Drarry (Draco/Harry)

The war in the Hogwarts courtyard froze like a taut string. The air was thick with the scent of spells, but at that moment, Harry's entire attention was focused on two points: the tip of the Lord's wand pressing against his throat, and the pale, horror-contorted face of Draco Malfoy. His enemy. Or was it really his enemy?

Voldemort smiled—coldly, lifelessly—as always. He savored the moment of triumph, oblivious to the trembling of his young follower's hands.

Harry looked at Malfoy. Strange memories flashed through his mind, memories that had once seemed like pure luck. Those times in his third and fifth years, when bullies from other houses would suddenly retreat after receiving an "accidental" curse in the back, or when he'd find notes on his desk warning of traps he himself would have surely missed and fallen into. He'd never connected any of this to Draco. He'd thought of Malfoy as an enemy, but it turned out to be quite the opposite...

"Come on, Draco," the Lord hissed, not even turning around, as if sensing the boy's hesitation. "Finish this. Show your devotion. Kill him."

Draco stood a few steps away. His robes were torn, his face was covered in soot, but his eyes, usually cold, were now filled with despair. Harry saw Draco's fingers tightening around his wand. His father had forced him to join the ranks, blackmailing him with the honor of his family, threatening his mother. Draco was broken, but not defeated.

Harry knew what was about to happen. If Draco didn't shoot, the Lord would kill them both.