destined connection, and the fact that Draco had accepted it, it would fuel his determination to eliminate them both. Draco couldn’t afford to allow that—he couldn’t provide Riddle with another reason to hunt down his Marked.
Taking a deep breath, Draco unfurled the parchment and traced the ancient symbols inscribed upon it. They glowed faintly in response to his touch, resonating with the power of centuries-old magic. This was his only chance, his final gambit to ensure Harry’s safety.
With a resolve forged in desperation, Draco began the incantation. The words spilled from his lips like a solemn chant, each syllable weighted with profound intent and profound sorrow. The magic surged around him, prickling his skin like a relentless onslaught of needles, yet he pressed on, immersing himself completely in the task ahead.
As the ritual crescendoed, a searing pain ripped through Draco's body, tearing at his very core. It felt as though his essence was being torn apart, every fiber of his being aflame with agony. Gritting his teeth against the torment, he refused to yield. The bond that had once bound him and Harry together, woven from love and enchanted threads, unraveled slowly, painfully.
Minutes stretched into an eternity as Draco battled the overwhelming urge to relent, to succumb to the excruciating pain. But he persevered, drawing strength from memories of Harry’s smile, the warmth of his touch, and the dream of a future liberated from Voldemort’s shadow.
Then, in a blinding eruption of light and a surge of raw energy, it was over. Draco stumbled back, breathless and trembling, his vision blurred with tears, as his wings fell from his shoulders in shattered pieces to the floor. The parchment he clutched in his hand crumpled, its ancient glyphs now faint and inert.
Slowly, Draco lifted his eyes, anticipating Harry's anguished and stunned gaze. But the room remained empty, devoid of Harry's presence. He was alone, the bond irreversibly severed. In its absence, a hollow ache settled deep within Draco's chest.
Collapsing to the floor, the weight of his sacrifice finally crashing down upon him. Tears streamed unabated down his cheeks as he held the now-useless parchment tightly against his chest.
(In a cavern cloaked in perpetual darkness, a solitary Inferius bore witness to a scene steeped in bitter familiarity. From the depths of his desolation, he watched as the Markings belonging to his former lover's child faded away, replaced by ugly, mangled scars etched into flesh—echoes of the wounds that marred his own undead form.
As the last remnants of the boy’s Markings dissolved, the Inferius clenched his bony fists in silent anguish.
Once, he had known profound love and devotion, intertwined with a fate now forever entwined with tragedy. In ages past, his beloved had faced a betrayal akin to the one unfolding before him now. In those distant times, the Inferius had sought desperately to sever their bond, to shield them from the encroaching darkness.
But he had failed. His efforts had not spared his lover or his family. Now, the gods seemed intent on punishing him, forcing him to bear witness to the repetition of their doomed cycle, as another destined pair was pushed to their breaking point.
With a resigned cry that reverberated through the cavern, he turned away, his hollow eyes fixed on the distant flicker of a solitary torch. Outside, the world spun on, oblivious to the silent lamentations of a creature condemned to forever dwell in the shadows of its own tragic tale.)
"Malfoy!"
Draco spun around at the sound of Harry's voice, the one he had yearned to hear and dreaded in equal measure. Harry sprinted towards him, his expression a tempest of anger, confusion, and hurt, his footsteps echoing sharply against the stone floor.
But before Harry could close the distance, Bellatrix's cackle cut through the air like a blade unsheathed. "There's the little Potter!" she sneered, wand raised menacingly, casting a shadow over their confrontation.
Harry seemed oblivious to the danger, pushing past Bellatrix's malevolent presence to confront Draco. He collided with him, hands beating against Draco's chest like a desperate plea, his voice breaking with raw emotion. "Why?" Harry sobbed, desperation and anguish dripping from every syllable, each word a dagger in Draco's already tortured heart.
Draco's own heart twisted painfully in his chest. Up close, he saw the scars of their once beautiful Marks etched forever into Harry's skin—the indelible aftermath of Draco's agonizing choice, a choice made in shadows and secrets.
Unable to meet Harry's tear-filled eyes, Draco swallowed hard, his throat tight with regret and guilt. "I had no choice," he whispered, the words barely audible amidst the chaos of their surroundings, the weight of their world collapsing around them.
Bellatrix's cackle pierced the heavy silence once more, her amusem*nt cruel and mocking, reveling in the anguish she had caused. Draco shot her a defiant glare, his resolve hardening in the face of her cruelty, a silent promise of reckoning in his eyes.
"Go!" he commanded, his voice carrying the weight of finality, pushing Harry protectively behind him, shielding him from the darkness threatening to consume them both. Draco slid his cousin’s silver ring off his finger, placing it into Harry’s trembling hands before urging him once more. "You must leave."
Harry whimpered, heartbroken and betrayed, but Draco's tone brooked no argument. He clutched at the ring, and, with a final, tortured look at Draco, Harry turned and ran, disappearing into the shadows of the corridor.
Draco did not cross paths with Harry again until that fateful encounter at his Manor, and later, amidst the chaotic turmoil of the Room of Requirement during the final battle.
But any hope of reconciliation seemed a distant dream. He knew Harry hated him now—despised him for his actions. Draco silently prayed to whatever gods might listen that he could survive long enough to witness the war's end, to ensure Harry's safety with his own eyes.
That hope flickered when he overheard Minerva McGonagall and Severus Snape murmuring, surrounded entirely by destruction.
“He’s been raised like a pig for slaughter,” Snape said with grim finality. “He's a Horcrux. He must die to beat You-Know-Who.”
Draco froze in place. He instantly knew they were talking about Harry.
He strained to hear McGonagall's reply, but the words were lost to him. Snape's voice, however, cut through the haze of his thoughts. "You must help him, Minerva. Perhaps there is a way…"
Draco's heartbeat thundered in his ears.
Die.
Die. Die. Die. Die. Die.
Harry must die.
Harry must die to win the war.
Harry—Draco's Harry, for whom he had sacrificed everything—must die.
Draco felt a surge of panic and disbelief grip his chest like a vice.
As McGonagall and Snape moved away, their conversation fading into the background of chaos and destruction, Draco remained rooted to the spot. His mind raced, grappling with the implications of what he had just heard. The war had always been about sacrifices, about choosing sides and facing consequences. But this revelation cut deeper than any curse or hex.
As he slid down the rough stone wall, pressing the backs of his hands against his stinging eyes, Draco grappled with a whirlwind of fear and despair. What could he possibly do now? His fists clenched at his sides in frustration.
He had nothing left. He hadn’t prepared for a situation like this. There was no solution, no way to undo what had been set in motion.
There was nothing he could do.
His fists clenched at his sides in frustration. He mourned the loss of his Marked for the first time, and the bond he had chosen to sever so that Harry could live.
Now, he realized, everything was utterly futile, a wasted endeavor.
In the recesses of his mind, some deity or devil whispered haunting reproaches. It didn’t have to end like this, they reminded him. You could have stood by his side, guided him, cherished him. Instead, you chose to let him slip away.
“I know!” he shouted out angrily, tipping his head to the skies.
Draco's voice echoed faintly in the abandoned corridor, mingling with the distant sounds of battle that reverberated through the castle walls. His anger burned hot and fierce, directed at himself as much as at the unseen forces that seemed to taunt him.
He pounded his clenched fists against the rough stone floor, feeling the sting of scraped skin against unforgiving rock.
The weight of his choices bore down on him like a crushing weight. He could still see Harry's tear-filled eyes, feel the weight of the silver ring he had pressed into Harry's hand before pushing him away. The memory of their last moments together haunted him, a bitter reminder of what he had sacrificed in the name of duty.
"But what else could I have done?" he muttered bitterly to himself, his voice a hoarse whisper. His hands trembled as he wiped away tears, feeling the emptiness of his heartache. The whispers of regret and missed opportunities echoed louder now, drowning out the distant sounds of battle.
Draco leaned back against the wall, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He closed his eyes tightly, shutting out the haunting memories and the relentless guilt that threatened to consume him. Deep down, he knew he had made his choice for a reason, but, in this moment of despair, it offered little comfort.
For the first time, Draco felt truly alone in the midst of the chaos around him. The war raged on, indifferent to his anguish, its demands relentless and unforgiving.
He remained seated, ensnared in the labyrinth of his thoughts and regrets, an eternity passing in the stillness of the abandoned corridor.
Then, a deep pang of anguish pierced his very soul, and he knew Harry Potter was dead.
Draco's heart lurched with a sudden, dreadful certainty—the kind that comes from a bond severed by death. He had known, deep down, that this moment would come, yet the reality of it struck him with a force that knocked the breath from his lungs.
He stumbled to his feet, his mind racing as he fought to comprehend the magnitude of what had just happened. The air felt heavier, as if weighted with the loss of someone he had once held so close. A thousand memories flashed before his eyes—the stolen moments, the whispered promises, the fleeting touches that had once bound them together.
With a heavy heart, Draco began to move, driven by an urgent need to find confirmation, to see with his own eyes what his soul already knew. The journey through the battered corridors of Hogwarts was a blur, his steps echoing hollowly in the silence of the castle that had witnessed so much turmoil and sacrifice.
But then, he gasped, a hand shooting up to clutch at his heart. It opened, allowing him to breathe again, and his pulse quickened under his skin from pure elation. His eyes widened as they fixed on a single movement—a twitch, a sign of life, from where Harry lay cradled in Hagrid's arms.
He staggered backward, his soul crying out in gratitude. Oh, God, thank you.
Despite what the legends may romanticize, the aftermath of a war is far from easy.
Draco hadn't expected to survive , and now that he did, he found himself adrift without purpose.
He wandered through the ruins of what was once Hogwarts, the weight of the war heavy upon his shoulders. The castle, once teeming with life and magic, now lay in shambles—broken walls and scorched corridors bore witness to the ferocity of battle.
Draco's steps echoed hollowly as he moved through the wreckage, his mind a turbulent sea of regret and sorrow. He had made choices that led to this devastation, choices that had torn apart the very fabric of his existence. The bond he had sacrificed in a desperate bid to protect Harry now haunted him like a specter, a constant reminder of what he had lost.
He paused by the Great Hall, its grand doors splintered and broken. Inside, the echoes of past feasts and laughter lingered faintly in the air, a stark contrast to the desolation that now surrounded him. Draco couldn't bring himself to enter. Instead, he leaned against the cold stone wall, his chest tightening with each breath.
Gazing out at the scarred landscape beyond the castle walls, Draco felt an overwhelming sense of emptiness. The war had left its mark not only on the physical world, but on his soul as well. He wondered if redemption was even possible after everything that had transpired.
Lost in his thoughts, Draco didn't notice the approaching footsteps until they were right behind him. Turning slowly, he saw a figure standing in the shadows—a silhouette he recognized all too well.
"Harry," Draco whispered, his voice barely audible amidst the silence of the ruins.
Harry stepped forward, his expression unreadable. The bond between them, once a source of strength and love, now hung between them like a fragile thread. Neither spoke for a long moment, the weight of unspoken words filling the space between them.
Finally, Harry broke the silence, his voice rough with emotion. "Why did you do it, Draco?"
Draco looked away, unable to meet Harry's gaze. "I thought... I thought it was the only way. To keep you safe."
Harry's features softened slightly, though pain still lurked in his eyes. "You didn't have to sever the bond completely. We could have found another way."
"I didn't know," Draco admitted, his voice wavering. "I didn't know what else to do."
Silence fell between them again, heavy and fraught with unresolved tension. The ruins of Hogwarts seemed to echo their unspoken regrets, the shattered remnants of their past laid bare before them.
"I don't know if I can forgive you," Harry said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.
Draco closed his eyes, feeling the weight of those words like a physical blow. He had feared this moment, dreaded it with every fiber of his being. Yet, somehow, facing Harry's pain was more unbearable than he had imagined.
"I understand," Draco murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "I don't deserve forgiveness."
Harry didn't respond immediately, his gaze fixed on Draco as if searching for something within him. Slowly, he reached out a hand, hesitating briefly before resting it lightly on Draco's arm. The touch was tentative, a tentative bridge across the chasm that had opened between them.
"We survived," Harry said softly, his voice tinged with sadness. "Maybe that will have to be enough."
Draco swallowed hard, forcing himself to meet Harry's gaze. "Maybe," he echoed, his voice barely more than a whisper.
In the years that followed the war, the destined pair never found each other again.
Harry found solace in the embrace of Ginny Weasley, their love blossoming into a sanctuary of warmth and laughter. Together, they welcomed three children into the world, each a beacon of hope and joy in their lives.
Draco, too, sought refuge in the arms of another. Astoria Greengrass became his anchor, her quiet strength a balm for his tormented soul. They were blessed with a son, whose bright eyes held the promise of a future untainted by the shadows of the past.
Years rolled by like the turning pages of an ancient tome. Then, on the bustling platform of King's Cross Station, amidst the swirling steam and the excited chatter of students, they stood once more. This time, they were fathers bidding farewell to their children as they embarked on their own journeys to Hogwarts.
Their eyes met across the platform, a silent acknowledgment of shared history and unspoken regrets. The sight was poignant, laden with the weight of what could have been.
The gods, in their celestial realm, mourned the star-crossed lovers who had failed to see the light in each other's eyes. For, unlike the destined pair that came before them, whose tragic end was inscribed in the annals of fate, their story held a deeper sorrow—one born not of inevitability, but of choices made and trust forsaken.
The gods lamented the fragility of human hearts, too fraught with fear and pride to bridge the chasm between them in the years following the betrayal. In the heavens, whispers of what might have been echoed like mournful winds, a dirge for a love that could have altered the very fabric of their world.
As the train to Hogwarts departed, carrying their children toward new adventures, it is said that Harry and Draco exchanged a final, lingering glance. It was a look filled with the echoes of a past they could never reclaim and the bittersweet acceptance of the paths they had chosen. Harry lifted a hand towards him, a certain ring glinting in the light, and Draco nodded in return. And, then, as the steam from the locomotive enveloped them in a ghostly embrace, the gods wept for the tragedy of it all.
For, unlike other tales where divine hands might have intervened, steering mortals to their doom for simple entertainment, the gods played no part in this misfortune—this story of love lost to the cruel hands of fate.
Perhaps, in another life, they might have found their way to each other, holding on even as the world crumbled around them.
We will never truly know. And that, dear reader, is the greatest tragedy of all.
