The Noctis Codex | DRARRY

FOURTY

The days felt as though they had melted together, one folding quietly into the next. It had been five months since Harry last saw Draco, but the weight of that absence hadn't lessened. June had arrived with warm breezes and the soft hum of life returning to the grounds of Hogwarts, but even the pleasant warmth seemed like a mockery to Harry. Their N.E.W.T.s loomed ever closer, bringing a sense of finality, a sharp punctuation to the end of his time at Hogwarts, and yet none of that filled him with the same dread as the emptiness the blond left behind.

Professor McGonagall had told him in passing that Draco had left the school. Her words were clipped, short—as if this was only a trivial detail. But for Harry, it was like the final twist of a knife that had been embedded in his chest for months. He remembered nodding, trying to keep his face impassive. He'd barely managed a "Thanks, Professor" before excusing himself, disappearing down some corridor where he could be alone. Now, as he moved through each day, everything around him seemed to shimmer with memories—half-forgotten echoes of the time he had spent with that Slytherin.

Life had resumed its course; he was back in his dorm, back with Ron and Hermione, back to breakfast in the Great Hall, Quidditch practice, and late nights studying for exams. Life was normal, or something like it. But in truth, life had never been normal for him, and he suspected it never would be. It was as if he was an actor who had forgotten his lines, going through motions that felt hollow and contrived. There were no curses, no dark magic stalking him through his dreams, no desperate anxiety about survival—only the looming exams. But that wasn't what left him feeling restless. The nagging, biting ache inside him was something else entirely. Draco was missing, and that absence carved out a hollow space within him.

Harry couldn't even admit how much he missed him, as if it would be a betrayal of sanity, to confess it even to himself. The curse had forced them together, drawn them close in ways neither could have anticipated. Their lives had been intertwined in danger, in tension, and, later, in something tender and unspoken. Draco had been there at all hours; sometimes in furious glances, sometimes in laughter, and, towards the end, in kisses that felt like fairytales made real.

He'd never thought he could miss something as destructive as the curse, and yet, here he was. The curse had given him Draco, however brief and complicated that gift had been, and he missed the dark, twisted magic almost as much as he missed the man who had shared it with him.

The first few weeks had been a special kind of agony. Each morning, he woke in the familiar surroundings of the Gryffindor dormitory instead of his own, private space he'd taken over during their cursed nights. The absence of nightmares, which had plagued him and bound him to Draco, felt strange too, an unexpected loss. He should have been relieved, and part of him was, but another part felt strangely uneasy, as if he'd lost the only piece of stability he'd known in months. He fell into the rhythm of his old routine—early mornings with Ron, drifting down to the Great Hall, chatting as if nothing had changed. But everything had changed, and that gnawing ache never left him.

Classes became a blur, a barely remembered sequence of hours filled with half-hearted attention. In Defense Against the Dark Arts, he'd sometimes find his eyes straying to the tall windows, almost hoping that maybe, just maybe, Draco would stride across the grounds and walk back into his life. The green grounds outside transformed as spring warmed into summer, and he watched the leaves sway and rustle in the sun, reminding him of that winter day with Draco. The snow falling softly around them, the cold air sharp and clear, and how he'd felt lighter in Draco's company, even amidst the ever-present shadow of the curse.

In the quietest moments, the memories would come rushing back: the laughter they'd shared, the way Draco's lips curved into a rare, genuine smile, the feel of his hand brushing Harry's ever so briefly, and the taste of their stolen kisses. He remembered a time when he'd felt almost free, even with the weight of that terrible curse hanging over them both. What a strange irony it was—to find liberation in what should have been a death sentence, to feel safe and understood with someone he once saw as an enemy.

The only physical memory he had was the black rose. He'd saved it, carefully sealing it in a glass jar, and every time it started to wilt, he'd use magic to restore it. It was silly, he supposed, a flower left over from a curse that had nearly killed them both, but he couldn't bear to see it wither. To him, it wasn't just a rose; it was the lingering presence of Draco, a reminder of those fragile, fleeting moments they'd shared. When the ache grew too fierce, he'd lift the jar and look at the flower, trying to remember each detail of the time they'd spent together.

Under his bed lay another reminder: the old book that had shown them the way. He no longer needed Draco to see the hidden texts; the words appeared freely now, as if the book itself understood the nature of the bond they'd formed. Time and time again, he found himself reading the tale of their ancestors that appeared right after the curse broke. Two wizards bound by the same love, trapped by the same curse.

The words carried a haunting familiarity, as though he were reliving his own story every time he read it. The book chronicled their doomed love, the spell that chained them, and the spell to break it—so simple in the end, almost heartbreakingly so. All they'd needed was to love freely, to fight against the hatred and bitterness from the outside world and to find a way to be together, regardless of what other people said. It felt unfair that, after breaking the curse, he and Draco had still ended up worlds apart.

And it hurt—hurt that the other might never read these words or know how much their love mattered to the both of them. Even the ending of the story, signed with the name Evelina Potter, haunted him. A part of her had been embedded in that book, pleading, as if she had left it there to end the cycle of hurt and separation that now felt like Harry's fate as well.

Yet, by June, he found himself numbly resigned. The sting had dulled a little, the ache settling into something he could manage, a companionable kind of pain that he'd learned to carry. He could go through the day now, surrounded by Ron and Hermione, and even manage a laugh, though there was always that nagging reminder that something was missing. Time continued onward, indifferent to the little fractures in his heart. Hogwarts was alive with the bustle of exams and plans for the future, and he found himself swept up in it, carried along by the tide of everyone's excitement.

Sometimes, though, when he watched Ron and Hermione together, he couldn't stop the pang of jealousy. The way Ron would rest his head on her shoulder, the way her hand would fall naturally onto his—it was a gentle, unspoken love, and Harry was truly happy for them. But there were nights when he'd lie in bed, staring up at the canopy, and wonder if he and Draco would have ever had a chance at that kind of ease, that kind of familiarity, if he hadn't left.

He lost himself in these thoughts until the voices of his friends brought him back to the present. Ron had been asking, a bit desperately, if someone could explain a tricky Transfiguration concept one more time. Harry realized they were still in the library, textbooks strewn across the table.

Hermione sighed, her patience wearing thin, but scooted closer to explain it again, her voice low and patient. Ron gave an exaggerated sigh and let his head fall onto her shoulder, and Harry couldn't help but smile at the sight of them. It was a simple moment, warm and unassuming, and for the first time in a while, he felt a strange sort of peace settling over him, as if he could carry on with this quiet ache forever if he needed to.

"Maybe a break is in order," the girl announced after a while, snapping her book shut. She looked at them both with a faint smile, suggesting a trip to Hogsmeade. Harry nodded, his chest relaxing slightly, a quiet relief settling into his bones. Yes, he still missed Draco, still carried a dull, persistent ache that would likely never go away entirely, but, for now, he could feel something close to contentment.

For a moment, he let himself imagine what it might have been like if Draco were still here, if they were walking to Hogsmeade together, if they could simply be a part of each other's lives, even in small ways. But that vision faded just as quickly as it came, leaving only the warm buzz of the library and the chatter of his friends beside him. He still loved Draco—he knew that with quiet certainty, as much as he knew that they might never have another chance. But there was a strange comfort in accepting that, in letting himself feel the loss without denying it. He had loved Draco, and maybe he always would.