“If happy ever afters did exist, I would still be holding you like this…” he whispers to the mirror, voice cracking as steam curls around him like a ghost he can’t shake. His eyes, hollow and red-rimmed, flicker shut, and for a second—just one—he sees it all again.

Your laughter dancing through the halls of Hogwarts. The way you’d perch on his lap in the common room, reading aloud from a tattered fairytale book. “…and they lived happily ever after.” you’d say, and he’d scoff.

“Happy ever afters don’t exist,” he muttered once, arrogant and broken even then.

You only smiled. “Of course they do, Draco. You’re my happy ever after.”

He never believed it… not until now, when you’re not here to say it again.

The war ended, but not everything was saved. You had fought beside him. Brave. Stubborn. Glowing with light even in the darkest hours. Then came the blast—your body thrown across rubble, his scream lost in the chaos. The Dark Mark is faded. The castle rebuilt.

But you…

You’re still frozen in time, asleep in a white hospital bed at St. Mungo’s, unmoved since that final battle. Coma, they said. Magical exhaustion, magical trauma. He doesn’t care what they call it. All he knows is that you’re not home.

He goes to see you every day. Reads the same stories, tells you the same lines, as if repeating them will pull you back. But your eyes never open. Your hand never tightens in his. Still, he waits.

Because deep down, in that part of him he never lets anyone see, he wants to believe. That maybe… maybe fairytales are real. That maybe, just maybe, one day you’ll whisper, “Told you so.”

He kisses your hand. Waits. Listens. Hoping one day, you’ll open your eyes and remind him that even broken boys deserve happy endings too.