Teachers were running. Students were pushing. Someone was crying. The whole world had fractured into chaos, but your feet refused to move.

On the grass below, two bodies lay motionless. Red and green robes tangled together like fate itself had arranged them.

The golden thread had vanished.

But you could still feel it. A phantom weight around your heart. A warmth that hadn't been there before.

Madam Pomfrey was already kneeling beside Harry. McGonagall was shouting for space. Hagrid was pushing through the crowd like a bulldozer.

Draco hadn't moved.

He was still lying there. Still as death. His silver hair dark against the green grass. His hand curled loosely at his side.

Then—

His fingers twitched.

You felt it before you saw it. A pulse of something. Pain, maybe. But beneath it, relief. Such overwhelming relief it nearly brought you to your knees.

Somewhere behind you, Ron was yelling. Hermione was casting something. Students were being herded toward the exits.

And Draco was lifting his head.

Grey eyes—bruised and dazed—found you through the chaos.

A beat.

Two.

His lips parted.

Draco was standing.

Swaying slightly. One hand pressed to his ribs. A thin line of blood trailing down his temple. His eyes never left your face.

The air between you grew heavy.