Actions

Work Header

The Wand That Chose Two Wizards

Chapter 43: I love you, ain't that the worst thing you ever heard?

Summary:

But Potter.

Somehow, this thing about Potter, this drawer of untouched, unanalysed…feelings…it felt different than everything else. Stranger. Deeper, as if sparks of it were running through his blood, built into his very bones. It scared him, and his first instinct was to find another drawer to throw it back into. But that technique no longer seemed to even be an option. After the war had finally ended, it was as though he’d just realised how much effort he’d been putting into keeping these abscesses of his mind shut, and his brain simply could not sustain it any longer. He’d stretched the rubber band too far, and the tension had disappeared all at once—as it had snapped.

It seemed there was no escaping from this anymore, no hope of hiding.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice coming out almost hoarse. “It’s about Potter.”

Notes:

AHHHHH!!! AHH!
Ahem. Okay. I'm fine.
Apologies for the long wait, this chapter kicked my ass. As you may have noticed, I have a really hard time finishing stories, I don't know if it's that I get too attached or if I get paranoid that I'm not tying up all the loose ends or whatever.
But it doesn't matter.
BECAUSE IT'S DONE!! Here is the final chapter to The Wand That Chose Two Wizards! AGH. It's taken me a year and a half to write this story and I'm so, so, so happy that people are reading it and that people like it and ugh, it's 2:48 am and I'm getting emotional. Anyway, enough about that.
Regarding the SEQUEL, I am posting the first chapter as soon as I post this! It's called The Strange & Marvelous Story of Our Revival. If you want to check it out, I'd love that, but I also made sure this story was wrapped up with a proper ending, so you don't feel like you HAVE to read the sequel.
With all that said, I'll shut up now, enjoy the chapter!
(Chapter title is from Cruel Summer by Taylor Swift)

Chapter Text

It was at dinner that she approached them, walking with her head down until she reached where they were sitting at the Slytherin table.

“Hi,” she said, in a soft voice. “Can I sit for a minute?”

“Ella,” Violet said, warmly. “Of course, join us.”

“I won’t stay long,” Ella promised, sliding in to sit across from Draco and Daphne and beside Violet. “I just wanted to say thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank us for anything, Ella,” Daphne assured her with a gentle smile.  Daphne and Violet, who both had younger sisters, seemed to have taken Ella in, in that protective, elder-sisterly way, and it was clear that while, initially, they may have just been looking out for her as a fellow Slytherin, they had come to deeply care for her.

“I want to,” Ella insisted, wringing her hands in her lap. “This year was really hard and I know it would’ve been impossible to get through if you hadn’t helped me as much as you did.”

“You didn’t deserve what was happening to you,” said Violet, frowning slightly.

“I know,” nodded Ella. “But no one really cared besides you. And you got those boys in trouble for me, Draco.”

Draco smirked a bit.

“You’ll have to thank the Chosen Prat for that, not me.”

“He wouldn’t have even known I existed if he wasn’t friends with you,” Ella said, which left Draco speechless, silence falling over all of them for a moment before Ella broke it again. “Anyway. That’s all. I just wanted to say thanks.”

“You’re welcome, Ella,” said Violet.

“It was the least we could do,” added Daphne. “We snakes look out for our own.”

Ella supplied a weak smile at this, the white-pink scar tissue wrinkling on her cheek, and then bid them a quick goodbye before taking off. The three of them watched her go, a sombre sort of air remaining even after she disappeared from view.

“Poor girl,” Violet said, quietly.

“They messed her up this year,” Daphne said, bitterly. “I don’t think we even know the half of what was done to her.”

“Do we know what she’s doing after Hogwarts?” Draco asked. “Can we keep an eye on her?”

Violet gave him a soft smile, one that was usually reserved for when he asked an insightful question about her Muggle Studies class.

“I’ll ask her,” she said.  


Draco had come to sit on the windowseat voluntarily, but under Violet’s intense gaze, he was beginning to feel quite cornered.

“What?” he asked, aware of how tetchy he sounded.

“I’m trying to figure out what’s wrong with you,” Violet responded, her eyes still drilling into Draco.

“We’ll be here for a while then,” he said, shortly. Violet just rolled her eyes.

“Yes, yes, you’re the embodiment of evil, very frightening, blah blah. Seriously, did something happen?”

Draco sighed. He liked to think he was mysterious and hard to read, but Violet seemed to always be able to tell when something was bothering him.

“Yes,” he said. “Well, no, not exactly, but…”

Violet regarded him patiently as he floundered.

“I think I’m having a feeling,” he finally said, shuddering theatrically. “How do I make it stop?”

“You’re so dramatic,” Violet replied, shaking her head.

She was right, of course, but it couldn’t be helped. This year had been a relief in countless ways, all of which were undeniably related to the fact that the war was over, but it had also been full of challenges. Draco found that changing one’s opinion didn’t come without an internal fight every time, and he had spent much of his time this year agonizing over what he really thought, and trying to form answers to questions he hadn’t even known he’d had. His life had become even stranger, if that was possible, and he often felt like he’d lost his sense of identity somewhere.

It wasn’t that he particularly missed who he used to be. He just didn’t know who he was now.

He looked at Violet, who was watching him quietly with her deep-set hazel eyes, and thought about how he had barely known her back in September. He thought about how close they had become, about how much he cared for her, about how he’d never had a friend like her before. About how he had always wanted one.

“Thank you,” he said, suddenly, taking her by surprise.

“For what? Calling you dramatic?”

“No,” Draco shook his head, unable to keep a slight smile off his face. “For being my friend. For teaching me what you learned in class even when you didn’t have to. For trusting me and for letting me trust you. For everything.”

Violet’s face morphed into something almost sad.

“You don’t have to thank me, Draco.”

“Yes, I do,” Draco said, firmly. “And I want to. It’s important.”

“Okay,” Violet said, slowly. After a long pause, where she seemed to be thinking seriously, she added, “You know that just because the school year’s nearly over doesn’t mean you need to say goodbye to me, right?”

“What?”

“I just mean, well, we’ll both be in London next year, won’t we? It isn’t goodbye.”

“I know,” Draco said. It was true, of course; as soon as she said the words, it seemed glaringly obvious, but he felt a strange sense of relief regardless. “I’m not saying goodbye. I’m just saying thank you.”

“Okay,” Violet nodded, smiling slightly. “That’s not what your mysterious feeling was about though, was it?”

Draco shot her a glare, all soppy sentiments pushed aside now. She just narrowed her eyes at him.

“Is this about Potter?”

Draco sighed. It always came down to Potter, didn’t it? Ever since they had first met, it had all become about Potter.  He remembered eavesdropping on his parents the summer after first year, his mother somewhat uneasily asking, “But is it normal for him to hate a boy his age so much?” And his father had shrugged it off and said something about rivalry being healthy or whatever nonsense that Draco had completely internalized.

It had been hatred at first—anger at being snubbed that evolved into steady dislike as the hostility between them increased in magnitude. Underneath it all had surged a feeling of envy and hurt pride. He would lash out at Potter’s friends, because he had chosen them over him, and the more he told himself it was for other reasons—Weasley’s poverty, Granger’s blood status—the more he believed it.

It had felt like everything went Potter’s way; everyone wanted to be his friend, Dumbledore favoured him, all the teachers adored him—with the notable exception of Severus Snape—and he seemed to get away with all of his rule-breaking, for he always had the convenient excuse of some necessary heroic deed he had had to perform.

And so Draco had hated him. Emphatically. Insistently. Almost obsessively.

It hadn’t taken long for even Draco to get the nagging feeling that there was something beyond that hate. It had to have been fourth year, during the Triwizard Tournament, that Draco caught the first glimpse of what lay buried underneath it all. At first he had felt that familiar twinge of anger and jealousy—of course Potter didn’t have to adhere to the age rules and of course he would be selected as champion. But then questions began to arise. Even Potter, in all his foolhardy Gryffindor recklessness, seemed to be apprehensive and afraid of the daunting tasks ahead of him. He had had some near misses with the Hungarian Horntail, and it was during that task that Draco had felt a strange rush of worry. He had dismissed it as just being caught up in the moment, in the spectacle of the thing. But nevertheless, he had had to wonder. Why would Potter want this, when his own best friend wasn’t speaking to him? Why would Potter, who Draco had always thought loved the spotlight, go to such lengths in an attempt to avoid Rita Skeeter and the press? And why would Draco feel such an uncomfortable rush of spite at the site of a stumbling Potter at the Yule Ball with Patil, when he had no designs on the girl in the first place?

It was at the end of that year that everything had gone mad. He had been forcefully shoving down any of these stray thoughts that occurred to him about Potter, but that didn’t stop the flood of them from invading his mind. He had always been fixated on Potter, and now it was like his brain was leading him to why. He was slowly realising that he had no interest in girls and much preferred boys, but he refused to acknowledge that his hatred of Potter had anything at all to do with that, even though the back of his brain kept pushing that conclusion at him. He hated how anxious he felt about the third task, how anxious he felt about Potter, and he hated Potter even more for giving him that feeling. When Potter had returned, crying and bleeding and clutching Diggory’s lifeless body, Draco had felt a sharp, twisting pain in his gut, followed by a horrific sense of relief that accompanied the realisation that it wasn’t Potter who had died. But as quickly as that relief had come, it had been forced away, shoved back into the corners of Draco’s mind, because there were far more important things to focus on now. The Dark Lord had returned and was none too pleased with Lucius and the other Death Eaters that had supposedly abandoned him. Once school had resumed, Potter was treated as a pariah, and Draco had felt a vindictive pleasure in having power over him for the first time. It was almost as if the realisation of the attraction he had towards Potter had made him more hateful towards him, more cruel.

Despite all the horrific things he had done during the war, he still felt a deep sense of shame and anger at himself for how he had behaved during his fifth year. For the spite that had driven him to align himself with someone as vile and despicable as Dolores Umbridge. But of course, it had only gotten worse from there. After his father was caught at the Ministry and imprisoned, his brain had sufficiently forced whatever feelings of desire or attraction he had for Potter into one of the drawers he kept in his mind and locked it shut. All there remained room for was fear and hatred.

But this year, the drawers were opening. There were many of them, it seemed, many memories and emotions Draco had repressed that were now resurfacing, now that the primary danger had subsided and survival was no longer something he felt he needed to focus all his energy on. Draco didn’t know quite what to do with all of it now. The dreadful things his father had done to him during the war, they were painful to think about. The inability to trust and fear of making himself vulnerable, as taught to him by his father; he was proud that he had made strides to conquer that fear, in his new friendships with Luna and Violet, and even in strengthening the bond with his other housemates, Theo and Blaise and Daphne. The doubts and misgivings he had had about his upbringing regarding Muggles and Muggleborns, that had thankfully been something he had been able to at least start working through, thanks in large part to his friendship with Violet.

But Potter.

Somehow, this thing about Potter, this drawer of untouched, unanalysed…feelings…it felt different than everything else. Stranger. Deeper, as if sparks of it were running through his blood, built into his very bones. It scared him, and his first instinct was to find another drawer to throw it back into. But that technique no longer seemed to even be an option. After the war had finally ended, it was as though he’d just realised how much effort he’d been putting into keeping these abscesses of his mind shut, and his brain simply could not sustain it any longer. He’d stretched the rubber band too far, and the tension had disappeared all at once—as it had snapped.

It seemed there was no escaping from this anymore, no hope of hiding.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice coming out almost hoarse. “It’s about Potter.”


“Now, as this is our last session of the school year,” Ollivander said, his face looking serious. “I have a proposition for you.”

Draco felt his curiosity spike.

“You have done an excellent job this year and have, I believe, a firm grasp on the fundamentals of wandmaking,” the old man said, in a matter-of-fact voice. “Wandlore is a subject which you never truly stop studying, of course, but it takes several years of study to become a skilled wandmaker in one’s own right. I would very much like to continue to oversee your education in wandlore, should you be amenable.”

Draco found himself nodding before Ollivander had even finished speaking.

“Yes, of course,” he said, at once, to which Ollivander gave a warm smile.

“I’m glad to hear it,” the wandmaker said. “I was hoping you would accompany me at the store come July, as that is when I find myself busiest, in preparation for the new Hogwarts students who will be needing their first wands.”

Draco hesitated for a moment.

“I…yes, I would love to,” he started, and Ollivander seemed to sense that there was more coming, so he waited as Draco pondered how best to continue. Finally, he decided simple honesty would be the best course of action, as Ollivander had never been anything but kind and accommodating.

He took a deep breath.

“My probation doesn’t officially end until August the first,” he said. “At Hogwarts, I’m considered to be under the supervision of Professor McGonagall, however as soon as I leave here, I will have to report to the Aurors. I’m unsure what, if any, restrictions will be placed on me.”

Ollivander just nodded, looking far too understanding.

“Of course, my boy, no trouble at all. Why don’t we keep in contact and you can let me know once you have more information? I understand you have an owl?”

“Yes, that would be perfect, thank you.”

“Not at all. If it would help at all for me to speak on your behalf, in regards to the validity of the work we will be doing.”

Draco was struck once again by the generosity and kindness of his mentor and felt another surge of gratitude at the opportunity he was given to work with the man.


Draco felt a shiver down his spine and his arms that he knew the gentle warm spring weather wasn’t causing. He didn’t know why he had come up here anyway. It was a stupid idea, one he hadn’t thought through at all.

He hadn’t been up here since that night. It had been one of the worst nights of his life, comparable only to those during the following war, with Voldemort in his home and his father grinning manically as he cast the Cruciatus.
He still had dreams of this night. Nightmares, rather. He could still see Dumbledore’s face when he closed his eyes, wrinkled and worn-looking. He had looked so frail. But his eyes had still been kind, had looked at Draco searchingly, and Draco had felt so raw, so bare, so terrifyingly vulnerable.

Potter had been there that night, Draco had found that out this year during one of their sessions. He had felt a familiar anger surge through him at the thought. Of course Potter had been there. He was always there. Even during one of the worst moments of Draco’s life, he had to be there. He had to witness Draco’s fear, his failures. He had walked in on him in tears in Myrtle’s bathroom. He had seen him skulking around at Slughorn’s party. He had seen him fail in his attempt to assassinate the Headmaster.

Draco slid down to the floor of the Astronomy Tower, feeling the stones in the wall push against the muscles in his back.

He felt exhausted. He had no reason to be; N.E.W.T.s were over, classes were wrapping up, he was even sleeping at night, but nonetheless, he felt completely drained. His body was sore everywhere and he felt himself get out of breath with no cause. It had been too much.

Everything—his whole life since he had just turned fifteen and Voldemort had returned—had been an intense pressure on him, like a boulder had been dropped on his chest, and all this time, his only goal had been just barely lifting it so it didn’t pierce his lungs or stop his heart. And now the weight had lifted, so he should be fine, but instead all he could feel was fatigue and pain, from the effort it had taken to balance that pressure for so long. There was no energy left in him for anger, for hatred, for resentment. There was hardly enough energy left in him for anything. More than anything, he desperately wanted peace, and rest.

Potter had never been synonymous with peace; quite the opposite, in fact, the boy seemed to attract chaos no matter what.

Draco had always been drawn to Potter, there was no denying that. And this year, as the animosity between them had somehow melted away and an unlikely friendship had bloomed, Draco had been very careful in how he acted around Potter. Potter had this strange ability to make Draco open up, to make him feel comfortable in sharing his feelings and his past. He was a good listener, and he was inherently trustworthy, but more than that—Draco wanted to trust him. It was confusing, and petrifying, because Potter casually coming out to him had given him this strange flicker of something, something he hadn’t felt in a long time, something he dismayingly identified as hope.

He tried to crush it, to silence it, to ignore it. He could not be hopeful. Hope was foolish. Hope was incapacitating. Hope was dangerous.

But it was like that tiny little flicker had triggered something in him, something that had all of these emotions coming at him at once, like an enormous wave crashing over him, and no matter how hard he tried to swim to the surface, it just kept pulling him down.

He felt himself start to panic. He couldn’t deal with this, it was too much. He couldn’t put himself in this position; allowing himself some vulnerability was one thing, but submitting to the terrible, desperate feelings he knew were buried inside of him. The feelings for Potter.

He had to stop them from rising up, had to push them back down into the darkness, back where they couldn’t hurt him.

So—as he always did, as he had always done, as he had been taught to do—he turned to anger. He told himself he was angry at Potter. Violet was wrong, Potter didn’t care for Draco. Potter didn’t trust him. He just needed someone to vent to, someone to spill his feelings out to, someone other than his friends that would jump down his throat with worry.

Potter didn’t come out to him because he was his friend, he did it to taunt him. To one-up him, the way he always did. It wasn’t enough that he had won the war, that he had taken Draco’s wand, that he had saved his life again and again, that he had singlehandedly spared him a sentence in Azkaban. No, all of that wasn’t enough to lord over Draco’s head, he had to have more. He always had to have more than Draco, had to know more than Draco, had to be superior to Draco.

It wasn’t enough for him to win, Draco also had to lose.

“Hey.”

Draco’s head snapped up,

“Potter,” he said, hearing how dead his voice sounded. There was no bite, no snarl, none of the acrimony that had coloured his tongue for years in interactions with Potter. He just sounded resigned. The thought made him even angrier.

“How did you know I was here?” Draco asked, purposefully inserting accusation into his tone. Potter looked surprised at the question.

“I just—I figured that—I—” he paused, and sighed. “I have a map. Of the castle. It shows me where people are.”

Of course he does, Draco thought, and how strange it was that the familiarity of resentment felt comforting to him.

“Naturally,” he said, dryly.

“Draco,” said Potter, sounding pained. “What’s wrong? Why are you avoiding me?”

“My, my, a little self-involved, are we, Potter?”

There was hurt in Potter’s eyes, and Draco ignored the sharp pulling sensation in his stomach, focusing instead on the heat of the anger, the anger that was rising in him like bubbles in a boiling cauldron.

“Are you alright?” Potter asked. “Did something happen? Did someone hurt you?”

Draco snarled.

“Why?” he spat. “Are you in need of someone to protect? Someone to save? Feeling empty without an enemy to hunt down?”

“Stop it, Draco,” Potter said, frowning. His voice had become more serious, but it wasn’t entirely steady. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, so just tell me instead of being a prick about it.”

“I don’t owe you anything,” Draco retorted, feeling himself getting up to his feet almost as if his legs were doing it of their own accord. “I don’t have to tell you what I’m thinking all the time, I’m not a bloody Hufflepuff, I’m not going to sit down and braid your hair and share my feelings with you. I don’t know what made you think we’re bosom pals, Potter, and quite frankly, I think I’ve heard more about you than I’d ever care to know.”

Potter looked as though he’d been slapped across the face.

“Is this…” he sounded hesitant. “Is this about…about what I told you at the Quidditch game?”

Draco couldn’t help but be taken aback. How did he know it was about…except no, no, it wasn’t about that. It wasn’t about that at all. It was about Potter always having to take everything from Draco, it was about Potter always winning, Potter always coming out on top.

Draco sneered quickly, covering up his initial surprise.

Please, Potter, like it even matters at all. You’re the bloody Chosen One. Regardless of your bisexuality, everyone knows the Saviour can’t be bent, and you’ll end up with a pretty witch like everyone expects and have loads of little Potter babies that’ll grow up to be perfect little Gryffindors.”

“What are you talking about?” Potter exclaimed. “Are you mad that I’m bisexual?”

“No!” Draco shouted, but he didn’t know what he was mad about anymore, he was just mad. “Yes! I don’t—Merlin, Potter, you’re infuriating!”

Draco stalked towards the entrance, slamming his shoulder childishly against Potter on his way. When he felt Potter turn his body, likely to walk after him, he stopped, not looking back, terrified of seeing the look in those sharp green eyes.

“Don’t follow me,” he said, warningly, and hurried away. Every nerve in his body felt like it had been lit on fire. The soreness he had been feeling in his muscles a mere half-hour ago had been replaced by a buzzing sensation. He suddenly felt awake.

He also felt like the most despicable creature on earth.


“Come on, Draco, we’re leaving tomorrow,” said Potter, and it was clear he was somewhat pleading.

“I’m aware of that,” Draco replied, his tone distant and cold.

The last few days had been overwhelming, with Draco feeling like he had gone through almost every emotion possible. He kept trying to return to anger, to focus on it. It had been how he had deflected all other feelings for Potter for years, but somehow, it just wouldn’t stick anymore.

He had felt guilty, for how he had yelled at Potter in the Astronomy Tower, had felt the familiar shame and self-loathing at his behaviour. He had been sad and pathetic and self-pitying, telling himself that Potter would never forgive him, and that he didn’t deserve to be forgiven anyway, and that he was doomed to live a friendless, loveless, meaningless life. Violet had smacked him out of that one rather quickly.

What he had ended up with was what he had been feeling before all this chaos had started—tired. He supposed exhaustion wasn’t really an emotion, but after everything, it was all he could feel anymore anyway.

It was all Potter’s fault, really. Potter was the one who had gone and thrown in a whole new dimension to this strange friendship they had and had brought up old, buried feelings Draco didn’t know how to handle. He was the one who changed everything with one conversation, leaving Draco at a loss as to how to conduct himself. He had barely known how to conduct himself before this bombshell.

“You can’t seriously be this upset with me,” Potter exclaimed, his eyebrows scrunched together and his eyes looking bright and beseeching. Draco felt an ache pinch his heart, like a soft crack in a glass window.

“Watch me,” Draco said. Alright, it wasn’t one of his most mature moments.

“What do you care if I like blokes?” Potter burst out, his hands flying up in the air. “You like blokes too, in case you’ve forgotten. And don’t say this is about ‘the Chosen One can’t be bent’ either; we both know that’s rubbish.”

Draco looked at him, really looked at him, with his wild mane of black hair sticking out in every direction as always, and his cheeks reddened from his yelling, almost looking crazed. He looked like the old Potter, before the war had dampened his spirit, had dragged him down to the same exhausting depression that Draco felt. He looked vibrant and alive and beautiful.

“It isn’t that,” Draco said, quietly, feeling his heart beat in his ears as Potter took a step closer to him.

“What is it then?” Potter asked, his voice lowering as well, seemingly subconsciously, as he took another tentative step forward, as if Draco were an easily-startled unicorn.

Draco stared at him. He was close enough now that Draco could see a stray eyelash on the bridge of his nose, and a smattering of sun freckles splashed across his cheeks, and his pink lips slightly open as he let out a breath, his tongue poking out so briefly that Draco may have imagined it.

“Oh,” said Potter, and Draco’s eyes flew back up to meet his, as he suddenly realized he had been staring at Potter’s mouth.

Before Draco could respond with a scathing remark, before he could take a step backwards, before he could tell Potter to sod off, Potter’s hand reached up and grabbed onto Draco’s arm, and Draco found himself quite frozen.

He had heard this could happen—in instances of shock. It was the third, not-as-well-known reaction to stress. Everyone knew fight-or-flight—and in a few, extraordinarily rare and cited cases, actual spontaneous flight—but there was a third option: freezing. And Draco was frozen, physically unable to move, seemingly only able to concentrate on Potter’s hand wrapped around his bicep, on the proximity of Potter’s body, on the sensation of Potter’s breath coming out hot and gentle against his face, on the vivid green of his eyes.

Potter leaned in, his thick black eyebrows furrowing again slightly as if he himself were confused by what he was doing, and he pressed his lips onto Draco’s.

Draco’s eyelids slid closed without permission, his heart pounding at a rabbit’s speed against his chest.

Potter was kissing him. Potter. Kissing him. Kissing him.

The hand around his arm tightened, and Draco’s own arms rose, reaching for Potter like it was as natural as breathing. His hand found itself on the small of Potter’s back, pulling him closer, and the other slid up Potter’s torso and wove itself into that maddening hair.

Potter let out a surprised sort of sound from the back of his throat that Draco felt more than heard, the softest vibration against his own mouth, and Draco couldn’t help the slight whimper he released. His lips interlocked with Potter’s, he pulled Potter’s bottom lip further into his mouth and there was a sudden heavy, warm, pooling of something in his stomach and chest and gut as Potter traced Draco’s lip with his tongue.

It was all just too much, and Draco had the mad, fleeting thought that he should’ve known it would be like this with Potter, even the most innocent kiss so intense he could feel his skin burning with it.

His mind was blank; the feeling of Potter’s lips, of his hand gripping at Draco’s arm, of his hair between Draco’s fingers, it was too overwhelming. Every other thought, every other sensation, had vanished. All he could feel was Potter, his warm mouth moving so deliciously against Draco’s, and nothing existed but this, the minor push of the rim of Potter’s glasses against his cheekbones, and the tangled hair he wove through with his fingers, and the heady taste of Potter’s tongue.

Potter pulled away, slowly, one hand still holding Draco’s arm, the other clenching a fistful of Draco’s robes at his chest. He breathed heavily, his eyes still shining.

“Oh,” he repeated, his voice almost hoarse.

Draco could do nothing more than nod.

“Yeah,” he exhaled softly. “Oh.”

Series this work belongs to: