The Color of the Lake

The Hogwarts Express had never felt this suffocating. Harry pressed his forehead against the cool window, watching the Scottish countryside blur past—green and grey, just streaks. The compartment door was shut, but the whispers still got through. Through the walls, through the gaps in the enchanted wood, through the air itself.

Did you hear about Malfoy?

My mum reads the Prophet. She said—

Cocaine. Muggle drugs. Can you imagine?

Harry closed his eyes. He could imagine, actually. He could picture Draco Malfoy doing a lot of things—being cruel, being a coward, being a pureblood prat. But this? This was something else.

Hermione watched him from across the compartment, her book open but unread. "Harry, you don't have to—"

"I know I don't have to anything." He didn't open his eyes. "I just don't get why everyone cares so much."

"Because it's Malfoy," Ron said, like that explained everything. He was shoving a pumpkin pasty into his mouth, thoroughly unbothered. "The great Draco Malfoy, heir to the fortune, caught snorting Muggle drugs over the summer. It's mental. It's—"

"It's sad," Hermione interrupted quietly.

Ron paused mid-chew. "Sad?"

"His father," she said, and something passed between her and Harry—they both knew what Lucius Malfoy was capable of. What kind of home Draco had grown up in.

Harry opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. The whispers kept going, a low hum of speculation and barely concealed glee. He thought about how Malfoy looked at the end of fourth year—pale and furious and somehow smaller. He thought about the Dark Mark, floating green over the Quidditch World Cup.

He thought about how no one ever asked what it was like to be trapped.

---

The Great Hall was magnificent as always. Ceiling reflecting the darkening sky, thousands of candles floating like earthbound stars. The Sorting Hat bellowed its annual warning, first-years trembled through the ritual, and Harry tried very hard not to look at the Slytherin table.

He failed.

Draco Malfoy sat at the far end, platinum head bent low. He wasn't talking to anyone. Pansy Parkinson leaned toward him, mouth moving fast, but Draco didn't seem to respond. His shoulders were hunched, posture crumpled in a way Harry had never seen.

Draco Malfoy had always carried himself like he owned the world. Straight spine, chin lifted, sneer firmly in place. Walked through Hogwarts like he was doing the castle a favor.

This was not that Draco.

This Draco was thin. Gaunt, actually—the loose robes couldn't hide it. His cheekbones stood out sharp, casting shadows across his face. And his hands—

Harry's breath caught.

Draco's hands were shaking.

Not a subtle tremor. Not nervous flutter before an exam. This was a full-body shiver starting somewhere deep and working outward, making his fingers clench and unclench against the tabletop like he was trying to hold onto something slipping away.

"Harry." Hermione's voice was low, urgent. "Stop staring."

He hadn't realized he was staring. He looked away, face heating, grabbed his pumpkin juice harder than necessary. "I wasn't."

"You were."

"Whatever."

Ron, oblivious, loaded his plate with potatoes. "D'you think we'll actually get decent Defense this year? Heard the new teacher used to work with dragons."

Harry made a noncommittal sound and risked another glance at the Slytherin table.

Draco had disappeared.

---

The days that followed were strange and horrible. Harry had always been able to predict Draco Malfoy. Draco was a creature of habit: taunt Potter in the corridors, sneer at Granger's Muggle heritage, make some cutting remark about Weasley's hand-me-down robes. Reliable in his malice, consistent in his cruelty. Harry knew how to deal with that version.

This version—the silent one, walking through the halls with eyes fixed on the floor, flinching when people called his name—Harry had no idea what to do.

Third day of term, Harry found them.

He was heading back from Charms, taking a shortcut through a corridor on the third floor, when he heard voices. One low and clipped, familiar in its cold authority. The other higher, defensive, cracking at the edges.

"—do you think you're doing?" Snape's voice was barely a whisper, but it carried like a blade. "Are you trying to destroy everything your family has built?"

"I didn't—"

"Don't lie to me, Draco. The rumors have reached even my ears. The Prophet is calling for comment. Your father—"

"Please, don't tell him."

The plea was raw. Broken. Harry pressed himself against the wall, heart hammering.

"He will find out regardless," Snape said, something almost pitying in his tone. "The question is whether you will be the one to tell him, or whether he will hear it from strangers. Which do you think will anger him more?"

A pause. A shuddering breath.

"I can fix this," Draco whispered. "I'm fixing it. I just need time."

"You've run out." Snape's robes swished as he turned. "I'll be writing to your father tonight. Consider yourself warned."

Footsteps retreated. Harry waited, barely breathing. A moment later, Draco burst from the alcove where he'd been cornered—face white, eyes red-rimmed and wild. He didn't see Harry. Didn't see anything. He just ran.

Harry followed.

---

The bathroom on the second floor was abandoned, like most bathrooms in Hogwarts when you needed them. Harry pushed open the door slowly, wand held loose at his side, and found Draco hunched over one of the sinks, gripping the porcelain like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

"Go away, Potter."

His voice was wrecked. Hoarse and hollow and utterly defeated.

"No."

Draco's head snapped up. In the dim light through grimy windows, he looked like a ghost—pale and insubstantial, on the verge of fading. "I said go away."

"And I said no." Harry stepped closer, trainers squeaking on the wet floor. "I heard Snape. I heard—"

"Congratulations." Draco's laugh was brittle, sharp-edged. "You've uncovered my shame. Go tell the whole school. I'm sure they'd love to hear the details from the Boy Who Lived."

"Shut up."

Draco froze.

"Just—shut up for a second." Harry ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. "I'm not here to mock you. I'm not here to spread rumors. I heard what you said to Snape. About fixing things."

"Fixings things." Draco's voice broke. "There's nothing to fix. I'm broken, Potter. That's the whole point."

Harry had never seen Draco Malfoy cry. He'd seen him furious, smug, terrified, triumphant. Seen him humiliated by Buckbeak and flattened by Hermione's fist. But never tears streaming down his face, cutting clean tracks through the grime and exhaustion.

"I didn't know what else to do," Draco said, words rushing out like a dam breaking. "My father—he's been planning things. Terrible things. And my mother just—she looks at me like I'm already dead. Like everything I am is just a disappointment they have to endure. And I couldn't—I couldn't breathe."

Harry waited.

"I found them over the summer. The drugs. Some Muggle boy in the village, selling things he shouldn't have. I took them because I wanted to feel something else. Something that wasn't fear." Draco's hands were shaking again, white-knuckled against the sink. "And it worked. For a while. It worked so well I kept doing it. And then I couldn't stop."

"Rehab," Harry said quietly.

Draco laughed, hollow and broken. "Yes. Rehab. My mother found me in my room, unconscious. She thought I'd tried to kill myself." He closed his eyes. "I don't know if I did."

The silence stretched between them, heavy and fragile.

"I know what it's like," Harry said finally. "To feel trapped."

Draco opened his eyes, something raw and searching in them. "You don't know anything."

"I know what it's like to have people expect things from you. To have everyone look at you and see something you're not." Harry took another step closer. "I know what it's like to feel like you're drowning and no one can see it."

"You're the Chosen One."

"I'm a boy who watched a classmate die last year. I'm a boy who has nightmares every single night." Harry's voice dropped. "I'm a boy who sometimes wonders if it would be easier to just—stop."

Draco's breath caught.

"So yeah," Harry said. "Maybe I don't know exactly what you're going through. But I know enough."

For a long moment, neither spoke. Only the drip of a leaky faucet and Draco's ragged breathing.

"Why?" Draco whispered. "Why do you care?"

Harry didn't have an answer. Not one that made sense. "I don't know. Maybe because no one else seems to."

Draco's face crumpled. He turned away, bracing his hands against the sink, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. And Harry—Harry did something he never thought he'd do.

He reached out and put a hand on Draco's shoulder.

"It's okay," he said. "You don't have to be okay. But you don't have to do it alone."

---

They started meeting at night.

Wasn't planned. Harry found himself walking the corridors after curfew, not quite sure where he was going, and somehow ending up outside the Room of Requirement. Draco was already there, leaning against the wall, face half-hidden in shadow.

"You came," Draco said, surprised.

"I didn't know I was coming," Harry admitted. "But I'm here."

The Room provided a small sitting area, warm and comfortable, fire crackling in the hearth. They sat on opposite ends of a worn sofa, a careful distance between them, and didn't quite look at each other.

"I used to think you had everything," Draco said after a long silence. "The fame. The friends. The freedom." He laughed, bitter. "I hated you for it."

"I used to think you had everything, too." Harry stared into the fire. "The money. The family. The certainty."

"Certainty." Draco repeated the word like it was foreign. "I've never been certain of anything. Not my father's love. Not my mother's loyalty. Not my own worth."

"My parents died for me," Harry said. "That's not a blessing. That's a weight I carry every day."

They talked for hours. About the Dark Mark and the war coming. About the pressure to be perfect, to be worthy, to be enough. Draco admitted he'd started using Muggle drugs because they were the only thing his father hadn't already claimed—the only rebellion he could call his own.

"It was stupid," he said, staring at his hands. "I know it was stupid. But it was mine."

"Not anymore," Harry said. "It doesn't have to be yours. You can let it go."

Draco looked at him, something fragile in his eyes. "And then what? Who am I without it?"

"I don't know." Harry met his gaze. "But you can find out. You have time."

---

Ron and Hermione figured it out within a week.

"You're sneaking out to meet Malfoy?" Ron's voice climbed an octave. "Have you lost your mind?"

"Keep your voice down." Harry pulled them into an empty classroom. "And yes, I'm meeting Malfoy. He needs help."

"He needs a therapist," Ron muttered.

"He's getting one. Dumbledore arranged it." Harry took a breath. "But he also needs a friend. And apparently, I'm the only one who's offered."

Hermione's expression softened. "Harry, that's—very kind of you. But are you sure this is safe? He's still a Malfoy. His father—"

"I know." Harry's jaw set. "I know who his family is. But he's not his family. And he's not his addiction. He's just—a kid who got lost."

Ron looked unconvinced, but Hermione reached out and squeezed Harry's arm. "Just be careful. And if you need us, we're here."

Harry nodded. "I know."

---

Pansy Parkinson cornered Draco in the Slytherin common room three weeks into term.

"You're seeing him." Her voice was cold, furious. "I've seen you. Sneaking out at night. Coming back with your eyes all soft. You're seeing Potter."

"So what if I am?" Draco's voice was steady, but Harry could hear the tremor underneath. He was hidden in the corridor outside, waiting for their usual meeting, and he'd stumbled onto the confrontation instead.

"So what?" Blaise Zabini stepped forward. "He's a Gryffindor. He's the enemy. You're consorting with the enemy."

"I'm consorting with the only person who's bothered to ask if I'm okay." Draco's voice cracked. "Where were you, when I was drowning? Where were you, when I was in rehab? Where were you when I needed someone?"

"We didn't know—" Pansy started.

"You didn't want to know." Draco stood up, chair scraping against stone. "You saw what you wanted to see. The perfect pureblood heir. The Malfoy pride. You didn't see me."

"If you walk out that door," Blaise said, "you're not welcome back."

Draco paused. Then, quietly: "Then I guess I'm not welcome back."

The door opened, and Draco stepped out, almost colliding with Harry. His eyes went wide. "You heard?"

"Enough."

Draco's jaw tightened. "I don't need you to rescue me."

"I know." Harry smiled, small and genuine. "But I'm here anyway."

They walked in silence to the Room of Requirement. When the door closed behind them, Draco let out a shaky breath. "I don't know what I'm doing."

"Neither do I." Harry sat down on the sofa. "But we can figure it out together."

Draco sat beside him, closer than before. His shoulder brushed Harry's, and neither moved away.

"I think," Draco said slowly, "that you might be the best thing that's ever happened to me."

Harry's heart stuttered. "I think you might be the most unexpected."

Draco laughed—a real laugh, surprised and warm. "Is that a compliment?"

"It's a fact." Harry turned to look at him. "But yeah. It's a compliment."

They were close now. Close enough that Harry could see flecks of grey in Draco's silver eyes, could count the freckles across his nose. Close enough to feel Draco's breath on his lips.

"Harry—" Draco's voice was barely a whisper.

Harry leaned in.

And Draco pulled away.

"I can't." His hands were shaking again. "I'm too—too broken. You deserve someone whole."

"Shut up." Harry caught his hand, lacing their fingers together. "I don't want someone whole. I want you."

Draco's face crumpled. "I'm not ready."

"Then we wait." Harry squeezed his hand. "I'm not going anywhere."

---

Hogsmeade weekend arrived with a frosty bite in the air. Harry looked forward to butterbeer and a quiet afternoon. Draco had been doing better—counseling was helping, the shaking had subsided, he'd started eating properly. He met Harry's eyes in the corridors now. Sometimes, he even smiled.

Small, tentative smile. But real.

The Three Broomsticks was packed. Harry found a table near the back while Ron and Hermione went for drinks. He scanned the crowd for a familiar head of blonde hair—and saw him.

Draco stood near the door, talking to someone. A boy Harry didn't recognize, older, shifty-eyed, hand tucked into his coat pocket.

Something cold settled in Harry's stomach.

He was on his feet before he knew what he was doing, weaving through the crowd, but by the time he reached the door, the stranger was gone. And Draco was walking toward the restroom, face pale, hands shoved deep into his pockets.

"Draco."

Draco didn't stop.

"Draco, wait."

The restroom door swung shut. Harry pushed it open.

Draco leaned against the wall, eyes closed. A small vial clutched in his shaking hand.

"Please don't—"

"Give me the vial, Draco."

"It's just a little. It'll help me get through the day. I've been doing so well, but everyone was looking at me, and I just—I need—"

"You need to give me the vial." Harry held out his hand, trying to keep his voice steady. "You don't need this. You're stronger than this."

"You don't understand." Draco's voice cracked. "The cravings—they never stop. They're always there, whispering, telling me one more time won't hurt. That I deserve it. That it's the only way—"

"It's a lie." Harry stepped closer. "It's a lie, and you know it. You've come so far. Don't let it win now."

Draco's hand trembled. The vial glinted in the dim light.

"Please," Harry whispered. "Please, Draco. For me."

For a long, terrible moment, nothing. Then Draco's hand opened, and the vial fell. Harry caught it, pocketed it, pulled Draco into his arms.

"It's okay," he murmured into Draco's hair. "You're okay."

"I almost—" Draco's breath hitched. "I almost—"

"But you didn't." Harry held him tighter. "You didn't."

---

The overdose happened two hours later.

Harry had let his guard down. Took Draco back to the table, bought him butterbeer, watched him laugh at something Ron said. Thought it was over.

But Draco must have had another vial. Hidden. And when Harry found him in the restroom, slumped against the wall, lips blue, pulse thready beneath his fingers—

"HELP!" Harry's voice tore out of him, raw and desperate. "SOMEONE HELP!"

Draco's eyes fluttered open, unfocused and terrified. "Harry—"

"You're going to be fine." Harry cradled him, pressed a kiss to his forehead. "You're going to be fine, just hold on, please hold on—"

The door burst open. Madam Rosmerta screamed. Then chaos—running footsteps, shouted orders, the crack of apparition.

Harry didn't let go.

Not when they took Draco to St. Mungo's. Not when they pumped the potion out of his system. Not when they told Harry he could go home, that Draco would be fine, that he could visit tomorrow.

Harry stayed anyway.

He sat in the waiting room, hands still shaking, and waited for Draco to wake up.

---

"Heart failure," the Healer said the next morning. "The magical stimulant reacted poorly with residual Muggle substances. It was a near thing."

"But he'll be okay?" Harry's voice was hoarse.

"He'll recover. Physically, at least." The Healer's eyes were kind. "The rest is up to him."

Draco looked small in the hospital bed. Pale and fragile, tubes in and out of his arms. But when he opened his eyes and saw Harry, he smiled.

"You stayed."

"Of course I stayed."

"I'm sorry." Draco's voice cracked. "I thought I could handle it. I thought I was stronger."

"You are strong." Harry took his hand. "You're the strongest person I know. And you're going to get through this."

Draco's eyes filled with tears. "I don't want to die, Harry."

"Then don't." Harry squeezed his hand. "Live. For me."

"For you," Draco repeated. Then, quieter: "For us?"

Harry leaned down and pressed their foreheads together. "For us."

---

The sun was rising over the Black Lake, painting the water in gold and rose. Harry sat on the shore, shoes off, toes buried in cold sand. Beside him, Draco watched the light spread across the surface, his hand warm in Harry's.

"I still have bad days," Draco said quietly.

"I know."

"Some days I still want to run. To hide. To find something that makes it all stop."

Harry tightened his grip. "And what do you do on those days?"

Draco turned to look at him. Morning light caught his eyes, turning them the color of the lake. "I think about you."

Harry's breath caught.

"I think about the way you looked at me in that bathroom. The way you didn't run. The way you held me when I was falling apart." Draco's voice dropped. "And I think about how I want to be the person who deserves that."

"You already are," Harry said.

"I'm trying to be."

"Then that's enough."

They sat in silence as the sun climbed higher, casting long shadows across the grass. The castle loomed behind them, ancient and beautiful, full of secrets and history and the weight of everything they'd survived.

Harry leaned his head on Draco's shoulder.

"Thank you," Draco whispered.

"For what?"

"For seeing me. For not looking away." Draco pressed a kiss to Harry's hair. "For being my reason to stay."

Harry smiled, and the sunrise painted them both in light.

"I'll always be your reason," he said. "As long as you let me."

Draco's hand found his, fingers lacing together, warm and steady and real.

"Always," he said.

And for the first time in a very long time, he believed it.