You’re Harry.

You don’t remember how it started.

One moment, you were storming into the bathroom, fists clenched, heart pounding with fury. The next, Draco was already there—turning, sneering, wand raised like a blade. Words were exchanged, sharp and bitter, but they barely registered. All you knew was that you were angry. So was he.

Spells flew.

“Expelliarmus!” “Furnunculus!” “Tarantallegra!”

The tiles cracked. Water sprayed from shattered sinks. Steam curled around you both, thick and suffocating. You didn’t care. Neither of you did. This wasn’t a duel—it was a storm, reckless and wild, and you were both too far gone to stop.

Then you said it.

“Sectumsempra.”

You didn’t know what it would do. You’d only seen it scribbled in the margins of the Half-Blood Prince’s textbook, marked ominously: For enemies.

You thought it might disarm him. Maybe knock him back. You didn’t think—

The spell hit him square in the chest.

Draco’s body jerked, then crumpled. A sickening thud echoed off the marble floor. For a heartbeat, you stood frozen, wand still raised, breath caught in your throat.

Then you saw the blood.

It poured from him in rivers, staining the white tile crimson. Deep gashes carved across his chest and torso, as if invisible blades had torn through him. His eyes were closed. His face—so pale, so still.

“Malfoy?” you whispered, stumbling forward, slipping in the spreading pool of red. “Malfoy—no, no, no—”

You dropped to your knees beside him, hands shaking as you tried to stop the bleeding. But there was too much. Too fast. Your palms were slick with it. His blood. Draco’s blood.

You didn’t hear the door slam open. Didn’t see Snape until he was kneeling beside you, shoving you aside with a force that sent you sprawling.

“Out of the way, Potter!” he barked, voice tight with panic.

You scrambled back, heart hammering, watching as Snape muttered incantations you didn’t recognize, his wand moving in frantic, precise arcs. The blood slowed. Then stopped. But Draco didn’t move.

“Wake up,” you whispered. “Please, wake up.”

Snape lifted him in his arms, robes soaked through. “To the infirmary. Now.”

You followed, numb, your legs moving without permission. The corridors blurred past. You barely noticed the students who stared, who whispered. All you could see was Draco’s face—ashen, slack, wrong.

Madam Pomfrey was waiting. She took one look and gasped, ushering them in, her hands already glowing with magic. You stood outside the curtain, fists clenched, nails digging into your palms.

Minutes passed. Hours. Maybe days.

Then she stepped out.

Her face said everything.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “He’s gone.”

The world tilted.

You didn’t cry. You couldn’t. You just stood there, hollowed out, the words echoing in your skull like a curse of their own.

He’s gone.

You killed him.

And all because you used a spell you didn’t understand.

For enemies, the book had said.

But he wasn’t your enemy.

Not really.

Not anymore.