Archive of Our Own

Draco was accustomed to the unsettling silence of Azkaban, broken only by the occasional screams of those who still clung to the faint hope of escape. He had abandoned that hope months ago—had it been months already?

Azkaban could do that to you. It warped your perception of time, slowly unravelling your sanity. The sun barely touched the tower, and Draco fought to hold on to whatever fragments of himself remained. But his memories—his only escape—had become corrupted, each one sending a searing pang through his heart. This was it. These four damn walls would be the last thing he saw before he died. He prayed nightly for an illness to take him, for death to come quickly and end the torment. How bitterly he regretted fighting so hard for his life, for his freedom.

Now, he lived in his memories. His mother’s warm embrace. Laughter once shared with friends. And Theodore’s soft touch. Oh, Theo—he missed him most of all. 

Theo had been everywhere Draco was, their whispered conversations stretching into the early hours, sharing hopes of a better future when the world seemed bleak. Was Theo safe now? Did he escape after the war? Or had they taken him too? Perhaps he was rotting in a cell just below Draco’s. The thought clawed at his mind, making him want to scratch the walls with his bare hands until his fingers bled, just to check. To be sure.

He craved the presence of another human being—anything other than the illegal dementors gliding silently through the corridors.

Azkaban was supposed to be better after the war. The truth was, it had only grown worse. A place to lock people away and forget they had ever existed.

Draco closed his eyes and thought of his mother. He hoped she had found some way to move past the grief and guilt of losing him. He could still see the silent tears falling down her face as the verdict echoed in the courtroom. He hoped Pansy and Blaise were far away, maybe in a little Italian town. Pansy judging every outfit she saw, while Blaise listened indulgently. He hoped Theo was with them, basking in the sun, his freckles reappearing, his curls wild from the sea air.

His trial replayed endlessly in his mind.

He had asked for a private hearing—so they made it public.
He had begged for one last meeting with his mother—so they denied it.
He had fallen to his knees, pleading that his friends be kept away. That Theo be barred from attending.

So they sat Theo in the front row.

Draco could still see it. The slight, pitying smile Theo gave him, brittle and forced. The flicker of hope dying in his eyes as the verdict rang out—guilty.

He remembered Theo's voice rising above the courtroom, a scream drenched in fury and desperation, calling his name through a flood of insults. And Draco had wished—more than anything—that he hadn’t turned to look. That he hadn’t seen his friends holding Theo back as he thrashed, fighting to reach him.

That he hadn’t watched them drag Theo away.

While he was dragged, too—into the dark, into the cold.

That night, the guards beat him so badly that he lost consciousness. He woke up days later, soaked in panic, not knowing where he was. Screaming. Begging.

The guards answered with fists.

That was when he stopped hoping.

Occluding was almost impossible now. The anti-magic wards pulsing through Azkaban made it harder to keep the walls up. He was forced to relive every horror. Every face. Every scream. Every drop of blood that clung to his hands.

People he’d tortured. People he’d killed.

All for his family. His friends. Himself.

In the end, it didn’t save anyone.

In the end, he had failed.

That was what Draco Lucius Malfoy was.

A failure.

Draco lay back on his too-small cot, the rusted frame creaking beneath him. His eyes stared blankly at the cracked grey ceiling above, his fingers scratching absently at the wall—a habit born of too many sleepless nights and too many thoughts he could no longer bear to think.

That’s when he heard it.

A voice.

“Draco,” it whispered, soft and unfamiliar in a place that had long since fallen silent.

He stilled, every muscle frozen mid-breath.

The madness had finally come. Perhaps it was a mercy. He had prayed for it—begged for madness to take him, to drown him, to pull him away from this endless waking nightmare.

“Draco,” the voice said again. Louder. Clearer.

His heart thudded in his chest.

Yes. Let it take me. Let me fall, he thought.

But then—

“D, are you there?”

His heart stopped.

That name.

That voice.

Only one person had ever called him that.

No.

No, it couldn’t be.

He didn’t want this. If madness came with Theo’s voice, with his memory, his warmth—Draco didn’t want it.

But he couldn’t stop himself. Just once. Just for a moment —

“Theo?” he whispered, his voice barely holding together. Fragile. Tired. Breaking.

“Oh, dear Merlin, Draco—it’s you.”

Draco flinched like he’d been struck.

“That’s not funny,” he said, though it came out more like a plea.

“No, I suppose being locked here isn’t very funny at all,” Theo replied. There was a sad kind of smile in his tone. A joke trying—and failing—to soften the blow. “For two people who swore we’d never be like our fathers… we’ve certainly failed. Spectacularly.”

Draco scrambled toward the wall, palms pressed flat against the damp stone. He pressed his ear against it, desperate for something—anything—to bridge the space between them. To prove him that he was wrong, that it wasn’t him. Anyone but him.

“Please tell me it’s not you, Theodore,” he begged, the words laced with something raw and aching. “You were supposed to be out. Out of Britain. Safe.”

“I couldn’t leave without you,” Theo said quietly. “I kept hoping they’d let you go.”

“No,” Draco breathed. “No, no, no—Theo.” His voice cracked. “Fuck! You’re supposed to be safe! Pansy and Blaise—they promised to get you out. You were supposed to be gone. You were supposed to be free! Why aren’t you gone?”

“I only got here a week ago,” Theo said gently. “Caught a glimpse of your too-blonde hair on my way in. Almost missed it.” He tried to sound light, but his voice wavered at the edges.

Draco shook his head as if the motion could undo the truth. As if shaking hard enough could rewind time.

“Why did you wait?” he cried. “Why didn’t you run?” His fists struck the wall. “I deserve this. I deserve to rot here. You—you were supposed to get out. Why couldn’t you just leave me? That was the only thing I ever asked of you.”

“You know I couldn’t.”

The silence that followed was unbearable. It crawled into Draco’s chest, settled behind his ribs like something alive. He could almost hear Theo breathing on the other side of the wall. He imagined him curled in the cold, the dampness seeping into his skin.

Draco had spent months reliving everything he'd done—every mistake, every failure. He had built speeches in his head, apologies and confessions and desperate, wordless prayers.

But now?

Now that Theo was here, trapped with him in the same hell.
There was nothing left to say.

So he slid down the wall, his back pressed to the stone, and rested his head against it. Eyes closed. Breathing slow. Imagining Theo doing the same on the other side.

Just listening.
Just existing.
Together.

Even if they couldn’t touch.
Even if they couldn’t see.

Draco had spent months craving another human presence. The sound of another voice. A heartbeat not his own.

But now that he had one, it felt wrong.

Especially because it was him.

He hadn’t known how deep the silence had settled in his bones until it was broken. His despair had become sustenance for the dementors, draining whatever warmth he had left. Even the occasional weak rays of sunlight filtering through the cracks couldn’t reach the cold inside him.

Now, every night, Theo called his name. Sometimes a whisper. Sometimes a scream.
Every night, Draco bit his tongue until he tasted blood, pressing his fist hard against his mouth to smother the sobs. If he ignored the voice, maybe it wouldn’t be real. Maybe it would vanish like every nightmare before it.

He dragged his cot to the opposite end of the cell, as far from the voice as he could. The silence had once been a torment, but now it was a shield.

But after a few days—he realised the truth.

That if Theo was real, it was selfish to let him sit there, night after night, wondering if Draco was still there.

So the next time he heard his name, soft and cracked, he answered.

“I’m here,” he said quietly. “Not like I’ve got anywhere else to be.”
He tried to sound light, a tease maybe—but it landed flat, more ghost than joke.

There was a long silence. Then: 

“Oh, D, you absolute prat.”Theo’s voice shook with relief. “I thought they’d moved you. Or worse.” His voice dropped lower, rougher. “Don’t ever do that again.”

Guilt pierced Draco’s chest, sharp and immediate.

“How long has it been?” Draco asked, almost too softly to hear.
He wasn’t sure he wanted the answer. But he needed to ask.

“You were here six months before I arrived,” Theo said gently. “It’s been three weeks now.”

“Six months,” Draco echoed. The words didn’t feel real. “Are you sure?”

“Time slips away fast in here,” Theo murmured. “I’ve tried to keep track. But it’s hard.”

Draco let the silence settle for a moment. Then, low and bitter, “I’d advise you to stop. It only makes things worse.”

He hesitated. The words itched at the back of his throat.

“You know, I… I missed you. So much, T. And sometimes—” he stopped, took a shaky breath, “—every time actually… I feel like I summoned you here. Like somehow, wanting you too badly cursed you.”

There was a pause.

“As long as you keep talking to me,” Theo said, voice softer now, “it might not be so bad.”

Draco kept his promise. He talked to Theo every day. 

They reminisced about their childhoods, pieced together the fragments of life outside, and painted pictures of what could have been—if. 

But if didn’t exist. If was now. 

And now, they were both trapped here, forever separated by a cold stone wall, forced to remember each other only through the sound of a voice.

“How is it outside?” Draco asked one night, when despair clung to him like a second skin. When he realised he could no longer remember the feeling of the wind against his face.

“Louder. Brighter. Colourful,” Theo answered softly. “Pansy and Blaise got engaged, you know. They’re still trying to get you—us—out, but they needed something good, something happy. The reception was beautiful. I heard Granger’s helping them.”

Draco scoffed. “With all the hopeless causes she takes on, she should’ve been a Hufflepuff.”

“Could’ve been a great Slytherin too,” Theo mused. “Remember when you begged the Sorting Hat not to put you in Ravenclaw? You nearly cried in front of the entire school.”

Draco groaned. “You’re one to talk. One more breath and you would’ve been a Gryffindor.”

“Don’t humiliate centuries of tradition, D,” Theo said mockingly. “Notts are, and will always be, Slytherin by blood, of course.”

A pause. Then, a teasing lilt in Theo’s voice:

“You want to hear something unexpected?”

Draco sighed dramatically. “I don’t know, T. This fascinating grey wall is really holding my attention—”

“The She-Weasel—she’s with Daphne.”

Draco blinked. “Ginny?”

“Yes! The Prophet went wild. Homosexuality isn’t exactly widely accepted in our world.”

Draco hesitated, knowing the answer would make him regret not confessing to his best friend while they were younger. “And how do you feel about it?”

A beat of silence. Then, a chuckle.

“You know how I feel, D. I’m gayer than a maypole.”

Draco didn’t laugh. He just exhaled, a small, almost imperceptible sound.

“That you are.”

Draco woke to screaming.

Not the distant cries that usually echoed through the prison.

Theo’s.

He shot upright, heart slamming against his ribs. For a second, he wasn’t sure if he was still dreaming—if Theo was even real, or just another cruel trick of his mind.

But then the screaming came again.

Raw. Shattered. Agonised.

“Theo?” Draco called out, panic rising like bile. “Theodore?” His voice cracked. “T?”

No answer.

Just more screams—ripped from the throat of someone being broken.

Draco scrambled to the wall, pressing himself against the cold stone, palms flat, as if somehow, if he tried hard enough, he could reach through it. As if his voice could shield Theo.

Then, suddenly—silence.

Too sharp. Too final.

Then… laughter.

Heavy boots thudded against the stone floor. Guards. Leaving.

Draco could picture it—the smug smiles, the blood on their knuckles. And Theo, crumpled on the floor, shaking. Silent.

His stomach churned. His breath caught.

He slid down the wall slowly, forehead resting against the stone, shame thick in his throat.

He hadn’t been able to stop it.

He hadn’t even tried.

Again.

All he could do was sit in the dark, while the people he loved were torn apart one by one.

He clenched his fists until his nails bit into his skin, wishing—begging—for the guards to come back. To open his door. To drag him out next.

Let them beat him until the world went black.

At least then, he wouldn’t have to think.

For days, Draco called his name.

For days, only silence answered—until he began to wonder if he’d imagined it all. If Theo had been nothing more than another hallucination born of his fraying mind. A cruel hope, conjured up and then ripped away.

Maybe this was his punishment. Again.

Then, one day—soft, hoarse, cracked like dry earth:

“D?”

Draco nearly collapsed with relief.

“Oh, T—how are you feeling?”

Theo let out something between a laugh and a groan. “Oh, you know. Top of my game. Spa treatments, breakfast in bed, fresh air. Real five-star accommodations.” He paused, and his voice shifted. “I feel like shit, D. But hey—new scars to charm the gents. A refreshing change from the ones my father left me.”

Draco’s breath hitched. “I’m sorry, T. I’m so sorry I couldn’t stop them.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Draco,” Theo snapped, but not unkindly. “You’re not a god.”

Draco closed his eyes, forehead against the stone again. He could almost feel Theo doing the same.

“What would you want your life to be like—outside? If we ever got out?” Draco asked softly, almost afraid the question would shatter in the stale air.

Theo was silent for a long moment, then exhaled slowly. “A cottage, maybe. Something small. Warm. Far away from all of this. Somewhere with grass and sky and no bloody portraits on the walls watching you breathe.” He gave a breath of a laugh, dry and tired. “I think I’d write children’s books. Stupid little stories about monsters who turn out to be kind, or lonely ghosts that find homes. Give kids something better than what we got.”

He hesitated, then his voice dropped into something smaller. “And maybe you’d be there too. Like we used to say. Just… us. Somewhere quiet.”

The words hovered, fragile. Unspoken things pressed between them—familiar, dangerous, real.

In the world they came from, that kind of life had always been a fantasy. Something soft and shameful, to be hidden. But here, with nothing left to lose —

“And you?” Theo asked. “What do you see, D?”

Draco leaned his head back against the wall. “I didn’t used to let myself think about it,” he said. “But if I could… yeah. The cottage sounds nice. We'd eat terrible food and argue over books. Maybe we’d have bunk beds and pretend we’re twelve again. Maybe I’d get to sleep without nightmares.” He paused. “I always thought I’d be a healer. I liked the idea of fixing things. But I don’t think they’d ever let me near anyone again. Maybe I’d work with plants or potions. Or… maybe I’d just stay home.”

Another pause. He swallowed. “Sometimes I think about kids. Not because I think I’d be good at it—but because I want someone to grow up in a world that’s different. Gentler. But maybe I’d ruin that too.”

“You wouldn’t,” Theo said. “You were always the one holding us together. Even when you were falling apart.”

Draco bit the inside of his cheek. “I wish I could hold you right now.”

“I know,” Theo murmured. “It’s stupid. We’re what—ten centimetres apart? I can hear you breathing. And still, it feels like miles.”

Draco shut his eyes.

There was nothing left to say.

Only the sound of breath against stones.

And everything they might never have.

“I wish I’d told you,” Draco said one night, voice barely more than a breath. “About the Mark. About the task. Maybe we could’ve run. Maybe right now we’d be somewhere warm. Safe. Not… here.”

Theo snorted quietly. “Like your pale arse could handle sunshine.”

Draco let out a laugh—small, broken. It didn’t reach his eyes.

Theo’s voice dropped into something gentler. “I forgave you a long time ago, you know? For all of it. I just haven’t figured out how to forgive myself—for not saving you.”

Draco’s throat tightened. “I didn’t make it easy. I was a complete arse that year. If I were you, I wouldn’t have tried either.”

He thought of the walls he’d built, the way he’d pushed Theo away like everyone else. Thought of how silence and cigarettes became easier than honesty.

He missed the smoke. The numbness. The way it used to dull the sharp edges of his guilt.

But mostly, he missed the way Theo used to steal them from his hand, just to feel close.

The rain was pouring outside. Draco couldn’t see it, but he could feel it—the damp chill sneaking in through the cracks they dared to call a window, the scent of wet stone in the air. Somewhere beyond the fortress walls, waves crashed against the shore, and he could just make out the faint shuffle of footsteps—visitors, shaking out umbrellas before stepping inside.

Not that he was allowed any.

But Theo did.

Draco heard the cell door open sometimes. Heard the guards letting someone in, the low murmur of conversation he couldn’t quite catch, and the silence that followed after they left.

He never asked.

“Hey, mate.”

Draco exhaled, a smirk curling at his lips. “Speak of the devil.”

“What, you summon me now?” Theo chuckled, settling on the other side of the wall like he always did. “Anyway, I was just thinking—did I ever tell you I had a massive crush on you at Hogwarts?”

Draco froze.

“What?” he said, and his voice cracked on the word.

Theo said it so casually, like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t something that had been buried between them for years, too dangerous to name.

“Yeah. Pansy reminded me. I talked to her earlier—she told me to say hi. Said she’s not giving up on us. Apparently, Granger’s really involved now. They’re poking into your case, though she says it’s… complicated.”

“Next time you see her…” He paused. “Tell her I miss her. And not to waste her time.”

“She won’t listen to that,” Theo said, soft. “You know she won’t.”

Draco gave a quiet laugh, the sound brittle. “Yeah. I know.”

Silence settled for a moment. The kind that pressed against your ribs.

Then, in a voice so quiet it nearly broke. “I saw you too, you know. Back then.”

Theo didn’t respond.

“I just—I didn’t know what to do with it. You were my best friend. My anchor. The only person I could be honest with. I didn’t want to lose you. And I grew up thinking it was wrong. That I was wrong for even considering it.”

The pause that followed stretched long. For a second, Draco thought maybe Theo had fallen asleep, or simply walked away.

Then—

“You wouldn’t have lost me,” Theo said, barely above a whisper. “You never did.”

Draco pressed his palm to the wall between them, like he could feel Theo on the other side.

“We were just kids,” he said, voice cracking. “Stuck in families that taught us how to lie better than we knew how to love.”

Theo let out a dry chuckle. “We were dumb. Could’ve had the perfect little forbidden high school romance.”

Draco smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah. Might’ve even made the papers.”

Another pause. Then, with a bitterness that made Draco flinch. “Glad our fathers are dead.”

Draco closed his eyes. The rain outside had turned violent, rattling against the stone like it was trying to get in.

“Probably the best thing that ever happened to us.”

Later that night, the silence between them stretched longer than usual. Then, through the wall, Theo’s voice cut through the stillness.

“What did you like about me, then?”

Draco’s breath caught before he laughed softly, a sound that was almost too soft to be heard. “Curious thing, aren’t you?”

His heart had already begun to beat a little faster. He couldn’t help it. He pictured Theo’s face, those dimples that always made him look like he was grinning even when he wasn’t, the freckles the sun used to pull from his skin when they were younger. The memories hit him like a flood, but they didn’t hurt for once. Not exactly.

“I liked your hair in the sunlight,” Draco admitted, his voice quieter than he meant. “The way it brought out your freckles. And your smile.” He swallowed, a lump in his throat. “Even in the dark, it felt like the sun to me. And those little crinkles in your eyes when you laughed…”

There was a pause, as if both of them were holding their breath.

Draco let out a long exhale, his voice softer now, vulnerable in a way he hadn’t been in a long time. “You were kind. To everyone. Despite everything. I wanted to be like you. But…” He laughed, but it was breathy, almost hollow. “Didn’t quite work out, did it? Still a jerk.”

Theo’s response was a dramatic gasp, so theatrically Theo, it made Draco smile, even though his heart was still pounding. “So you did like my dimples! You always made fun of them, you prat.”

“See?” Draco replied, the words falling from his lips before he could stop them, his grin almost playful. “Still a jerk.”

Theo’s laugh hummed in the quiet space between them before the room shifted with a softness that made Draco stop breathing for a moment.

“I liked your eyes the most,” Theo said, quieter now, almost wistful.

Draco’s chest tightened. He could hear it in Theo’s voice—raw, unguarded.

“Everyone thinks they are grey but there’s a soft spot of deep blue and a speck of gold when the light hits them.” Theo’s voice softened even further, and Draco’s stomach lurched. “Your hands too,” Theo continued, his words slower now. “I know it’s weird, but… they just always looked so soft. Kissable.” There was a pause, a thick silence that hung heavily between them.

Draco swallowed, feeling something stir in him that was both uncomfortable and familiar.

“And your lips.” Theo’s voice was stripped of its usual sarcasm. It was the truth, raw and honest, like it was being pulled from deep within him. “Gods, Draco. I wish I could see them.” The last words were almost a whisper, thick with longing, and it hit Draco like a wave.

A long pause followed. Theo’s voice—quiet, almost a plea—cut through it.

“Don’t you dare laugh.”

Draco smirked against the stone wall, his heartbeat louder than anything else at that moment.

“I know you’re smirking,” Theo accused, his voice thick with frustration.

Draco chuckled softly, the sound breaking the tension, but it felt different. Fragile. “But I’m not laughing.”

Theo let out a low hum, almost frustrated. “I swear, I’d give anything to wipe that smug look off your face with a kiss.”

And just like that, Draco’s breath hitched. His world stilled. The words—spoken so casually, but with so much truth behind them—left him speechless. And for a moment, just a moment, all Draco could hear was the sound of his own pulse, the pounding in his ears louder than anything else.

This conversation shifted something between them. It shattered the rules that had been so deeply ingrained in their minds, the ones they had lived by for years, the ones that had kept them apart even before Azkaban had taken them. Those rules had always been there, invisible chains, locking them into roles they never truly chose. But now? Those chains had broken.

There was a fragile, dangerous thing hanging between them, like a thread stretched too tight, ready to snap. It was new territory, uncharted and unfamiliar—yet it was strangely comforting, like stepping into the unknown, arms wide, with nothing left to lose.

For the first time, Draco didn’t feel the weight of the walls pressing in on him. He felt the space between them, empty and filled with possibility, stretching wide. A thought flickered in his mind, uninvited but true: What was there to fear, when they were already dying, piece by piece, in this place? Wasn’t this the only time they had to be real with each other? Wasn’t this the only time left to take a chance?

Theo’s voice had cracked the code that had locked them both in a prison of silence and regret. Now, they were teetering on the edge of something new, something dangerous, something worth the fall.

The world outside their cells may have been dying, too, but here—here, in the broken, cracked spaces between them—there was something alive.

“Are they going to give us the same thing to eat again?” Theo groaned one day, his voice thick with exaggerated despair.

Draco smirked, trying to mask the way his stomach churned. “What’s not to love about salty, doubtfully clean water and potatoes? You should be grateful for the free diet.”

Theo’s voice wavered, but it still held its usual sarcastic edge. “One more week of this, and I’ll be competing with supermodels.”

It was meant as a joke, and Draco forced a laugh.

He hadn’t seen himself in months, but he knew the changes. The hollows of his cheeks, the sharpness of his ribs—he could feel the transformation, the slow erosion of himself. His hair had grown long and tangled, dull against his skin, and the beard… Merlin, the beard was a mess. The only prisoners kept looking halfway presentable were the ones with visitors, the ones the Ministry needed to show were still being “treated fairly.”

It stung more than he cared to admit.

“They must give you more than that,” Draco murmured, forcing himself to focus on Theo’s voice. “Since you’re allowed visitors.”

Theo scoffed. “Are you calling that brick they gave me food? Your standards have really dropped, darling.”

Draco tried to smile, but it was hollow. “I did have a crush on you, love. Clearly, my standards have always been low.”

Theo gasped dramatically. “That’s a low blow, D. Maybe I’ll force Hermione to abandon your case. See how you like that.”

Draco huffed, a small chuckle escaping his throat. “What, you don’t want to share your dream cottage with my perfect presence anymore?”

Theo let the silence stretch for a beat before answering. “Depends,” he said, voice quieter now, almost more serious. “What do you have to offer?”

Draco’s smirk deepened, the one he used to hide how much it all hurt. “Oh, I could service you day and night, T,” he purred, keeping the mood light.

There was a beat of silence, and for a moment, Draco thought maybe they’d fallen back into the comfort of old jokes. But then Theo groaned, the sound heavy and real. “Draco.”

Draco couldn’t help it; he cackled. “What?”

“You cannot say things like that when there’s a literal wall between us.”

Draco’s voice softened a little, though he still teased. “Why?” he said, the playful edge remaining. “Getting frustrated?”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“…I really, really do.”

Draco grinned, feeling the ache of his body settle into the cold stone behind him. He should have felt more uncomfortable with their back-and-forth, with how close it felt to the past, to something safer. But somehow, it was the only thing that kept the darkness from swallowing him whole. “Sure you do, love.”

It was winter again.

Draco had arrived in Azkaban in a bitter January, but nothing compared to the cold creeping back now. From what Theo had said, it had to be October. Close enough.

He had never explained how brutal winters got between these four miserable walls—how the damp never left, how the air turned sharp enough to slice skin. How he’d nearly died his first few months inside. How the guards had forced potions down his throat just to prolong his suffering. Just so he’d live long enough to freeze all over again.

The dementors had already stolen what warmth he had left. But talking to Theo lately, he could hear it happening to him, too—the trembling teeth, the dragging breath, the coughing.

“You alright over there?” Draco asked, voice low, trying not to let the concern bleed through.

“Probably just a cold,” Theo replied, with a half-hearted laugh that turned into another cough. “Pansy might bring something for it this weekend.”

There was something in the way he said it. Draco heard it. Something unsaid, hanging heavy.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

“She’s expecting,” Theo said, and the words cracked with something close to wonder. “Found out a month ago. She’s… fuck, she’s glowing. And I don’t want this place to steal that from her.”

“She cares about you, T,” Draco said quietly. “Of course she’ll come. Even if she’s about to burst.”

“How does she feel?” he asked after a pause, almost afraid of the answer.

“Wasn’t planned. Not this soon, anyway. But she sounds over the moon. Blaise too. He was with her the other day—practically glued to her side now that she’s carrying his ‘sun,’” Theo said with a soft, tired chuckle that dissolved into another cough. “Always knew he’d turn into a papa bear.”

“Remember when he snuck so much candy for the first years that Madam Pomfrey sewed all his pockets shut because the kids got sick?” Draco asked, a smile tugging at his lips despite everything.

That made Theo laugh—really laugh—and it lit something in Draco, something warm he hadn’t felt in too long.

“Merlin, those poor first years were too scared to go near him after Snape threatened to deduct house points. Blaise nearly begged to get them back under his wing.”

The laughter faded slowly, tapering off into a few scattered coughs but not the closeness. For a second, it felt like they were back in the common room, curled on the same couch, stealing warmth and sweets and time.

Draco smiled faintly, waiting for the usual follow-up joke. But it didn’t come.

Silence stretched—comfortable at first, like it sometimes was between them. Then just a little too long.

He shifted on his cot. “Still there?” he asked, voice low.

A beat.

Then a quiet rustle, a murmur that might’ve been “yeah,” or maybe just a sigh.

Draco let out a slow breath. “Good night T.”

Some days, Draco liked to feel the rough edge of the tattoo burned into his neck. It made this hell feel real. Like it wasn’t just a hallucination.

Tattoos were magical ink now. But he had been the last one branded—branded for show. Iron so hot he lost his voice screaming as it seared into his skin. Once. Twice.

The wonder in the people’s eyes when it happened to him made him ponder about winning and losing sides. How people only cared when they were the ones hit by prejudice, never when they handed it out. We only looked when reality was written in headlines, in blood. If it wasn’t, it simply couldn’t be.

Winners wrote history. But who stopped them from falling into the losers' footsteps?

Only a few tried. Granger was one of them.

She made people uncomfortable—forced them to see. The kind of discomfort you couldn’t switch off with a wand.

A knock interrupted his thoughts. Light. Tentative. Something he hadn’t heard in all the months he’d been here. Guards didn’t knock—they barged in and took what they wanted.

When the door creaked open, he heard the click of heels… and then a gasp.

Pity flickered across Granger’s face before she masked it with practised indifference. She nodded at the guard to leave them.

“Good afternoon, Mister Malfoy,” she said. Like he was her client. Like she wasn’t the first person he’d seen in months.

Draco turned away, suddenly aware of his beard, the tangle of dull hair clinging to his skin. How much he must look like his father. How dirty he must look next to someone so… clean.

“What’d you give to get in here, Granger?” he rasped. Sarcasm was armour. Easier to wear than shame.

“As your solicitor, I can request meetings at my discretion,” she said lightly. “Being the Golden Girl just helped move things along.”

She spoke like she hadn’t been tortured in his home. Like he hadn’t joined the side built to kill her.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said. “We both know I deserve to rot here. But if you need anything for T—for Theo—I’ll give it. All of it.”

“I won’t lie to you, Malfoy. I don’t know why I feel compelled to help. But I do. Pansy does. So does Blaise. And Theo. Your case is a mess, but I’m trying. As for Theo—”

“He’s sick, Granger. Always been fragile. He needs to get out. Get a real healer. He won’t last.”

He would beg. Plead. Trade his life for Theo’s. That’s how much he loved him.

“His case is less complex than yours,” she admitted. “But it’s political now. They’re stalling.”

“I have something.”

“What is it?”

“He helped,” Draco said quietly. “More than anyone knows.”

“There’s no record. I looked everywhere. He wasn’t marked.”

“No, he wasn’t. But he helped your side, Granger. He didn’t take orders—he didn’t want credit. But it was him. He got intel out. Dropped wards. Made missions easier when no one knew why. I kept a record. Notes. Everything. It’s buried by his mother’s grave.”

He paused.

“Put some roses down for me, will you?”

Granger blinked slowly surprise crossing her face. “Thank you. For him.”

“Anything. And… tell Pansy and Blaise I said congratulations. Theo told me. About the baby.”

“I know.” She smiled softly.

Draco hesitated, then asked, “Can I ask you one more thing?”

“Depends,” she said. Clever girl.

“There’s something next to the notebook. I thought Theo would be the one to find it but… it’s a family heirloom. My mother’s. A piece of her mirror. Shows you who you really are, not what you want to be.”

He exhaled.

“She used to say we had to see ourselves clearly, even when the world didn’t. Maybe you could give it to the baby. Maybe… it’ll help it know how loved he is.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Granger said, before the door shut behind her.

Pansy had given Theo a few things to make him feel better, but the sickness lingered. Each time it came back, it was a little stronger. Draco could feel the shift in the air between them — like every goodnight might be the last. Their conversations were paced by Theo’s coughs, like punctuation marks no one asked for.

“How are you feeling today, old man?” Draco had started leaning into jokes now. Comedy was easier than fear.

A cough. The rustle of sheets. Then a warm, “Shut up. I’m not the one with the long beard.”

“I should’ve never mentioned it. Did Pansy find anything else for the coughing?”

“Nope. It was Blaise, actually. Said he didn’t want Pansy catching whatever I have. Even though it’s just a mild cough! He basically locked her up in their house.”

“One of them is sleeping on the couch tonight.”

“Sure he is.” Theo laughed, low and breathy. “They found out the baby’s gender. It’s a girl. A little girl for my best friends.”

Draco’s heart ached at the thought of the girl he might never meet. “That’s wonderful.”

“Yup. Blaise is over the moon. Pansy’s already buying loads of baby clothes the kid’ll never even have time to wear. She’ll be more spoiled than you.”

“No one can be more spoiled than me.”

“Once an only child, always an only child,” Theo teased, then broke into another fit of coughing — softer this time, but lingering. His voice faded out after, and silence stretched between them.

Only broken by a few quiet coughs…
And eventually, soft snores.

They were what made Draco sleep better, these days.
Proof that Theo was still there.
Still breathing.
Still his.

Draco had slept better than he had in weeks.
Warmth still lingered in the edges of his dreams — the echo of Theo’s voice, the comfort of shared laughter pressed against the cold.

And then —
He woke.

Jolted upright by the lack of sound.

No soft cough. No snore. No snide “morning, princess” through the wall.

Just silence.
Deafening, all-consuming silence.

A silence so sharp it rang in his ears.

Draco called out Theo’s name.
Once.
Twice.
Again, and again — until his throat burned and his voice fractured.

Still—nothing.

He was alone.

Theo wasn’t there.

He was alone.

And for the first time since Azkaban swallowed him whole, he truly had no idea where he was.

What time it was. What day. Who he was without the voice that had become his anchor.

He still had so many things to say.

And now—

He was alone.

Maybe it was madness all along.
Maybe, when you’re lonely enough, your brain starts to play tricks.
Maybe—
Maybe it wasn’t madness at all.

Theo must have gone out, right?
Right?
He was out, because if he wasn’t—
If he wasn’t, then he was dead, and Theodore couldn’t die.
He wasn’t allowed to.

Draco knew he wasn’t being rational.
Knew he would have heard something—anything—about Theo’s departure.
But he let the thoughts run wild. Let the madness stretch its fingers and wrap around his throat. Let it swallow him whole.

Because Theo must still be here.
He must be.

Some nights, Draco still heard him—
A whisper behind the wall, so faint, if he just leaned in a little closer—
If he just screamed his name loud enough—

But no one told him anything.
Granger never came back. No footsteps. No updates.
Just silence.

Draco was done for.
A piece of rotting flesh with a beating heart.

If Theo wasn’t here—
If he wasn’t here—

Then there was no one else to survive for.

He could rest now.
Let the voices quiet down.
Finally.

He had tried his best, hadn’t he? All his life.
And it was never enough.

He was Draco Lucius Malfoy.
And all he’d ever done—
was fail.

His family.
His friends.
His only lover, whom he’d never even had the guts to whisper I love you to.

How stupid he had been to think he had time.

For all his prayers to just die, fate must’ve hated him too.
He’d been staring at that ceiling for months now, waiting for death’s cold hands to finally take him.
To help him forget Theo.

But the guards kept him alive.
Forced food and potions down his throat.
Even came to shave him, clean him—
beat him a bit too, for old time’s sake.
Probably Granger’s doing.

He stared at the deep scratch in the wall beside his bed—
the one he made trying to dig into Theo’s cell.
Trying to see if he was really gone.
The guards had strapped him to the bed that week, dosed him with enough potion to put out a Hippogriff.

After that, he started talking to himself.
Out loud.
Like Theo was still there, answering.

He could hold whole conversations, rehearse little fantasies, until some prisoner further down the block told him to shut the hell up.

Then he’d just sleep.

Let his dreams and nightmares take him places.
He started living a whole life in his head, completely unaware of how much time had passed.
It must be years now.
One. Maybe two.

Two years.
And only one person had ever visited.
And she’d left him too.

Granger must’ve given up.
Lost hope in his case.
He sighed, letting himself sink back onto the cold floor just to stare at the wall from another angle.
He hated the color gray now.
Gray was bad.

He’d rather look into Theo’s eyes—
and if he focused hard enough, he could.
Almost.

A soft smile ghosted his lips—
just before he was yanked upright by a pair of rough hands.

Someone called his name.
Pulled him out of his cell.

Out of his cell?

That wasn’t possible.

He never got out.

He tried asking questions, but they only hit him in the ribs.
He stumbled. Frail. Silent now.

Then—
They threw him into a room.

A bright one.
Too bright.

A room with light.
A window.

Draco ran to it—pressed his face flat against the glass, wide-eyed at the outside.
At the sky.
At something that wasn’t stone.

“Get naked. Put those on,” the guard barked, tossing him black pants, a white shirt.
Shoes.

Shoes.

He hadn’t worn shoes since — since his arrest.

He felt the sweep of the guard’s magic—cleaning him, dressing him, preparing him for something.
Something he didn’t understand.

“What’s happening?” Draco asked, voice thin and unused, shivering.

“I’ll find you again, Death Eater,” was all the guard spat as he slammed the door shut.

The room was so clean, so blindingly bright he had to squint, had to press a hand over his eyes.
Until—

He heard the soft click of heels.
The light steps. Familiar.

Then the door opened.

Exactly one year later.
Hermione Granger stood there, proud and still.
A soft smile ghosted her lips as she looked him over.

“You’re being moved,” she said simply, holding the door open for him.

“You’re being moved.”
Four words.

Four words he’d never dreamt of hearing.
Moved.

As in, “You’ll never step a foot in Azkaban again.”
As in, “You’ll lose your last memory of Theo, too.”

And suddenly, he didn’t want to move.
Didn’t want to be freed.

“Please, Granger. No. I— I can’t leave him—” he started to panic, voice breaking like the tide.
Granger just looked at him, eyes full of pity.

He hated pity.
Didn’t deserve it.

“Leave who, Draco?” she asked, stepping forward carefully, like he was a stray cat—
all ribs and fear, ready to hiss or bolt.

Then—
Her hand on his shoulder.

He nearly purred from the warmth.
Let a single tear fall, stunned by how good it felt just to be touched.

“T. Theo. Theodore,” he whispered, broken and bare.

Granger’s voice dropped, gentler than he'd ever heard it.

“Theodore isn’t there anymore, Draco.”

She said it like it didn’t confirm every fear screaming in his chest.

“Come on,” she added, soft as snow, offering her hand.
“There are a lot of people waiting to see you.”

She smiled.

He didn’t smile back.
Didn’t answer.
Didn’t protest.

He was just… tired.
Like a child crying for his mother—
Only he cried for his lover.

He wanted him so badly, it hurt.

Everything after that became a blur.
Paperwork he had to sign.
Too much light.
Too many people.
Too many sounds.

And then—

The cold bite of real air against his skin.

He inhaled like it was his first breath in years.
Another tear slid down his cheek.

Granger still held his hand, steady and warm.
Leading the way, once again.

His muscles ached from disuse, legs trembling as he stood in front of the little cottage.
He smiled softly, thinking how much Theo would’ve loved it.

Then the grief hit like a wave. Sudden. Crushing.
And he just let himself slip to the ground—knees tucked to his chest, silent tears slipping down his face.

Granger crouched beside him, voice gentle as ever.
She told him he was under house arrest now. That it wasn’t perfect, but it was better than Azkaban.
That he just needed to hold on a bit longer.
That people were waiting for him.
That there was a little girl he had to meet—Pansy and Blaise’s daughter.

That part made him look up. A faint, broken smile.
He met Granger’s eyes, and she offered her hand.

She led him inside.

The interior was warm.
Too warm.
Warm in a way that hurt.

Because Theo would’ve loved it. So, so much.
It must be some cruel final joke. That his last stop in life would look like the what could have been.
A twisted little dream of a life they could’ve had—if Theo hadn’t—

He could see it.

Theo, sitting on the settee. Smiling softly, eyes gleaming with tears.

Too vivid. Too real.

So real it made Draco stumble.

The figure stood. Moved. Ran to him.
Arms around him. A sob against his chest. Lips on his cheek, on his mouth—

Theo was kissing him.

Draco froze.
Mind reeling. Heart thrashing.
He was kissing a ghost.

He couldn’t breathe.

“Are you real?” he whispered.

“Of course I’m real, D!” Theo said, breathless.

But Draco had to take a step back.
He couldn’t believe it.
Couldn’t.

“No,” he choked out, voice trembling. “You— You’re dead. You’re dead.”

“Don’t be silly, D.” Theo stepped closer, and Draco flinched. Held out a hand.
“Please—don’t touch me. You’re not real.”

“I almost died,” Theo said, slowly, hands raised in peace. “I got so sick… but Granger—she got me out. Just in time. I didn’t even know what happened until I woke up in St Mungo’s.”

His voice cracked.

“But I’m here, Draco. I’m alive.”

Alive.
Alive.

The word echoed like a hymn.
Alive.

Tears streamed down Draco’s face as his knees gave out.
He collapsed forward, clutching Theo’s legs like a man starved of touch.

“I thought— Oh T— I missed you— I love you— please— please don’t leave me again—”

Words tumbled out, raw and shaking, and Theo dropped to his knees too.
Held Draco’s face in both hands.
Kissed him like something sacred.

“I’m here,” Theo murmured. “I’ll never leave you again. I love you—fuck, I thought I’d never get to say that in person.”

They stayed like that for what could’ve been hours.
Wrapped in each other. In the middle of the foyer Theo had helped build.
For this. For him.

Eventually, Draco heard quiet voices from the next room.
Laughter. Babble.

“Do you want to see them?” Theo asked softly.

Draco looked up.

“I know it’s a lot. But Pansy nearly stormed Azkaban herself trying to get you out.”
He laughed, teary and bright. “She’s dying to see you. And Alessia—Draco, she’s the happiest baby I’ve ever seen. Pansy’s obsessed. Blaise is glowing. Your mother is absolutely smitten by the girl too. It’s… It’s everything.”

Draco nodded silently, and let Theo lead him to the living room.

There they were.

Hermione. Pansy. Blaise. His mother.

Sitting close, talking in hushed tones.

And in Blaise’s lap, a tiny girl babbling nonsense, fingers tangled in his shirt—
The little one looked up, met Draco’s eyes—
And smiled.

Draco doesn’t know when his mind started protecting itself. Doesn’t know when the occlusion began—just a little, just enough to keep him upright, even as his mind dissociated.

Arms wrapped around him—too warm against his chilled frame.
Pansy’s tears, hastily wiped, her voice sharp with love as she pressed sandwiches into his hands.
"You look like a corpse," she snapped. "Eat. Now."

In a way, he was.
He couldn’t process it. Couldn’t feel the hours unfolding around him. Like a ghost, frozen in a world that had moved on.
Only Theo’s hand in his kept him anchored—warm, steady, real. Every squeeze, a lifeline:
I’m here. You’re safe. I’m not leaving.

Blaise’s eyes shimmered too, even if he blinked the tears away before they could fall.
Draco didn’t dare touch Alessia. He couldn’t. She was too small. Too good.
But she waved at him anyway, all dimples and bright eyes, smiling like he was magic itself.
And so, trembling, he waved back. Theo’s hand tightened on his in encouragement.

His mother hugged him tight, muttering apologies, tears staining his shirt as she crushed him for fear he’ll disappear.

Granger stood a little apart.
He hadn’t known this version of her. Not really. Not the woman who’d done the impossible for him.
But after a few hours, he managed a tired smile.
“Thank you,” he said, quietly.
For what, exactly, he didn’t know. Not yet. But someday, he would. Maybe he’d write to her. Maybe he’d invite her to dinner, once the air around him stopped feeling like smoke.

Through it all, he registered Theo’s touches. Gentle. Stealing kisses like promises.
And then suddenly, Theo pulled away and stood in front of him, cupping his face, eyes searching.

“Please come back to me,” he whispered. “You’re safe, D. This is real. They’re gone. I know it feels like too much, but… please stop occluding. I need you here. With me.”

And then—his lips.

Draco let one wall crumble. Then another.
The kiss deepened, his grip on Theo tightening like he might shatter if he let go.

When Theo felt him return, he pulled away, reluctantly. “Would you like to take a bath? A shower, maybe? Or anything else. I don’t want to push you.”

At the sight of Draco’s uncertainty, Theo added, voice soft, “I can come with you. If you want, of course.”

“A bath. Can it—can it be cold?”

He didn’t deserve to feel this happy. This warm. He almost missed the coldness of Azkaban—how it had felt like punishment. Like atonement.

Theo led him to a grand bathroom. Despite its size, it felt warm. Comforting. Like every corner had been shaped deliberately, designed to be the opposite of where they’d grown up. He could see them here, evolving. Building something.

With a flick of his wand, Theo lit a few candles and turned the taps, letting the water fill the tub—lukewarm, just like Draco had asked.

He let Theo undress him. Let him undo buttons and slip away fabric, like he had once let others strip him in Azkaban—for inspection, never for care.

At the sight of Draco’s trembling hand and the haze gathering in his eyes, Theo whispered, “Shhh. You’re not there anymore. It’s just me. You’re safe, D.” He cupped his jaw, thumb brushing softly against his cheek. “Safe. Together.”

Once undressed, Draco let Theo lead him into the water. He let it wash over him, wash the day away. Let Theo’s fingers in his hair, gentle and grounding, as he finally allowed the tears to fall.

“I really thought I lost you, T,” he whispered. “I went mad. So mad I still can’t believe this is real. Maybe this is my final punishment—letting me have everything I want before taking it again.”

When Theo paused, Draco panicked at the absence of touch. “Don’t—” he gasped. “Please don’t leave me alone.”

“I’m not going anywhere, D. You’re stuck with me now.” Theo’s voice was steady, soothing. “I’m not letting you go.”

“I don’t want to be a burden,” Draco admitted, voice small.

“You’re far from it. Let me take care of you. You don’t have to be okay yet, love.” He pressed a kiss to the tip of his nose, then helped him out of the tub, wrapping him in a towel, kissing his lips softly.

“We were fools to wait this long,” Theo chuckled against his mouth.

Draco hummed in agreement, deepening the kiss.

Theo’s hands roamed slowly—certainly—slipping lower—

Down—down—until he cupped him through the fabric.

Draco gasped, blood rushing south.

And for the first time in years, it didn’t feel like punishment.

“Please,” he breathed, voice wrecked and raw. “Please… more.”

And more he got.

They devoured each other like salvation, like survival—like a breath after years underwater.
Every kiss wiped away another tear. Every touch mapped a scar, as if rewriting them with love.
Sweat soaked their skin, mingling until they were indistinguishable. One body, one breath, one overwhelming ache to exist together. To belong.

Draco begged. Pleaded. Cried out Theo’s name like a prayer, like he was something holy.
And Theo answered, every bit as desperate, trembling when Draco dropped to his knees and worshipped him like he was worthy of being saved.

When the sun finally broke over the horizon, casting gold through the windows, they lay tangled and sated. Skin against skin. A quiet smile tugged at Draco’s lips, still dazed with disbelief.

“Fuck,” he murmured, voice hoarse, “I feel like I’m dreaming. Please, pinch me, T.”

Theo, ever obliging, reached out and pinched him—softly.

Draco laughed. Really laughed.

How good it felt to not be ten centimetres apart.
How good it felt to be touched. To be loved. To be real again.

A few weeks later

Despite every reassurance, Draco still struggled to believe it was real. Self-hatred could do that to a person—make them believe they didn’t deserve anything good. That every terrible thing in the world was somehow their fault. That a lifetime of suffering was the only fitting sentence.

His psychologist—as Granger insisted on calling her—had told him otherwise. That he had suffered enough. That he deserved to rest.

And rest he did.

He found solace in lazy mornings tangled in bed with Theo. In laughing over failed attempts at cooking the Muggle way, since he still wasn’t allowed to hold a wand without risking a squad of Aurors storming the cottage. In dinners with friends and the slow weaving of new memories into the walls of their home.

But what Draco cherished most was taking care of Alessia when Blaise and Pansy asked. He’d lead her into the garden for pretend tea parties, let her decorate his face with glitter and makeup, her giggles like music in the fresh air. She had him wrapped around her tiny finger so tightly that Draco sometimes caught himself wondering—maybe someday…

He never said it aloud. Not yet. But his mother, as always, knew.

On a quiet Saturday afternoon, she gently took his hand and led him away from the others, toward the lake at the far edge of the garden.

He noticed then: she had aged. There were new lines on her face, silver threading through her hair. She had suffered, too—more than he knew—and still, she looked at him like he was her sun and stars. Like he wasn’t the cause of so much of her pain.

“You really love him, don’t you? Theodore.” she asked softly, watching a row of ducklings trail behind their mother.

“I do,” he said. The words no longer felt like rebellion. Not after everything. They had earned the right to be said aloud.

“I was a fool not to see it sooner,” she murmured, her fingers brushing his left forearm—the spot where the mark had once burned. “You got that for him, didn’t you? That’s how much you love him.”

He looked away, ashamed. But his voice was steady. “I did. I’d have died for him, Mum. Still would. But now… now I think I could live for him, too. I think I could see myself building a life with him. Would you—would you still love me if I did?”

His voice broke on the last word.

Narcissa blinked away tears, then cupped his cheek. “Of course, my dragon. I only ever wanted you to be happy. You and Theo. And maybe…” she smiled, eyes sparkling, “a few children? You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Draco’s breath caught. “How do you always know?”

“Mother’s intuition,” she said with a quiet laugh, as if she could already see it—the wedding, the children running barefoot through the garden, Theo laughing in the kitchen, her son smiling freely again.

Yes, she thought. He deserved it.
They both did.