Crowned in Green

The train smelled of coal smoke and pumpkin pasties, and I was already regretting every choice that had led me to this compartment.

Not that I had many choices left. Mother had made that abundantly clear when she'd pressed her cold lips to my forehead on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters and whispered, "Make us proud, darling. The Malfoy name depends on it." Father had simply nodded, his eyes already somewhere else, probably counting the galleons he'd spent on my trunk and robes and the owl that currently sat in a cage by my feet, hooting softly at the passing countryside.

I smoothed my skirt for the hundredth time. It was new, tailored, the finest acromantula silk that money could buy, and it itched like hell against my thighs.

The compartment door slid open.

I didn't look up at first. I was busy arranging my face into something resembling polite disinterest, the expression I'd practiced in the mirror for weeks. Chin tilted just so. Eyes half-lidded. Mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile and wasn't quite a sneer, the exact expression that said I am better than you without actually saying it.

"Everywhere else is full."

The voice was male, rough around the edges, like he'd been yelling or laughing too hard. I looked up.

And there he was.

Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived. The Chosen One. The insufferable git who'd somehow become the center of every conversation at Hogwarts since the moment he'd stepped through the castle doors three years ago.

He was standing in the doorway with that ridiculous mop of black hair falling into his eyes, his glasses slightly askew, his robes too big for him, like always. He looked like he'd just rolled out of bed and decided to attend class anyway. His tie was crooked. His shirt was untucked on one side. There was a smudge of something on his cheek, ink maybe, or chocolate.

I hated him.

I hated the way he stood there like he owned the place. I hated the way his green eyes swept over me without a flicker of interest, like I was just another piece of furniture in the compartment. I hated the way my stomach did a little flip when his gaze lingered on my legs for half a second before moving on.

"Potter," I said, my voice flat. "Shouldn't you be off somewhere saving the world? Or did you finally run out of dark lords to defeat?"

He didn't answer. He just stepped inside, slid the door shut behind him, and dropped into the seat across from me like he had every right to be there.

Which, technically, he did. It was a public train.

But still.

I crossed my legs, letting my skirt ride up just a fraction of an inch. Not on purpose. Obviously not on purpose. Just a natural adjustment of my posture. If his eyes flickered down again, I didn't notice. I was too busy staring out the window at the rolling hills of Scotland, counting the sheep, wondering why the hell my heart was beating so fast.

"Didn't ask if you could sit here," I said after a moment.

"You didn't say I couldn't."

"I shouldn't have to. It's implied."

He shrugged. Actually shrugged, like my words meant nothing to him, like I meant nothing to him. "There's nowhere else. Unless you want me to go sit with the Slytherins. I'm sure they'd love that."

The thought of Harry Potter sitting with my housemates, my friends, the people who were supposed to be on my side, made something hot and ugly twist in my chest. Not jealousy. Definitely not jealousy. Just annoyance. Pure, clean annoyance.

"Fine," I snapped. "Stay. But don't talk to me."

"Wasn't planning on it."

And that was that. He pulled out a book, something with a worn cover and dog-eared pages, and started reading. I stared at the window. The sheep stared back.

For about ten minutes, neither of us said a word.

I lasted twelve.

"What are you reading?"

He didn't look up. "Quidditch Through the Ages."

"Again? You've read that thing at least five times."

"Six." He turned a page. "It's a good book."

"It's a children's book."

"It's a history book."

"It's a children's history book."

He finally looked up, and there was something in his eyes, something sharp and amused, like he was enjoying this. Like he was enjoying me.

"You've been counting how many times I've read it?"

My face went hot. "Don't be ridiculous. I just notice things. It's called being observant. You should try it sometime."

"I notice plenty."

"Oh really? Like what?"

He closed the book. Slowly. Deliberately. And then he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and looked at me. Really looked at me. His green eyes were bright behind his glasses, and there was a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth, and I wanted to slap it off his face. Or kiss it off. One of those.

"Like the fact that you've been staring at me since I walked in," he said. "Like the fact that you keep crossing and uncrossing your legs. Like the fact that your cheeks are pink right now, and it's not because of the heating charm."

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

"You're delusional," I managed.

"Am I?"

"Yes. You're projecting. You want me to be staring at you because your ego can't handle the fact that I don't care about you at all."

"Right." He leaned back, that infuriating smirk still in place. "That's why you knew exactly how many times I've read this book. Because you don't care."

"I notice things about everyone. It's not special."

"Name one thing you've noticed about Seamus Finnigan."

"Who?"

"Exactly."

I wanted to hex him. I wanted to hex him so badly my fingers actually twitched toward my wand. But that would be admitting defeat. That would be admitting that he'd gotten to me, that he'd won whatever game this was.

So I did the only thing I could do. I stood up, smoothed my skirt, and walked out of the compartment without another word.

The corridor was empty. I leaned against the wall, pressed my palms flat against the cold metal, and took a deep breath.

My heart was pounding. My face was burning. And somewhere, deep in the pit of my stomach, there was a feeling I didn't want to name, a feeling that felt a lot like wanting.

I hated him.

I hated him so much.

---

The feast that night was unbearable.

I sat at the Slytherin table with Pansy on one side and Blaise on the other, pushing food around my plate and pretending not to notice the way Harry was laughing with his Gryffindor friends across the hall. He had his head thrown back, his glasses catching the candlelight, his smile wide and easy and completely oblivious to the fact that I was watching him.

Not watching. Glancing. Occasionally.

"Draco, you're not eating," Pansy said, her voice dripping with concern that I knew was fake. Pansy didn't care if I ate. Pansy cared if I looked thin enough to make her look thin by comparison.

"I'm not hungry."

"You're never hungry lately. Are you sick?"

"I'm fine."

"You don't look fine. You look flushed. Are you coming down with something?"

"I said I'm fine."

She raised her eyebrows but didn't push. Pansy was many things, but she wasn't stupid. She knew when to back off.

I stabbed a potato with my fork and tried to focus on something else. Anything else. The floating candles. The enchanted ceiling, dark and starry. The first-years being sorted, their faces pale with terror and excitement. I remembered my own sorting, three years ago, the way the hat had barely touched my head before shouting SLYTHERIN. The way my father had smiled for the first time in months.

The way Harry Potter had looked at me from across the hall, curious and unafraid, like I was just another kid, not a Malfoy, not a threat.

I'd hated him then too. Or I'd told myself I did.

The feast ended. The prefects led the first-years to their dormitories. I walked with Pansy and Blaise through the dungeons, past the stone walls and flickering torches, until we reached the entrance to the Slytherin common room. The password was "pureblood" this week, because Salazar Slytherin had apparently been a dramatic bastard with a chip on his shoulder.

I went to bed early. I didn't sleep.

---

The next morning, I woke up with a headache and a bad attitude.

Breakfast was a blur of toast and tea and Pansy's endless chatter about some Hufflepuff boy she'd decided was cute. I nodded along, made the appropriate noises, and tried not to look at the Gryffindor table.

I failed.

Harry was there, of course, sitting with Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, the three of them huddled over something that looked like a letter. His hair was even messier than usual, like he'd just rolled out of bed and run his fingers through it a few times. There was a bruise on his jaw, faint and yellowing, like it was a few days old. I wondered where he'd gotten it. I wondered if it hurt.

Not that I cared. I didn't care.

I was just observant.

The first class of the day was Potions, which meant double Potions with the Gryffindors, which meant two hours of sitting in a dungeon with Harry Potter and pretending he didn't exist.

Snape was in a foul mood, which was normal. He swept through the classroom, his black robes billowing behind him, and assigned us a complex Draught of Living Death that was definitely too advanced for fourth-years. I didn't complain. I was good at Potions. I was good at everything, actually, except maybe not caring about Harry Potter.

I partnered with Pansy, which meant Harry partnered with Ron, which meant I had to listen to them bicker for two hours about whether the moonstone should be added clockwise or counterclockwise.

"Clockwise," I muttered under my breath.

"Did you say something, Malfoy?" Snape was suddenly behind me, his voice low and dangerous.

"No, Professor."

"Then focus on your own work."

I focused. I stirred clockwise. My potion turned the exact shade of pale lavender it was supposed to. Pansy's turned sludge-brown.

"Maybe you should stir counterclockwise," I said sweetly.

She glared at me but didn't argue.

Across the room, Harry's potion was also turning lavender. He caught my eye, just for a second, and something flickered in his expression. Not anger. Not annoyance. Something else. Something that made my stomach flip.

I looked away first.

---

The weeks passed. October bled into November. The leaves turned gold and red and fell from the trees. The castle grew cold, and I started wearing thicker robes, cashmere and wool and fur-lined gloves. Harry still wore the same threadbare jumper, the same too-big robes, like he didn't notice the cold at all.

I noticed. I noticed everything about him, even though I didn't want to.

I noticed the way he bit his lip when he was thinking. The way he ran his hand through his hair when he was frustrated. The way he laughed, loud and unrestrained, like he didn't care who was watching.

I noticed the way he looked at me. Not often. Not obviously. But sometimes, in the Great Hall or the library or the corridors between classes, his eyes would find mine and hold for a beat too long. And then he'd look away, and I'd pretend I hadn't seen anything.

It was fine. I was fine.

Until the night of the Halloween feast.

---

The feast itself was uneventful. Pumpkins floated through the air, bats swooped overhead, and the ghosts put on a performance that was more tedious than terrifying. I ate too much treacle tart and drank too much pumpkin juice and by the time the feast ended, I was tired and full and ready for bed.

But Pansy wanted to stay up. She'd gotten her hands on a bottle of firewhisky from somewhere, and she was determined to finish it.

"Come on, Draco," she wheedled. "It's Halloween. Live a little."

"I'm tired."

"You're always tired. You're no fun anymore."

"I was never fun."

She laughed, loud and shrill, and I winced. "True. But you used to at least pretend. What happened to you?"

I didn't answer. I didn't know how to answer. What had happened to me? I'd spent three years hating Harry Potter, and now I couldn't stop thinking about him. That was what had happened. That was what was wrong with me.

I made my excuses and left. The corridors were quiet, lit by flickering torches, and my footsteps echoed on the stone floor. I wasn't paying attention to where I was going. I was just walking, trying to clear my head, trying to think about something other than green eyes and messy hair and the way his hands looked when he was holding a quill.

I ended up in the Astronomy Tower.

It was cold up there, the wind whipping through the open windows, but I didn't mind. The cold was bracing. The cold helped me think.

I leaned against the railing and looked out at the grounds. The lake was black and still. The Forbidden Forest was a dark smudge on the horizon. The sky was full of stars, thousands of them, cold and distant and indifferent.

I heard footsteps behind me.

I didn't turn around. I knew who it was. I'd know those footsteps anywhere.

"Shouldn't you be at the feast?" I asked.

"Shouldn't you?"

"Couldn't stand the noise."

"Same."

He came to stand beside me, close enough that I could feel the warmth of his body, close enough that I could smell him. He smelled like treacle tart and something else, something clean and sharp, like pine or cedar. I wanted to lean into him. I wanted to push him away.

"Nice night," he said.

"Cold."

"I like the cold."

"Of course you do."

He looked at me, and I looked at him, and for a moment neither of us said anything. The wind howled. The stars shone. And something shifted between us, something I couldn't name.

"Why do you hate me?" he asked.

The question caught me off guard. "What?"

"Why do you hate me? I've never understood it. I tried to be your friend, first year. You turned me down. And ever since then, you've been... this."

"This?"

"Hostile. Mocking. You go out of your way to make my life difficult."

"I don't go out of my way."

"You do. You hex me in the corridors. You insult my friends. You spread rumors about me."

"Those rumors are true."

"Some of them. Not all of them."

I didn't have an answer for that. I didn't have an answer for any of it. Because he was right. I did go out of my way. I did make his life difficult. And I didn't know why. Or I did know why, but I didn't want to admit it, even to myself.

"I don't hate you," I said finally.

He raised his eyebrows. "Could've fooled me."

"I don't. I just..." I trailed off, searching for words that wouldn't give me away. "I don't like you."

"That's different from hating me?"

"Everything's different from hating you."

He was quiet for a moment. Then he laughed, soft and surprised, like I'd said something funny. "You're strange, Malfoy."

"I'm not strange. I'm complicated."

"Same thing."

I wanted to argue, but I was tired. Tired of arguing, tired of pretending, tired of the constant knot of tension in my chest that tightened every time he was near.

"Why are you here?" I asked. "Really?"

He shrugged. "Needed some air."

"Liar."

"Takes one to know one."

I turned to face him fully, and he turned to face me, and we were standing close now, closer than we'd ever been. His eyes were dark in the starlight, his expression unreadable. My heart was pounding so hard I was sure he could hear it.

"You don't even like me," I said.

"I never said that."

"You never said anything."

"Neither did you."

He reached out and touched my face. Just his fingertips, light against my cheek, but it felt like a brand. I stopped breathing. I stopped thinking. I just stood there, frozen, as he traced the line of my jaw, the curve of my lip.

"You're so pretty," he murmured. "It's annoying."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

And then he kissed me.

It wasn't gentle. It wasn't sweet. It was hard and demanding, his mouth pressing against mine like he was trying to prove something, like he was trying to claim something. I made a sound, something between a gasp and a moan, and he swallowed it, his hand sliding into my hair, pulling me closer.

I should have pushed him away. I should have slapped him. I should have done something, anything, other than kissing him back.

But I didn't. I kissed him back. I kissed him like I'd been waiting for it, like I'd been wanting it, like it was the only thing that mattered in the world.

When we finally broke apart, both of us breathing hard, he looked at me with something new in his eyes. Something hungry. Something possessive. Something that made my knees weak.

"This doesn't mean anything," I said.

"Of course not."

"I still don't like you."

"Wouldn't dream of suggesting otherwise."

"Good."

"Good."

He kissed me again.

---

I didn't sleep that night.

I lay in bed, staring at the canopy, replaying every moment of what had happened. His hands on my waist. His mouth on my neck. The way he'd pressed me against the wall and whispered my name, low and rough, like it was a curse and a prayer all at once.

I touched my lips, still swollen, still tingling. I could still taste him.

I was so screwed.

---

The next morning, I avoided him.

I avoided him at breakfast. I avoided him in the corridors. I avoided him in Potions, even though we were partnered together for a new project and had to sit at the same table.

"Pass the beetle wings," he said.

I passed the beetle wings.

"You're quiet today."

"I'm always quiet."

"No, you're not. You're usually insulting me by now."

"Maybe I'm tired."

"Maybe you're thinking about last night."

I dropped the beetle wings. They scattered across the table, and I had to scramble to pick them up, my face burning. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sure you don't."

He was smirking. That same infuriating smirk from the train, the one that made me want to hex him and kiss him in equal measure. I hated that smirk. I hated how much I liked it.

"We need to talk," I said, keeping my voice low.

"About what?"

"About... you know."

"I don't know. Enlighten me."

I wanted to kill him. I wanted to kiss him. I wanted to drag him into a broom closet and do unspeakable things to him.

Instead, I took a deep breath and said, "Last night was a mistake."

"Was it?"

"Yes. It was. It can't happen again."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't like you. Because we're enemies. Because it's... it's wrong."

He was quiet for a moment, stirring his potion. Then he said, "You didn't seem to think it was wrong last night. You seemed to think it was exactly right."

I had no response to that.

"Look," he said, his voice dropping, "I don't know what this is. I don't know what you want. But I know what I want."

"What do you want?"

He looked at me, and there was something raw in his eyes, something honest. "I want you. I've always wanted you. I just didn't know how to say it."

My heart stopped. Then started again, racing.

"You're lying."

"I'm not."

"You hate me."

"I never said that."

"You never said anything."

"Neither did you."

We were back to that. Back to the same argument, the same push and pull, the same impossible tension. I didn't know how to break it. I didn't know if I wanted to.

"After class," I said finally. "Meet me in the Room of Requirement."

His eyebrows rose. "The Room of Requirement?"

"You know where it is."

"I know where it is."

"Good."

I turned back to my potion, my hands shaking, my heart pounding. I didn't know what I was doing. I didn't know what I was going to say. But I knew I couldn't keep pretending. I couldn't keep lying to myself.

I wanted him. I hated him. I wanted him.

And that was the problem.

---

The Room of Requirement was warm and dim, lit by candles that floated near the ceiling. There was a bed in the corner, which I pointedly ignored, and a fire crackling in the hearth, which I pointedly focused on.

Harry arrived a few minutes after me. He closed the door behind him and stood there, looking at me, waiting.

"So," he said.

"So."

"You wanted to talk."

"I wanted to... I wanted to set some ground rules."

"Ground rules."

"Yes." I took a deep breath. "If we're going to do this, if we're going to... continue... then there need to be rules."

"What kind of rules?"

"Rules like... no one can know. This stays between us. No one finds out."

"Agreed."

"And we don't... we don't talk about it. We don't acknowledge it outside of... this."

"Fine."

"And we don't... we don't develop feelings. This is just... physical. It doesn't mean anything."

He was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, "You really believe that?"

"I have to."

"Why?"

"Because if I don't, then I have to admit that I..."

I trailed off. I couldn't finish the sentence. I couldn't say the words.

"That you what?"

"That I don't hate you," I whispered. "That I never did."

He crossed the room in three strides. He took my face in his hands, tilting it up, forcing me to meet his eyes. "Then stop pretending."

"I can't."

"Yes, you can."

"It's not that simple."

"It is that simple. You want me. I want you. Everything else is just noise."

He kissed me, and I stopped arguing. I stopped thinking. I just felt, his hands on my body, his mouth on mine, his weight pressing me back against the wall.

"Tell me to stop," he murmured against my lips. "Tell me you don't want this."

I couldn't. I couldn't tell him to stop. I couldn't tell him I didn't want this. Because I did want it. I wanted it more than I'd ever wanted anything.

"Don't stop," I breathed.

He didn't.

---

We fell into a pattern after that.

During the day, we were enemies. We traded insults in the corridors. We glared at each other across the Great Hall. We hexed each other in Defense Against the Dark Arts, and Snape took points from Gryffindor, and everyone thought nothing had changed.

But at night, we met in the Room of Requirement. And everything changed.

He was different at night. Rougher. More demanding. He'd push me against the wall, his hands under my skirt, his mouth on my neck, and I'd let him. I'd let him do whatever he wanted, because I wanted it too.

"You're so easy," he'd murmur, and I'd flush with shame and desire all at once.

"I'm not easy."

"You are. You're easy for me."

I hated how much I liked that. I hated how much I liked him.

But I couldn't stop. I couldn't stop meeting him. I couldn't stop letting him touch me. I couldn't stop wanting him.

It was a sickness. A madness. And I was drowning in it.

---

December came. Snow fell. The castle grew cold, and the Room of Requirement grew warmer, heated by the fire and by the heat between us.

We didn't talk about what we were doing. We didn't talk about anything, really. We just fucked, and fought, and fucked again. And every time, I told myself it was the last time. Every time, I told myself I'd end it.

And every time, I came back for more.

"You're thinking too much," he said one night, his fingers tracing lazy circles on my bare shoulder.

We were lying in the bed, tangled in sheets, both of us sweaty and breathless. The fire had burned down to embers, casting the room in a dim orange glow.

"I'm always thinking," I said.

"I know. That's your problem."

"I don't have a problem."

"You do. You think too much. You worry too much. You care too much about what other people think."

"I don't care what other people think."

"You care what your father thinks. You care what your mother thinks. You care what your housemates think."

"That's different."

"Is it?"

I didn't answer. I didn't want to answer. Because he was right, and I hated that he was right.

"Why do you care?" I asked. "Why do you care what I think?"

He was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "I don't know. I just do."

That wasn't an answer. That was a dodge. But I didn't push. I didn't want to push. I didn't want to break whatever spell we were under.

"Tell me something," I said instead. "Something true."

"Like what?"

"Like... something you've never told anyone."

He thought about it. His fingers kept moving on my shoulder, slow and steady, soothing.

"I used to have nightmares," he said finally. "About the night my parents died. About the green light. I'd wake up screaming, and Ron would have to shake me awake."

"I'm sorry."

"I'm not telling you for sympathy. I'm telling you because... you asked."

I turned to look at him. His face was open in a way I'd never seen before, vulnerable, honest. He looked younger like this. Less like the Boy Who Lived and more like just a boy.

"I have nightmares too," I admitted.

"About what?"

"About my father. About... about what he wants me to be."

"What does he want you to be?"

"Like him. A Death Eater. A monster."

"You're not a monster."

"You don't know that."

"I know you."

"You don't. You don't know anything about me."

"I know you're not a monster. I know you're scared. I know you're lonely. I know you pretend to be something you're not."

I wanted to argue. I wanted to push him away. But I couldn't. Because he was right. He was right about everything.

"I don't want to be like him," I whispered. "I don't want to be like any of them."

"Then don't be."

"It's not that simple."

"It is that simple. You just have to choose."

"Choose what?"

"Choose who you want to be. Not who they tell you to be."

I stared at him. At his green eyes, bright and earnest. At his messy hair, falling into his face. At his mouth, still swollen from my kisses.

"I don't know who I want to be," I said.

"Then figure it out. I'll wait."

"Why would you wait?"

"Because I..." He stopped. Swallowed. "Because I care about you. More than I should."

My heart clenched. "You shouldn't."

"I know."

"This is just physical. We agreed."

"I know."

"We agreed no feelings."

"I know."

"So why are you... why are you saying this?"

He sat up, the sheet falling away from his chest. He looked at me with an expression I couldn't read, something between frustration and tenderness.

"Because I'm tired of pretending," he said. "I'm tired of pretending I don't think about you. I'm tired of pretending I don't want to be with you. I'm tired of pretending this is just sex."

"It's not just sex?"

"No. It's not."

I didn't know what to say. I didn't know what to feel. I was terrified and exhilarated and confused all at once.

"You're lying," I said.

"I'm not."

"You hate me."

"I never said that."

"You never said anything."

"Neither did you."

We were back to that. Always back to that. The same argument, the same push and pull, the same impossible tension.

But this time, something was different. This time, I didn't want to run.

"I don't hate you," I said. "I never did. I just... I didn't know how to feel anything else."

He reached out and took my hand. His fingers were warm, his grip gentle.

"Then feel something else," he said. "Feel this."

He kissed me, soft and slow, and I let him. I let him kiss me, and I kissed him back, and for the first time, it didn't feel like a battle. It felt like surrender.

---

January came. The new term started. And nothing changed, and everything changed.

We still fought during the day. We still traded insults, still hexed each other, still pretended to hate each other. But at night, we met in the Room of Requirement, and we didn't pretend anymore.

"I want to tell someone," he said one night, his head resting on my stomach.

"Tell someone what?"

"About us."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because it's... it's not safe. My father would kill me. Your friends would kill me. Everyone would kill me."

"Your father wouldn't kill you."

"You don't know my father."

"I know he's a Death Eater. I know he's dangerous. But he wouldn't kill his own daughter."

"You don't know that."

He was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "I'd protect you."

"You can't protect me from everything."

"I can try."

I ran my fingers through his hair, soft and messy and perfect. "Why do you care so much?"

"Because you're mine," he said simply. "And I protect what's mine."

His words sent a shiver down my spine. Not fear. Not exactly. Something else. Something that felt a lot like belonging.

"I'm not yours."

"You are. You've been mine since the moment I kissed you."

"That's not how it works."

"That's exactly how it works."

He lifted his head, looked at me with those green eyes, and I felt something crack open inside me. Something I'd been holding shut for years.

"I'm scared," I admitted.

"I know."

"I don't want to be scared."

"Then don't be."

"It's not that simple."

"It is that simple. You just have to trust me."

"I don't trust anyone."

"Trust me."

I wanted to. God, I wanted to. But trust was a luxury I'd never been able to afford. Trust was a weakness. Trust was a way to get hurt.

But when I looked at him, at his face, open and honest and vulnerable, I wanted to try.

"Okay," I whispered. "I'll try."

He smiled, and it was like the sun coming out. "That's all I ask."

---

The weeks passed. Winter turned to spring. The snow melted, and the flowers bloomed, and the castle came alive again.

And we kept meeting. Every night, in the Room of Requirement. Every night, tangled in each other. Every night, falling a little deeper.

I stopped pretending I didn't want him. I stopped pretending I didn't care. I stopped pretending this was just physical.

Because it wasn't. It was so much more.

"You're different," Pansy said one day, studying me with narrowed eyes.

"I'm not different."

"You are. You're... happier. Less bitchy."

"Thanks."

"I mean it as a compliment."

"I know."

She didn't push. She never pushed. But I could tell she was curious, and I could tell she suspected something. I just hoped she wouldn't figure it out.

She figured it out two weeks later.

---

We were in the library, studying for exams, when she cornered me.

"So," she said, sliding into the seat across from me. "Who is he?"

"Who is who?"

"The boy you've been sneaking off to see."

"I haven't been sneaking off to see anyone."

"Please. You disappear every night. You come back looking... satisfied. And you're never in your bed when I check on you."

"You check on me?"

"I worry about you."

"I'm fine."

"You're lying. And I want to know who he is."

I didn't answer. I couldn't answer. Because if I told her, she'd tell everyone, and then everything would fall apart.

"Is it someone I know?" she pressed.

"No."

"Is it someone from another house?"

"No."

"Is it... is it Potter?"

My heart stopped. "What? No. Why would you... no."

"You're blushing."

"I'm not blushing."

"You are. You're blushing, and you're stammering, and you're lying."

"I'm not lying."

"You're a terrible liar, Draco. Always have been."

I wanted to argue. I wanted to deny it. But I couldn't. Because she was right. I was a terrible liar. And she knew me too well.

"Please don't tell anyone," I whispered.

Her eyes widened. "So it's true? You and Potter?"

"It's... it's complicated."

"Complicated how?"

"It's not... it's not a relationship. It's just... we're just..."

"Fucking?"

I flinched. "Yes. No. I don't know."

She was quiet for a long moment. Then she said, "Does he treat you well?"

"What?"

"Does he treat you well? Does he respect you? Does he care about you?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"It's complicated."

"Stop saying that. Just tell me. Does he make you happy?"

I thought about it. I thought about the way he held me, the way he kissed me, the way he looked at me like I was the only person in the world. I thought about the way he made me laugh, the way he made me feel safe, the way he made me feel seen.

"Yes," I said finally. "He makes me happy."

Pansy smiled. It was a real smile, not the fake one she usually wore. "Then that's all that matters."

"You're not... you're not going to tell anyone?"

"I'm your friend, Draco. I'm not going to ruin your happiness."

I didn't know what to say. I'd spent so long thinking I had to hide, so long thinking I had to pretend, and now... now someone knew. And it was okay.

"Thank you," I whispered.

She reached across the table and squeezed my hand. "Just be careful. You know what people will say."

"I know."

"And you know what your father will say."

"I know."

"So be careful."

"I will."

She nodded, and we went back to studying, and I felt lighter than I had in months.

---

The first time he said he loved me, it was raining.

We were in the Room of Requirement, lying in bed, listening to the rain pound against the windows. His arm was around me, his breath warm against my neck.

"I love you," he said.

I froze. "What?"

"I love you. I've loved you for a while now. I just... I didn't know how to say it."

"You can't."

"I can. I just did."

"You can't love me. I'm... I'm me. I'm a Malfoy. I'm a Slytherin. I'm everything you're supposed to hate."

"I don't care about any of that."

"You should."

"I don't. I care about you. Just you."

I turned in his arms, facing him. His eyes were soft, his expression open. He looked like he meant it. He looked like he'd never meant anything more.

"I love you too," I whispered.

His smile was like sunrise. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He kissed me, and I kissed him back, and for the first time, I didn't feel scared. I felt... whole.

---

But happiness never lasts. Not for people like me.

It was the last week of term when everything fell apart.

I was walking back to the Slytherin common room, late at night, still smelling like him, still feeling him on my skin. I was smiling, actually smiling, something I hadn't done in years.

And then I saw him.

My father.

He was standing in the corridor outside the common room, his face pale and cold, his eyes burning with fury.

"Father," I said, my voice shaking. "What are you... what are you doing here?"

"I received an interesting letter," he said. "From a concerned parent. About you and your... activities."

My blood ran cold. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't lie to me, Draco. I know everything. I know about the Potter boy. I know about your little... meetings. I know everything."

"Father, please..."

"Silence." His voice was sharp as a whip. "You have disgraced this family. You have disgraced me. And you will end this... this filth immediately."

"I can't."

"You can, and you will. Or I will end it for you."

"What do you mean?"

He smiled, and it was the most terrifying thing I'd ever seen. "I mean that if you don't stop seeing him, I will make sure he never sees another sunrise. Do you understand?"

I understood. I understood perfectly. My father was a Death Eater. My father was a killer. And he would kill Harry without a second thought.

"I understand," I whispered.

"Good. Now go to bed. We'll discuss your punishment in the morning."

He turned and walked away, his robes billowing behind him. I stood there, frozen, my heart pounding, my world crumbling around me.

I couldn't see Harry anymore. I couldn't be with him. I couldn't love him.

Because if I did, he would die.

---

I didn't sleep that night. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, tears streaming down my face. I thought about Harry. I thought about his smile, his laugh, his hands on my body. I thought about the way he said my name, like it was something precious. I thought about the way he loved me.

And I thought about how I was going to lose him.

The next morning, I found him in the Great Hall. He was sitting with Ron and Hermione, laughing at something Ron had said. He looked up when I walked in, and his face lit up. He smiled at me, that special smile he saved just for me, and my heart broke into a thousand pieces.

I walked past him without a word.

"Draco?" He called after me. "Draco, wait."

I didn't wait. I kept walking, out of the Great Hall, down the corridor, until I reached an empty classroom. I closed the door behind me and leaned against it, trying to breathe.

He followed me. Of course he followed me.

"What's going on?" he asked. "Why are you ignoring me?"

"I'm not ignoring you."

"You are. You walked right past me."

"I didn't see you."

"You saw me. You looked right at me."

I didn't answer. I couldn't answer. Because if I opened my mouth, I'd start crying, and I couldn't cry. Not now. Not in front of him.

"Draco, talk to me. What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong."

"Something's wrong. You're pale. You're shaking. What happened?"

"My father."

He went still. "What about your father?"

"He knows. About us. He knows everything."

"Shit."

"He said... he said if I don't stop seeing you, he'll kill you."

Harry was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, "He's bluffing."

"He's not bluffing. You don't know him."

"I know he's a Death Eater. I know he's dangerous. But he wouldn't..."

"He would. He absolutely would. He's killed people before. He'll kill you. And I can't... I can't let that happen."

"So what are you saying?"

"I'm saying we have to stop. We have to end this."

"No."

"Harry..."

"No. I'm not letting you go. Not because of him."

"You have to. It's the only way to keep you safe."

"I don't care about being safe. I care about you."

"And I care about you. That's why I have to do this."

I was crying now. I couldn't help it. The tears were streaming down my face, and I couldn't stop them.

"Please," I whispered. "Please don't make this harder than it already is."

He crossed the room and took my face in his hands. His eyes were bright with tears too, and it broke me to see it.

"I love you," he said. "I love you, and I'm not going to let him take you away from me."

"You don't have a choice."

"I always have a choice. And I choose you."

"He'll kill you."

"Then let him. I'd rather die than live without you."

"Don't say that. Don't ever say that."

"It's true."

I kissed him. I kissed him hard, desperate, trying to pour everything I felt into that one moment. He kissed me back, holding me tight, like he was afraid I'd disappear.

When we broke apart, I said, "I have to go. I have to... I have to figure something out."

"Let me help you."

"You can't. This is my fight."

"It's our fight."

"No. It's mine. And I have to do this alone."

I pulled away from him, wiping my eyes. I looked at him one last time, memorizing his face, his hair, his eyes. And then I walked out of the room, leaving him behind.

I didn't know if I'd ever see him again.

---

The next few days were a blur. I went through the motions, attending classes, eating meals, pretending everything was normal. But inside, I was dying.

I avoided Harry. I avoided everyone. I stayed in my dormitory, staring at the wall, trying to think of a way out.

There was no way out. I knew that. My father had me trapped. He had Harry trapped. And there was nothing I could do.

Except...

Except maybe there was.

I thought about it for days. I thought about it until my head hurt. And finally, I made a decision.

I would go to Dumbledore.

---

The gargoyle outside the Headmaster's office was sleeping when I arrived. I cleared my throat, and it opened one eye.

"Password?"

"I don't have one. But I need to see Professor Dumbledore. It's urgent."

"Everyone says that."

"This is different. Please. It's a matter of life and death."

The gargoyle studied me for a long moment. Then it sighed and stepped aside.

"Go on up."

I climbed the spiral staircase, my heart pounding. I didn't know what I was going to say. I didn't know if Dumbledore would even help me. But I had to try.

The door opened before I could knock.

"Miss Malfoy," Dumbledore said, his voice calm and kind. "I've been expecting you."

"You have?"

"I have. Please, sit down."

I sat. The office was warm and cluttered, full of strange instruments and books and the soft trilling of Fawkes the phoenix. Dumbledore sat across from me, his blue eyes twinkling behind his half-moon spectacles.

"Now," he said. "Tell me what's troubling you."

I told him everything. About Harry. About us. About my father. About the threat.

Dumbledore listened without interrupting, his expression thoughtful. When I finished, he was quiet for a long moment.

"You love him," he said finally.

"Yes."

"And he loves you."

"Yes."

"And your father has threatened to kill him if you continue the relationship."

"Yes."

Dumbledore nodded slowly. "I see."

"Can you help me? Can you protect him?"

"I can protect him," Dumbledore said. "But that's not the real question, is it?"

"What do you mean?"

"The real question is whether you're willing to fight for him. Whether you're willing to stand up to your father, to your family, to everything you've ever known."

"I... I don't know."

"You do know. You just don't want to admit it."

I looked at him, at his kind eyes, his gentle smile. And I realized he was right. I did know. I'd known all along.

"I'm willing," I said. "I'm willing to fight."

Dumbledore smiled. "Then we have much to discuss."

---

The plan was simple.

I would tell my father that I'd ended things with Harry. I would pretend to fall in line. And then, when the time was right, I would turn on him.

I would become a spy.

It was dangerous. It was terrifying. But it was the only way.

"You understand the risks," Dumbledore said. "If your father discovers the truth, he will kill you."

"I understand."

"And you understand that you may have to do things... difficult things. Things that will test your loyalty, your morality, your very soul."

"I understand."

"Then we begin immediately."

---

I went to Harry that night.

He was in the Room of Requirement, waiting for me, like I knew he would be. He looked up when I walked in, and his face was a mixture of hope and fear.

"Draco?"

"I have a plan."

"A plan?"

"To stop my father. To protect you. To... to be together."

His eyes widened. "What kind of plan?"

I told him. I told him everything. And when I finished, he was quiet for a long moment.

"You're going to spy on your own father."

"Yes."

"You're going to risk your life."

"Yes."

"For me?"

"For us."

He crossed the room and pulled me into his arms. He held me tight, so tight I could barely breathe.

"I love you," he whispered. "I love you so much."

"I love you too."

"I don't want you to do this."

"I have to."

"I know. But I don't have to like it."

"No. You don't."

He kissed me, soft and slow, and I melted into him. I melted into his warmth, his strength, his love.

"Promise me something," he said.

"Anything."

"Promise me you'll come back to me. No matter what happens. Promise me you'll survive."

"I promise."

"I mean it, Draco. I can't lose you."

"You won't."

"I can't."

"You won't."

He kissed me again, and I knew, in that moment, that I would do anything for him. Anything at all.

Even if it killed me.

---

The summer passed in a blur of fear and preparation.

I went home to Malfoy Manor, playing the part of the dutiful daughter. I smiled at my father. I nodded at his Death Eater friends. I pretended to be one of them.

But at night, I wrote letters to Harry. I sent them with my owl, a sleek black bird named Nyx, and I waited for his replies. They came every few days, short and sweet and full of love.

I miss you.

I love you.

Be careful.

Come back to me.

I kept every letter. I hid them under my mattress, where no one would find them. And I read them over and over, until the words blurred and the paper grew soft.

I survived the summer. Barely.

And when September came, and I returned to Hogwarts, I was a different person.

I was a spy.

---

The first few months were the hardest.

I had to pretend to hate Harry. I had to pretend to be loyal to my father. I had to pretend to be something I wasn't.

Every day, I traded insults with Harry in the corridors. Every night, I met him in the Room of Requirement and told him everything I'd learned.

It was exhausting. It was terrifying. But it was worth it.

"You're so brave," Harry said one night, his fingers tracing the curve of my spine.

"I'm not brave. I'm scared."

"That's what brave means. Doing what you have to do even when you're scared."

"I don't feel brave."

"You are. You're the bravest person I know."

I kissed him. I kissed him because I didn't know what else to say. I kissed him because I loved him, and I was terrified of losing him.

"I can't do this forever," I whispered.

"You don't have to. Just until we have enough."

"Enough for what?"

"Enough to win."

I didn't know if we'd ever have enough. I didn't know if we'd ever win. But I knew I'd keep fighting. For him. For us.

---

The end came faster than I expected.

It was May. The sun was shining. The birds were singing. And I was standing in the Great Hall, watching my father being led away in chains.

He'd been caught. He'd been tried. He'd been sentenced.

And I'd been the one to do it.

I'd gathered the evidence. I'd testified against him. I'd watched him fall.

It should have felt like victory. It felt like grief.

"He deserved it," Pansy said, standing beside me.

"I know."

"Then why are you crying?"

"I don't know."

She put her arm around me, and I leaned into her. I leaned into her warmth, her friendship, her love.

"It's over," she said. "You're free."

"I know."

"Then why aren't you happy?"

"I don't know."

But I did know. I knew that freedom came with a price. I knew that I'd lost my family. I knew that nothing would ever be the same.

And I knew that Harry was waiting for me.

---

He was in the Room of Requirement, like always.

He was standing by the window, looking out at the grounds, and when he turned to face me, his eyes were bright with tears.

"You did it," he said.

"We did it."

He crossed the room and pulled me into his arms. He held me tight, so tight I could barely breathe.

"I'm so proud of you," he whispered.

"I'm so tired."

"I know. But it's over now. It's finally over."

"Is it?"

"Yes. We won."

I pulled back and looked at him. At his green eyes, bright and loving. At his messy hair, falling into his face. At his mouth, curved into a smile.

"I love you," I said.

"I love you too."

"Forever?"

"Forever."

He kissed me, and I kissed him back, and for the first time in my life, I felt like I belonged. Like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

And I knew, in that moment, that nothing would ever tear us apart.

Not my father.

Not the war.

Not anything.

We were together. We were in love. And that was enough.