Archive of Our Own

He started writing it on a Tuesday. Not the apologies themselves—he'd been rehearsing those in his head for months, years, rolling them around like stones in his mouth. But the list. The names. The people he needed to see before he could let himself stop.

He wrote it in the back of his potions journal, the one with the cracked leather cover and the ink stains that had been there since fourth year.

STUDENTS

1. Harry Potter
2. Hermione Granger
3. Ron Weasley
4. Neville Longbottom
5. Luna Lovegood
6. Dean Thomas
7. Seamus Finnigan
8. Parvati Patil
9. Lavender Brown
10. Katie Bell
11. Ginny Weasley
12. Pansy Parkinson
13. Theo Nott
14. Blaise Zabini
15. Gregory Goyle
16. Vincent Crabbe

TEACHERS

17. Professor McGonagall
18. Professor Dumbledore
19. Professor Trelawney
20. Hagrid
21. Professor Lupin
22. Professor Flitwick

OTHERS

23. His mother
24. Dobby

He stared at the list for a long time. Twenty-four names. Twenty-four people he'd hurt. Twenty-four apologies he owed.

He had one week.

Draco found Neville Longbottom in the greenhouse at dawn.

The air was thick with earth and crushed rosemary, something sharp underneath—the Fanged Geraniums, probably, their leaves slick with venom. Neville was on his knees in the dirt, repotting one with hands that were scratched raw, blood drying in the creases of his knuckles.

He didn't look up. "If you're here to hex me, just do it and leave."

"I'm not here to hex you."

"Then why are you here?"

Draco walked inside. He didn't sit on a stool or lean against a table. He lowered himself to the dirt floor—right there, in his expensive black robes, on the cold ground where Neville had fallen so many times.

The soil was damp. He felt it seeping through the fabric.

"In third year," Draco said, "I hexed your legs together on the stairs. You fell. You broke your wrist. Madam Pomfrey had to regrow the bone."

Neville's hands stopped moving.

"I watched you fall. I laughed." Draco's voice didn't shake. He'd said these words to himself a hundred times, in the dark, to no one. "I've thought about that moment every single day for five years. The sound you made when you hit the bottom. The way your arm bent wrong. I still hear it."

Neville turned around slowly. His face was unreadable—not angry, not sad. Just tired. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I'm sorry." Draco held his gaze. "Not because I want you to forgive me. I know I don't deserve that. I just wanted you to know that someone saw what they did to you. And that someone is ashamed."

Neville set down his trowel. He wiped his hands on his trousers, leaving dark smears of dirt and blood.

"You know what my grandmother said after the war?" Neville asked. "She said, 'At least you didn't turn out like him.' She meant you."

"She wasn't wrong."

"No," Neville agreed. "But she also didn't see the way you looked at the tower sometimes. The way you'd stand at the window and just... stare." He paused. "I saw it. From here. You'd stand up there for hours, just looking down."

Draco's throat tightened. "You never said anything."

"What was I supposed to say? 'Hey Malfoy, stop looking suicidal, it's making me uncomfortable'?" Neville shook his head. "I didn't know how to help you. I didn't even know if you deserved help."

"I didn't."

"Maybe." Neville picked up his trowel again, turned it over in his hands. "But I think about that sometimes. The way you'd stand there. And I think about how no one ever came to get you. Including me."

A long silence stretched between them. Draco didn't fill it.

Then Neville's voice came, quieter now. "My parents don't know who I am anymore."

Draco looked at him.

"I visit them every month. My mum hands me a sweet wrapper and says, 'Have you seen my son?' And I say, 'I'm right here, Mum.' And she looks through me like I'm a ghost."

Neville's jaw tightened. He wasn't crying—he was past that. "She used to be so proud of me. Before. She'd tell everyone, 'My Neville is going to be a wizard, just you wait.' Now she doesn't even know my name."

Draco sat in the dirt and let him speak. There was nothing else to do.

"When you made fun of me," Neville said finally, "it wasn't the worst thing that happened to me. Not even close. But it made every other bad thing feel heavier." He looked up. "Does that make sense?"

"Yes," Draco whispered. "That makes perfect sense."

Neville looked at him. Really looked. "You're different than you were."

"I'm trying to be."

"Good." Neville turned back to his plants. "Keep trying."

Draco stood up. Dust fell from his robes. At the door, he paused.

"I'm sorry about your parents, Neville. I should have said that years ago. I should have said 'I'm sorry your parents were tortured into madness by my aunt.' I should have said 'I'm sorry I laughed when you couldn't cast a Patronus.' I should have said a lot of things."

Neville didn't turn around. But his shoulders relaxed, just slightly.

"Then say them," he said quietly. "To someone else. While you still can."

Draco stood in the doorway for a long moment. Then he walked out into the dawn, the greenhouse door swinging shut behind him.

Inside, Neville picked up his trowel again. His hands were still shaking.

But he kept repotting.

Luna Lovegood was sitting by the lake, barefoot, trailing her fingers through the water. Her shoes sat beside her—bright blue Wellington boots covered in painted daisies. The morning fog hadn't fully burned off yet, and the grass was still wet with dew.

She didn't turn around when Draco approached.

"Hello, Draco."

"How did you know it was me?"

"The nargles told me."

Draco sat down beside her. A year ago, he would have sneered. A year ago, he would have called her Loony under his breath and walked away. Now he just sat.

"Are nargles real?"

Luna considered the question. "Does it matter?"

He thought about it. "No. I suppose it doesn't."

She turned to look at him. Her eyes were pale and strange and too knowing—the way they'd always been. But there was something softer there now. Or maybe Draco was just finally looking.

"You're saying goodbye," she said.

It wasn't a question. Draco's throat tightened. "I'm saying sorry first."

"For what?"

"For calling you Loony. For making everyone else think it was funny. For letting them laugh at you while I stood there and did nothing."

Luna tilted her head. "You were scared."

"That's not an excuse."

"No," she agreed. "But it's an explanation. There's a difference."

She looked back at the water. A ripple spread from where her fingers moved.

"I forgive you, Draco."

He blinked. "Just like that?"

"Just like that." She smiled—not a sad smile, not a knowing smile. Just a smile. "Holding onto anger is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die. I'd rather drink something else."

Draco stared at her. "You're not angry?"

"I was. For a little while." She pulled her hand from the water and watched the droplets fall. "But anger is heavy. And I have better things to carry."

She reached over and took his hand. Her fingers were cold.

"You don't have to do what you're planning to do."

Draco pulled his hand back gently. "Some things are already written."

"Nothing is written," Luna said. "That's the whole point. That's why we have choices. That's why we have tomorrow."

He stood up. Walked away. Felt her eyes on his back the whole time.

"I'll leave flowers on your grave," Luna called after him. Her voice was soft, not sad. "Every week. So you won't be alone."

Draco kept walking. Because if he turned around, he might stay.

Ginny Weasley was on the Quidditch pitch, alone, running drills. She flew hard and fast, the way people do when they're trying not to think. Draco waited until she landed.

She was breathing hard, her hair a mess, her knuckles white on her broom.

"Weasley."

"Malfoy." Her voice was ice. "If you're here to start something, save it. I'm not in the mood."

"I'm not here to start something. I'm here to apologize."

Ginny stared at him. "For what?"

"For being rude to you. For making fun of you and Potter. For the sneers every time you walked past." He paused. "For calling your family blood traitors like it was a joke."

Ginny's grip on her broom tightened. "You called my mother a blood traitor. At Christmas. While she was crying over Percy."

Draco nodded. "I remember."

"I remember too." Her voice was quiet, but sharp. "I remember every single time you opened your mouth about my family. Every sneer. Every joke. Every time you made Ron feel like he was less than nothing."

"I was wrong."

"You were cruel."

"Yes." Draco met her eyes. "I was cruel. And I'm sorry. Not because I want you to forgive me. I just wanted you to hear it from me. That I was wrong about your family. Wrong about you. Wrong about all of it."

Ginny was quiet for a long moment. The wind pulled at her hair.

"You made fun of me for dating Harry," she said. "Called me desperate. Said I was only with him because I wanted to be near the famous Boy Who Lived."

Draco flinched. "I remember that too."

"Did you even believe it?"

"No." He shook his head. "I was jealous. Of him. Of you. Of everyone who had something I didn't."

Ginny laughed—short and bitter. "You think I had something you didn't? My brother died, Malfoy. My family almost fell apart. I spent a year lying to everyone I loved because I was possessed by a dark wizard's diary. You think that's something to be jealous of?"

"I think you survived it," Draco said quietly. "And you came out the other side still standing. Still fighting. Still you."

Ginny looked at him for a long time. Her expression didn't soften. But it didn't need to.

"I don't forgive you," she said.

"I know."

"I don't think I ever will."

"I understand."

She turned away. Then she turned back. "But I'm glad you said it. That you came here. That you didn't just... disappear without saying anything."

Draco nodded. "Get off my pitch," she added.

He turned to go.

"Hey, Malfoy."

He looked back.

"Whatever you're planning," Ginny said quietly, "don't. We've lost enough people."

Draco didn't answer. He just walked away.

Ron Weasley was in the Great Hall, picking at a late dinner. The hall was mostly empty—just a few scattered students and the ghosts drifting through the walls. Draco slid onto the bench across from him.

Ron looked up. His expression didn't change. "If you're here to hex me, make it quick. I've had a long week."

"I'm not here to hex you."

"Then what?"

Draco took a breath. "I'm sorry about your brother."

Ron's jaw tightened. "Don't."

"I'm not saying it to make you feel better. I'm saying it because I watched my aunt kill people. I watched her laugh. I watched her torture your brother's friends while he was dying in another room. And I didn't stop her. I couldn't. I was too scared." He paused. "I know that doesn't bring Fred back. I know nothing I say will ever make that right. But I wanted you to know that someone who stood on the wrong side is sorry."

Ron set down his fork. His hands were shaking. "You think sorry fixes anything?"

"No."

"You think I care that you feel bad?"

"No."

"Then why are you here, Malfoy?"

Draco met his eyes. "Because you deserved to hear it. Even if it changes nothing. Even if you hate me forever. You deserved someone to say 'I was wrong about your family, I was wrong about your blood, I was wrong about you.'"

Ron stared at him. His eyes were red-rimmed. Everyone's were these days.

"You know what I remember?" Ron said quietly. "Second year. You called Hermione a mudblood. I tried to hex you and my wand backfired and I threw up slugs for an hour. For an hour, Malfoy. I couldn't stop. And you just stood there and laughed."

"I remember."

"You laughed."

"I did." Draco's throat burned. "I was cruel. I was a child who'd been taught that cruelty was strength. It wasn't. It was just cowardice. And I've spent every day since wishing I could take it back."

Ron was quiet for a long time. Then he said: "I don't know if I can ever forgive you."

It wasn't a refusal. It wasn't a door slammed shut. It was just... honest.

"I know," Draco said.

"I'm not saying I won't. I'm saying I don't know." Ron looked down at his hands. "I spent so long hating you. It became part of who I was. And now you're sitting here, saying all this, and I don't know what to do with it."

"You don't have to do anything."

"That's the problem." Ron's voice cracked. "I want to hate you. It would be easier. But you're not the same person you were, and I'm not the same person I was, and I don't know what that makes us."

Draco didn't answer. There was no answer.

"You know what else I remember?" Ron continued. "Seventh year. You were in the Room of Requirement. I saw you there. You looked—" He stopped. "You looked like you hadn't slept in weeks. You looked like you were waiting to die."

"I was."

"I didn't say anything. I just walked past." Ron's voice was barely a whisper. "I walked past, Malfoy. I saw you falling apart and I walked past because I was still angry about sixth year. About the tower. About almost dying because of that poisoned mead."

"You didn't know."

"I should have known." Ron looked up. His eyes were wet. "My mum always said—she always said 'be kind, because you never know what someone's going through.' And I wasn't. I was just angry."

"Ron." Draco waited until Ron held his gaze. "You don't owe me kindness. You owe me nothing. I spent six years making your life hell. You get to be angry. You get to walk past."

"That doesn't make it right."

"No," Draco agreed. "But it makes you human."

Ron was quiet for a long time. Then he reached across the table and moved Draco's plate slightly—not taking anything, just... touching something of his. A small, unconscious gesture.

"I'm tired," Ron said finally. "I'm so tired of carrying all of this."

Draco nodded. He couldn't speak.

"I'm not saying I forgive you," Ron continued. "But I'm tired of hating you. Is that enough?"

"It's more than I deserve."

"Maybe." Ron picked up his fork again. "Maybe not."

Draco stood. At the end of the table, he paused. "Ron."

"What?"

"You're luckier than you know. Your family. The way you love each other. I used to mock it because I didn't have it. I was jealous."

Ron didn't look up. But his voice was soft when he said: "Yeah. I know."

The library at midnight. Hermione Granger was alone, surrounded by books, her quill moving so fast it scratched. Draco stood at the end of her table for a full minute before she looked up.

"Malfoy." Not hostile. Just tired. "It's late."

"I know. I won't keep you long."

She set down her quill. "What is it?"

Draco sat down across from her. In his lap, held loosely in both hands, was a book. Dark green leather, the spine cracked, gold lettering faded. He wasn't reading it. Just holding it. Like something to hold onto.

Hermione's eyes flicked down to it. Then back to his face.

"I spent six years calling you a mudblood," he said. "I made you feel less than human. I wanted you to feel small because you made me feel smaller."

She didn't interrupt.

"I'm sorry. For the word. For the way I said it—like a weapon, like I could kill you with it. For every time you walked into a room and I made sure you knew you weren't welcome. I was wrong. About all of it. Blood purity. Muggleborns. You."

Hermione was quiet for a long moment. Then she said, "That's a lot of self-awareness for a Wednesday."

"It's Thursday."

"I know." She almost smiled. Almost.

Her eyes drifted down to the book in his hands again. She tilted her head.

"Is that—" She leaned forward slightly. "Is that A History of Magic? The limited edition?"

Draco looked down at the book. His fingers tightened on the cover. "Yes."

"The one with the illustrations by Phineas Black," Hermione continued, her voice soft. "The one they only printed five hundred copies of."

"That's the one."

"I've always wanted to read that book." She said it quietly, almost to herself. Like she was admitting something small and embarrassing. "I've looked for it everywhere. It never turns up in shops. People who own it don't sell it."

Draco stared at her. At the way she was looking at the book—not with greed. With longing. The same way he'd once looked at his father's approval. The same way he'd once looked at a future that didn't exist anymore.

He held it out to her.

Hermione blinked. "What—"

"It's yours."

"I can't take this. Draco, this is—"

"It's just a book." He pushed it across the table. "Take it."

She caught it before it slid off the edge, her fingers curling around the leather like it was something alive.

"I'm sorry, Hermione," he said. "For all of it. For the years I made you feel like you didn't belong. For the times I made you cry and told myself you deserved it. You didn't. You never did."

She held the book to her chest. Her eyes were bright.

"Keep it," Draco said. "Don't give it back."

He stood up.

"Draco."

He paused.

"When will I see you again?"

He didn't answer. He just walked away.

Seamus Finnigan was in the courtyard, blowing things up. Not on purpose—his magic had been unstable since the war. A small crater smoked near his feet. Draco approached carefully.

"Finnigan."

Seamus looked up. His eyebrow was singed. One of his sleeves had a fresh burn hole. "Malfoy. What d'you want?"

"To apologize."

Seamus snorted. "For what? Calling my mother a hag? Mocking my accent? Making fun of my potions?"

"Yes. All of it."

Seamus stared at him. "You're serious."

"I'm serious."

"Huh." Seamus sat down on the edge of a low stone wall. He patted the spot beside him. Draco sat. Not close, but closer than he would have a year ago.

"My mum always said you'd come around," Seamus said, kicking at a pebble. "She's got this thing about her. Sees the good in people. Drives me mental."

"She wasn't wrong."

"No," Seamus agreed. "She usually isn't." He was quiet for a moment. Then: "I don't forgive you."

"I know."

"But I'll stop hoping you blow up. That's something, right?"

Draco nodded. "That's something."

Seamus stood up. Brushed dirt off his trousers. "Right then. I've got more things to accidentally set on fire." He paused. "Malfoy."

"Yes?"

"Don't be a stranger. Or do. I don't care. Just—" He shrugged. "You know where to find me."

Draco watched him walk back to the smoking crater. Seamus raised his wand. Something small and orange exploded.

Draco stood up and walked away.

Dean was in the corridor, sketching. Draco didn't know Dean drew. The piece of parchment showed a man he didn't recognize—strong jaw, tired eyes, a face that looked like it had seen too much.

"My father," Dean said without looking up. "Never met him. He left before I was born."

"I'm sorry."

"Are you?" Dean's quill paused. "You called me a half-blood like it was a slur. You don't even know what it means to be half of something."

"You're right," Draco said. "I don't. I was raised to believe that blood was everything. It's not. It was never about blood. It was about fear."

Dean set down his quill. Turned to look at Draco for the first time. "What were you afraid of?"

"Being nothing." Draco's voice cracked. He hadn't meant to say that. He hadn't meant to say any of this. "If blood didn't matter, then I was just... a boy. With no friends. No real talent. No reason for anyone to love me."

Dean was quiet for a long time. The corridor was empty. A ghost drifted through the wall at the far end, paid them no mind.

Then Dean said: "That's sad."

"I know."

"I'm not going to draw you."

Draco almost laughed. "I wouldn't ask you to."

Dean picked up his quill again. Turned back to his parchment. "You should go."

Draco went.

They were together in the common room, heads bent over a magazine. Lavender's face was scarred from Greyback's attack. She didn't look up when Draco approached.

"Brown. Patil."

Lavender flinched. Parvati put a protective hand on her arm.

"What do you want, Malfoy?"

"I wanted to say I'm sorry. For the jokes. For laughing when your rabbit died, Brown. For being rude to you, Patil. For every time I made you feel like you didn't matter."

Lavender looked up. Her scars were silver in the firelight. "You think sorry fixes this?" She touched her face.

"No," Draco said. "I know it doesn't. But I wanted you to hear it anyway."

Parvati stood up. "You know what I remember? The Yule Ball. You looked right through me like I was furniture. Like I wasn't even worth a sneer."

"You were worth more than I gave you."

"That doesn't help me now."

"I know."

Parvati sat back down. "Go away, Malfoy."

Draco went.

Theo was in the Slytherin common room—the one of the only other Slytherin who'd come back for eighth year. He was sitting by the fire, reading, and he didn't look up when Draco walked in.

"I wondered when you'd get to me."

"You knew I was making rounds?"

"I heard." Theo closed his book. "You apologized to Longbottom. To Granger. To Weasley. To half the school, apparently."

"I saved you for now."

"Why?"

Draco sat down across from him. "Because you're the hardest."

Theo raised an eyebrow. "Harder than Potter?"

"Potter hates me. That's easy. You..." Draco paused. "You were my friend. And I failed you."

Theo was quiet for a long time. Then he said: "You didn't fail me. You failed yourself."

"I left you. When the Dark Lord fell, I left. I didn't write. I didn't check if you were okay. I just... disappeared."

"You were grieving."

"That's not an excuse."

"No," Theo agreed. "But it's an explanation." He leaned forward. "I watched my father die, Draco. I watched him get dragged into the Ministry and I never saw him again. And you know what I thought? I thought 'at least Draco will understand.' But you weren't there."

"I know."

"I'm not angry anymore. I'm just... disappointed."

That hurt more than anger. Draco felt it like a knife. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry doesn't bring back my father. Sorry doesn't bring back your father either—or whatever's left of him."

"I know."

Theo picked up his book again. "I forgive you. Not because you deserve it. Because I'm tired of carrying this."

Draco nodded. He stood up. "Theo."

"Yeah?"

"You were the best friend I ever had. I'm sorry I ruined it."

Theo didn't look up. But his voice was soft when he said: "Me too."

Blaise was in his room, polishing a cufflink. He didn't look up when Draco entered.

"You're apologizing to everyone."

"You heard."

"The whole school has heard, Draco. You've become a spectacle."

"I don't care."

Blaise set down the cufflink. "What do you want from me?"

"Nothing. I just wanted to say I'm sorry for not being a better friend. For using you. For never asking how you were doing because I was too busy drowning."

Blaise stared at him. "You think I needed you to ask?"

"I think I should have."

"You were drowning," Blaise said quietly. "We all were. Some of us just hid it better."

"You didn't hide it. I just didn't look."

Blaise was quiet for a long time. Then he said: "I forgive you. But I'm still angry."

"That's fair."

"Don't expect me to come to your funeral."

Draco forced a smile. "I won't."

He left before Blaise could see him cry.

Pansy was in her room, alone, a locket in her hands. She didn't look up when he knocked.

"I knew you'd come."

"Pansy."

"I heard you've been apologizing to everyone." She finally looked up. Her eyes were red. "Am I on the list?"

"You're on the list."

She laughed—a bitter, broken sound. "The top, I hope."

"Near the top."

Draco sat down on her bed. Not close. Just close enough.

"I used you," he said. "I let you love me because it was convenient. Because you made me feel like I wasn't completely alone. And I never loved you back. Not the way you deserved."

Pansy's lip trembled. "I knew."

"You deserved someone who would hold your hand in public. Someone who would stay."

"I knew you weren't that person."

"Then why did you stay?"

Pansy looked down at the locket. "Because I thought if I loved you enough, you'd learn to love yourself. I thought I could save you."

"No one can save someone who doesn't want to be saved."

"I know that now." She paused. "I knew it then too. I just didn't want to believe it."

Draco reached out and touched her hand. She didn't pull away.

"I'm sorry," he said. "For the lies. For the pretending. For never being enough."

Pansy looked at their hands. Then at his face.

"You're not the same person you were," she said quietly. "I can see it. In your eyes."

"I'm trying not to be."

"Good." She squeezed his fingers once, then let go. "Don't stop trying."

Draco stood up. At the door, he paused. "Pansy."

"What?"

"You deserved better. You always did."

She didn't respond. But she didn't look angry. She just looked tired.

He closed the door behind him.

The pub was small and quiet, tucked off a side street in Hogsmeade that most people walked past without noticing. Draco had written to her first—a short letter, no excuses, just I need to see you. I'll be at the Three Broomsticks on Saturday at 11 am. I understand if you don't come.

He didn't know if she would.

He sat in the corner booth, nursing a butterbeer he wasn't drinking, and waited.

The door opened at noon. Katie Bell walked in.

She looked different. Older. Her hair was shorter, her face thinner. She walked with a slight limp—something the healers hadn't been able to fix completely. But her eyes were the same. Sharp. Watching.

She saw him. Stopped.

For a moment, Draco thought she would turn around and leave.

She didn't.

She walked to his booth and sat down across from him. Didn't order anything. Just looked at him.

"You came," Draco said.

"You asked."

Silence.

"I'm not going to make this easy for you," Katie said. "Whatever you came here to say."

"I don't want it to be easy."

"Good."

Draco set down his butterbeer. His hands were steady. He'd practiced this one more than any other.

"In sixth year," he said, "I gave a cursed necklace to a classmate. I told her to deliver it to Dumbledore. I didn't tell her what it was."

Katie's jaw tightened.

"She didn't know. She touched it. She almost died." Draco's voice didn't shake. "She was supposed to deliver it. You were supposed to deliver it. You touched it instead."

"I remember," Katie said. Her voice was cold. "I remember waking up in St. Mungo's. I remember not being able to move my fingers for three months. I remember my mum crying every time she visited."

Draco nodded. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry."

"I know it's not enough."

"No," Katie agreed. "It's not."

She leaned back in her seat. Her eyes didn't leave his face.

"I almost died, Malfoy. I was seventeen. I was supposed to be playing Quidditch and failing my NEWTs and worrying about stupid things. Instead I was lying in a hospital bed wondering if I'd ever walk again."

"I know."

"Do you? Do you know what it's like to have someone else's choices destroy your body?"

Draco was quiet for a moment. Then he pulled up his sleeve. Showed her the Dark Mark—faded now, but still there. Still visible.

"Yes," he said quietly. "I know what it's like to have someone else's choices written on your skin."

Katie stared at the Mark. Then at his face.

"Why are you here?" she asked. "Really?"

"Because I'm leaving," Draco said. "And I didn't want to leave without saying I'm sorry. To you. To everyone I hurt."

"Where are you going?"

He didn't answer.

Katie studied him for a long time. Her expression didn't soften. But something in her shoulders shifted. Unclenched, just slightly.

"I don't forgive you," she said.

"I know."

She stood up. Paused. Looked down at him.

"The necklace," she said. "The one that cursed me. Do you know what happened to it?"

Draco shook his head.

"They destroyed it. After they saved my life." She touched her chest, right over her heart. "But I can still feel it sometimes. When it's cold. When I'm tired. It's like a splinter I can't get out."

"I'm sorry," Draco said again. It felt like the only words he had.

Katie nodded once. Then she walked out of the pub.

She didn't look back.

Draco sat in the corner booth for a long time. His butterbeer went warm. The afternoon light shifted across the table.

Then he stood up. Left a few sickles on the table. Walked out into the cold.

Professor Trelawney was in her tower, surrounded by tea leaves and crystal balls. She didn't look up when Draco entered.

"I've seen you coming."

"Of course you have."

She finally looked at him. Her eyes were magnified behind her glasses. "You're going to die."

Draco's heart stopped. "What?"

"You're going to die. I've seen it. The cards don't lie."

"Then you know why I'm here."

"To apologize." She waved a hand. "For laughing at me. For mocking my predictions. For calling me a fraud."

"Yes."

Trelawney set down her cards. "I am a fraud. Partially. But not entirely." She leaned forward. "I saw the Dark Lord's return before anyone else. I saw Sirius Black's death. And I see yours."

"Can you see if anyone will miss me?"

Trelawney's eyes softened. "Everyone you've apologized to will miss you. That's the tragedy."

Draco felt something break inside him. "Thank you," he whispered.

He left before she could say anything else.

Draco found Greg in the courtyard, sitting on a low wall, staring at nothing.

Greg had come back for eighth year, but he wasn't really here. He moved through the halls like a ghost. Ate alone. Never spoke unless spoken to. The other Slytherins avoided him—not out of cruelty, but out of discomfort. No one knew what to say to him anymore.

Draco sat down beside him.

Greg didn't look up.

"Greg."

Nothing.

"I should have come sooner."

Greg's hands were in his lap. Big hands. Scarred hands. He didn't move.

"I'm sorry," Draco said. "For all of it. For treating you like a shadow instead of a person. For using you to make myself look bigger. For never asking how you were. For never seeing you at all."

Greg was quiet for a long time.

"You left," he said finally. His voice was rough. Unused.

"I know."

"After the war. You just... left. Didn't write. Didn't come find me. Didn't even say goodbye."

Draco nodded. "I didn't know how."

"You could have tried."

"You're right. I should have."

Greg turned to look at him. His eyes were red-rimmed, but he wasn't crying. He looked past crying.

"I was alone," Greg said. "Do you know what that's like? Being alone in a castle full of people who hate you because of the mistakes you made in the past?"

Draco thought about his empty room. The meals eaten alone. The way students crossed the corridor when they saw him coming.

"Yes," he said quietly. "I know what that's like."

Greg stared at him. Something shifted in his face—not forgiveness. Just... acknowledgment.

"Then why didn't you come find me?" Greg asked. "We could have been alone together."

Draco didn't have an answer for that. He still didn't.

"I'm sorry," he said again. It felt like the only words he had left.

Greg looked away. Back at nothing.

"You were my only friend," Greg said. "And you didn't even see me."

Draco sat with that. Let it settle into his bones.

"You're right," he said. "I didn't. But I see you now."

Greg didn't respond.

Draco stood up. At the edge of the courtyard, he paused.

"Greg."

Greg didn't turn around.

"I'm sorry I left you alone."

He walked away.

Behind him, Greg sat on the wall for a long time. Then he stood up. Brushed off his trousers. Walked back inside.

He didn't look back either.

The cemetery was small and overlooked, tucked behind a church that no one in the wizarding world remembered existed. The Crabbe family plot was modest. Two headstones.

Francis Crabbe
1954 – 1998

Vincent Crabbe
1980 – 1998
Beloved son and friend.

Draco stood in front of the newer one.

"Hey, Vince."

Silence.

"I should have come sooner." Draco's voice was quiet. The churchyard was empty. No one to hear him but the dead. "I should have come a lot sooner."

He pulled a small, burned piece of wood from his pocket—a fragment he'd found in the rubble after the battle. He'd kept it for months. Didn't know why. He set it on top of the headstone.

"You weren't supposed to cast that curse. I should have told you to stop. I should have seen that you were scared too." He paused. "I should have been a better friend."

The wind moved through the grass. No answer.

"You followed me everywhere. Since we were kids. You never questioned me. Never said no. I used that. I used you. And I never said thank you."

His throat burned.

"Your dad would have been proud of you," Draco said quietly. "For following me into that room. For fighting. For not running." He paused. "Mine would have been proud of me too. For all the wrong reasons."

He sat down in the grass. Leaned his back against Vince's headstone. Didn't care about the dirt on his robes.

"I'm leaving soon," he said. "I don't know if anyone's told you. I don't know if the dead know things like that."

He looked up at the sky. Grey. Cold.

"I'm sorry, Vince. For dragging you into things you didn't understand. For not being there at the end. For being so stuck in my own head that I never asked if you were okay."

He closed his eyes.

"Your dad was a Death Eater. My dad was a Death Eater. We never had a chance, did we? They made us into this."

The wind picked up.

"Maybe that's an excuse. Maybe it's not. I don't know anymore."

Draco stayed there for a long time. The sun moved across the sky.

Then he stood up. Brushed the grass from his robes. Touched the headstone once, his fingers tracing Vince's name.

"Goodbye, Vince. I'm sorry I couldn't save you."

He walked away. Didn't look back.

The burned piece of wood stayed on top of the grave.

Draco visited the spot where Dobby was buried. The grave was still there, marked with a small stone. Harry visited it often. Draco had never been.

"I'm sorry," Draco whispered. "For the way I treated you. For the socks. For every time I hurt you because I could. You were worth more than I ever was."

He left a single sock on the grave. It was the first kind thing he'd ever done for Dobby.

Professor Flitwick was in his office, surrounded by floating candles. He looked up when Draco entered.

"Mr. Malfoy! To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Draco sat down on a tiny chair. The seat was so low his knees almost touched his chin. It should have been uncomfortable. Instead, it felt... small. Safe.

"I cheated on your exams," Draco said.

Flitwick's smile faded. "I know."

"You knew?"

"I'm a teacher, Mr. Malfoy. I see more than you think." He set down his wand. "I also saw a boy who was under immense pressure from his family. That doesn't excuse cheating. But it explains it."

"I'm sorry."

"I accept your apology." Flitwick paused. "But I expect you to retake those exams. Honestly this time."

Draco nodded. "I will."

Flitwick tilted his head. His eyes were small and bright and far too knowing.

"Will you?"

Draco looked at him. At the floating candles. At the tiny chair that made him feel like a child again.

He didn't answer.

Flitwick's expression softened. Not into sadness—into something quieter. Acceptance.

"I see," he said.

Draco stood up. The chair creaked beneath him.

"I'm sorry," Draco said again. It felt like the only words he had left.

"I know," Flitwick said. "That's why I forgive you."

Draco paused at the door. "You shouldn't."

"Perhaps." Flitwick picked up his wand again. "But I do anyway."

Draco walked out. He didn't look back.

Behind him, Flitwick sat in the silence. One of the candles flickered. He didn't extinguish it.

Professor Sprout was in the greenhouse, elbow-deep in soil. She didn't look up when Draco entered.

"If you're here to mock my plants again, Mr. Malfoy, I'll hex you myself."

"I'm here to apologize."

Sprout straightened up. Her face was smeared with dirt. "For what? Trampling my Venomous Tentacula in third year? Making fun of Hufflepuff house at every opportunity? Laughing when my students cried?"

"Yes. All of it."

She stared at him. "You're serious."

"I'm serious."

"Huh." She wiped her hands on her apron. "I've been teaching for thirty years, Mr. Malfoy. You're the first Death Eater's son to apologize to me."

"I'm sorry it took so long."

Sprout was quiet for a moment. Then she said: "I don't forgive you. But I respect the apology."

"That's enough."

"No," she said. "It's not. But it's a start."

Draco nodded and left.

Hagrid was in his hut, crying. The door was open. Draco stood in the doorway.

"Hagrid."

Hagrid looked up. His face was red. "Malfoy. Come to make fun of me?"

"No." Draco walked inside. "I've come to say I'm sorry."

"For what? Buckbeak? Calling me a half-giant? All those years of sneering?"

"Yes. All of it."

Hagrid wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "You know what I remember? First year. You followed Harry and Ron into the Forbidden Forest. You were terrified. And I was so angry at you for being there that I didn't see how scared you were."

"I was scared," Draco admitted. "I was always scared."

"We all were." Hagrid looked at him. "I forgive you, Malfoy. I forgave you a long time ago."

"Why?"

"Because you were just a kid. Because your dad was a monster. Because someone had to forgive you, and it wasn't going to be you."

Draco felt tears prick his eyes. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me. Just—" Hagrid's voice cracked. "Just stay, all right? Just stay."

Draco didn't answer. He just walked back into the night.

The cottage was small and slightly crooked, tucked into the hills overlooking a village Draco didn't know the name of. Smoke curled from the chimney. A pair of boots sat on the doorstep—one scuffed and worn, the other newer but already muddy.

Draco stood at the gate for a long time.

He'd written to Lupin first. A short letter, no excuses, just I need to see you. Can I come on Saturday? I understand if you say no.

Lupin had written back four words: Tea will be ready.

Draco pushed open the gate.

The door opened before he could knock. Sirius Black stood in the doorway, arms crossed, leaning against the frame. His hair was longer than Draco remembered. Grey at the temples. He looked older. Softer. But his eyes were still sharp.

"Malfoy," Sirius said.

"Black."

Sirius studied him for a long moment. Then he stepped aside. "Remus is in the kitchen."

Draco walked inside.

The cottage was warm. Cluttered. Books stacked on every surface. A fire crackled in the hearth. On the wall hung a photograph—Sirius and Lupin and Harry, all of them laughing, Harry younger than Draco had ever seen him.

Remus Lupin stood at the stove, pouring tea into two cups. He looked up when Draco entered.

"Mr. Malfoy."

"Professor."

Lupin smiled. It was tired but kind. "I'm not your professor anymore. Remus is fine."

Draco nodded. He didn't think he could say the name.

"Sit," Lupin said, gesturing to a worn armchair by the fire. Draco sat. Lupin handed him a cup of tea. Draco held it. Didn't drink.

Sirius dropped onto the sofa across from him. He didn't say anything. Just watched.

Draco set down his tea.

"I called you a monster," he said, looking at Lupin. "I made werewolf jokes. I mocked your clothes and your poverty and your kindness. I was cruel. And I'm sorry."

Lupin's expression didn't change. He just waited.

"You were the best teacher I ever had," Draco continued. "You taught us to face our fears. You taught us that darkness doesn't have to win. And I was too small to see it. Too scared to thank you."

Lupin was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "You were a child."

"That's not an excuse."

"No," Lupin agreed. "But it's an explanation. There's a difference."

Draco looked at Sirius. "I called your godson a liar. I stood by while others called his parents murderers. I laughed when they said you'd betrayed him. I was wrong. About all of it."

Sirius didn't say anything. He just nodded. Once.

Draco wasn't sure what the nod meant. Acceptance? Acknowledgment? He didn't ask.

"Why are you here, Malfoy?" Sirius asked. His voice wasn't sharp. Just curious.

Draco looked down at his hands. "I'm leaving."

"Leaving where?"

Draco hesitated. "Somewhere quiet."

Sirius frowned. Lupin's hands paused over the teapot.

"What does that mean?" Lupin asked.

Draco didn't answer.

The silence stretched. Lupin and Sirius exchanged a look—one of those wordless conversations that people have when they've known each other too long.

"Stay for dinner," Lupin said.

Draco stared at him. "What?"

"Dinner. We're having stew. There's plenty." Lupin's voice was gentle but firm. "You came all this way. The least you can do is eat something before you go."

Draco wanted to say no. He wanted to walk out the door and never look back.

But the fire was warm. And the cottage smelled like bread. And no one had invited him to dinner in a very long time.

"Okay," he said.

Sirius raised an eyebrow. "Okay?"

"Okay."

Sirius didn't say anything else. He just settled deeper into the sofa.

Lupin went back to the stove. The fire crackled.

They didn't talk about the war. They didn't talk about apologies. They just sat there, the three of them, in the warm crooked cottage, while the afternoon light faded outside the window.

Draco stayed for dinner.

He stayed until the stars came out.

Then he walked back to the gate, alone, and disappeared into the dark.

His portrait was awake. Dumbledore looked down at Draco with those familiar, twinkling eyes.

"Mr. Malfoy. I wondered when you'd come."

"You knew I would?"

"I know many things." Dumbledore folded his hands. "You've been apologizing."

"Yes."

"And now you're here."

"Yes."

Dumbledore was quiet for a moment. Then he said: "I failed you, Draco."

Draco blinked. "What?"

"On the tower. When you had your wand pointing at me. I saw a boy who didn't want to kill. And instead of helping him, I made him wait. I made him suffer. I thought I was protecting you by not interfering. But I was just leaving you to drown."

"You offered me protection."

"Too late." Dumbledore's eyes were sad. "I should have taken you aside. Should have told you that you had a choice. Should have shown you that there was another way."

"You did. You said 'you are not a killer.'"

"And that was enough?"

"No." Draco's voice cracked. "But it was something."

Dumbledore leaned forward. "Why are you here, Draco? Really?"

"To say I'm sorry. For the tower. For my aunt. For every Death Eater I let into your school."

"I forgive you," Dumbledore said simply. "I forgave you on the tower."

"Why?"

"Because I saw a boy who was terrified. A boy who had been failed by every adult in his life. A boy who deserved better."

Draco felt tears slide down his cheeks. "I didn't deserve better."

"Everyone deserves better, Draco. That's the tragedy."

Draco turned to go.

"Draco," Dumbledore called. He looked back. "Don't let my forgiveness be wasted. Live. That's the only apology that matters."

Draco walked out.

He found Professor McGonagall in her office in the evening. She was grading papers—she was always grading papers—and she looked up when he knocked.

"Mr. Malfoy." Her voice was tired. "It's getting late."

"I know, Professor. I won't keep you long."

She set down her quill. "I've heard you've been speaking to your classmates."

"Yes."

"And now you're here."

"Yes."

She gestured to the chair across from her desk. Draco sat.

"I wanted to apologize," he said. "For letting Death Eaters into your school. For standing on that tower while Dumbledore died. For every lie I told you. Every trust I betrayed."

McGonagall was quiet for a long time. Then she said: "You were a child."

"I was sixteen."

"Old enough to be terrified." She leaned forward. "I've thought about you often, Mr. Malfoy. About what I could have done differently. I saw you struggling. Losing weight. Missing meals. Looking over your shoulder. And I told myself it was teenage drama."

"It wasn't."

"No," she agreed. "It was a child being asked to murder his headmaster. And I did nothing."

"You couldn't have known."

"I'm a teacher. It's my job to know." Her voice cracked. "I failed you, Mr. Malfoy. Just as surely as you failed yourself."

Draco shook his head. "You didn't fail me. You gave me a second chance. You let me come back."

"I should have done more."

"Maybe." Draco stood up. "But I'm not here to blame you. I'm here to say I'm sorry. For all of it."

McGonagall stood too. She walked around her desk and, to Draco's shock, pulled him into a brief, stiff hug. Her arms were thin but strong. She smelled of tea and parchment.

"Don't do anything foolish," she whispered against his ear.

Draco didn't answer.

She let him go. Stepped back. Adjusted her spectacles.

"Will I see you in class tomorrow, Mr. Malfoy?"

He looked at her. At the lines around her eyes. At the hope she was trying to hide.

"Yes," he lied. "You will."

She nodded once. "Good."

Draco walked to the door. Paused with his hand on the handle.

"Professor."

"Yes?"

"Thank you. For not giving up on me."

She didn't respond. He closed the door behind him.

Draco found Harry sitting on the ledge on the Astronomy Tower at midnight—the same ledge Draco had been visiting every night for weeks. Harry didn't turn around.

"I wondered when you'd come," Harry said.

"You knew I would?"

"I figured. You've been working your way through everyone." Harry finally looked at him. His eyes were tired. Not angry. Just tired. "I heard you apologized to Ron. And Hermione. And Neville. Ginny too, apparently."

"I did."

"And now you're here."

"I am."

Harry patted the stone beside him. Draco sat. Not close—a foot of cold air between them. They stared out at the grounds together.

"I'm not going to forgive you," Harry said.

"I know."

"I'm not even sure I can."

"I understand."

Harry turned to look at him. "Does that bother you?"

Draco thought about it. "No. Forgiveness isn't something you owe me. It's something I have to earn. And I don't have—" He stopped. Swallowed. "I don't have time to earn it. So I'll take honesty instead."

Harry was quiet for a long time. The sun was rising now, painting the sky orange and pink and gold.

"You know what I remember?" Harry said finally. "Not the tower. Not the war. First year. On the train. You came into my compartment and offered your hand and I almost took it."

Draco's chest ached. "I remember."

"I thought about it for years. What would have happened if I'd said yes. Would we have been friends? Would you have been different? Would I?"

"It doesn't matter," Draco said.

"It matters," Harry insisted. "It matters that I thought about it. It matters that you offered. You were eleven years old, Draco. Eleven. And your father had already filled your head with so much poison that you couldn't see a handshake for what it was."

"I saw it," Draco whispered. "I saw it. And I chose to say what my father wanted me to say instead."

"But you offered first." Harry's voice was soft. "That's the part I keep coming back to. You offered first. Before your father. Before the house rivalry. Before any of it. You walked into that compartment and you held out your hand."

"Because my mother told me to be polite to Harry Potter."

"Maybe. Or maybe some part of you wanted to be friends. Maybe some part of you still does."

Draco looked away. His eyes were burning. "It doesn't matter now."

"It matters to me." Harry reached over and took Draco's hand—not shaking it, just holding it. Palm to palm, the way they should have done seven years ago. "I'm sorry I didn't take it."

Draco stared at their joined hands. Then, very slowly, he pulled his hand free.

Harry's face flickered—confusion, maybe hurt.

But Draco wasn't pulling away. He was pulling something off.

The signet ring. Gold, heavy, the Malfoy crest pressed into the metal. A serpent. The words Sanctimonia Vincet Semper around the edge. He'd worn it every day since he was twelve.

He held it out to Harry.

Harry stared at it. "What are you doing?"

"I want you to have it."

"I don't want your ring, Malfoy."

"I know." Draco didn't lower his hand. "Take it. Please."

Harry didn't move. "Why?"

Draco thought about lying. Thought about saying it's just a ring or I don't need it anymore or consider it an apology. But Harry deserved honesty. Harry had always deserved honesty.

"Because I don't know anyone else who would understand what it cost to wear it," Draco said. "And because—" His voice cracked. He steadied it. "Because I want someone to know that I wasn't always this. That there was a boy once who offered his hand on a train. And that boy is still in here somewhere. I want you to hold onto him. Since I can't."

Harry's throat moved. He didn't speak.

"Take it," Draco said again. "Or throw it in the lake. I don't care. Just—take it."

Harry reached out. His fingers brushed the ring. Then he closed his hand around it.

"I don't understand you," Harry said.

"I know." Draco stood up. "That's why I'm giving it to you."

He walked to the door. His hand was lighter now. Colder.

"Goodbye, Harry."

Harry didn't say goodbye. He looked down at the ring in his palm. Then he said, "See you in class."

Draco almost smiled. Almost.

He walked down the stairs.

She was waiting in his room. Not really—she was at the manor, a hundred miles away. But Draco had saved her letter for last. He sat on his bed, unfolded the parchment, and read her words for the hundredth time.

My darling boy,

I know you're struggling. I see it in your letters—the ones where you say you're fine, and the ones where you forget to say anything at all.

I need you to know: there is nothing you could have done that would make me stop loving you. Nothing.

Come home for Christmas. We'll bake those biscuits you liked when you were small. We'll sit by the fire. We'll just—be.

Please stay.

He wrote back. One sentence.

Maman, I'm sorry I couldn't become someone worth staying for.

He sealed it. Addressed it. Left it on his pillow.

That was the last apology. The one that hurt the most.

The Astronomy Tower at dawn.

Draco sat on the ledge. The same ledge where Harry had sat. The same wind. The same dark grounds below.

He thought about everyone he'd spoken to.

Neville, who sat in the dirt with him and said "keep trying."
Luna, who forgave him immediately and promised to leave flowers on his grave.
Ginny, who didn't forgive him and told him not to do whatever he was planning.
Ron, who said "I don't know if I can ever forgive you" and touched his plate.
Hermione, who held his book to her chest and asked when she'd see him again.
Harry, who held his hand and then his ring and said "see you in class."

Seamus, who stopped hoping he'd blow up.
Dean, who said "that's sad" and kept sketching.
Lavender and Parvati, who told him to go away.
Theo, who forgave him because he was tired of carrying the weight.
Blaise, who forgave him but was still angry.
Pansy, who squeezed his fingers and told him not to stop trying.
Katie Bell, who said his apology wasn't enough and walked out without looking back.
Goyle, who asked "why didn't you come find me?"
Crabbe, who was dead and couldn't answer.

Flitwick, who forgave him even when Draco said he shouldn't.
Sprout, who respected the apology but didn't forgive him.
Trelawney, who saw his death and said everyone would miss him.
Hagrid, who forgave him years ago and begged him to stay.
Lupin and Sirius, who invited him to dinner and let him stay until the stars came out.
Dumbledore, who forgave him on the tower and told him to live.
Dobby, who was dead and couldn't hear him say sorry.
McGonagall, who hugged him and asked if she'd see him in class tomorrow.

His mother, who was still waiting for him to come home for Christmas.

I could stay, he thought. I could try.

But trying meant waking up tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after that. And Draco was so tired. Not sad—tired. The kind of tired that lived in his bones, that made every breath feel like lifting a weight.

He stood up on the ledge.

The wind was stronger here. He looked down at the grounds—black and silver, the lake like a mirror, the Forbidden Forest like a wound.

One step, he thought. One step and it stops.

He didn't cry. He'd run out of tears days ago.

He thought about Hermione reading his book. About Ron pushing his plate. About Harry—maybe—telling someone that Draco Malfoy had said sorry.

That's enough, he told himself. That's enough of a legacy.

He stepped off.

Harry found out at breakfast. McGonagall pulled him aside. Her face was gray.

"Mr. Malfoy is dead."

Harry didn't cry. He sat down very slowly in the nearest chair and didn't move for an hour.

When he finally spoke, he said: "He apologized to me. Last night. I told him I didn't forgive him."

No one knew what to say.

"I told him I was sorry too," Harry continued. His voice was hollow. "And he said—" He stopped. Swallowed. "He said 'thank you for saying that.' Like it was enough. Like he didn't need forgiveness. He just needed someone to see him."

Harry reached into his pocket. Pulled out the ring. The Malfoy crest. The serpent. He turned it over in his fingers.

"He gave me this," Harry said. "His signet ring. I didn't understand why."

No one spoke.

Harry stood up. Walked out of the Great Hall. No one followed him.

He walked to the Astronomy Tower. Sat on the ledge where Draco had sat. The stone was still cold. The wind was still sharp.

He looked down at the grounds. The lake like a mirror. The Forbidden Forest like a wound.

And for the first time since the war, he let himself think: What if I'd said 'I forgive you'? What if I'd said 'stay'? What if I'd grabbed his hand and not let go?

He'd never know.

Harry closed his fingers around the ring. The metal was warm now. From his hand. From his pocket.

He didn't cry.

But he didn't move for a long time.

Hermione found out in the library. She heard the whispers. Closed Draco's book—her book now—and pressed it to her chest.

"I've always wanted to read that book," she'd said. And he'd pushed it across the table. "Take it."

Like he was saying goodbye even then.

She opened the cover. Ran her fingers over the illustrations by Phineas Black. The limited edition. The one she'd searched for everywhere.

No note. No inscription. Just his name on the inside cover, written in the small, cramped handwriting she'd seen a hundred times on essays.

Draco L. Malfoy.

She traced the letters.

He'd given her his book. His most prized possession. And she'd been so focused on the book itself that she hadn't asked why.

She put her head down on the table.

The book was open in front of her. His name was still there.

She cried until her throat was raw.

Ron heard the news from Ginny. He didn't say anything. He just walked to the common room, sat down at the chessboard, and stared at the pawn he'd been moving all week.

"I don't know if I can ever forgive you," he'd said.

He'd meant it. He still meant it.

But he'd also seen something in Draco's eyes. A flicker. A plea. Please see me. Please tell me I'm not beyond saving.

And Ron had looked away.

He put his head in his hands and didn't move until the sun came up.

Neville heard the news and went to the greenhouse. He sat in the dirt—the same spot where Draco had sat beside him.

"Keep trying," Neville had said.

Draco had stopped trying.

Neville picked up his trowel. His hands were still shaking. He turned it over the same way he had when Draco was sitting there.

"You should have tried harder," he whispered to no one. "And I should have said something different."

He didn't know what that different thing was. He just knew that "keep trying" hadn't been enough.

He picked up a Fanged Geranium and kept repotting.

Luna found Draco's wand.

It had landed in the grass, unbroken, still warm. She picked it up and held it like a bird.

"He was starting to see," she told the empty grounds. "He just needed more time."

She placed the wand on his empty chair at the memorial. Beside it, she put a moonstone.

For light in the dark, she thought. For finding your way home.

Professor McGonagall wrote four letters that night.

One to Narcissa Malfoy: "Your son spent his last week apologizing to everyone he'd wronged. That takes a courage most people never find. He will be missed."

One to the staff: "We failed him. Every single one of us. Let this be a reminder that our job is not just to teach—it is to see."

One to the students: "Draco Malfoy was not just a Death Eater. He was not just a bully. He was a boy who made terrible choices and then spent his last days trying to undo them. Let his memory be a lesson in grace."

One to herself, which she burned: "I saw him eating alone every night. I saw him walking the halls like a ghost. I told myself he was fine because I didn't want to look closer. I will carry this for the rest of my life."

She never forgave herself for that.

Flitwick canceled all exams for the week. He sat in his office and stared at the wall.

*"I'll retake them,"* Draco had said. *"I will."*

He'd lied.

Flitwick had known. He'd seen it in Draco's eyes. And he'd let him walk away.

He poured himself a drink. It was 9 a.m.

Sprout didn't go to the greenhouse for three days.

She couldn't. Not after finding Draco's note tucked into a pot of Venomous Tentacula.

Professor Sprout,

Your plants were always beautiful. I was just too blind to see it.

I'm sorry.

She kept the note in her pocket. She read it every day.

Blaise didn't go to the funeral.

He sat in the Slytherin common room and stared at the fire.

*"Don't expect me to come to your funeral,"* he'd said.

He hadn't meant it.

He regretted it every day for the rest of his life.

Narcissa came to collect his things.

The manor was too big now. Too quiet. She walked through Draco's room—still decorated like a child's, still holding his old Quidditch posters and his school robes and the tiny stuffed dragon he'd had since he was three.

She found the letter on his pillow.

Maman, I'm sorry I couldn't become someone worth staying for.

She read it once. Then again. Then she folded it carefully and put it in her pocket.

She sat on his bed. Picked up his pillow. Pressed it to her face.

He still smelled like her. Like home. Like the boy she'd held through nightmares and fevers and the long dark years of the war.

"Please stay," she'd written.

He hadn't.

Narcissa Malfoy did not cry at her son's funeral. She waited until she was home, alone, in his room, with his pillow in her arms.

Then she screamed.

She screamed until her throat was raw. Until the house-elves came running. Until she collapsed on the floor and couldn't get up.

She stayed there for three days.

Then she got up. Walked to the kitchen. Baked the biscuits Draco had liked when he was small.

She ate them alone.

There was no light.

No tunnel. No angels. No great hall of his ancestors waiting to judge him.

Just silence.

And cold.

And then, slowly, warmth.

Not the warmth of a fire. Not the warmth of a body. The warmth of something else. Something he couldn't name.

Draco opened his eyes.

He was standing in a field. Grass beneath his feet. Sky above him—grey, soft, endless. No sun. No moon. Just light that came from everywhere and nowhere.

He didn't recognize the place.

But it felt like home.

"Hello, Draco."

He turned.

Luna was standing behind him. Not the Luna from Hogwarts—older, somehow, though she looked the same. Her eyes were the same. Pale. Strange. Too knowing.

"You're not real," Draco said.

"No," she agreed. "I'm not."

"Then why are you here?"

Luna smiled. "Because you needed someone to walk with you."

She held out her hand. Draco looked at it. Then at her face.

"I died," he said.

"Yes."

"I didn't think there would be anything after."

"There isn't," Luna said. "Not for everyone. But you had people who loved you. Even if you didn't know it. Even if you couldn't feel it. Their love made a space for you. Just for a little while."

Draco looked at the field. The endless grey sky.

"How long do I have?"

"Long enough," Luna said. "To see what you left behind. To understand what you meant to them."

"I didn't mean anything."

"You meant everything to some of them." She tilted her head. "You just never let yourself believe it."

Draco looked down at his hands. No ring. No Dark Mark. Just skin. Clean.

"I'm scared," he admitted.

"I know," Luna said. "That's okay."

She reached out again.

"Walk with me," she said. "Just for a little while."

Draco took her hand.

They walked through the field together. The grass didn't crunch beneath their feet. The sky didn't change. There was no time here. No beginning. No end.

Just the two of them.

And the quiet.

After a while—or maybe after forever—Luna stopped.

"You have to go now," she said.

"Where?"

"Somewhere else. I don't know where. No one knows." She squeezed his hand. "But you won't be alone."

Draco looked at the field one last time. The grey sky. The endless grass.

"Thank you," he said. "For walking with me."

Luna smiled. "I'll leave flowers on your grave," she said. "Every week. So you won't be alone."

Draco almost smiled. Almost.

Then the field faded.

The grey sky faded.

And Draco walked into the somewhere else.