That night, Harry couldn't sleep.
Whenever he closed his eyes, the image of a figure growing thinner by the day surfaced in his mind.
He had to go. Even if it was only to say one sentence, even if he would be mocked or rejected, he couldn't stand by like everyone else and watch a tragedy unfold.
The decision made Harry miserable, yet strangely relieved.
He knew it was reckless, very un-Gryffindor—or perhaps too Gryffindor.
Monday, Potions Class.
Harry deliberately waited until everyone had left. Even when Snape gave him a rare glare, he still showed no intention of leaving the classroom.
Not until Draco had packed up his books did Harry force himself to stride after him.
"Malfoy."
Draco's body visibly stiffened, but he didn't immediately snap back as usual.
He turned around slowly, his voice flat and weary. "What is it, Potter?"
Harry took a deep breath and lowered his voice as much as possible, making sure only the two of them could hear. "I know where he is. He's at your house, isn't he?"
Draco looked as though he had been pricked by a needle, his pupils suddenly contracting.
He neither admitted nor denied it, only pressed his lips together tightly.
"Listen," Harry said, stepping forward and pulling him into a corner. "This is an opportunity—for your dad... or for you—to come forward and tell everyone the truth. Tell the Ministry of Magic that he's back. Tell them that livestream was real. He's badly injured and hiding at Malfoy Manor. This is the only way to break free—"
"Break free from him?" Draco abruptly interrupted, his voice very soft. "You don't know anything, Potter."
Draco looked toward the depths of the dungeon, his tone full of mockery—not directed at Harry, but at himself. "Do you think this