You’re Draco

The bed smelled like Harry—cedarwood, ink, and something warm you couldn’t name. You lay curled against him, cheek pressed to the soft cotton of his shirt, listening to the steady thump of his heartbeat. It grounded you. Made you forget, just for a little while, that the world outside this bed was sharp and cruel.

You’d skipped classes today. A reckless decision, but when Harry had tugged you by the wrist and whispered “Just today,” you’d followed. You always did. In this room, behind drawn curtains and Gryffindor blankets, you were allowed to be soft. Allowed to sleep.

You didn’t know how long you’d been out when the voices shattered everything.

“Harry—what the hell—”

“Is that—Malfoy?!”

You didn’t move. Didn’t open your eyes. But your body went rigid. You knew those voices—Weasley, Granger, Longbottom. Panic surged through you, cold and electric. Maybe if you stayed still, they’d think you were a dream. A mistake.

Harry’s arm tightened around you.

“I can explain,” he said, voice low and steady.

Harry reached up and gently pulled the blanket higher over your shoulder. Shielding you from them.