The smoke from the burning tents drifted through the trees like a grey shroud, twisting in the moonlight. Screams echoed in the distance, but here in the thicket, the air was heavy with a suffocating silence. Harry stumbled over a protruding root, his glasses sliding down his nose. He could hear the heavy boots of the Death Eaters nearby and the rhythmic chanting that turned his blood to ice. He was alone. Ron and Hermione had been swept away by the frantic surge of the crowd, leaving him to navigate the darkness with nothing but a flickering spark from his wand.
A hand suddenly clamped over his mouth. Harry thrashed, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He was pulled backward into the shadow of a massive oak tree. The scent of expensive cologne and cold rain filled his senses.
"Be quiet, Potter," Draco whispered the command directly into his ear.
His voice was sharp, yet it lacked the usual sneer. Draco did not let go. Instead, he pressed Harry firmly against the rough bark, using his own body as a shield. Through the gaps in the leaves, the flickering light of a distant fire illuminated the silver mask of a Death Eater passing only a few yards away. The tall grass bent under the weight of the intruder, and the air hummed with the presence of dark magic.
Harry felt Draco stiffen. The grip on Harry's shoulder tightened until it was almost painful. It was not the hold of a captor. It was the desperate anchor of someone terrified of letting go. Draco peeked around the trunk, his grey eyes wide and reflecting the orange glow of the destruction. His breath was shallow and hitched in his throat. He looked younger than he ever had at school, stripped of his bravado and the safety of his father's reputation.
For years, they had defined themselves by their hatred. They were opposite poles of a broken world, colliding in hallways and over cauldrons with a predictable bitterness. Yet, in this moment of genuine terror, the mask of the Malfoy heir had crumbled. Draco looked down at Harry, and the vitriol was gone. In its place was a raw, frantic need to ensure the boy in his arms remained breathing. It was a protective instinct so fierce it seemed to surprise Draco himself. He leaned his forehead against the tree, closing his eyes as the danger hovered just out of sight.
The Death Eater moved on, the sound of crunching leaves fading into the distance. Draco did not move. He seemed to realize that his arms were wrapped tightly around Harry's chest, pulling him into a protective embrace that defied every rule they lived by. The heat of Harry's body was the only thing grounding him in the nightmare. He could feel the rapid pulse in Harry's neck, a frantic rhythm that matched his own.
"You are a fool," Draco hissed, though his tone was soft and trembling. "You stay right in the path of danger because you think you are invincible. Let me tell you, you are not."
Harry looked up, his green eyes searching Draco's pale face. "Why do you care?"
Draco flinched as if Harry had struck him. His fingers lingered on the fabric of Harry's jacket before he shoved him away with a sudden, jerky motion. The cold returned instantly. Draco adjusted his robes, his face hardening back into the familiar mask of aristocratic boredom, but his hands were still shaking. He looked toward the clearing where the fires still raged, his eyes darkening with a complex mixture of guilt and longing.
"If you die tonight, I have no one left to best," Draco snapped. He stepped back into the shadows, his eyes lingering on Harry for one second too long. "Do not make me watch you fall, Potter. The world is changing, and you are too loud and too brave for your own good."
Harry reached out, his fingers brushing the sleeve of Draco's fine wool coat. "Wait. Why are you out here, alone? Where is your father?"
Draco laughed, a hollow and bitter sound that didn't reach his eyes. "My father is exactly where he wants to be. And I am exactly where I shouldn't be. With you."
The distant sound of a spell exploding echoed through the woods, causing them both to jump. Draco looked toward the noise, his jaw tight. He looked back at Harry, and for a fleeting moment, the barrier between them vanished again. He reached out, his hand hovering near Harry's face as if he wanted to brush the dirt from his cheek or perhaps verify that he was still solid.
Draco leaned back against the tree, his arms crossed tightly over his chest as if trying to hold himself together. He watched the glow of the fires reflecting in Harry's glasses, his expression flickering between his usual arrogance and a raw, uncharacteristic panic.
"You really should get moving, Potter," Draco said, his voice dropping to a low, jagged whisper. "The woods aren't safe for someone like you, and they certainly aren't safe for your friends. If they catch a Mud-"
He stopped abruptly as Harry stepped forward, his face contorting into a look of pure, cold fury. The glare was sharp enough to cut, and for the first time in his life, Draco felt the weight of that word like a physical blow. He swallowed hard, the slur dying in his throat as he looked at Harry's clenched fists.
"I mean," Draco stammered, his eyes darting toward the path where Hermione had disappeared moments before. He shifted his weight, his composure fracturing. "The Dark Lord's followers... they don't have mercy for her kind. They are looking to make examples tonight. If you have any sense at all, you will keep her hidden. Don't let her out of your sight, Harry. Not even for a second."
The use of Harry's first name was accidental, a slip of the tongue born from genuine fear, but Draco didn't correct himself. He just looked at Harry with an intensity that bordered on pleading.
"You need to go," Draco urged. "Find your friends. Do not stay in the open. Potter, they are looking for symbols."
"I am not a symbol," Harry whispered, his voice cracking.
"To them, you are everything they want to destroy," Draco replied. "To me, you are just a nuisance who doesn't know when to run."
He turned to leave, but his steps were heavy and reluctant. He paused after only a few paces, his back to Harry. The moonlight caught the white-gold of his hair, making him look like a ghost among the ancient trees.
"If you get yourself killed before the term starts, I will never forgive you," Draco said over his shoulder.
He vanished into the trees before Harry could find his voice. The forest felt emptier than before, the shadows stretching longer and colder. Harry stood in the dark, his skin still tingling where Draco had held him, wondering when the person he hated most had become the only person who truly saw him. He felt a strange ache in his chest, a confusion that had nothing to do with the war or the tournament.
He stayed under the oak tree for a long time, watching the spot where Draco had disappeared. The sounds of the riot were beginning to dim, replaced by the distant whistles of Ministry officials. Harry adjusted his glasses and took a deep breath. The air still smelled of Draco's cologne, a sharp and clean scent that cut through the smoke of the burning world.
He knew that tomorrow, they would be enemies again. In the Great Hall, Draco would sneer, and Harry would scowl. They would trade insults and hexes in the corridors. But the memory of Draco's heartbeat against his back would remain. The feeling of being protected by the person who was supposed to be his greatest rival had shifted something deep inside him. The war was coming, and the lines were being drawn, but Harry realized that some boundaries were more blurred than he had ever imagined.
Harry finally turned away, heading back toward the path where he hoped to find Ron and Hermione. He walked with a new sense of purpose, his hand resting on the spot where Draco's arm had been. The night was still dangerous, and the future was uncertain, but for the first time, Harry felt like he wasn't fighting the darkness entirely alone.
Harry stood by the dying embers of the campfire, the voices of Ron and Hermione buzzing around him like distant insects. They were safe, and the adrenaline was finally beginning to ebb, but a strange, heavy warmth lingered where Draco's hands had gripped his shoulders. He should have been disgusted. He should have been recounting Malfoy's typical arrogance to Ron, yet the words felt stuck in his throat.
Every time he closed his eyes, he didn't see the Dark Mark; he saw the frantic, silver grey of Draco's eyes. The way Draco had faltered over that hateful word, choosing instead to warn him to keep Hermione safe, felt like a shift in the very foundation of his world. Draco had used his name. It wasn't a taunt or a sneer; it was a plea. Harry touched his chest, his heart still echoing that frantic, shared rhythm from the forest, wondering how he was supposed to go back to hating a boy who had just tried to save his soul.