The abandon corridor on the 4th floor of the ministry was dimly lit, the only sound was the distant hum of the elevator and the frantic beat of Harry’s own heart. They were barely able to slip away, voices still echoing in the distance, when Draco shoved Harry against the cool stone wall. One hand braced against the wall to Harry’s left while the other pressed firmly over Harry’s mouth. A muffled, involuntary whimper escaped against Draco’s palm
“Quiet,” Draco hissed, voice hot against Harry’s cheek. Harry’s breath stuttered against Draco’s hand. Before he could even register it, Draco leaned in close. “Make one sound and we’re dead.”
From up close, Harry could see Draco’s eyes; Pale, icy silver starlight edged with something deeper. The eyes that were once cold and cutting, burned with something raw and intense. This wasn’t his Malfoy. The man who found him bleeding, and drenched behind the ruins of Diagon Alley now looked at him like a ghost. Because in this world Harry Potter was supposed to be dead. Voldemort had won and began his rein over the wizarding world.
Yet here he was. Alive and so full of fire and fight, breathing rapidly against Draco’s skin and so utterly present that Draco couldn’t look away.
“You’re not him,” Draco whispered, voice rough and fractured, silver eyes searching and tracing the lines of Harry’s face as if memorizing the impossible. Then Draco leaned in, lips brushing the back of his own knuckles where they sealed Harry’s mouth and pressed his lips gently over the back of his hand. His lips lingered there, eyes fluttering half-shut as if he could taste the ghost of Harry through skin and bone. Harry’s breath hitched hot and ragged against Draco’s palm, those brilliant green eyes widening in response.
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