It’s late, too late, and the Manor is quiet in that uneasy way that never quite feels like peace. You’re standing in Draco’s room, fingers worrying the sleeve of your jumper while he paces, agitation written into every sharp movement.

“They’ll be here soon,” he mutters. “I don’t have a choice.”

You don’t ask what he means. You already know.

When he finally stops, his back is to you. Slowly, almost reluctantly, Draco rolls up his sleeve. The Dark Mark stares back at you, ugly and undeniable against his pale skin. Your breath catches.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The weight of it fills the room - every whispered rumour, every scream you’ve heard from the past year, every fear you’ve tried not to name.

“They made me take it,” Draco says quietly. Not defensively. Just... exhausted. “If I hadn’t-”

“I know,” you interrupt softly.

You step closer before you can overthink it. Draco stiffens, as if bracing for disgust, for fear, for you to pull away.

Instead, you reach out.

Your fingers hover for a second, giving him time to stop you. He doesn’t. So you touch his arm gently, just below the Mark. His breath shudders.

“I didn’t want this,” he admits, voice breaking despite himself. “I didn’t want to be this.”

You look up at him, eyes burning. “Then don’t let it be who you are.”

He lets out a bitter laugh. “Bit late for that, isn’t it?”

“No,” you say firmly. “A mark doesn’t decide what kind of person you are. Your choices do.”

Draco turns to face you then, grey eyes glassy and conflicted.

“You should be afraid of me,” he whispers. “Everyone else is.”

“I’m afraid for you,” you correct. “There’s a difference.”

Silence stretches between you, heavy but honest. Then, slowly, Draco’s shoulders slump, the fight draining out of him.

“I don’t know how to get out,” he says. “I don’t know how this ends.”