It is not human. It is not survivable. It is sound ripped from nerves and marrow and soul, his body arching violently against the ropes, heels hammering the floor, fingers clawing at empty air.
Draco flinches.
The curse drops. Harry collapses forward, gasping, choking, shaking so badly his teeth chatter audibly.
Voldemort tilts his head.
âCurious,â he murmurs. âI expected⌠relief. Gratitude. Instead, I sense reluctance.â
His gaze slides back to Draco.
âTell me, young Malfoy⌠have you grown fond of your enemy?â
A thin ripple of amusement passes through the Death Eaters.
Draco lifts his chin. âI did what you asked, my Lord.â
Second one-shot, even if i want to make this part of a bigger fic (not the one project i am working on, another, like maybe 5-7 chapters).
You can read it complete here: Architect of his Ruin
Summary:
The library does not forgive, and it does not forget. Draco Malfoy must confront the consequences of choices both made and unmade, forced to walk through the echoes of a past that refuses to let him go â and it does not matter that Harry is with him now.
Notes:
This is an alternate take on the Malfoy Manor scene â definitely not canon, and itâs not supposed to be. The cursed library is basically a magical âwhat ifâ machine, forcing characters to relive pivotal moments in new, twisted ways.
Itâs heavy on psychological horror, not action. The violence is intense and intimate on purpose â the point isnât just blood and pain, itâs about moral injury, complicity, and how love can be twisted into a weapon.
For context: in the present timeline, Harry and Draco are together. That doesnât make any of this easier for them â the library doesnât care.
This scene is just one piece of a bigger fic Iâm working on, so thereâs more to come. Brace yourselves.
And please leave comments, I wanna hear your thoughts!
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âYouâre really starting to piss me off, Grangerâ Draco grabbed her wrist as she was turning the corner with her usual male add-ons. Draco rolled his eyes and pulled her closer, close enough that Potter and Weasel wonât hear him. âIf I didnât know any better, Iâd say youâre trying to piss me offâ
âBack off, Malfoy. I do not have time to deal with your mean games today!â Hermione tried to pull away but he gripped tighter and dragged her right back in front of him. He furrowed his eyebrows angrily and she let out a heavy sigh, âWhat do you mean? How am I pissing you off today?â
Draco wondered whether he should say what pissing him off so greatly today and why it had everything to do with Hermione Granger, but he decided he would much rather Kiss a dementor before admit he was jealous in front of Saint Potter and The Weasel. He started for an empty classroom, still firmly gripping the witch, found one, and locked the door before letting her go. Hermione started for the door then stopped.
âWhy are you so mad, Draco?â She walked over to him and placed a hand on his face. Draco had to catch himself from instinctively slapping her hand away, instead he just grabbed and held her hand away from his face, and looked at her darkly. She backed up into the nearest desk causing her to dig her back into its side. Hermione closed her eyes, winced, and waited for his response.
âWhy are you wearing his Quidditch jersey, Grangerâ Hermiones eyes shot open and she looked up at him with wide, guilty eyes. She gulped. Draco shot her with daggers of silver. âSeems you can snog me, shag me, and tell me you-what it is it you say?- canât live without me inside you, but you can prance around in Weasleyâs bloody jersey?â He wrapped his hand around the warm skin that was her throat and pulled her closer. He stopped when his lips was inches from hers. He was sure she could smell the firewhiskey on his breath. Draco didnât care, he couldnât stand one more minute of watching her walk around in another manâs clothes.
âyouâre mine.â
He quickly closed the thin distance between their lips. Hermione gingerly kissed him back, then feverishly as his hands moved from her neck, down her body as she slipped the jersey over her head, leaving it laying on the floor under the desk.
Draco and Harry were friends. They were really close, in fact. Harry spent a lot of time round Dracoâs. Stumbling home drunk and breathless, sometimes with Draco and Pansy, sometimes with Ginny in tow, sometimes in a whole big group, and sometimes just with Draco alone. And they always said it was for an afterparty. They talked it up like they were going do a few more rounds of shots. They pretended every time that the best part of the night was yet to come. And in a way, it was. At least for Draco. He loved when Harry was in his flat. Shaking hands, with alcohol and laugher, putting CDs in the entertainment center, cooking cheese toasties, collapsing on the couch. Dozing off until Draco was stern enough to poke and prod him into the guest room.
One time, after Draco had spent twenty minutes getting Harry in bed, he paused in the doorway when Harry called his name softly. He turned, heart beating hard in his chest. âDraco, youâre my best friend.â Soft and melty. Draco couldnât even pretend he hadnât beamed.Â
And in the mornings when Harry stumbled into the kitchen, the polar opposite of Dracoâs pressed trousers and combed hair, and collapsed in a barstool, Draco would drop a plate of eggs in front of him before he could even ask. It was insufferably domestic, Draco always thought belatedly as Harry pulled on his converse while tripping out the door, a piece of toast in his mouth, late for work.
When Pansy was there, sheâd watch him with a dumb look like she knew something that Draco didnât. And when he hissed, âwhat!?â at her, she just shrugged and flicked his ear.Â
He knew. He wasnât stupid, whatever Pansyâs looks suggested. He knew he had fallen in love with Harry. It had happened piece, by fragmented piece. A puzzle coming together slowly to create a sad, somber masterpiece, streaked with blues, greys, and the green of Harryâs eyes.Â
The first piece must have been an offered hand, a secretly hopeful proposal of friendship. Disappointment swallowed, covered by pride.
And another, when he watched Harry fly.Â
Again, as he recognized fear, panic taking over when he thought Harry would die in the maze.Â
And resolution, when he looked into eyes he knew so well and lied, knowing the risk.Â
But he would be foolish to call that love. A crush, sure. Admiration, desire, jealousy, yes. But love came from knowing and seeing, understanding Harry. It only became love when he saw Harry laugh. And when he couldnât stop himself from smiling back when Harry gave him a cheeky grin that was so wide his eyes were squeezed shut. And when Harry made him curry, a dish towel tossed over his shoulder, sticking his tongue out, just a bit the way he did when he concentrated. And especially when he watched Harry listen to Luna talk about nonsense, tuck Ginnyâs hair behind her ear when she cried, harvest moss with Neville at midnight on a full moon, patiently teach Ron how to play football when all Ron did was yell, hold Hermioneâs hand when she decided to ask for help, and teasingly toss Pansy on the couch, making her giggle when she tried to apologize for her words during the war.Â
He knew it was love when breathing was easier with Harry around. When he looked straight to Harry after being smart or telling a joke, and when his heart fluttered when Harryâs eyes, crinkled with endeared exasperation, met his.Â
Harry was unfailingly kind. He looked after Draco like he was family. He gave affirmation easily. He wanted to protect Draco. But, Draco knew, in the painful recesses of his heart that Harry was that way to everyone. He had sacrificed his life for the whole bloody wizarding world. And he couldnât blame Harry for being good.Â
So he loved him. Quietly and to himself. He breathed through the pain of wanting what he couldnât have. Because he could never lose Harry. It was better to have him in his life than to chance losing him, and maybe that made him a coward, but he wasnât a gryffindor, was he? He couldnât lose anyone else. He had to hold on to what was his. That was all he knew.Â
What he didnât know, was that when Harry had called for him in the guest room, he had wanted to call him back to bed. He had wanted to say I want you, to kiss the worry from Dracoâs trembling fingers. He didnât know that after Harry ate his eggs and toast and put on his converse, that all he wanted to do was grab Draco round this waist and kiss him the sweetest goodbye. He didnât know that Harry still had nightmares about the scars on Dracoâs chest for which he felt he couldnât repent. He didnât know that as Harry braided Lunaâs hair he listed again and again all the things about Draco that made his heart pound faster. He didnât know that he was frequently the topic of Ginny and Harryâs arguments, because Ginny couldnât see how Harry could be so oblivious, the moron. Draco didnât know that Harry spent last Saturday afternoon, head on Hermioneâs shoulder, tears in his eyes, whispering, âI canât lose my best friend, âMione.â He didnât know that Harryâs endeared exasperation masked thinly veiled adoration.Â
He didnât know his best friend was in love with him back.
