Chapter Text
The room felt foreign and hostile, even though it was Gryffindor’s common room.
Harry had grown up here. This was where he had taken his first steps and where he had chosen his path. This was where he had met Hermione and Ron, where he had first learned what friendship and loyalty meant. This was where he had cried when Cho Chang broke his heart in first year. This was where he had mourned his father, whom he had never truly known. And here, despite all doubts and fears, his mother had taught him to believe in the light, even when darkness seemed closer.
Home.
But now it felt more like a prison, a cage from which no one could escape, no matter how hard they tried.
The walls, draped in crimson velvet with golden patterns, seemed to have darkened. The golden threads had dulled, and the lines of the motifs appeared fractured. The chairs, once soft and inviting, now felt rigid: the armrests chilled his hands, and the fabric, once velvety, scratched harshly against the skin. The fire in the hearth burned brightly at first, but gradually it dwindled, thick and sluggish, the tongues of flame seeming to fade, merging with the gloom.
The air had grown heavier. It hung like a thick veil, charged with a foreign will. Gryffindor’s common room had come alive — and it was clearly displeased.
The portraits on the walls, lifeless not long ago, began to shift: the figures straightened, their eyes following every movement. The old heroes, painted centuries ago, seemed to awaken, their gazes growing colder, more judgmental. One of them — a stern man with a red beard — moved his lips, but no words could be heard. Only the motion, as if a curse had silently broken free from his mouth.
Shadows thickened. In the corners of the room they became denser, and at some point, it seemed as if they moved on their own. Black silhouettes spread across the carpets, climbed the walls, and stretched long fingers toward the chairs where the Slytherins sat.
Draco leaned back in his chair, trying to appear indifferent, but his eyes kept flicking toward the dark corners. He felt as if he were being assessed, weighed, tested for resilience.
Blaze smirked lazily, but his hand involuntarily rested on the armrest, ready to spring at a moment’s notice. His gaze lingered on one of the portraits, where a knight clenched a sword — and he swore it twitched ever so slightly.
Theo, sitting opposite, remained motionless, but his breathing had grown faster. He stared at the floor, at the carpet bearing the lion’s crest, and saw the crimson color darken, deepen — as if the carpet were drinking in the shadows.
Harry felt it more strongly than anyone. As if the room itself — his past, his memories, his “home” — was rising against him. Every breath became torture, every detail a reminder that he was a stranger even where he had grown up.
And it seemed more and more: stay in this room any longer, and it would never let anyone leave.
The fire in the hearth flared brighter, but it brought no light — on the contrary, the shadows thickened, sharpened. It was as if the room itself had decided to suffocate them, to force them to confess guilt.
And then the first voice cut through the silence.
“Intruders…”
A raspy, elderly voice, seeming to come from deep within the frame of the portrait. The man with the thick red beard leaned forward, his eyes glowing like embers.
“You have no place here. You come with evil intentions. Thieves. Defilers.”
Another portrait joined immediately — a woman in an ancient gown, her face twisted with anger:
“Gryffindor does not tolerate traitors! It does not tolerate lies!”
As if on cue, the others came alive. Noise erupted instantly: dozens of voices spoke at once. Some low and rumbling, like thunder, others high and piercing, like shrieks.
“Slytherins! You carry poison with you, as always!”
“You came to destroy what was built with blood and honor!”
“Begone! Begone!”
Draco snapped upright, his fingers digging into the armrests. He wanted to reply, but the voices were too loud, too relentless.
And then the murmur shifted. Some of the portraits turned toward Harry. Their gazes were heavier than shackles.
“And you, Potter…” — the voice was cold as ice water. — “You failed them. You failed everyone.”
“You were weak when you should have been strong!”
“You could not protect the house. You could not protect your family.”
The shouts multiplied, overlapping into a resounding chorus of accusation.
“Weakling!”
“Traitor!”
“Unworthy of the name Gryffindor!”
And then one of the portraits — a young man with fiery red hair and a face uncannily similar to Harry’s — leaned forward and whispered so quietly that only he could hear:
“You failed me too.”
Harry’s heart felt as if it had been squeezed in an icy hand. He froze, unable even to draw a breath.
Then the murmur surged toward Lily. She sat on the cold floor, hugging herself as if trying to hold together the remnants of her being. Her hair was tangled and stuck to her face, her skin pale, almost translucent, and a thin crack of dried blood marred her lips. Beneath the long sleeve, a fresh wound could be seen — slowly darkening, leaving a damp stain on the fabric. Lily looked as if the room had already drained all warmth and strength from her.
She did not cry — the tears had long since run dry, leaving only empty, clouded eyes. In that gaze, there was no anger, no protest, not even fear. Only a weary acknowledgment: she had already lost.
The murmur pressed on her harder than anyone else.
“You—weakness!” — one portrait shouted, its face twisted with rage.
“You’re an empty shell!” — another added.
“Better you had died instead of James!”
“You didn’t protect Harry!”
“You didn’t protect yourself!”
Each word struck her like a whip. Lily drew her head into her shoulders, pressing her hands to her ears, but it did no good — the voices resonated inside her skull, vibrated in her chest, and shattered her bones from within.
And the louder they screamed, the more clearly Harry could see her falling apart. Her breathing became ragged, her shoulders jerked, her lips moved barely perceptibly, as if she were trying to explain herself, but no words came. Only silence and emptiness.
The room seemed to revel in her weakness. Shadows crept closer, sliding across the floor to her feet, rising along her back like black tentacles. They reached for her hair, her face, and it seemed that one more moment and they would pierce their cold steel straight into her heart.
She did not resist. She simply sat there, broken and shattered, a stranger even to herself.
And there was a terrifying truth in that: the room wasn’t just accusing her — it was speaking the truth Lily had long believed herself.
The murmur pressed even harder, and it seemed the walls themselves trembled with hatred. Lily sat on the cold floor, broken, shattered, as if all life had left her along with the portraits’ screams. Shadows wrapped around her shoulders, touched her hair, slid across her face, as if wanting to consume her completely.
Harry sat the entire time in Hermione’s embrace. She held him tightly, feeling his body tremble with tension and fear. And yet, they clung to each other, seeking comfort, if not salvation.
And then the murmur reached its climax, merging into an endless chorus of accusations. Harry felt everything inside him tighten and ignite at the same time. He couldn’t bear it.
“Enough!” — the cry burst from his lips so loudly that even the murmur fell silent for a moment.
Harry broke free from Hermione’s embrace, his body tensing, his face twisted in despair, fists clenched so tightly his nails dug into his palms. Hermione tried to hold him, to protect him, gripping his shoulders, but the rage and pain within him were stronger.
“Leave her alone!” — Harry’s voice trembled, but grew stronger with each passing second. “You call her weak? My mother — weak?!”
The portraits froze, dozens of eyes staring directly at him.
“And where were you?!” — stepping forward, Harry shouted, his words striking like blows. “You’ve hung on these walls for centuries, watching lives fall apart, and what have you done? Only judged! Only waited to condemn those still alive!”
“Don’t you dare say my mother is weak!” — Harry’s scream tore through the room. “She went through all of this, and she is still here! And you will respect her as I respect her!”
The flames in the fireplace surged upward, the shadows trembled as if retreating. The walls shook along with his shout, his pain, and his fury.
Harry turned to Lily. She sat on the floor, broken and exhausted, but her eyes met his for the first time in a long while. There was fear in them, but also hope.
“Mom…” — Harry stepped closer, kneeling beside her. “It’s going to be okay.”
For a moment, it seemed everything had calmed. That they were finally safe. That the world which had collapsed still stood.
For a moment… Then a loud, threatening sound echoed through the hall.
Draco lazily clapped his hands, a mocking smile on his face. His movements were slow, deliberate, as if every gesture was a reminder of his power. He rose from his chair, squared his shoulders, and walked several steps across the room, his gaze sharp and cold.
“Funny, watching your little drama,” he said, smirking ever so slightly. “Honestly, I was curious. But don’t get any illusions… I’m not here for entertainment. I have business.”
Behind him, in the shadows of the room, the rest of the Slytherins stood silently.
Blaise stood straight as a statue, his icy gaze piercing anyone who dared meet it. He seemed uninterested in the commotion around him.
Theodore, however, leaned against the wall, tilting his head slightly, barely hiding a smile. His gaze kept flicking toward Hermione, lingering on the curves of her figure, winking at her quietly, as if playing a private game only she could notice. Hermione felt a faint warmth on her cheeks and quickly averted her eyes, trying not to show embarrassment, but she couldn’t ignore this subtle, almost daring flirtation.
For her.
The room felt compressed by the air: the walls reflected anxiety and tension, every sound — the creak of furniture, the faint rustle of clothing — amplified the sense of threat. Harry clenched his fists, feeling both irritation and anxiety rising within him. Lily, on the other hand, remained composed, trying to maintain calm, but her eyes kept darting between Draco and Theodore, assessing the threat and trying to understand what drove these Slytherins.
Draco stepped forward, his gait confident and graceful, each movement making it feel as though he occupied the entire space, his presence pressing down on everyone there. Behind him, his allies seemed to come alive: Blaise’s silent presence was almost a tangible wall, while Theodore’s quiet flirtation added a strange, uneasy layer to the scene — both threat and game, perceived only by Hermione.
The air was taut to the breaking point: every breath, every movement of Draco, every glance from Theodore wove a web of tension in which Harry and Lily felt trapped, powerless. Hermione understood this and subtly clenched her fist, struggling against her inner agitation.
“I…” — Lily’s voice wavered, a subtle tremor that did not escape the Slytherins’ notice.
“You’d better tell the truth,” Draco took a few steps forward. His boots echoed sharply against the stone floor, a sound that seemed to pierce the silence. He tilted his head slightly forward, and for the first time in the last hour, there was a flicker in his gaze beyond cold indifference. “Or I swear, death will seem like salvation.”
The air felt heavier, the walls pressing in, leaving no room to escape. Lily felt an invisible noose tighten around her throat. She straightened, desperately trying to maintain composure, but a shadow of fear flickered in her eyes. Harry noticed it and nearly lost control — his hands trembled, fingers digging into his palms until they ached. He was ready to leap forward, but restrained himself, knowing that any rash move could shatter everything.
Blaise, motionless and grim, tilted his head slightly, watching the scene like an executioner awaiting orders.
Theodore, playing with the pause, cast another quick, burning glance at Hermione and allowed himself a barely noticeable smirk. His silent flirtation seemed almost an insult to the moment itself, but it was this subtle game that made the atmosphere even more dangerous: beneath his lazy demeanor lay a readiness to act.
“You think your little secrets will stay with you?” Draco continued, his voice low and threatening, yet for the first time, something personal, almost painful, seeped through. “You think your version of events is stronger than the truth? Stronger than blood?”
He stopped directly in front of Lily, so close that only a thin, fragile line separated them, delicate as glass. His breath brushed her skin, and Lily felt as if the room had shrunk to just these two figures — herself and the heir of the Malfoys.
Harry stepped forward, unable to contain himself:
“Draco, enough!” His voice broke, hoarse with emotion.
But Draco didn’t even turn his head. His attention was fixed on Lily. His eyes were cold, yet deep beneath layers of contempt and rage, a flicker of pain burned — the kind he never allowed himself to show, the pain that made his threats even more terrifying.
“Confess,” he hissed. “Do it yourself. Because if I find out the truth any other way — you’ll regret every breath you’ve taken since his death.”
Even Theodore stopped smiling at that moment. A deadly silence hung over the room, broken only by Lily’s quickened breaths, betraying her continued struggle — with him, with herself.
“I…” Lily swallowed hard, her voice trembling, but her eyes ignited with determination. “I didn’t kill your father, Draco.”
He raised an eyebrow, a smirk flickering across his face.
“Didn’t kill him?” Cold laughter slithered through the room. “You think I’d believe that?”
Lily stepped forward, meeting his gaze almost up close. Fear still trembled somewhere deep inside her, but steel surfaced.
“You can think whatever you want about me, but I am not a killer. If I wanted to get rid of Lucius, I would have done it openly, not in secret.” Her voice grew stronger with each word, and even Harry felt the tension pierce him from within. “I have no reason to kill him. I gain nothing, I hide no secrets.”
Blaze frowned, clearly not expecting such straightforwardness. Theodore lifted the corner of his lips, but his gaze for a moment left Hermione and slid over Lily with curiosity.
“Impressive,” he drawled lazily. “Usually under pressure, people stutter, they cry… but you fight with words.”
Draco snapped toward him sharply:
“Silence.” His voice was sharp, cutting, like a knife. Then he turned back to Lily, his eyes burning. “You really want me to believe that you have no blood on your hands?”
Lily clenched her fists. Her breathing became ragged, but her words came out firmly, like blows.
“I’m guilty of many things. Of failing to prevent the deaths of others. Of trusting the wrong people. I have lied, betrayed, stolen. I am guilty of many things, but not for your father’s death. I did not kill Lucius.”
She looked him straight in the eyes, and for the first time, Harry noticed that there was no usual cold mask in her gaze. There was despair, and at the same time — a desire to prove the truth, to stand firm despite the pressure.
Draco froze. His lips trembled, but he said nothing. The tension in the room was so thick it felt as if the air could be cut with a knife.
“I did not kill Lucius!” Lily’s voice shook, but it sounded firm.
Draco slowly narrowed his eyes. His face remained a mask, but in his gaze flickered a cold, merciless flame.
“Lies,” he hissed. “You lie to my face, hoping I’ll believe you. You’ve always been clever… but not that clever.”
His hand slid to his robe, and a moment later the wand was in his palm. He lifted it slowly, with a deliberate grace, as if savoring the way fear spread through the room.
“Draco, no!” Harry stepped forward, shielding Lily. His eyes blazed with fury. “You wouldn’t dare!”
“You think you can stop me?” Draco smirked. “You’ve always been good at heroic poses, Potter. But this isn’t a scene from your silly stories, nor a quarrel on the schoolyard.”
Harry sharply drew his wand, and at that same instant, Blaise stepped forward. His movement was quick, like a serpent’s strike. One short spell—and Harry’s body jerked as if bound by steel chains. He fell to his knees, immobilized, his eyes burning with helpless rage.
“HARRY!” Hermione shouted, raising her wand. But before she could utter a word, Theodore was beside her. With a smirk that carried both pleasure and mockery, he lightly grasped her wrist—and simultaneously whispered a short incantation.
“Petrificus.”
Hermione’s body was enveloped in a pale light, and she froze like a marble statue, her eyes darting in terror and despair. Theodore, pleased with his work, leaned close and almost whispered:
“More beautiful than I expected.”
Draco stood before Lily, now unhindered by anyone. Harry and Hermione were immobilized, their allies behind them like shadows, ready for any command. His wand was pointed straight at Lily’s heart.
“Last chance,” he said quietly, though his voice carried louder than any scream. “Confess. Or I’ll make you.”
Draco’s wand was aimed directly at Lily’s chest. Silence pressed against their ears, broken only by the heavy breathing of those present.
“Last chance,” Draco repeated coldly. “Confess.”
Lily remained silent. Her heart pounded, but her gaze stayed firm.
“Don’t you dare!” Harry’s voice cut through the tension. He was still restrained by Blaise’s spell, his body unresponsive, but his mouth and eyes were free. His voice carried a desperate, wild plea. “Draco, please… I beg you! Don’t do this!”
He was gasping, his words breaking into a rasp. His pride, his usual stubbornness—everything had crumbled. Before him was no longer an opponent, only a person holding Lily’s life in his hands.
“I’m begging you!” Harry struggled to turn his head, his eyes glistening with moisture. “If you want my life—take it! But don’t touch her! She’s not guilty, do you hear me?! She hasn’t done anything wrong!”
He was nearly choking on his own plea, words spilling out in an uncontrollable torrent.
“I’m begging you, Draco… do whatever you want, just let her go. Please… I… I’ll kneel before you, I swear… just don’t kill her.”
There was nothing left in his voice of the former “Chosen One,” no heroism—only raw, defenseless pain.
Draco froze. His hand holding the wand didn’t tremble, but his eyes flashed for a moment—a mix of contempt and unexpected satisfaction. He watched Harry Potter break before his eyes.
Blaise glanced at Draco, his face still stone-like, but a shadow of respect flickered in his eyes—not for Harry, but for how Draco had brought the situation to this point. Theodore, meanwhile, smirked slightly again at Hermione, as if enjoying her despair, watching her paralyzed and horrified as she followed Harry and Lily.
“Hm,” Draco tilted his head slightly, his voice quiet, almost insinuating. “Now that sounds honest, Potter. Now I can truly hear you.”
He stepped even closer to Lily, the wand touching the fabric of her robe near her heart.
“But your tears and pleas may not be enough.”
Draco’s wand pressed against Lily’s chest. She didn’t even attempt to step back, only staring directly into his eyes, stubborn and resolute. But Harry, bound by Blaise’s magic, writhed on the floor, his voice breaking into a desperate shout:
“Please! I beg you, Draco! If you hate someone—hate me! Take my life, torture me, but don’t touch her!”
Draco lowered his gaze to Harry, a cold smirk sliding across his lips.
He stepped back from Lily, but didn’t lower his wand. His voice was soft, yet even more terrifying:
“So, you’re ready to die for her? Ready to suffer for her? Ready to throw away your pride?” He leaned in slowly, meeting Harry’s trembling gaze. “Prove it.”
“I… I’ll do anything,” Harry exhaled, his voice breaking. “Anything, Draco, anything… just let her go.”
Draco squinted slightly, as if savoring every word.
“Anything, you say?.. I love promises like that. Usually, they’re worth less than the air they’re spoken with. But you…” He let his gaze slide over Harry, pinned to the floor. “…you’re not lying now.”
He straightened, turning to Blaise and Theodore.
“Look, our hero has finally gotten down on his knees. And for whom? For the one who lies in his face herself.”
Blaise smirked at the corner of his mouth but said nothing. Theodore, twirling his wand between his fingers, kept his eyes on Hermione and quietly added:
“I’d say… touching. Almost makes you believe in love.”
Harry lifted his head, his voice breaking into a shout:
“I’m begging you, Malfoy! If you want, put a curse on me, burn a mark—I’ll accept anything! But don’t touch her!”
Silence fell over the room, broken only by Harry’s ragged breathing. Lily stared at him with wide eyes, a mixture of horror and pain—watching Harry destroy himself for her was unbearable.
Draco nodded slowly, as if agreeing with himself.
“Interesting… What if I command you to beg further? If I make you crawl to me and kiss my boots while your mother watches? Will you do it?”
Harry clenched his teeth, his face pale. But he whispered:
“If it saves her—yes.”
“If it saves her—yes,” Harry whispered again.
The words hung in the air like a heavy sentence. Even Blaise raised an eyebrow slightly—not in sympathy, but in surprise: seeing Potter break himself completely was a rare sight. Theodore squinted and quietly chuckled, glancing at Hermione:
“Do you hear that? Your golden boy is ready to crawl. For her.”
Draco tilted his head slowly, his eyes flashing.
“Then prove it,” he whispered, each word ringing like a steel blade. “Crawl.”
Harry froze, his breath uneven. Every part of him screamed against this humiliation, but he looked again at Lily—at her face, a mixture of fear and stubbornness. And he moved. His hands, bound by magic, didn’t obey, but he strained every muscle, dragging his immobilized body forward. Inch by inch. Across the floor, teeth clenched, gasping from pain and rage—and from his own choice.
“Harry… no…” Lily exhaled, her voice trembling. “Don’t you dare.”
He lifted his gaze to her. In his eyes, there was nothing left but despair and love.
“ I have to.”
“ Enough!” Lily stepped forward sharply, placing herself between Harry and Draco. Her hands trembled, but her voice rang loud. “If you want to accuse—accuse me! But I won’t let you turn him into… into this!”
Her scream struck the silence, and even Theodore stopped smirking. Blaise frowned but remained still.
Draco looked at Lily, his face like stone. The wand was still in his hand, but he tilted his head slightly, like a predator eyeing its prey.
“You protect him… even at the cost of exposing yourself? Interesting.”
He stepped closer, almost touching her.
One more moment, and it would all be over.
“Let’s make a deal!” Harry shouted in desperation, his voice breaking into a cry as if it tore from the very depths of his pain.
Draco turned to him. A smile—cold, predatory—slid across his lips.
“A deal?” he drawled mockingly. “Interesting. And what kind of deal? What can you offer me, Potter? Life? Tears? The pride you’ve already trampled at my feet?”
Harry breathed heavily. His body was still bound by magic, but his voice suddenly gained firmness, as if a new resolve had ignited within him:
“Marriage.”
The silence fell over the room so sharply that even Blaise blinked, and Theodore stopped smirking.
“ What?” Draco’s voice was low, but for the first time all evening, genuine surprise crept into it.
“ I propose… marriage,” Harry spoke quickly, as if afraid to lose the moment. “Between me and… and you. It will be a union between our families. Between our clans. Between Gryffindor and Slytherin. Between the Potters and the Malfoys.”
Lily screamed, unable to believe her ears:
“Harry, are you out of your mind?!”
But Harry did not avert his gaze from Draco. Pain was written in his eyes, but also a cold resolve.
“ You want power, Draco? Want proof that your clan is still strong? Here it is. Marriage. Alliance. What wars and blood could never achieve.”
Draco froze, a fire flickering in his eyes. He slowly lowered his wand but did not put it away completely. His voice was quieter than usual, but no less dangerous:
“ You propose to bind your life to mine… to save her?”
Harry nodded. His breath came in short gasps, his lips trembled, but his voice was firm:
“ Yes. For her… and for peace.”
Blaise smirked softly, as if genuinely impressed for the first time. Theodore tilted his head and spoke with lazy curiosity:
“Hm… I certainly didn’t expect that.”
Draco took a step closer to Harry. His eyes shone, reflecting everything—rage, doubt, contempt… and a strange, almost painful interest.
“ Potter… You’ve just staked your entire future. For a woman who might be a killer. Are you sure you understand what you’re offering?” Draco hissed, leaning so close that Harry felt his cold breath on his face.
Harry looked straight into his eyes. No trembling, no doubts—just raw, wounded determination.
“ She is my mother,” Potter answered simply.
Those short, direct words hit the room heavier than any oath. Even the magic binding Harry’s body seemed to tremble under the tension.
Lily pressed a hand to her lips, unable to believe what her son had just said. Hermione froze, horror and admiration flickering in her eyes simultaneously.
Blaise raised an eyebrow slightly; his smirk faded for a moment. Theodore chuckled quietly, but even he tore his gaze from Hermione and stared at Harry as if seeing him truly for the first time.
And Draco… Draco stepped back, his face twisted with contradiction. For a moment, something resembling respect flashed in his eyes—then vanished, replaced by a cold smirk.
“ I see,” he said quietly. “You’re willing to sacrifice yourself for her… Even if she is a killer. Even if everything I said is true.”
Harry did not blink.
“Yes.”
Draco tilted his head to the side, as if studying every feature of Harry’s face, every trembling muscle. His smile was slow, almost dangerous.
“ You said ‘marriage,’ Potter. But words are air. I want to hear your vow. Here. Now. In front of everyone.”
Harry felt his heart drop, but he did not even try to look away. His lips were dry, his breath uneven, but his gaze remained firm.
“ Harry… don’t you dare,” Hermione burst out, her voice full of desperation. But Theodore held her firmly, almost lazily smirking.
“ Quiet, beauty,” he whispered in her ear. “The most interesting part is about to begin.”
Blaise remained silent, watching Potter as if deciding whether this boy was worth anything at all.
Draco stepped back and, with a majestic gesture, indicated the floor, as if opening the stage.
“Speak, Potter. Swear that you will take me as your husband. That the Malfoy-Potter alliance will be sealed not by blood, but by marriage.”
The silence thickened, pressing down like a stone slab. Even Lily, pale and shaken, did not dare say a word.
Harry lowered his head, closed his eyes—and gathering all that remained inside him, spoke:
“I, Harry James Potter… vow that I take Draco Malfoy as my husband. I bind my life to his, so that our clans may become one.”
The words echoed through the room. Magic, ancient and unyielding, seemed to respond to his vow itself, making the walls shiver ominously.
Draco froze. His eyes sparkled—first with triumph, then with something else, inscrutable. He slowly lowered his wand and said:
“ Now that sounds serious.”
The magic of the vow hung in the air, pressing on everyone present. The room felt almost suffocating.
Harry stood, breathing heavily, but without averting his gaze. His words could not be taken back. His fate was sealed.
A quiet laugh cut through the silence.
“ Well then, Potter… Welcome to the family.”
And with those words, he snapped his fingers. The spells binding Harry and Hermione dissipated, but brought no relief. Because now the air carried something far more terrifying.