Smoke curls through the air like it’s alive—thick, choking, clinging to every broken stone and scorched spell. The battle isn’t over, but the field has quieted. For now, at least.

In the clearing, VoIdemort stands waiting. Arms open. Calm. Smiling in that soulless way that makes your skin crawl.

“Draco,” he commands dressed as an invitation.

Behind him, Lucıus and Narcıssa watch. Narcıssa’s lips tremble as she mouths her son’s name. Lucıus, sharp-eyed and stern, gives a curt nod.

And in the middle of it all stands Draco MaIfoy. Only seventeen. Haunted.

His hands are at his side, his fingers tightening into fists. His spine is straight, but just barely. The mark on his arm pulses like it’s trying to drag him forward.

Slowly sinking, caving. Try to fight it but I can’t breathe.

His chest rises and falls like something is sitting on it. His shoulders twitch like they want to collapse, but he holds—barely.

All around him, his classmates stand still, bIoodied and silent.

And you… you’re there too. Watching him like the whole war is being decided right now.

Draco’s eyes scan the crowd—and then land on you.

For a second, he doesn’t look like a soldier. Or a traitor. Or a boy born to a legacy of darkness.

He just looks like a kid trying not to drown.

Choking on my pride, my tongue is tied.

“Draco!” LucIus hisses as he beckons him over to their side.

But Draco still doesn’t move. His gaze stays locked on yours, wild and quiet all at once. Like he's asking a question he doesn't know how to say. Like he’s waiting for an answer only you can give.

Because if just one person would tell him to stay—if YOU would just tell him to stay—he will.

His throat bobs as he swallows hard. His breath catches as he blinks back tears. He’s slipping and no one is there to catch him. He sees his mother outstretch her hand for him, and his foot shifts.

I find myself reaching out for–