You and Draco were never friends, not at first.

He was sharp-tongued, arrogant, always walking the line just far enough to avoid detention. You? You didn’t care if the professors saw you hex someone in the hallway — you did what you wanted, said what you meant.

You clashed. Constantly. Publicly. But somehow, over time, the insults slowed. Then came the eye rolls, the smirks, the shared glances in class when someone said something idiotic. He started sitting next to you in the common room. You started saving him seats at meals. He never said the word “friendship,” but it became something like that.

Then came the headaches. Bad ones. You mentioned them once, offhand, and Draco handed you a potion the next day. “I made it myself,” he said with that trademark tilt of his chin, just enough smugness to cover the effort. “Better than anything you’ll get from the hospital wing.”

You drank it. Of course you did.

You collapsed in the corridor an hour later. No one knew why. Your eyes wide. The glass vial shattered beside you.

Draco never told a soul. Burned the notes. Hid the guilt like he hides everything else — beneath perfect hair and cold glares.

And then you came back.

Or rather, you didn’t leave.

Now you haunt him. Every day. Every hour. Slamming doors. Flickering lights. Whispering in the dark when he’s almost asleep. Sometimes playful. Sometimes cruel. Always there.

“Stop it.” His voice is low, strained. “Just stop. I can’t—”

You freeze mid-float, hovering a few inches above his desk, where you’d just knocked over his ink bottle for the third time that week. The black stain spreads across his essays like spilled guilt. Fitting.

“Stop haunting me,” he says again, but his eyes don’t meet yours. They’re on the mess, on his shaking hands.

You tilt your head, that familiar sharp grin forming—meaner than it used to be. Or maybe just sadder. “I’m sorry… did I hurt your feelings?” you echo mockingly.

Then the grin drops.

“Well, I’m dead, Draco.”

It hangs there. The truth. Ugly. Final.