无题

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The Auror Headquarters' lights felt especially harsh at midnight. Harry stared at the case board where Draco Malfoy's photo was pinned amidst files, his blond hair striking even in monochrome. Two weeks had passed since Norway's Ministry returned Draco's body, yet Harry still couldn't believe the proud Slytherin was truly gone.

"Sir?" The rookie Auror peeked in. "Mr. Malfoy's personal effects arrived from Norway. Delivered to your office as requested."

Harry nodded, throat tight. "Thank you, Collins."

The hallway seemed endless. Harry paused several seconds before turning the doorknob. A plain cardboard box sat on his desk, bearing Norwegian Ministry seals.

Carefully breaking the seals, he found Draco's Norwegian belongings: that familiar hawthorn wand, a silver pocket watch, spare clothes, and a leather-bound notebook. Harry picked up the wand, feeling a sting—it still resisted outsiders, retaining its master's magical imprint.

"He's gone," Harry told the wand softly. "You can accept me now."

The wand warmed slightly but didn't reject him. Setting it aside, Harry examined the notebook. Its worn cover suggested frequent use. It refused to open, pages firmly glued.

"Specialis Revelio." Harry tapped it with no effect. Several unlocking spells later, it remained sealed.

As Harry considered fetching Hermione, his wand moved independently, tracing a complex symbol on the cover—an "S" intertwined with a lightning bolt.

The lock clicked open.

"Merlin..." Harry's hands trembled. This lock responded only to someone drawing that specific combination—snake and scar. To him.

The first entry was dated Draco's fourth year:

"Sept 1

Saw Potter on the Hogwarts Express. Still insufferable, laughing with Weasley and Granger in a compartment. Father's right—he understands nothing of our world. Yet when he passed, I stared three seconds too long. Must be that ridiculous hair."

Harry blinked. This wasn't a mission log—it was Draco's private diary. Should he continue? This felt invasive...

But that locking charm. Draco had charmed it to open only for him. Harry took a steadying breath and read on.

Entries jumped to sixth year:

"Feb 13

Broke down in the bathroom today. The Dark Lord's task... I can't do it. When Potter barged in, I nearly used Crucio. But seeing concern in his eyes (for me?), I couldn't. Must protect Mother... but Merlin, I don't want to hurt anyone."

Harry's chest ached. He remembered that day, Draco trembling in blood. He'd never considered Draco's inner turmoil.

Turning to pre-battle entries, Harry's breath caught:

"May 1

Gave Potter my wand. Don't know why. When he asked 'Can I trust you?', my heart nearly exploded. He trusted me. The Chosen One trusted a Malfoy. The irony. If he knew I dream of those green eyes watching me, he'd recoil in disgust."

Some page edges were warped—water damage? Had Draco cried?

Post-war entries grew sporadic but more startling:

"Aug 15

Papers say Potter stopped another Dark wizard attack. The idiot nearly got cursed—no backup wand. I tracked the escaped Death Eater. Made sure he'll never threaten Potter again. No one needs to know."

"Dec 24

Christmas Eve, passed Grimmauld Place. Saw Potter through the window with Weasleys. He looked... happy. Good. Should leave Britain—no place for me here."

Harry flipped faster, pulse racing. Draco had been watching him? Protecting him? Why had he never noticed?

The final entry was dated the day before Draco's death:

"Northern Lights are beautiful here. Potter would like them. Handling last cursed items tomorrow, then... maybe contact him. Four years—perhaps he'll listen. Perhaps we could... No, absurd. A Malfoy and Harry Potter? The world isn't that forgiving. But Merlin, how I wish to try."

Tucked inside was an unsent letter addressed "H.J.P."

Harry's shaking fingers barely opened the envelope.

"Dear Harry,

If you're reading this, I've either found courage or am dead. Either way, know this:

1. In the bathroom sixth year, I truly wanted your help but didn't know how to ask.

2. At the battle, I gave you my wand not under duress, but because I believed you could end the nightmare.

3. I faked my death because Death Eaters planned to use me to reach you. Couldn't risk it.

4. These four years, I've stopped three assassination attempts on you. You'll never know—better that way.

5. I...

Can't write the last. Some things should be said in person or never. I choose the latter.

May your life be bright, far from darkness.

D.M."

The letter slipped from Harry's fingers. His vision blurred, chest aching as if bludgeoned. Draco... that sneering Draco... had been...

Frantically, Harry searched the diary for more clues. A photo fluttered out—a crumpled Daily Prophet clipping of Harry receiving his Order of Merlin, edges worn from handling. Most shocking was the permanent Sticking Charm preventing damage, and the faint lipstick mark on Harry's image.

"Draco..." Harry traced the lip mark, throat constricting. All these years, Draco had...

He pocketed the letter and photo, then turned to Draco's wand. This time, when he grasped it, warm gold light erupted—the wand accepting him fully.

"I'll finish your work," Harry promised the wand. "I'll find the remaining Dark objects. In your name."

Outside, London's first snow began falling. Harry stood at the window, watching flakes descend. A distant memory surfaced—first Christmas at Hogwarts, snow falling as he and Ron encountered Draco in the corridor. As they walked away, he'd almost thought he heard Draco whisper "Happy Christmas."

Back then, he'd assumed mishearing. Now he wondered—had everything been different from the start?

Wiping his eyes, Harry carefully stored Draco's diary and letter. Tomorrow, he'd investigate who set that trap. Tomorrow, he'd secure justice for Draco Malfoy.

But tonight—tonight he allowed himself to grieve properly, for the boy he'd never truly known, for words left unspoken, for possibilities ended before they'd begun.

The snow fell heavier, blanketing London like a pristine funeral shroud, mourning all the love that never was.