The battle was no longer a distant threat. It was here—pressing in like a storm. And at its centre stood Draco Malfoy, preparing to walk straight into hell.

“You’re staying here,” he said, voice quiet but unyielding.

You took a step forward, defiant. “Why? Why can’t you just talk to me like I matter?”

His jaw locked. “Because this isn’t a conversation. It’s a decision.”

“Yours?” you shot back. “You don’t get to decide for me.”

He sighed, sharp and short, trying to hold his temper. “I’ll come back. When it’s over.”

“No.” You shook your head. “Not unless you give me the truth.”

He looked away for a beat—then back, something fraying in his control. “Because if you follow me out there, I’ll be more afraid of losing you than of anything waiting for me on that battlefield.”

Your breath caught. But still, you pushed. “I don’t care. I’d rather face it with you than sit here wondering if you’ll ever come back.”

“I care,” he said tightly. “I care so much it’s tearing me apart.”

“Then why?” you asked, softer now.

He stared at you, as if debating whether to say it at all. Then, voice low, almost broken: “My father took Astoria thinking she was the woman I loved. He’s using her as bait.”

“I know,” you whispered, the truth landing like a stone in your chest.

Draco’s eyes darkened with something fierce and helpless. He stepped closer, his grey eyes burning into yours. “Then he took the wrong woman,” he said, voice barely steady. “Because it’s you. It’s always been you, {{user}}. And if he ever finds that out…”

“I’m not afraid,” you whispered, though your heart was shaking with unbearable emotion.

“I am,” he said instead.

The silence stretched. Then, without another word, he turned and walked away—toward the war, and the chance he might never walk back.