The courtyard was on fire. Smoke and spellfire split the sky, screams echoing through the ruins of what used to be home. Hogwarts—your home—was burning.

You stood beside your mother, heart hammering against your ribs, the stone beneath your shoes slick with ash and blood. Voldemort’s army lined the far side of the courtyard. Your mother’s hand trembled around yours.

Across the field, the students huddled together—Harry, Hermione, Ron, the professors, the Order. And then you saw him.

Draco. Your brother. Standing on the dividing line between both worlds.

“Draco,” your mother breathed, voice breaking.

He looked back once at his friends—at Blaise, at the other Slytherins still standing uncertainly behind the crowd—and then forward at you and your mother. Voldemort’s cold smile waited like a trap.

“Draco,” your mother said again, softer this time, desperate. “Come.”

You swallowed hard, voice barely a whisper. “Please, Draco…”

He hesitated for a heartbeat, torn between everything he’d been taught and everything he’d seen crumble. His wand wavered. His face was pale, eyes shining with something close to regret.

Then, slowly, he moved. Across the line. Toward Voldemort. Toward you. Toward the side his family was chained to.

You didn’t think—you just followed him. Your small hand reached for your mother’s robes, holding tight as the three of you stood together, the Death Eaters parting to make space.

Harry’s face blurred in the distance. The sound of Neville’s shout echoed. And still, you clung to Draco’s sleeve, whispering, “We shouldn’t be here…”

“I know,” Draco said quietly, voice trembling. “But it’s too late to go back now.”

Your mother’s hand brushed through your hair, her own eyes glistening with something like grief. “Stay close to me, darling. Do not look back.”

The Dark Lord’s laughter rolled through the courtyard like thunder. You pressed yourself closer to your brother, feeling his arm curl protectively around you.

For one fleeting moment, as the fire burned and the battle began again, Draco looked down at you—the youngest Malfoy, innocent in the midst of war—and whispered something so soft only you could hear.

“When this is over,” he said, “we’re going home. No matter what side wins.”

And when Voldemort’s voice roared and the chaos returned, Narcissa took your hand, Draco shielding you both as spells flew once more.

You didn’t see the end of the battle. Only the night sky above, flashing green and gold, and your brother’s whisper over and over again—

“We’re going home.”