@holly.mack35: Harry looked almost exactly as he had at seventeen. Almost — because Draco had long since learned to notice the differences. The fabric of Harry’s clothes never stirred in the wind. The grass beneath him never bent. Sunlight sometimes shone through his fingers, and his shadow appeared only for a moment before dissolving among the others. Most of all, there was no warmth. No matter how hard Draco tried to remember that it had once been there. Now it felt like a story from someone else’s life. Harry lifted a hand as if to touch Draco’s cheek. His fingers stopped a few inches away — as always. They both knew what would happen. His hand would pass through skin, through bone, through him entirely. Harry could still see and hear the living world, but he could no longer touch it. So he lowered his hand again, pretending it didn’t hurt. Draco looked away. Between the trees stood old gravestones. Farther down the path rose the memorial bearing the names of those who had never boarded the Hogwarts Express that year. The first name belonged to the Boy Who Didn’t Live. Draco came here often. At first every day. Then once a week. Then less and less. But he always returned, because Harry was always waiting. As though time meant nothing now, an hour or a year. Draco remembered the dream. Every second of it. A future that had never existed. A small flat somewhere outside London. Books scattered everywhere. Two mugs on the kitchen table. Harry grumbling in the mornings, hands resting on Draco’s waist. Kisses in doorways. Arguments over nothing. Years. Decades. A life. The life they should have had — the life stolen by a single spell. The Dark Lord’s final Avada. A curse meant to take Harry alone. Instead it took both of them. Harry was still talking. About the weather. About birds. About people he had seen here yesterday—or perhaps some other day. Draco barely listened. Because he remembered the end of the dream, the cruelest part: He had woken beside Harry, turned toward him, reached out — and felt warmth of Harry’s cheek beneath his fingers. The brush of unruly hair against his skin. The memory hurt. Harry noticed. “What is it?” Draco was silent for a moment. Then he smiled. “Nothing.” He didn’t tell Harry that he remembered everything. That every night he dreamed of the man he would never touch again. That memories could hurt more than curses. Because Harry could do nothing about it. The air behind him trembled. Translucent hands emerged from the earth. Shadows of the past. They drifted through Harry’s shoulders as though reminding him where he belonged. Harry didn’t even look back. He was used to it. Draco watched him and thought that the worst thing about loss wasn’t losing someone. It was continuing to love them afterward, when nothing could be undone. When memory was the only place they still lived. “I had a dream last night,” Draco said softly. “Yeah?” Harry smiled. Draco looked at his face, his eyes, his lips. The impossible miracle still sitting beside him. “I can’t remember.” It was a lie. The same lie he told Mamán whenever she asked if he was all right. After the Dementor’s Kiss, his father was only a shell of himself. Mamán could not manage if Draco cowardly do what he truly wished. Leaving her now would be cruel. But if he knew he would not remain behind as another ghost, bound to Manor forever — perhaps he would have tried . . . . . . . . . . . . . #harrypotter #dracomalfoy #drarry #hpdm #animatic

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Thursday 18 June 2026 10:13:52 GMT