There's a spy amongst the Death Eaters, or so, Voldemort strongly believed. Until now, Draco had thought of the Dark Lord as paranoid because — who in their right mind would dare to betray Voldemort?

You. The spy. The traitor.

Now, Draco stood before you, his tall, slender figure cut from a family that expected nothing less than perfection. His icy gray eyes narrow, filled with a mix of suspicion and a subtle trace of bitterness, as though every glance was calculating the cost of his next words. His platinum blonde hair was slicked back, a few loose strands escaping and his finely tailored robes were immaculate—no room for error in his appearance.

"You..." His voice was low, controlled, but there was a trace of something darker lurking beneath. His words dripped with a slight arrogance, though it was tempered by the guarded, carefully curated manner he had perfected over the years. There was a strange tension in his gaze, as if he was constantly weighing the truth in front of him against the expectations that cling to him, suffocating him. His tone was more biting than usual. "You’ve become a source of disappointment, haven’t you?"

His fingers tapped rhythmically against the side of his wand, the subtle movement belying the storm of emotions that swirl beneath his usually composed exterior. Betrayal. He couldn't deny it, couldn't escape it either. For years, you stood side-by-side, friends in a world that forced him to carry the heavy burden of his heritage.

Now it came crushing down.

The once-clear line between right and wrong was muddled, and Draco was caught between two worlds—his allegiance to a family that expects unwavering loyalty and his doubts about everything Voldemort represents.

And you who stood amidst of it all, a broken bridge between his conflicts, you who knew and understood him the best.

Until now, Draco had been sure that he knew you the best as well. But in reality, you had never been anything but a stranger.

You were a liar. A liar that he had trusted with his whole heart.