Harry stood alone in an almost forgotten classroom halfway up the Astronomy Tower, the air was thick with residual magic. Dust drifted lazily in the candlelight as spells cracked through the silence. A battered practice dummy stood scorched and half-slumped against the wall. Harry's eyes burned with purpose—feral, intense, and full of rage barely leashed.
His wand moved with precision, blasting curse after curse into the dummy's straw-stuffed chest. His breathing was harsh, misting the cold air, and his dark green Slytherin-trimmed robes fluttered with each violent spell. The green shimmer of his lapels mirrored the depthless fury in his emerald eyes.
From the stairwell, quiet footsteps crept upward. Draco Malfoy hesitated just outside the door, listening to the rhythmic thud of spellfire. With all his Gryffindor courage he swallowed his nerves, he stepped into the room, Gryffindor scarf tucked into his coat.
"Potter," Draco called, voice firmer than he felt. "I need a word with you."
Harry turned, wand lowering slightly but not sheathing. His expression didn't shift—cold and unwelcoming, even when recognizing the familiar voice.
"Malfoy," Harry said dryly. "It's very brave of you to come all the way up here. Did you lost your way to the Gryffindor nursery?"
Draco stepped inside, arms folded. "What have they offered you?"
Harry's brow arched.
"You're dating Lyra. You spend all your time with the children of Death Eaters or their sympathizer," Draco pressed. "You don't think I don't recognize a recruitment drive when I see one?"
Harry laughed, but it was a hollow, biting sound. "And what, I should trust you instead? A Malfoy draped in red and gold? Don't be ridiculous. You're a disgrace to your house and your name. You were disowned the second your new brother was born—because you chose Granger, wasn't it?"
"This isn't about me," Draco said, taking a careful step forward. "It's about you. You're not stupid, Potter. You are listening their whispers. The way they talk about Dumbledore—about how he held you back. They're feeding your anger. It's a trap in which you are falling. You're being shaped into something you're not. And what will your parents think about you? They fought against Voldemort."
Harry's face went cold. "You don't know me at all Malfoy. They never whispered anything to me. They are all my thoughts, which were shaped by my experience."
A strange calm overtook his voice, the heat in his eyes fading to something colder. "You don't know what Dumbledore did to me. When Sirius died in my arms, do you know what he said? He said, 'Harry, your parents and I have loved you since the day you were born. No matter what you choose in life, remember—we will always love you. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise.' So tell me, Malfoy, who the fuck are you to tell me otherwise?"
"Did you practice being that dumb, or is it just a gift?" Draco snapped. "Dumbledore was protecting you!"
At that, something cracked. The temperature in the room dropped. For a heartbeat, Harry's eyes shimmered—flecks of crimson breaking through the emerald.
"Protecting me?" he whispered, his voice low and dangerous. "By handing me over to those filthy muggles? By watching me rot in a cupboard for ten years?"
Draco's mouth opened and closed, his usual wit faltering.
"Dumbledore didn't know how your relatives were treating you. If Voldemort wins," he tried, "this whole world will suffer. You're the Boy-Who-Lived. You are the one who matters. Voldemort wanted you because you were the only real threat to him. And now Bellatrix is molding you into the very weapon he wants."
"Oh poor Draco! There is so much you don't know, and so much you will never know. And why should I care about others when they never cared about me?" Harry shot back in a mocking voice and then his voice turned cold. "They watched while I was suffering. They pointed fingers and whispered but never acted. There is nothing wrong with me being selfish. I'll protect myself. And I'll protect Lyra. The Dark Lord has done more for me than the entire wizarding world combined."
"Is that you talking, or Lyra?" Draco asked.
"You ferret," hissed a venomous voice.
Draco turned and froze.
Lyra Lestrange stepped into the room like a blade drawn from its sheath—elegant, deadly, and burning with fury. She was the mirror of her mother—Bellatrix's wild eyes, raven-black curls cascading over Slytherin robes, her presence pulsing with barely restrained magic.
Her wand was in her hand before Draco could react. She stepped up to him, pressing the tip against his cheek.
"If I ever hear a whisper—just a whisper—that you're trying to drive a wedge between me and Harry," she said, her voice like cracked ice, "I WILL MAKE YOU BEG FOR THE FATE THE LONGBOTTMS SUFFERED."
Her eyes blazed with madness, and for a moment Draco saw Bellatrix staring through her. He stumbled back, chest heaving, shaken to his core.
Harry was beside her in an instant, wrapping her in his arms. Lyra buried herself against him, clinging like he was the only thing keeping her anchored to the world.
"I think it's time for you to run back to your tower, Malfoy," Harry said calmly. "Before you get severely hurt."
The threat hung heavy in the air.
Draco stared at the pair for a long moment. There was no reasoning with them. No reaching what remained of the boy he once saw on the Hogwarts Express. His shoulders slumped.
I tried Draco thought, and turned to leave.
The heavy door shut behind him.
The silence that followed Draco's exit was deafening. For a long moment, neither Harry nor Lyra spoke. They just held each other.
Lyra's grip was iron-tight around him, as if letting go would unravel something in her.
"I love you, Harry," she whispered fiercely, her voice cracking under the weight of the emotion she held back for too long. "More than anything else in this world. More than myself. You were the reason I didn't—" Her breath hitched. "—didn't kill myself in our first year. I love you. I've loved you since..."
Harry didn't respond with words.
He kissed her instead—hard, desperate, grounding.
Her fingers tangled in his hair, and she melted against him like flame curling into smoke. He pulled her close, feeling her heart hammering against his own.
When they parted, breathless, he spoke into her lips.
"Lyra," he said, "we were together long before the Dark Lord regained his body. Long before. Dumbledore can send his little pawns and spies all he wants, but they won't break us. Not him. Not Draco. Not anyone. We are together."
Another kiss.
And another.
And another, until they simply held one another in the deepening twilight. For a brief, precious stretch of time, they didn't speak. They didn't need to. There was only breath, and warmth, and presence.
Outside the high window, the sun was dipping low, casting long orange shadows across the cold stone walls.
Eventually, Harry sighed.
"It's getting late," he murmured. "We should head back to the dorms."
"No," Lyra said quickly, her voice small and sudden.
She clung tighter, like a frightened girl—though there was nothing weak about Lyra Lestrange.
"No," she repeated, her face buried in his chest. "I don't want to go back. Not tonight. I want to stay with you. Please, Harry."
Her voice trembled, and her dark lashes were damp when she looked up at him.
He exhaled, brushing her hair back with a tender hand. "When you ask me like that, Lyra," he said with a soft smile, "how could I ever refuse?"
She beamed through her tears, and she leaned in to kiss the corner of his mouth.
"All right," he said. "Let's go to the Room of Requirement."
"I love you, Harry," she whispered, pressing her forehead to his.
"I love you too, Lyra," he replied. "More than anything."
Harry closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, breathing in her scent—lavender and something wild and smoky underneath.
The world outside was still dark and unforgiving, but in this moment, in this room, with her—everything was as it should be.
Together, hand in hand, they slipped from the old classroom, footsteps echoing down the corridor. The shadows wrapped around them like old friends as they made their way toward the only place in the castle where they could simply be—not soldiers, not legacies, not weapons.
Just Harry and Lyra.