𝘋𝘈𝘕𝘊𝘐𝘕𝘎 𝘞𝘐𝘛𝘏 𝘖𝘜𝘙 𝘏𝘈𝘕𝘋𝘚 𝘛𝘐𝘌𝘋/𝘵𝘰𝘮 𝘳𝘪𝘥𝘥𝘭𝘦 (English version)

Chapter 74

Draco had always dreamed of being a hero.

One of those with a cape billowing behind his shoulders, wand pointed at injustice, and the proud gaze of someone who knows, without a doubt, that they're on the right side.

As a child, he pictured himself like that: standing atop a tower, while everyone looked at him with admiration and respect.

He had believed in it, deep down.
That he could be seen that way, that he could become something different from what his surname screamed before he even opened his mouth.

But life wasn't a fairy tale, and Hogwarts had never been his kingdom.

One way or another, Draco Malfoy had always ended up being the perfect anti-hero.
The one who shows up at the wrong time, says the wrong thing, backs down when he should act... and acts when it would be better to stay silent.

It was easy to hate him, even easier to misunderstand him.

But now, now that everything had collapsed, there were no more roles, no more scripts to follow.
Now there were only choices, and his was clear: he would save Sarah, even at the cost of his own life.

Because maybe he had never been the hero of the story.
But in that moment, he wanted, just once, not to be the character the world had stitched into his skin.
He wanted to prove that, behind the mask, there was still a boy who only wanted to be loved.

His only thought was to reach Snape's office fireplace as quickly as possible.
The professor surely wouldn't be there, and even if he was, he wouldn't be able to stop him.

He was nervous.
Maybe he hadn't felt this tense even the day he stood before Dumbledore, wand trembling in his hand, too afraid to cast a single spell.

He wasn't made for these things.
Too much of a coward to even break a finger.
And yet now, in his hands, was an enormous responsibility, one of those a perfect hero, like the one he had dreamed of as a child, would face without hesitation.

But he wasn't a hero.
Only this time, he was going to try anyway.

As soon as he entered the office, he hurried to the fireplace. He took a precise handful of Floo Powder.
He was ready to speak the destination when the door burst open.

Tom entered, panting.
His eyes were wild, breath uneven, face pale with panic.
He had feared he was too late, that he'd missed his last chance to see the woman he loved.
But when he saw Draco, frozen before the flames, the powder still clutched in his hand, he relaxed, just barely.

The blond turned, confused.
"What the hell are you doing here?" he hissed.

Tom stepped forward, just a few paces, never taking his eyes off him.
"Don't do this without me," he said finally, his voice hoarse.

Draco lowered his gaze, trying not to explode. He had no time to waste.

"Tom..." he murmured, in a voice he hardly recognized as his own.
"You can't come. You have no idea what's waiting for us. It's hell in there."

Tom stared at him. His face was pale, tension clear in every line of his posture. But his eyes didn't waver.
"I don't care what's in there. I care who's in there. Her."
His voice cracked slightly, breaking through the mask he had crafted so carefully over the years.
"And I'm not staying behind."

Draco shook his head, bitter.
"You've always been so... damn impulsive."

A half-smile, tired and aching, brushed Tom's lips.
"And you've always been so good at pretending you don't need anyone," Tom shot back.
"Carrying around guilt that doesn't belong to you, burdens no one asked you to bear. But you do. Always. Because you think that's your way of making up for things."