The Noctis Codex | DRARRY

ELEVEN

The scene around them shifted into chaos, unfolding the memories of the Battle of Hogwarts. The air crackled with curses and explosions as people dashed past, their faces a blur of fear and desperation. Draco could see Harry just ahead, leading the charge with fierce determination. But beside Draco stood another Harry—the real one, tense and pale as he relived the scene in front of him.

Together, they followed Dream Harry as he dodged spells and countered curses. The memory played out like a frantic dance, every step of it painfully real. Draco's pulse raced as he stayed close to the real Harry, his gaze darting between the two versions of the Gryffindor. For a split second, the blond almost believed they would watch this dream, absorb the memory, and wake up without a scratch.

But then Draco saw it—a flash of green out of the corner of his eye. A Death Eater appeared from nowhere, his wand trained on Harry with lethal precision. The Harry from the memory darted aside, narrowly avoiding the spell. Real Harry, however, didn't move quickly enough. Draco watched, frozen in horror, as the green light of the curse collided with the dark-haired, who staggered backward, his eyes going wide before he collapsed.

"Potter!" Draco shouted, lunging forward, but his hands went straight through him, the dream world tearing at the edges, pulling him out. The sounds of the battle faded, leaving him with the echo of his own voice. Helplessly, he felt himself waking up, his body yanked away before he could reach the Gryffindor.

Draco bolted upright in his bed, gasping as the dream faded, and his heart stopped. Potter. Every injury in these dreams...they're real. He remembered the curse, remembered the way Harry had fallen. If Harry was unconscious in the dream, he'd be unconscious now too.

He sprang from his bed and rushed out of the Slytherin dormitory, his breath coming in quick, panicked bursts as he raced up the staircases toward Gryffindor Tower. He reached the portrait of the Fat Lady and nearly shouted, "Let me in! I need to get to Harry Potter! He's... he's in danger!"

However, the Fat Lady only raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "I don't just let anyone in, young man," she told him primly. "And as a matter of fact, Mr. Potter isn't even inside at the moment."

Draco's stomach dropped. Then it hit him—the Room of Requirement. He hadn't wanted to go back there, to the place they'd last seen each other, where they'd last let their guard down. But if that stupid git was in danger, there was no choice.

He tore through the castle and up the stairs until he found himself standing before the familiar stretch of wall. He closed his eyes, focusing only on finding Harry, needing the room to open its doors and show him where he was.

The room was dimly lit, and there, crumpled on the floor among the blankets and pillows, he saw Harry, unconscious, his face ashen, his body too still.

"Merlin, Potter," Draco whispered, panic clawing at his throat as he knelt down and checked for a pulse. It was there, but faint, barely detectable. His mind raced. He wasn't a healer; he barely knew any first-aid charms beyond stopping a bloody nose. But he had to try something. "Potter, wake up!" he pleaded, giving his shoulder a desperate shake. The blond didn't even know why he was doing this; trying to save him so desperately. A few years, maybe even months ago, he couldn't have cared less if anything had happened to the dark-haired wizard. Perhaps it was the fear of being alone in these nightmares, or the fear of just being alone again in general, that urged him to take action.

No response. Harry stayed still, his face unmoving, proving that the curse had followed him from the dream and lingered here in the real world.

"Think, Draco," the Slytherin muttered to himself. His first thought was Madame Pomfrey, but he knew she didn't know about the dreams or the curse they were sharing. Snape. Snape was the only professor who knew the truth, who might actually be able to help him. He glanced down at Harry, a shudder running through him as he steeled himself. With a quiet, shaky breath, he wrapped one arm under the man's shoulders, the other under his knees, and lifted him with a surprising strength he didn't know he had.