The Noctis Codex | DRARRY

THIRTY-SEVEN

Draco's eyes fluttered open in the dark, instinctively aware of the weight pressed against him, and then he realized—the warmth he felt was Harry's back against his chest, the quiet, steady rhythm of his breathing filling the space between them. Despite the shared nightmare they just had, he felt more at ease than ever.

The room was dark, bathed in a faint silver glow from the moonlight creeping through the window, and for a moment, Draco allowed himself to simply exist there, feeling Harry's soft warmth radiate against him, his scent—a mix of worn cotton and something distinctly Harry—filling his senses.

But he knew this couldn't go on.

Slowly, the blond lifted his arm, carefully peeling himself away so as not to disturb Harry's sleep. His gaze lingered on the Gryffindor's tousled hair, the way it splayed messily over his pillow. He couldn't help but swallow, his heart squeezing painfully at the sight of Harry's relaxed expression, lips slightly parted, looking untroubled, completely at peace. It was so rare, that unguarded vulnerability. And he realized how much he would miss this.

Before he could stop himself, he leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss against the other's forehead, the barest brush of his lips. The gesture was instinctive, but he pulled back just as quickly, feeling his chest tighten as he rose from the bed.

He draped his robe over his shoulders, fingers lingering on the fabric as if drawing strength from it. The room was utterly silent, and the only sounds were the muffled echoes of his footsteps as he moved toward the door. He reached for the handle, pausing for a moment as his hand trembled slightly. As he gave one last look back at Harry, committing the sight to memory, he felt a sharp pang that surprised him with its intensity.

The latch clicked softly as he slipped out, shutting the door behind him.

Walking through the empty corridors of Hogwarts, Draco's thoughts churned. With every step he took, a part of him screamed to turn back, to let himself stay in that quiet, perfect moment with Harry, where none of the complications of their world could reach them. But he knew better. This—their situation—had spiraled too far out of his control. Rumors had spread, whispers trailing them everywhere they went. He could feel the stares in the hallways, the speculation thick in the air. And then there were the marks, dark tendrils that had started creeping along his jaw, impossible to hide completely no matter how tightly he wrapped his scarf.

The marks, like shadows of the curse they bore, were visible proof of the impossible weight pressing down on them. They reminded him of his father's anger, his mother's worry, and the dread he felt every time he saw his reflection.

As he climbed the stairs toward his own room, Draco forced himself to remember why he was doing this. For Harry, and for himself. Harry's life was already complicated, burdened with a destiny not of his choosing. He didn't deserve to be entangled in Draco's own darkness. No matter how much he wanted to be close to him, it was better this way.

But even as he tried to convince himself, he couldn't ignore the gnawing feeling that tugged at his chest, the unfamiliar ache that seemed to wrap itself around his heart.

—

Harry woke with a strange, heavy feeling pressing down on him. He blinked, adjusting to the dim morning light filtering through the curtains, and reached out instinctively—only to find the bed beside him empty. He sat up slowly, gazing at the empty space where Draco had been, and his heart twisted. He knew Draco probably slipped out early to avoid getting caught, but the emptiness in his chest grew anyway. How much longer would they have to live like this, sneaking around as if there was anything wrong with wanting to be close?

Dragging himself out of bed, Harry dressed quickly, brushing down his robes and gathering his thoughts. After checking the corridor to make sure it was clear, he slipped out, heading toward Draco's room, needing to see him. But as he approached, he heard voices around the corner. One was unmistakably Draco's, smooth and cool, but the other was quieter, sharper—Blaise.

Harry stopped short, pressed against the wall, listening. Peeking around the corner, he spotted the two of them outside Draco's room. He leaned forward a bit more, curiosity prickling, but froze as Draco's voice cut through the hallway.

"Harry? Bloody hell, no. I would never actually enjoy spending time with him," Draco was saying, his tone dismissive. "It's just because of the curse. We can't be apart, remember? The closer we are, the faster we get to the solution for breaking this stupid thing."

Harry instantly felt the words slice through him. A hollow, twisting ache filled his chest. He barely registered the look Draco suddenly threw over his shoulder, the way his gray eyes narrowed as they locked onto Harry's face. The cold expression the blond wore was like a slap.

When the Gryffindor pulled back, his heart pounded and his mind reeled with disbelief. No—no, that couldn't be true. He turned sharply, desperate to get away before Draco could see the pain on his face, and walked as quickly as he could down the hallway. He wasn't sure where he was going; he just needed to move. Had Draco only been using him this whole time? Heat flooded his face, and he felt the sting of tears forming, though he refused to let them fall.

By the time he made it to the Great Hall, Hermione and Ron were already at the Gryffindor table, chatting softly over breakfast. He slipped into a seat beside them, trying to ignore the knot of emotions churning inside him. The girl glanced at him, her gaze concerned, but he just offered her a stiff smile, unwilling to explain the confusion in his head. He couldn't help it—he kept hoping that Draco had been lying to Blaise, that there was some other explanation for those words. He kept replaying every glance, every small gesture between them, trying to figure out if any of it had been real.

When Draco entered the hall, Harry's heart leapt despite himself. The Slytherin's face was stone, unreadable as he walked with Blaise to their table, and Harry couldn't look away. The closer Draco got, the more Harry's mind reached out, desperate for some kind of explanation. "You can't be serious, can you?" he asked, letting the words drift through their thoughts.

Draco's response was immediate. "Very serious," came the cold reply.

Harry's heart sank as he watched the other reach for an apple, his expression giving nothing away. With one final, unreadable look, Draco turned and left the hall, taking Harry's faint hope with him.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Draco avoided him entirely, refusing to answer his thoughts and filling his mind with neutral, distant things. In class, his mind buzzed only with fragments of the subject, bits of song lyrics, and nonsense phrases. So unusual. It felt deliberate, as though Draco were building walls with each passing hour. Harry knew this act too well, remembering the last time Draco had tried to push him away, but this time, the distance felt more absolute, as if the blond had made up his mind for good.

Back in his room that evening, the dark-haired sat at his desk, staring blankly at the scattered papers, his thoughts anywhere but on his work. The hurt he'd held back all day began to seep through the cracks. His chest tightened, and a single tear slipped down his cheek before he could stop it. He reached up to brush it away, but more followed, quiet and unbidden. The loneliness settled around him, heavy and unyielding, until he felt like he couldn't breathe.

When he finally crawled into bed, he lay curled up, clutching his pillow, the ache in his chest echoing in the empty room. He took off his glasses and tossed them onto the nightstand before burying his face in the covers and letting the silence close in around him.

This was ridiculous. Draco was ridiculous. He did it again, despite knowing how much this act hurt Harry. Or, how much it hurt them both. Harry wasn't so sure anymore.

After tossing and turning for endless hours, he finally accepted that he wouldn't be sleeping tonight, even if that meant that Draco had to endure the dream alone this time. He didn't care.

Actually, he did care, but he simply couldn't bear to see the blond tonight. Not under these circumstances. Not like this.