Turncoat(Draco Malfoy SI) Chapter 22

It hadn’t been hard to find Ron, Hermione, and Draco after Harry left Dumbledore’s office. What had taken longer—unsurprisingly—was getting them to believe what he was saying.

“So… You-Know-Who walked onto some Muggle bridge in London and just—set it on fire?” Ron asked, bewildered.

“Well, he called it Fiendfyre,” Harry corrected. “And that was after he used the Killing Curse on a police officer—a kind of Muggle Auror—and then hurled half a dozen cars off the bridge into the Thames like they were toys.”

Ron gave a low whistle and began pacing across the abandoned classroom, his brow furrowed in thought. “Fiendfyre... Fiendfyre... I think I’ve heard Bill mention it once. Some cursed tomb in Egypt had something like it, and he said he barely made it out alive. Said it was like being blasted by a dragon—but worse, cause the fire chased him.”

Hermione was sitting cross-legged on top of a desk, her expression taut with concern. “I’ve come across the name in passing,” she admitted. “I know it’s considered an advanced and dangerous form of Dark Magic—very few spells are more volatile. But it's not well-documented in any of the mainstream British texts. Most of what we’re taught about foreign magic is either filtered through suspicion or dismissed entirely, since not a lot of British wizards like to admit that there’s magic out there that can stump ours. If there’s any sufficient information about Fiendfyre, it’ll be buried deep in the Restricted Section—if it’s there at all. And we can’t exactly get a teacher's pass for it right now.”

“I know what it is,” Draco said quietly.

They all turned to look at him. He was perched on the edge of the teacher’s desk, pale and tense, absently turning his wand between his fingers.

“Fiendfyre isn’t just fire,” he said, voice low. “It’s alive. It devours everything—flesh, stone, even magic itself if it’s strong enough. It doesn’t go out with water spells, and if you lose control of it, which most people do, it turns on you. That’s why most wizards won’t use it. You don’t command Fiendfyre. You just let it loose and run like hell.” He exhaled shakily, eyes distant. “But of course the Dark Lord can use it freely. It shouldn’t surprise me.”

“What does surprise me,” he added, running a hand through his hair in frustration, “is why he’s doing this now.”

Harry frowned. “What do you mean?”

Draco’s voice was strained, almost like he was trying to reason through the answer himself. “He’s always had a plan. The Dark Lord doesn’t act without a reason. The original idea—at least what I overheard from the Death Eaters and himself—was to destroy the Statute of Secrecy after consolidating power. After taking the Ministry from the inside, after sowing fear and paranoia, after discrediting the Order and eliminating Dumbledore.”

Draco looked up at them, his face pale and drawn, disbelief tightening every muscle in his expression. “But this? Killing Muggles openly, in broad daylight? Fiendfyre on the bloody London Bridge? That’s not strategy. That’s terrorism. It’s chaos. Senseless, indiscriminate chaos. If he’s rushing the plan, it means he’s desperate... or worse—he’s so confident in his power that he no longer thinks anyone can stop him.”

Harry’s brow furrowed, something tugging at the edge of his memory. Malfoy’s words stirred it loose. “I think… part of it was personal. He said that when he came back—after he’d fully regained his body—he looked himself up. Researched his own legacy. And from what he saw, it seemed like only Britain had ever really feared him. Everyone else—all the other wizarding nations—they dismissed him. Labeled him a ‘ local British problem.’ Said if he had ever dared leave the country, they would have taken care of him themselves.”

Draco scoffed under his breath. “Typical international arrogance.”

Harry nodded grimly. “Yeah. And that… pissed him off. But it wasn’t just that. He also mentioned you.”

Draco’s head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing sharply. “Me? Are you sure he said me? Not my father?”

Harry hesitated. This was the part he hadn’t wanted to bring up. “...Lucius was there too, Draco. He was with Voldemort. On the bridge.”

Draco’s hand clenched tight around his wand, knuckles turning bone-white.

“And Voldemort…” Harry continued, speaking slowly now, “he brought up something you said. About nuclear bombs. He remembered you talking about it at one of your family galas. Said this Fiendfyre spectacle was meant to be bigger. More terrifying. Proof that his magic was more devastating than any Muggle weapon.”

Draco went still, as if turned to stone. The color drained from his face completely.

“That—no,” he stammered. “That conversation was... it was months ago. And he wasn’t even part of it! He was just there, lingering on the edge of the room. I didn’t even know he was listening. I didn’t know he would gain some kind of inspiration from it!”

“Draco,” Hermione said softly, stepping forward. “This—whatever you're thinking, this isn't your fault. You didn’t tell him to do this. You didn’t hand him the spell. He’s a madman. He was always going to kill people, he was always going to cause destruction. Something like this was inevitable.”

Ron opened his mouth, then flinched as she turned on him. “And stop cowering every time you hear the name, Ronald, this is serious.”

Draco shook his head, chest rising and falling unevenly, looking nauseous. “No. If I hadn’t insisted on going to the manor for Christmas—if I hadn’t said anything—if I hadn’t tried to convince them that Muggles were more dangerous than they thought—”

“Then he’d have found something else,” Harry interrupted, voice firm. “He always does. Maybe it’d be a Dementor attack on the school, or a mass killing by Death Eaters in Diagon Alley. Maybe he’d Imperius the Prime Minister and force a declaration of war against the entire world. But this? This was always going to happen, Draco, in one shape or form, he was always going to lash out at the world and force it to acknowledge him.”

He stepped forward, his voice quieter now, but heavy with the certainty of experience. “I’ve been in that bastard’s head more times than I care to count. He can’t stand being overlooked. Can’t stand being thought of as less. He hated that the world forgot him—mocked him. That he was nothing more than a cautionary tale, a bogeyman in foreign textbooks.”

Harry’s eyes locked with Draco’s.

“He wants to be feared everywhere. Respected everywhere. He won’t rest until the world trembles at his name the same way English wizards refuse to say his chosen moniker. That’s his ego, his obsession. And that... has nothing to do with you.”

Harry looked at Draco, understanding all too well the weight of guilt in his eyes. That hollow shame, the kind that made you want to disappear entirely—to sink so deep into yourself you’d never have to face the world again. He had felt that before. 

Too many times.

How many nights had he lain awake, hating himself for not realizing Quirrell was the one trying to kill him and steal the Stone? 

How often had he cursed himself for not understanding the truth behind the voices in the walls during second year—voices only he could hear, because they came from a Basilisk? 

How long had he agonized over his third year, wishing he'd done more to convince the Ministry of Sirius's innocence?

Year after year, disaster had loomed on the horizon, and each time Harry asked himself the same bitter question: Why didn’t I see it coming?

He knew that kind of self-blame. He lived it.

So instead of pushing Draco further into it, he decided to shift the subject. There wasn’t time for guilt right now.

“We need to get to the Ministry,” Harry said, urgency rising in his voice. “Voldemort is using the attack on London Bridge as a smokescreen. The Death Eaters, he’s sending them to the Department of Mysteries. I know what he’s after. It’s not a weapon; It’s a prophecy.”

“A prophecy?” Ron repeated, brow furrowed. “What the bloody hell does he want with something as useless as that? He might as well have grabbed Trelawney for all the good it’d do for him.”

“Prophecies aren’t useless,” Harry replied, a bit sharply. “I don’t love Trelawney either, but you have to admit—what she said came true. Wormtail did escape. He did help Voldemort return. And now—well, just look at everything going on. Voldemort’s more dangerous than he’s ever been. At least before, he pretended to care about the Statute of Secrecy.”

“But how do we even get to the Ministry?” Hermione asked, her voice rising with anxiety. “We can’t Apparate off Hogwarts grounds. We can’t use brooms—we’d attract the attention of the Muggles, and that is the last thing any of us should be doing right now. The Floo Network is being monitored, and you know Umbridge is watching us like a hawk. We need to find a way to contact Dumbledore—”

“Dumbledore’s gone,” Harry cut in, his voice flaring with frustration. “He and the rest of the Order are tied up dealing with the Fiendfyre thing. I only saw it for a little while, but that thing was huge; it ended up taller than the London Bridge. They’re all busy containing it. We’ll be on our own.”

He looked between them, trying to make them see what he saw.

“If Voldemort gets whatever’s in that prophecy… we don’t know what happens next. But I do know this—we can’t wait for the adults to show up. We have to act. Now.”

It was unsurprising that Draco was the first to respond. His expression, which had been tense and unreadable, settled into something cold and focused.

“All right,” he said after a beat, voice calm but brisk. “I’ve got the start of a plan. Not a full one—yet—but enough to get moving. Granger, Weasley, Potter—round up everyone in your defense group. The ones who can handle themselves. Skip the ones you know who might freeze up.”

He turned to Harry with a sharp look.

 “I need to grab a few tools from my dorm. But Potter—do you have any way to contact Black? He’s with the Order, isn’t he? If he’s in London, he might be able to warn Dumbledore.”

Harry cursed under his breath, the familiar frustration bubbling up.

“No, I don’t. The only way I had to contact Sirius was through Hedwig. And Umbridge had her intercepted the last time I sent her out. She’s been keeping a close eye on all owl traffic since. You should know, your fancy squad goes through all of our mail.”

Draco narrowed his eyes at him, studying his face like he was trying to piece together a puzzle.

“You’re telling me Black—your criminal godfather—never gave you any kind of way to contact him magically, without anyone ever finding out? Nothing at all?”

Harry opened his mouth to argue—and froze.

 Something tickled at the edge of his memory. A moment, half-forgotten, from his last night at Grimmauld Place. 

________________________________________________________________

“Prongslet!”

Harry looked up from his trunk, where he’d been carefully folding the last of his clothes for the return to Hogwarts. It was late, and the Number Twelve Grimmauld Place had begun to wind down for the night—though, as anyone familiar with the Weasleys knew, “winding down” was a relative term. The fire still crackled downstairs, laughter floated up through the floorboards, and the scent of cinnamon and spiked cider hung in the air.

He smiled when Sirius burst through the door, cheeks flushed from the warmth of drink and merriment, a wide, dog-like grin spread across his face.

“Sirius? What are you doing up here?”

“What am I doing here?” Sirius repeated with mock indignation, swaying slightly as he stepped into the room. “What are you doing up here, Prongslet? There’s a full-on party downstairs! Socks and folding charms can wait. Come on—come down with me. I’ll sneak you a bit of Firewhisky. Molly won’t notice; she’s just as smashed as I am.”

Harry chuckled, shaking his head. The “party” Sirius referred to was the impromptu gathering that had formed after dinner—Celestina Warbeck had taken over the wireless in the kitchen, Molly had been generous with the cocoa and less stingy with the brandy, and Arthur Weasley was now attempting to twirl her around the cramped living room as their kids cheered them on.

Harry had slipped away with his cocoa, more out of habit than anything else. It wasn’t that he didn’t love it—he did. He loved the warmth, the joy, and the chaos of the Weasleys. But sometimes, especially after nights like this, he found himself retreating. Maybe it was years of being told to stay quiet, to stay hidden. Maybe it was the comfort of silence after noise. He liked being alone sometimes.

Just… not when Sirius was around.

Sirius flopped down onto the bed beside him with the grace of a man who’d long since stopped pretending he was sober. The scent of cognac clung to him, sharp but oddly comforting. Harry usually hated the smell—too many bad memories with Uncle Vernon—but Sirius made it different. Somehow, alcohol made him softer, not crueler. And Harry knew Sirius would never yell at him or scare him if he could help it.

“You’re probably sick to death of hearing this,” Sirius said after a moment, his voice quieter, more serious, “but you really do look just like your dad.”

Harry gave a small smile but said nothing.

“I mean it. It’s probably maddening—everyone always pointing it out like it’s the most original thing they could say. ‘You’ve got your mum’s eyes!’ ‘You’re the spitting image of James!’” Sirius rolled his own eyes, grinning. “By third year, I wanted to hex the next person who told me I looked like my great-grandfather.”

Harry snorted softly.

“But it’s more than just how you look,” Sirius said, his tone shifting again, more reverent now. “It’s how you are. The way you talk, the way your brow furrows when you’re concentrating, the way you laugh when you think no one’s watching. Sometimes it hits me so hard, I have to remind myself you’re not James. That he’s… that he’s gone.”

Harry stared at his half-packed trunk for a long moment. What did you say to that? People told him all the time how much he looked like his father, and it never meant much. It was a fact—a simple observation. But Sirius was talking about memory. About love. 

About grief.

He shrugged, unsure of what words could possibly be enough.

Sirius leaned back against the headboard, his voice softer than Harry was used to hearing. “You don’t have to say anything, Harry. I just needed to say it. Sometimes I forget how young you still are. And how much you carry.”

There was a long pause, filled only by the quiet creak of the old bed and the distant crackle of the sitting room fire downstairs.

“Sorry,” Sirius said after a moment, running a hand through his tangled hair. “I know I shouldn’t put all that on you. Shouldn’t be looking for ghosts in you, trying to find the past where it doesn’t belong. Layla—she was this Muggle girl I dated for a bit, called herself a psychiatrist. Kind of like a Healer, but for the mind. She said I keep living backwards, and that’s why I’m still stuck. Still…broken.”

Harry tilted his head. “That’s the fifth woman you’ve mentioned dating in the last two weeks. If you don’t slow down, you’re going to catch something.”

Sirius gave a bark of laughter—quick, sharp, and thoroughly canine. “What can I say? Azkaban gave me a long list of things to catch up on. Don’t worry, though. I’m careful.”

Harry smirked, pulling on his socks and shaking his head in mock disapproval. For a little while, they didn’t speak. The quiet was companionable, the kind that only existed between people who had suffered enough together to find comfort in silence.

Sirius watched him, eyes filled with something deeper than affection—an aching sort of protectiveness that made Harry feel warmer than the fire ever could.

Then, with a subtle rustle of robes, Sirius reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, lumpy package. It was wrapped in far too much tape and gaudy red paper, as though he'd wrestled with the wrapping charm until it surrendered out of pity.

“Here,” he said quietly, holding it out. “A gift. Something to let you reach me, just in case Umbridge goes too far. Or if you just need someone to talk to. No need to send Hedwig flying across the country every time.”

Harry stared at the package, heart thudding. He wanted to tear it open right then and there, wanted to see what magic lay inside that might give him a direct line to Sirius—to safety, to warmth, to the man who loved him like family should.

But he couldn’t.

He remembered too well what Sirius had done last time he’d worried about his wellbeing. When Harry had dreamed of Voldemort the summer before the Triwizard Tournament, Sirius had abandoned whatever safehouse he’d found, trading sun and shelter for damp woods near Hogsmeade—living off rats and hiding in the mountains, all just to be close, just to protect him.

If Harry told him even a quarter of what Umbridge had done… the detentions, the quill, the blood… Sirius would charge into Hogwarts like a madman. He’d throw everything away, just to keep Harry safe.

And Harry couldn’t be the one to cause that.

So he smiled—gently, falsely—and nodded as he tucked the package into his school trunk.

“Thanks,” he said. “I’ll use it if I need to.”

Sirius didn’t press. He only nodded back, expression unreadable.

And for the rest of the evening, they sat together in quiet, pretending—for a little while longer—that everything was alright.

_______________________________________________________________

“Yeah, he actually did give me something like that,” Harry said, tapping his wand thoughtfully against his leg. “All right, I’ll try to get in contact with him. Ron and Hermione can start pulling together the people we need. Are you bringing anyone from Slytherin?”

“Nope,” Draco replied, curt and decisive. “Just me and some weapons. Meet me outside the Room of Requirement in thirty minutes. We should be done prepping by then.”

Hermione spun toward them, her expression stormy. “Have either of you stopped to consider how we’re going to get off the grounds without Umbridge catching wind of it?” she hissed. “You know, that little detail might be important to your so-called plan!”

Draco didn’t stop walking. “I’ve got a plan for that too,” he called over his shoulder. “Just get yourselves ready and try not to overthink it. Would be a real shame if you lot managed to hurt yourselves before we even got to the Ministry.”

“Arse,” Ron muttered, rolling his eyes as he headed for the door. “I’ll grab Fred and George.”

Harry gave a nod, distracted but thoughtful. Fred and George were excellent duelists—bold, quick-thinking, and unpredictable. Individually they were skilled, but together, they were chaos incarnate, the only members of the DA who ever really forced Harry to put in effort during training sessions.

Now, who else?

Neville?

Harry hesitated.

Neville had come a long way—no doubt about that. The boy had grit, and he never gave up. But he wasn’t ready. Not for this. Not yet.

Bellatrix Lestrange would be there.

The woman who had destroyed his parents.

Neville deserved the chance to face her. He deserved to stand in front of the woman who had taken everything from him and fight. But Harry couldn’t ignore the facts—Neville still missed half his spells in practice. His aim was off, his reactions slow, and his magic, while improving, lacked the force needed for a fight like this. A fight for survival.

You’ll get your chance, Neville, Harry thought quietly. But not today.

Harry just hoped his friend wouldn’t be too mad when he heard about this eventually…

_______________________________________________________________

The O.W.L.s were finally over. Thank Merlin.

Pansy felt as though the weight of the entire castle had been lifted off her shoulders. This had undoubtedly been the most stressful set of exams she'd ever endured—and that was saying something, considering she'd grown up with the constant pressure of keeping up appearances, maintaining her social standing, and watching her every move in the Slytherin common room. If the O.W.L.s were this grueling, she genuinely had to question whether it was worth even bothering with the N.E.W.T.s. From what she'd heard, they were far worse. At the moment, all she wanted was to crawl into bed, sleep until dinner, and be left completely alone until then.

This last exam had been absolute hell. Between Hermione Granger’s perfectionist tendencies, trying to keep Draco from sacrificing sleep in his mad dash to cram, and her own preparation, she felt like she'd aged five years in a week. That said, as much as it pained her to admit it, all that extra studying with Granger had helped. The girl had immaculate notes, a memory like a Pensieve, and an annoying habit of dragging everyone around her into her obsessive need for academic excellence. Pansy wouldn’t be surprised if she ended up with the best grades she’d ever gotten in all her years at Hogwarts. Not that she’d say thank you or anything ridiculous like that.

Still half-asleep, she was drifting into a light doze when she felt someone gently tap her on the arm.

No. Absolutely not. Go away.

She squeezed her eyes tighter, trying to pretend she wasn’t there. But the tapping didn’t stop. It became a more insistent poking. And now—oh, for Salazar’s sake—she could feel that whoever it was had the audacity to get miffed. She swore, if they jabbed her with a wand to wake her up like Millicent had once done, she would hex them into next week.

With a groan of supreme irritation, she cracked one eye open—and immediately let out a long-suffering sigh at the sight of Astoria Greengrass standing beside her bed, looking far too timid and apologetic for Pansy’s current mood.

“What is it, Flower?” Pansy asked, her voice gruff with sleep and annoyance.

Astoria flinched slightly at the tone but answered in her usual soft, overly-polite manner. “Draco’s looking for you,” she said. “He looks rather... distraught.”

Pansy gave a tired chuckle as she swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood. “You don’t have to talk so proper, you know. You can just say he looks upset. Or pissed. That works too.”

Astoria Greengrass was one of the few people in Slytherin Pansy actually liked, and for one simple reason—Astoria knew how to mind her own business. She was quiet, gentle, soft-spoken, and polite to the point of ridiculousness. She was far too sweet for most of the boys in their house, and if Pansy hadn’t known better, she would’ve thought the Sorting Hat had made a mistake. What was this delicate little creature doing in Slytherin?

If there was ambition in her, it was buried under layers of silk and timidity. If there was cunning, it had yet to reveal itself. But it was precisely because of those UnSlytherin traits that Pansy had taken her under her wing—and consequently, Draco had placed her under his protection. A few upper-year idiots had tried to mess with her this year. 

They didn’t get the chance to try again.

As they made their way down the corridor, Pansy cast a sideways glance at the younger girl.

“So? How does he look? And don’t say distraught again.”

Astoria bit her lip, thinking. “He, um… he looks tired. And a little stressed,” she said finally. “He said it was an emergency. He told me to wake you up even if you were asleep. I’m sorry.”

Pansy let out a yawn as she stretched mid-step, brushing it off. “It’s fine, little Flower. I’ll go deal with the big, bad dragon.”

Astoria pouted at her. “Why do you and Draco both call me that? You know you can just call me Astoria, right? Or even Greengrass?”

Pansy smirked. “Because it fits. You’re delicate. Pretty. Fragile-looking. And because you’d wither if anyone raised their voice around you for more than five seconds. Besides, Draco thinks it's charming.”

Astoria turned a shade of pink at Pansy’s teasing, ducking her head and mumbling something unintelligible under her breath.

Pansy’s grin only widened. “See? Flower.”

A moment later, Draco came into view, pacing in the mostly empty Slytherin common room like a caged animal. Pansy immediately understood what Astoria had meant by “distraught.” His face was tight with unease—eyes sharp, mouth set in a determined line—but beneath it all was a flicker of panic, barely contained. His robes were thrown hastily over what looked like Muggle clothing, and a rucksack hung from one shoulder, bulging with supplies.

“Where are you going in such a state?” Pansy asked as she walked toward him, arms crossed, her tone half-teasing and half-concerned.

Draco turned at the sound of her voice, and the change was immediate. The tension in his brow eased slightly, and his expression softened as their eyes met. It was stupid, she thought—how something as simple as him looking at her could cause a flutter of warmth to stir in her chest, rising up to burn in her cheeks.

“Hey,” he said, a faint, almost sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “Mind if we talk in my dorm for a bit? Just for a minute.”

“Draco!” Astoria gasped from behind her, looking thoroughly scandalized. “You can’t just ask a lady to your sleeping quarters! You’re not even betrothed!”

Draco gave her a flat look before reaching out to tousle her perfectly styled hair. Astoria yelped and recoiled, frantically trying to smooth it back down with both hands.

“Thank you, little flower,” he said dryly, watching her retreat with the satisfied air of an older brother.

“Stop calling me that!” she huffed as she disappeared around the corner, her voice high with embarrassment.

Pansy chuckled, and Draco joined in quietly beside her. They watched Astoria go for a few moments, amusement still lingering in the air.

“She’s absolutely precious, isn’t she?” Pansy said fondly, her eyes still on the corridor where Astoria had vanished.

Draco snorted. “Makes you wonder how she and Daphne share any blood at all. They’re like the sun and the moon.”

Then he turned to her, the amusement fading slightly, replaced by a more serious look—one that made her straighten instinctively.

“So,” he said, voice low, almost cautious, “do you mind coming to my dorm for that talk?”

Pansy’s heart skipped a beat, though she tried not to show it. She met his gaze evenly and gave a small, measured nod.

“Lead the way, Draco.”

Draco didn’t waste time.

“It’s started,” he said grimly, sitting beside her on the edge of the bed.

Pansy blinked blearily, still half-awake. “What’s started?”

“The Dark Lord.” He glanced down at his hands, clenched into fists. “Voldemort. He’s made his move. He’s burning Muggle London.”

It took her a solid minute to process the words. Not just the news—but how he said them.

Draco had used the Dark Lord’s real name.

He wasn’t supposed to do that. No one in their circles ever did. It was one of those unspoken rules—like which forks to use at dinner or never asking what happened to someone’s blood-traitor cousin.

“Burning it?” she asked at last, her voice quiet.

“Muggle London,” Draco repeated. “He’s using Fiendfyre. Whole neighborhoods are going up in smoke. They’ll probably call it a gas line explosion or something else on the Muggle news, but it’s him. It’s all him.”

“Why?” Her voice cracked, and she cleared her throat. “Why now? Why at all?”

Draco let out a bitter laugh. “Because he can. Because he thinks Muggles are filthy little animals who need reminding of their place. And because he wants a show—a spectacle. Breaking the Statute of Secrecy, putting wizards back on top.And because he’s pissed that everyone outside of Britian didn’t think he was scary enough. That’s what this is really about.”

She stared at him, eyes wide. “Is that all?”

“No,” Draco said darkly. “It’s also a distraction. He’s sending Bellatrix and a few Death Eaters to the Ministry—tonight. They’re after a prophecy. One that supposedly predicts whether Potter can kill him or not.”

“And you’re going to stop them.”

He nodded. “Potter, Granger, Weasley… some of us are going. It’s a disaster waiting to happen, but if we don’t try, they’ll get what they came for.”

Pansy sat back, running her hands through her hair. Sleep felt miles away now.

“Alright,” she said, resolved. “When do we leave?”

Draco turned sharply. “We?”

“Yes, we,” she said, folding her arms. “I’m coming with you.”

“No,” he said immediately—too forcefully. “Absolutely not, Pansy.”

Her eyes narrowed. “So you’re just going to walk into a trap with a bunch of Gryffindorks and hope for the best?”

“I’m not walking into it blind.”

“You’ll be walking in without someone who actually knows how you think. Someone who won’t get themselves killed trying to be noble.” Her voice sharpened. “You’d rather trust the golden dimwits—well-known for charging headfirst into danger without a single plan between them—than me?”

Draco was quiet for a long moment.

“...If one of them dies,” he said at last, voice low, “I can live with that.”

Her eyes widened, shocked by his callousness—until he continued.

“But if you died—if something happened to you—I wouldn’t recover. You’re what keeps me grounded, Pansy. When I’m unraveling, you’re the one who pulls me back. You make all of this—” he gestured vaguely, helplessly “—all this plotting and scheming feel like it matters. I can’t ask you to come with me. I won’t. Because the idea of someone like Bellatrix even looking at you—let alone raising her wand—scares the hell out of me.”

Silence settled over them, heavy as snowfall. He wasn’t looking at her anymore, but she was looking at him—really looking. The fear in his voice. The raw edge in his words. She'd never heard him like this before.

Pansy sighed, her shoulders slumping under the weight of it all. She looked at him—really looked at him—and knew this wasn’t some casual conversation.

“So you just came here to say goodbye?” she asked quietly. “Like the heroes in those tragic stories—the ones who say their farewells before going off on some doomed quest they never return from?”

Draco shook his head, firmly. “No. I came to tell you that I’m leaving, but also that I’m coming back. I’m not resigning myself to death, Pansy. I’m not like those blokes in your books. I will come back to you. I just… I couldn’t go without seeing you first. And I figured you’d want to hear the news about Voldemort from me directly.”

There was a long silence between them, heavy but not suffocating.

“…Draco?” she said at last, her voice softer than before.

“Yeah?”

“Close your eyes.”

“What for?” he asked, brow furrowing.

She raised one arched eyebrow, and after a beat, realization dawned across his face. He flushed faintly.

“Oh! You—you want to—right now?”

Pansy gave a small laugh, the tension in the room breaking like a thaw. She stepped closer, her smirk gentle rather than mocking. “I’ll never understand how this is what flusters you,” she murmured.

And then she kissed him.

It was gentle—soft and warm rather than intense. It wasn’t the explosion of fireworks or butterflies in the stomach her countless romance novels had promised, but it was… right. It lit a quiet warmth deep inside her chest, one that made her hum softly and lean into him, just a little more.

When they finally pulled apart, minutes later, Draco looked stunned. Dazed in the best way.

“Wow,” he breathed. “That was… wow.”

The dumbfounded look on his face did absolute wonders for her ego.

“That,” Pansy said, lips curling into a smile, “was not a goodbye kiss. That wasn’t the kiss the princess gives the knight before he goes off on some idiotic suicide mission.”

She took a small step forward again, keeping his gaze steady. “I’ve been wanting to kiss you for a while now, Draco. And let’s not pretend we haven’t been heading toward this for ages. That kiss? It was a promise. When you come back, we need to talk—about us. Okay?”

She punctuated her words with a quick peck to his lips—briefer, but no less sincere.

Draco grinned, a genuine, boyish grin that tugged at something deep in her chest. “That’s definitely the best incentive to come back I’ve had all day.”

But then the grin faded, his expression turning more serious, eyes darkening as the weight of everything returned.

“Pansy… take care of yourself. If what I’ve been hearing is true… things are about to change. Not just in our world. In both of them.”

_________________________________________________________________

He wasn’t ready.

That single, panicked thought kept looping in Ron Weasley’s mind as their group made its way toward the Room of Requirement. Fred and George brought up the rear, muttering in unusually focused tones for once. Hermione strode ahead with determined purpose, her wand already out, lips moving as she rehearsed spells under her breath. Ginny was beside him, jaw set, fingers flexing in readiness, and Ron... Ron was trying not to throw up.

At least someone felt prepared for the disaster they were about to walk into.

He hadn’t mastered Piertotum Locomotor yet. Not even close. He was better than he’d been a few weeks ago, sure, but nothing near what McGonagall could do. His summoned suits of armor were clunky, slow, and barely responsive—like trying to steer a stubborn troll. He could only animate five at a time on a good day, and half the time they didn’t even rise fully from the ground. Sometimes all he got was a pair of arms or a disembodied torso flailing helplessly in the dirt. Intimidating stuff, really.

He’d started too late in the term. Between O.W.L. prep and the constant tension of living under Snape’s reign, he hadn’t had much time to properly study Transfiguration, let alone practice battle magic. And now, suddenly, they were marching straight into what was essentially a war. A war that might have really benefitted from someone who had mastered battle transfiguration.

Still, he wasn’t dead weight. Not anymore.

He could hold his own now. He wasn’t just "Harry’s friend" or "the tall Weasley with the long nose." He had spells under his belt—tricks he wouldn’t have dreamed of trying a year ago. Would they be enough to hold off Death Eaters? To go toe-to-toe with the darkest wizard in living memory?

Probably not. But then again, life had always been a mix of strategy and blind chance, hadn’t it? You didn’t always get the best pieces on the board, or the chance to make the moves you wanted, you just had to play the ones you were given.

They were nearly at the corridor wall when a familiar, drawling voice cut through the tension like a blade.

“You know, when I said bring capable people, I didn’t mean the entire bloody Weasley clan, Potter.”

Ron startled. He’d been so lost in his own thoughts, he hadn’t even realized they’d reached the Room of Requirement—or that Malfoy was already there, standing with arms crossed and looking thoroughly unimpressed.

“Harrykins! Drakeykins!” Fred greeted cheerfully, strolling in with his usual theatrical flair.

“I told you I’d castrate you if you called me that again, Weasley,” Malfoy said coldly, not even bothering to look at him.

“And yet I persevere,” Fred replied brightly. “We’re here with Ronniekins and Hermionekins!”

“Did Ron and Hermione fill you in?” Harry asked, stepping forward. Ron noticed he was holding something that looked like an egg-shaped mirror in his hand, gleaming faintly in the low light.

“Lord Gruesome’s burning down London,” George said with an eager grin. “So now it’s our turn to help you with your super-secret mission to stop him. Naturally, Fred and I came bearing gifts. I assume you’ve brought your own party favors, Harrykins?”

Harry nodded. “I managed to get in contact with Sirius. He’s in London now—no idea where Dumbledore is yet, but he’s agreed to help us. We’re supposed to meet him at the Ministry entrance in Whitehall. You know, the phone booth one.”

“Oh, I know that one!” Ginny piped up, her expression lighting. “Dad’s taken us through there loads of times.”

“Now would be an excellent time,” Hermione snapped, her tone sharp, “to discuss how exactly we’re going to get there. And I swear, if one of you suggests Apparition, I will slap you.”

“She’s right,” Draco said calmly, pulling a worn, frayed white shoelace from his pocket. “Apparition is impossible inside Hogwarts, and the Floo Network’s being monitored—assuming it’s even operational for us right now. Fortunately,” he added with a smug little smile, “I know of another transportation method.”

He held the shoelace out in his palm, then pointed his wand at it with practiced precision. His voice was firm.

“Portus.”

The shoelace glowed a soft, ethereal blue as the enchantment took hold.

“Draco!” Hermione exclaimed, scandalized. “You know it’s illegal to create a Portkey without Ministry authorization!”

Ron gave her a look that could only be described as pure exasperation. Honestly, of all the times to be worrying about the law…

“Hermione,” he said, trying to keep his tone gentle, “I think the Ministry has bigger things to worry about right now.”

Draco, leaning casually against the wall like he wasn’t about to head into a life-or-death mission, added cheerfully, “Besides, it’s only a minor felony. You just have to pay a fine. My father always said that if something has a price attached to it, that just means you’re allowed to do it—it’s just not free.”

“...See, that’s a level of rich I genuinely can’t even begin to relate to, but I want to,” George muttered, shaking his head.

“Guys,” Harry interrupted, his voice quiet but commanding enough to make them all pause and look his way. “Listen. This… this is serious. Maybe more serious than anything we’ve faced before. Even worse than Voldemort coming back last year.”

There was a weight to his words, heavy and real.

“We’re going into enemy territory,” Harry continued, “no backup, no Order watching our backs—just us. And the people we’re up against… they’re not incompetent professors or bumbling Ministry people with inflated ego’s. They’re killers. Real, trained Death Eaters who won’t hesitate to murder us for fun. If anyone doesn’t want to come, this is the time to say so. There’s no shame in it.”

There are moments in life when the bond between people becomes undeniable—when a shared glance, a unified decision, solidifies something deeper than blood or history. This was one of those moments.

For the Weasleys, it was more than just another mission. It was personal.

Antonin Dolohov was almost certainly going to be there. And while no one could ever prove it outright, everyone in the family suspected that Lucius Malfoy had played a part in the deaths of Gideon and Fabian Prewett. But Dolohov? His role in it was well-known.

He was the reason their mum cried every year on the same day. He was the monster whose name had never faded from whispered conversations in the Burrow.

There was no way in hell any one of them would pass up the chance to take that bastard down.

Without a word of protest, each Weasley stepped forward and placed a hand on the Portkey—a frayed shoelace resting in Draco’s hand, determination etched into every face.

Harry reached out next, his expression grim and resolved.

Hermione followed, silent now, but her eyes were blazing.

Ron felt the familiar jerk behind his navel as the magic took hold—and then the world became a blur of color and sound, spinning wildly as they were whisked away toward whatever waited for them on the other side.