Chapter Text
Harry woke in a strange bed. It was intricately carved from ebony wood, and the comforter was a blend of deep emeralds, silver accents catching in the pale light. The room was larger than Dudley and Harry’s rooms combined. The curtains were done in the same colors as the comforter, and the furniture rested on a dark marble floor. A very Slytherin aesthetic.
Scrambling into a sitting position, the newly-sixteen-year-old reached up to check his glasses--perhaps they were playing tricks on him--but touched only air. He frowned. How could he see so well without his glasses? Foreign features met his fingertips and he became aware that he was not himself. He pinched a strand of hair between two fingers, pulling it in front of his eyes. Blond. A very particular shade of blond.
At a knock on the door, he composed himself the best he could and said, “Come in.” The voice that emerged from his throat was entirely too familiar. Harry’s stomach dropped. He reached towards the bedside table for his wand only to find one of a different make. He recognized that wand, just as he recognized that voice and that platinum blond hair. They all belonged to none other than--
“Draco,” greeted a demure voice. Harry looked up to see Narcissa Malfoy in the doorway. Her blond hair was pulled back with a glistening clip, revealing a face of clear pale skin and blue eyes. She was draped in an elegant green gown with golden embroidery and stood stiffly in the doorway. Her stoic demeanor made him want to fidget, but he stayed still with effort. She seemed to be expecting a response. Harry forced a small smile on his face.
“Mum,” he said, before realizing how un-Malfoy that was. Narcissa’s eyes widened. Her cold countenance melted, and then she smiled--an expression full of both love and heartbreaking sadness. Before Harry could comprehend the change, the woman was at his side, her thin form shifting the mattress almost imperceptibly beside him. Her hand rested on his bare shoulder, and she squeezed gently. Harry realized his attire for the first time--apparently Malfoy slept in silk pajama bottoms. The material practically screamed wealth.
“You haven’t called me that for years,” she said.
And though he knew he was walking into dangerous territory, he couldn’t resist wrapping her in a tight embrace. The prospect of having a mother--alive, breathing, and here for comfort--was intoxicating. Narcissa stiffened at first, only to relax a moment later. Her long, thin fingers trailed through her son’s hair, pulling him closer and making “shh” ing noises in his ear.
After a while, the whispers became gentle reassurances. Even though Harry didn’t know what they were for, he felt the warmth and love contained in every word. When they finally broke away, Harry found himself wishing it would last longer.
“Draco, dear, your aunt is waiting.” Her tone was resigned and nostalgic as if she were mourning his death. Harry wondered why, the familiar tug of curiosity lifting his brows. Narcissa wiped his cheeks dry. He didn’t realize he was crying. “We can’t have your Auntie Bella see you in tears.” Then, so quietly Harry almost couldn’t hear, she said, “I’m so sorry...If there was any other way--”
“There isn’t,” Harry interrupted with vehemence, not understanding, but needing to comfort the woman--to take away her guilt. Malfoy’s voice sounded strange to his ears, but he pressed on. “It’s not your fault.” The silky voice was rather pleasant without the snark that usually accompanied it.
Narcissa smiled at him sadly. “Get cleaned up. I’ll send Blinky in with your breakfast.” Her mask snapped back into place, and she smoothed her clothes as she stood. “Your aunt is waiting in your father’s study.” Harry wiped all emotion from his face in turn.
“Thank you, Mother.” At her non-reaction, Harry figured that was the correct response.
She exited, leaving him alone with his thoughts. He wandered into the connected bathroom to the right of the bed. Dark tiles lined the floor, silver flecks glittering in the bluish-white light. Harry took in the abundance of snake decor with a snort. Of course even Malfoy’s house would be bedecked with Slytherin themes. He turned to face the mirror, holding his breath at what he was sure he would see.
His reflection provided further evidence of his dilemma. Draco Malfoy looked back at him from the glass. Puffy eyes were all that remained from his scene moments ago. Harry noted how much better he felt. He hadn’t cried since Sirius’ death--or felt much of anything really. He didn’t even react to the Dursley’s taunts anymore.
When Dumbledore retrieved him so he could meet Horace Slughorn, he had asked not to be brought to the Burrow. At least at the Dursley’s he didn't have to pretend he was back to normal. He could place a mask over his aches, and no one would question his well-being. It was much easier to shut off his emotions than feel pain. His aunt and uncle didn’t bother him much during the rest of the summer--not after Dumbledore’s reprimand--so even the small rise he felt at every insult disappeared. He was a shell. And he thought it was better that way.
Now he felt the familiar whirl of emotions war inside him. It made him feel alive again, and he wished he could have cried sooner. He hadn’t realized just how much he was holding back. The dull ache of regret returned, but it wasn’t so hard to bear anymore.
He took a moment to play with his features, stretching them into different expressions. As he stared into stormy grey eyes, accusations swirled through his mind. Malfoy was to blame for this. It was probably some kind of prank. Or a ploy to impress Voldemort , his paranoid side suggested. Anger bubbled in the pit of his stomach--another emotion he had been suppressing. He was surprised at how good it felt. Fueled by the boiling of his blood, Harry analyzed his situation.
He was supposed to meet with Bellatrix soon. She certainly wouldn’t melt the way Narcissa did at his smile. She’d be far harder to fool, and however Harry got here, he was sure getting found out would lead to disaster. Channeling memories of Malfoy, Harry practiced a look of cool indifference. He’d always liked that expression on the other boy. It was kind of sexy when his brow lifted just so and--
Gah! What am I thinking? Quickly, he shifted his expression to the dreaded smirk. He was perfecting his sneer when a loud pop sounded from the other room. Blinky must have arrived. She peeked her head around the door, large ears flopping.
“Is Master Draco wanting anything else, sir?” she squeaked.
“No, that’ll be all. Thank you.”
The house-elf’s eyes widened in shock and Harry caught his mistake too late. Malfoy would never thank a house-elf. That realization brought Harry back to his earlier seething. Blinky was dressed in a ratty old pillowcase. He didn’t understand how the Malfoys could treat their elves so poorly. Perhaps he could free this one like he did Dobby. It might get Malfoy into trouble. He practiced the smirk again at that.
“You is very welcome, Master Draco, sir!” Blinky was bouncing. “If you is needing anything else, just ask and Blinky will be there!” Harry didn’t point out that she was required to do that. Another pop and she was gone.
He turned back to his reflection, wondering how Malfoy would react to the slip-up. He could almost hear the mutterings of Stupid Potter... He returned his attention to the mirror, trying to find what was wrong with his appearance. Malfoy’s soft features looked even more feminine with Harry controlling them--more open. But that wasn’t it.
When it hit him, he couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out. Bed head. Even Malfoy couldn’t wake up with perfect hair. Spotting a tube of gel, Harry began to slick back his hair. It took fifteen minutes to get it right, and Harry admired the amount of energy Malfoy put into his appearance. In comparison, Harry’s roll-out-of-bed-and-run-a-comb-through-once method was rather slobbish.
...Did he just compliment Maloy’s grooming habits? He was losing it.
Harry snagged a piece of toast from the platter Blinky left and wandered over to the closest. It was across the bedroom through a set of double doors. He gaped when they swung open. The closet was nearly as big as the bedroom itself and was impeccably organized. Of course, Harry thought with distaste. The spoiled brat...
“Blinky!” he called, knowing he could never hope to pick out a suitable outfit with so many options. She cheerfully popped into view.
“Yes, sir?”
Harry debated how to address her--as a Malfoy or with the courtesy of a decent human being. He decided on middle-ground. “Would you pick out an outfit suitable for meeting my aunt?”
Blinky frowned slightly, looking almost worried. “Is Master Draco feeling okay?”
Apparently he’d done something wrong. “Pardon?”
Blinky looked at her toes. “Well, Master Draco usually likes to pick out his own clothes. Master Draco is always telling Blinky how important it is for wizards of status to know how to dress.” She looked up nervously and threw in a quick “sir!” at the end.
Caught in his lie, Harry froze, thinking. Part of him wanted to snicker at the Slytherin’s obsession with fashion. Malfoy was such a girl. The other half wanted to run away as fast as possible, knowing he had aroused suspicions. Could he tell her the truth?
“Blinky, did you know Dobby when he worked here?”
Blinky blinked, true to her name. “Of course Blinky did. Dobby was Blinky’s bestest friend, sir.”
“Right, well did he ever talk to you about Harry Potter?”
Blinky’s face grew even more puzzled. “Dobby did, sir. You is always talking to the house-elves about Harry Potter.”
“What?” Harry asked, wondering what that could mean. Perhaps Malfoy spent his days plotting ways to destroy him with the house-elves. Brushing it aside, he said, “Nevermind. Blinky, if I tell you something, will you promise to keep it a secret?”
The elf shifted from foot to foot. “Master Draco knows Blinky is loyal to her masters, sir.”
Harry nodded in thought. He had suspected as much--she was loyal to the family, not to an individual. But since only a direct question from the “masters” would make her give up the information, he decided it was safe to tell her. It was unlikely Narcissa would interrogate Blinky on the identity of their son. He only had to hope she’d remain loyal after she found out the truth. Would family loyalty still work if he was technically a Potter?
“Listen, I’m not Draco.” The name sounded strange on his tongue. “I don’t know what happened, but I woke up here a few moments ago and I need your help. I’m Harry Potter.”
Blinky’s eyes widened--an impressive feat given their naturally large size--and she rushed forwards to shake his hand. “Blinky is honored to meet you, sir! Blinky has heard many great things about Harry Pott--”
“That’s wonderful,” he interrupted. “Blinky, I need you to help me pretend to be Draco. Can you do that?”
Blinky nodded vigorously. “Yes, sir.”
She walked into the closet and pointed at a few clothing items before disappearing to let him dress. The end product was a dark ensemble that contrasted nicely with his pale skin. He admired the way they complimented Malfoy’s figure and spent another minute convincing himself he hadn’t.
When he finally made his way out of the bedroom, he was determined to use his situation to the fullest and get some answers. It took him less than a minute to realize he was completely and utterly lost. The endless rooms and hallways twisted in dizzying patterns, and a certain outspoken painting commented on the circular nature of his path each time he passed. Harry was nearly ready to tear the painting from the wall when he remembered Blinky.
She appeared at his call and led him in a complex route that emptied at the center of a balcony. To the left and right were sets of spiraling staircases. Blinky pointed to a set of double doors below. Harry thanked her and descended the stairs alone.
While the Malfoy Manor was undeniably beautiful, it also felt impersonal and cold. It was difficult to imagine growing up here. He pictured a young Draco Malfoy crawling across the dark marble floors and felt a pang of sadness for the boy. The feeling disappeared when he thought of all the horrible things Malfoy had done to Harry’s friends. There was no excuse for his behavior. Harry had to remember that.
Pulling a cool mask over his features, he knocked on the rich wood. The hollow sound echoed eerily in the large space.
“Enter.”
Harry opened the door to Lucius’ study and strutted in with his best Malfoy swagger. Bellatrix stood before a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf, fingering through the numerous volumes. Harry tried to keep his anger in check. This was the woman who killed Sirius. Who destroyed his last chance at a family. His hands curled into fists.
“I see you took your time,” Bellatrix commented, lifting a brow.
“Well, I had to look my best.” Harry tried for lazy confidence as he sat in a leather chair.
Her features hardened. “Get rid of that attitude and show some respect, boy.”
Harry opened his mouth to bite back a retort but remembered where he was-- who he was. Malfoy wouldn’t talk back to his elders, would he? That required courage, something a Slytherin like Malfoy had none of. Swallowing his irritation, he let out a quiet, “I’m sorry, Auntie Bella.”
She didn’t react other than a small “hmph,” but an amount of sick pleasure lit her eyes at his submission. The woman glanced out the window, checking the sun’s position. “It is nearly time.” Harry didn’t dare ask for what. “Don’t mess this up. The Dark Lord--”
Harry hissed internally. His suspicions were right. Malfoy was a junior Death Eater, following in the footsteps of his perfect father.
“--expects your full cooperation. Whatever he asks of you, you will obey without protest.” It must have looked like Harry was going to respond because Bellatrix said, “We will not have this argument again. As a Malfoy, you will fulfill your duty to your family and to the pureblood race. It is your job to make up for your father’s mistakes.” And with that, the door blew open. Bellatrix stood smoothly, curtsying as a cackle escaped her lips. “My Lord.”
Voldemort smiled.
x*x*X*x*x
Stupid Potter. That was Draco’s current thought as he sat in a small room at number four, Privet Drive. This wasn’t how the spell was supposed to work. Of course somehow Potter had to go and mess it up.
He had awoken only moments ago to the shrill sounds of a woman screaming. Blinking his eyes open to a blur of colors, his first thought was ironically, I wonder if this is what Potter sees without his glasses . When he fumbled for his wand and instead found a pair of beaten-up spectacles, he realized just how well this situation mimicked Potter’s experience. The striking white owl caged in the corner made everything click.
Oh, how he hated that boy.
When the knocking and screeching came again, he finally managed to drag himself out of bed. The bedroom was ridiculously tiny--smaller even than Draco’s bathroom. He wondered why the Golden Boy would choose to live in such abominable conditions.
It turned out Potter’s wardrobe was even worse. Not that he expected better with the way the boy dresses, but it was oddly satisfying to see its meager contents. Draco tugged on an oversized T-shirt, mourning the disappearance of Potter’s bare torso beneath the fabric--simply because the shirt was so hideous. That was all. Of course.
His day worsened when he realized he was in a muggle house. And the banshee woman--he refused to learn her name out of principle--expected him to cook! When he merely stared at the controls with thinly veiled contempt, the walrus-like man lectured him on his attitude. Draco retorted that the man could get off his fat arse and make breakfast himself if he cared so much.
He was promptly sent to his room for the rest of the day with a warning that he would be skipping the day’s meals. He imagined that punishment worked well on Potter, who never seemed to quit eating. Or perhaps that was why he always ate so much at Hogwarts. Draco didn’t care about the food since he didn’t eat much anyway, but he hated not being able to hex that walrus. At the manor, his parents’ magic kept his own from being detected. It was a privilege that came with being pureblood, and one he sorely missed. Stupid underage wizard laws. Stupid muggles. Stupid Potter.
He spent his morning rifling through Potter’s belongings. This quickly bored him, as everything was so very muggle. And even those things were very few. Surely Potter had more than this. Draco knew the Potters had nearly as much money at Gringotts as Draco did in his personal vault--though, of course, they couldn’t compare to the Malfoy vault. Perhaps Potter simply kept the rest of his belongings elsewhere.
The latter half of the day was spent conversing with Potter’s owl. It didn’t speak back of course, but it was nice to have someone to talk to, even if it was a bird, and Potter’s bird at that. Early on, the owl seemed perplexed at Draco’s tone--probably far more venomous than Potter’s ever was--but both bird and boy relaxed after a while.
Tears were running down his cheeks in rivulets at the end of his confessions. As soon as he realized this, he wiped at the tears half-heartedly, sniffling. Malfoys did not show weakness. Even so, he didn’t stop the tears from falling--because he was talking to a bird and he was tired of being a Malfoy anyways. He wished his mother were here, but knew he’d put on a strong face for her if she were. He wouldn’t let her see him cry. Because she’d blame herself. And that would be far worse than suffering the pain alone.
When Draco went to sleep that night, it hit him just how lonely he was. And for the first time, as he curled in on himself to mask the chill, he realized maybe the Golden Boy was lonely too.
Draco woke to find himself in Harry Potter’s body once again. He didn’t know how he felt about that. Part of him despised being in the skin of his worst enemy, but part of him knew anywhere was better than home. And even being Potter was better than having to suffer through another day as Draco Malfoy, the Boy-Who-Lived-to-Serve-The-Bloody-Dark-Lord.
This morning, the woman’s shrieking included an encore about tardiness and being stuck here for the rest of the year. Draco realized with a shock that it was September first. Excited to get back to Hogwarts after a summer with his aunt and a day with muggles, he dressed quickly. For once he was thankful for Potter’s subpar grooming habits. He grabbed the owl’s cage and nearly skipped down the creaking stairs. Of course, he would deny this later, as Malfoys don’t skip.
Potter’s trunk was being packed into a car by the walrus. Where was that when he was bored yesterday? He surely could have found something to amuse him in there. With a huff, Draco climbed into the muggle car for the ride to King’s Cross Station.
He found the journey to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters to be dreadfully tedious. As it was his first time getting there without the use of Side-Along Apparition, he figured it would be exciting and new. He was dead wrong. Muggle transport was not an experience he wanted to repeat. He amused himself by explaining magic to three very unwilling muggles. By the time they dropped him at the station, the walrus was purpling and the banshee could barely control her quivering lip. Their child--if that lump could be called such--had fainted in horror ten minutes in, and woke only when Draco slammed the door shut behind him.
Finally alone, Draco let his mind wander to Hogwarts. It had always been more of a home than the manor. Although he often missed his mother while away, he had friends to fill the void. His excitement doubled as he imagined sitting by the fire in the Slytherin common room, chatting with Pansy and Blaise over butterbeers. It was their annual tradition, and he could hardly wait to rant about Potter and share stories of their summers.
A screech from the train wheels brought him back to the present. The sound made him smile softly. He’d always loved the sound of the Hogwarts Express. He waded through the mass of returning students and nervous first years saying goodbye to their parents. The sight brought him back to his own first year. That was when he still believed his father was without flaw. Before the Dark Lord rose again. A time when Draco’s biggest concern was the green-eyed boy who refused his hand. When he could be proud of the Malfoy name.
A bob of black hair popped into existence in front of him. He poked the newly-Apparated girl in the back. Pansy turned with a scowl. “Watch it, Potter.”
His happiness drained. Oh. Oh. He was going to kill Potter--once he found out how to switch bodies, of course. He didn’t much care to damage his own flawless skin.
“Harry!” a female voice called out, far too cheerfully. Wonderful. The Mudblood. A spot of orange behind her warned of Weasley’s arrival as well.
“How was your summer, mate?”
Draco was thinking about telling the Weasel to sod off--maybe cause a little trouble in paradise--when his eyes locked on...well, his own. And everything went black.
x*x*X*x*x
Harry woke to the worried faces of his two best friends.
“Harry, what happened? Was it your scar?” Hermione asked, hands on his shoulders. He pulled out of her grasp, looking around for Malfoy so he could give him a piece of his mind, only to find he’d been moved to a train compartment.
“How did I get here?” Harry asked, pointedly avoiding Hermione’s question.
“Ron carried you,” Hermione said, blushing as she shot Ron a proud smile.
“Carried me?” Harry asked dumbly, thoughts still muddled.
“Don’t sound so surprised, mate. You’re scrawny.” Ron punched Harry’s arm lightly as he spoke and the dark haired boy let out a small laugh. Hermione sat back, apparently confident he wasn’t going to faint again.
“Did Voldemort--”
“No, Hermione, I’m fine. Just not feeling too well is all.”
The bushy-haired girl worried at the inside of her cheek but nodded. “Alright, just check in with Madame Pomfrey after dinner, okay?”
Harry nodded, his mind already wandering back to the person he was trying to avoid. His worst imaginings were all true. Malfoy was a Death Eater.
“Mate, sorry to leave you, but we’ve got to head over to the Prefect’s carriage.”
“Go ahead. I’ll be fine.” He knew how pleased Ron was to be a prefect, especially since he would share his duties with Hermione. The fact that his two best friends were prefects made him jealous at first, and he worried he’d become a third wheel, but he was happy for them now. Ron needed something of his own to be proud of, and Harry hoped it would give his friends a push in the right direction romantically.
Once they left, Harry was called into Slughorn’s compartment. He offered greetings to Ginny and Neville, and attempted to pay attention to his companions. Ginny shared her horror at the engagement of her brother to Fleur Delacour, and Neville talked about a wizarding museum he visited with his gran.
Harry chatted easily along with them, but his thoughts kept trailing back to a certain blond Slytherin. He would confront Malfoy about what he saw as soon at the feast ended. Letting his thoughts simmer down once he reached that decision, he tuned back into the conversation, feeling comfort at reuniting with his friends after so long. It was good to be back.
Harry was involved in a stare down with Malfoy all the way through the Sorting and Dumbledore’s opening speech. He barely heard the usual warnings and didn’t notice a single first year’s house. Even the delicious food couldn’t capture his attention. The two rivals locked eyes, fiery green on molten silver, and the Great Hall to crackled with electricity. Harry broke eye contact only once to pretend he was paying attention to his fellow Gryffindors. He smiled at all the right points in his one-sided conversation with Ginny and didn’t even feel bad about it, though he surely would later.
Malfoy stood and left the Hall a few minutes into the feast. Excusing himself under the guise of seeing Madame Pomfrey, he followed after the Slytherin. He didn’t even pause to notice Madame Pomfrey, still at the staff table enjoying the feast.
Just as the doors to the Great Hall shut behind him, Harry saw a shock of blond hair disappear into one of the classrooms. He knew he was expected to follow. His footsteps echoed loudly in the empty hallway. He ducked inside quickly. It was a Charms classroom. Once the door was locked with a quick spell, Harry whirled on Malfoy. The boy faced him in defiance, standing directly in the middle of the room. His hand twitched as if to reach for his wand.
“I was right about you,” Harry said, readying to make a grab for his own wand if necessary. “You’re just the Death Eater I always thought you were.” Malfoy froze. Harry took this as confirmation of his claim. “That’s right, Malfoy. I know your little secret. I saw everything. Voldemort. The Dark Mark, the--”
“What the hell are you talking about, Potter?”
“Don’t play dumb. I know everything.”
Malfoy’s eyes were wide with fear, probably scared Harry would give away his secrets. “Well, enlighten me because I have no fucking idea.”
Harry faltered in his taunts, unaware Malfoy’s features could show such pure terror. When his gaze darted towards the other boy’s forearm, the blond paled even further, looking almost translucent. He tore at his sleeve frantically. A choked gagging noise made Harry flinch. The Slytherin squeezed his eyes shut at the tattoo on his arm. He was shaking uncontrollably, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood. He didn’t wipe away the drop that ran down his chin.
Harry didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t exactly comfort his nemesis, but he’d never seen such vulnerability before, and he couldn’t just stand there and watch either.
“...Malfoy?”
The Slytherin exploded. Within milliseconds, Harry’s back was pressed against the wall, Malfoy pinning him to the stone. “What the hell, Potter! You took the fucking Mark?!?” Harry wanted to protest, but he was so confused and Malfoy was so very angry. “You know what I did when I was in your body? I talked to your fucking owl! And you bound me into servitude to the darkest wizard of all time? The fuck, Potter!”
Harry finally regained some of his speech. “You would have done it anyways,” he said lamely.
“The hell I would! I was planning to run away when the stupid spell backfired and put me in your--”
“Spell?” Harry couldn’t hide his curiosity, and for a moment it distracted him from Malfoy’s anger.
The grey eyes froze over for a moment. “Nevermind.”
Harry, realizing that discussion was finished, returned to the previous topic. “But your father--”
“Fuck, Potter! I don’t give a damn about my father! I’m not him!” Malfoy’s eyes lost some of their fire and he loosened his hold on Harry. “I’m not my father,” he whispered. And then, he did something that scared Harry far more than his aggression did. Malfoy started sobbing, head buried in Harry’s shoulder as he let out all of his fear and pain and anger. Before Harry realized what he was doing, he was holding Draco in his arms, “shh” ing like Narcissa had done for him only a day earlier.
Harry’s mind raced, guilt at his fatal mistake tearing at his chest as he clung almost desperately to the shaking form of his rival. It didn’t freak him out nearly as much as he thought it would. Harry realized--as he should have the day before, if he’d only taken a moment to see it--that Draco was just a boy. A boy who was alone. A boy with a future planned out for him without his permission. A boy remarkably like Harry.
When Draco’s sobs stopped, neither one let go. It was like they were suspended in a moment out of time--holding onto each other because only they understood what it was like to never have a choice.
Draco’s breathing was less shaky now. He nuzzled into Harry’s neck and the dark haired boy tried to ignore the way it made his heart beat faster. He smelled faintly of vanilla, and Harry was drowning in it.
“I’m so sorry, Draco.”
The blond lifted his head after a moment and Harry almost wished he hadn’t said anything. His hair was ruffled at the crown of his head. Harry wanted to run his fingers through it, which was ridiculous if he thought about it, since he’d done so only that morning when he gelled and combed the blond locks. Even more than that, he wanted to hold the other boy in his arms again. He was really regretting speaking.
But then Draco gave a small smile, and Harry felt his knees go weak. He now understood Narcissa’s change yesterday. The way she melted before him. Those beautiful features were breathtaking when the boy smiled. They were mere inches apart. Blood trickled a dark path down his chin from when he bit his lip earlier, and the Gryffindor felt the strange urge to lick it off. If he simply leaned forwards... Where had that come from?
“Goodnight, Harry,” Draco said softly, before taking off into the castle. Harry let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, a single word on his mind as he walked toward Gryffindor Tower.
Beautiful.