Redemption | Drarry (Old version. Incomplete)

Chapter 12: Unclaimed Solace (Edited)

Draco did not linger.

The moment the wax had cooled, sealing his letter with the Malfoy crest, he folded it with precise care and secured it in an envelope. He rose from his desk, movements fluid and deliberate, and exited the dormitory without a word.

The Slytherin common room was comfortably dim, emerald light flickering from the enchanted sconces, casting soft shadows against the stone walls. Several students had gathered near the fireplace, engaged in quiet discussions, but none of them mattered. Not right now.

Draco strode past them with purpose, ignoring Pansy’s inquisitive glance and Blaise’s knowing smirk. Whatever assumptions they were forming, they were irrelevant. Let them whisper. Let them speculate. It did not change the fact that Draco had business to attend to.

He slipped into the corridor, the cool air of the dungeons a sharp contrast to the warmth of the common room. The path to the owlery was not particularly long, but it was a route Draco rarely took. Malfoys did not send letters from the public post; their affairs were handled through personal messengers, bound by oaths of discretion.

And yet, he could not afford to wait for the family courier to arrive. Not this time.

The castle was quiet in the late afternoon, most students occupied with their studies or lingering in their respective houses. Draco welcomed the solitude. It gave him time to think, to piece together the events of the day with clinical precision.

Lure had never manifested without intent before.

The implications of that were troubling.

It was one thing to wield it deliberately, to use it as a tool of persuasion, of control. It was another entirely for it to flare of its own volition, unbidden and unchecked.

His jaw tightened.

It could not have been him.

Draco had spent years mastering his own presence, his own power. If it had surfaced, there had to be an external factor. Some catalyst. Something that had provoked the reaction—

No.

He refused to entertain that thought.

Draco took the steps to the owlery with practiced ease, the familiar scent of parchment and feathers greeting him as he entered the open stone chamber. The wind was sharper here, carrying the distant scent of pine from the Forbidden Forest, the sky beginning its descent into the rich hues of dusk.

Several owls stirred at his presence, golden eyes blinking in quiet observation. His own eagle owl, a proud, sleek creature named Regulus, stood perched near the higher ledge, ruffling his feathers in mild annoyance at the intrusion.

Draco approached, extending the letter with a gloved hand.

“Take this directly to Mother,” he instructed, voice low but firm. “No detours. No delays.”

Regulus gave an indignant hoot but accepted the letter, his talons curling over the parchment as he launched into the evening sky.

Draco exhaled, watching as the owl disappeared beyond the castle grounds.

It was done.

Now, all that remained was waiting.

–––

Draco did not return to the Slytherin common room immediately.

Instead, he wandered.

Not in the way a lost Gryffindor might, aimless and uncertain, but with a deliberate slowness, his mind occupied with calculations and questions. He traced the familiar hallways of the castle, allowing muscle memory to guide him while his thoughts spiraled deeper into analysis.

It had been subtle, so very subtle, but he had felt it. That warmth curling around him, beckoning, whispering against his skin like an unseen current pulling him toward its source.

Lure had a purpose. It sought recognition, compatibility, desire.

But he had not wanted anything in that moment.

Had he?

Draco’s fingers pressed lightly against his palm.

No.

It had been unintentional. A misfire. A mistake.

And Draco Malfoy did not make mistakes.

The thought left an unpleasant weight in his chest, one that he was not accustomed to carrying. It was irrational. He had already taken steps to uncover the truth—his mother would respond, and whatever information she provided would allow him to address this properly.

And yet…

Something about it unsettled him.

Draco’s feet had carried him to the edge of the castle grounds, the cool air of the evening brushing against his skin as he stepped outside. The sky had darkened into a deep navy, the first stars beginning to emerge, glittering against the endless expanse.

He inhaled slowly, letting the quiet settle around him.

Perhaps he was overthinking it.

Perhaps it was nothing.

But Draco had learned long ago—nothing was ever just nothing.

And he would not be caught unprepared.

////////

Harry wondered the halls, his head spinning, perspiration on his forehead. He had never felt like this before, yet he knew this wouldn't be the end.

Then a voice rang out, "Your suffering is but your own."

He looked behind his, no one was there. He look all around, nobody was around. He figured he might have been going crazy, but no...he heard it loud and clear. The voice was like a hammer hitting his skull.

He was paranoid and he knew it, but the cause was still unclear. He had to find whatever was happening to him and fast. Maybe that book from potions has something he could use to calm down.

He glanced around, still no one in sight, then let out a sigh of relief.

Then suddenly he felt a sharp pain in his hand, then his feet, then pain vanished only to come back at full force under his jaw.

He winced and continued to walk forward, he just need to lie down, that was it. He just needed to close his eyes and take a nap. It was almost time for dinner, but he could manage without food for a while.

If he ever got hungry he would go to the kitchens. The food that was being served kind of repulsed him not to say the least, there were only a few distinct foods he would want near his mouth.

But for now, he need to get the bed, no distractions, no one to bother him, just silence.

Oh so he thought.