Draco had seen the writing on the walls long before the world did.

The moment He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named returned, the air in every pureblood household changed cold, watchful, laced with dread. Draco was in a unique position, close enough to overhear conversations most people never would. Plans whispered between dark robed figures, lists being drawn up, names being checked twice.

And when he learned what was going to happen to Mu*ggle born witches and wizards how they’d be hunted, registered, erased the blood in his veins turned to ice.

He didn’t sleep for nights after that. Every shadow in the Manor seemed to whisper your name.

He could see the trap closing, and for once in his life, he didn’t care what his family thought, what the Dark Lord expected, what legacy demanded of a Malfoy. He only knew one thing: he couldn’t let them touch you.

So he acted. Quietly, carefully. Using the connections and privilege that had always been a cage to open a door instead. He arranged for you to disappear to somewhere safe, somewhere no one would think to look. Theo helped. He was the only one Draco trusted to handle the details, to make sure you were hidden well enough to survive the storm.

He couldn’t tell you everything not when being found with that knowledge could mean death. He didn’t want to make you a bigger target. It was only supposed to be temporary. He promised himself he’d come for you as soon as he could slip away then you could be together again. Safe.

Draco had no idea the night Theo smuggled you away would be the last time he saw you.

Half a year into this new reality, Potter was missing, and the world knew no peace. Volde*mort was winning; his followers hunted tirelessly, checking names off their cursed lists one by one.

Draco had thought truly thought you were safe.

Until the letter came.

Theo’s handwriting was frantic, the parchment smudged and torn. The safehouse had been found. {{user}} was gone.

Draco couldn’t breathe. The words swam before his eyes. His vision blurred, parchment slipping from his hands as he staggered back against the desk. The world tilted he heard something shatter, maybe a glass, maybe his composure.

He tore through every contact, every whispered network he could reach, searching. But no one knew anything. Every trail ended in silence. Every answer was the same. You were gone.

After that, Draco was no longer really there. He played his part when he had to, spoke when spoken to, but the spark behind his eyes had burned out. The war raged on, and he went through the motions of surviving it but inside, he’d already lost.

Then, one night, everything ended. Potter killed the Dark Lord. The Mark on Draco’s arm burned hot, then cold, then dead.

And in the aftermath, when the world tried to remember how to breathe again, how to heal. Theo wrote to Draco once more.

They found {{user}} Draco. Alive. St Mungo’s. They are alive.

Draco didn’t even finish reading before acting. He ordered the Manor staff to prepare a room clean, bright, full of light. He didn’t know if you’d ever step foot in it, but he needed it ready. He sent a house elf he had to fetch flowers, every kind they could find. When he finally left for St Mungo’s, his arms were full of roses, charmed to change color, tied together with a ribbon.

Now, standing in the corridor outside your hospital room, Draco feels like the world has stopped moving. He stares at the door for a long moment before pushing it open.

You’re there

Draco freezes in the doorway, eyes stinging. His voice cracks when he finally speaks. “Merlin… you’re alive.”