Apr 24, 2025
Ferryman
“You’re going?” Pansy turns bruised-red eyes on him from the bedside, her grip white-knuckled on Draco’s hand.
Ron called it fish out of water breathing. It only looks like agony. Harry’s not reassured.
“He’s going,” Harry answers.
In other words—yes.
Always.
Everything Draco has ever let go of has claw marks on it. His life is no exception.
Harry waits in the still air by the archway for ninety-three minutes—alone, alone—until a soft, pale light appears from nowhere, like magic.
Harry catches the wispy soul and carries it through the tattered curtain like an offering, cradled gently in his palms.
part two here
