The Re-Sorting [Drarry, TW SMUT]

Useless.

3rd POV

Draco lay awake in the unfamiliar bed, staring at the ceiling. The house felt ancient, filled with ghosts and secrets. He could hear the faint creaks of floorboards, the occasional rustle of movement beyond his door. 

He had no idea why Potter had let him in. No idea why he hadn’t been hexed on sight. He should’ve been. He deserved it. 

His fingers hovered over his forearm, over the mark that still felt like it was burning. He pressed his palm against it, as if trying to smother the shame crawling under his skin. 

He had nowhere else to go. That was the truth. His father had made it clear that he was either useful or disposable. And Voldemort… 

Draco shuddered. 

He had thought he was ready. That he could handle it. But the moment the Dark Lord had touched his arm, he had felt himself fracture. 

Useless. 

The word still lingered on his skin, even if Pansy had healed the wounds. 

He turned onto his side, exhaling shakily. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel entirely alone. 

That scared him more than anything. 

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1st POV - Harry 

The next morning, I found Draco in the kitchen. 

It was strange, seeing him here, wrapped in one of Sirius’ old jumpers that I had left lying around. It was too big on him, the sleeves covering his hands. He looked… softer. Almost normal. 

Almost. 

He was hunched over a cup of tea, staring into it like it held the answers to all his problems. 

“You’re up early,” I said, grabbing a mug for myself. 

Draco didn’t look at me. “Didn’t sleep much.” 

I sat across from him.

Draco’s lips twitched, but there was no real amusement behind it. His fingers tightened around his cup. “Are you going to interrogate me now?” 

I leaned back in my chair. “I don’t know. Should I?” 

He finally met my gaze, something unreadable flickering in his grey eyes. “Depends on whether you actually want answers.” 

I frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

Draco exhaled, setting his cup down. “If I tell you the truth, will it change anything? You already know what I’ve done.” 

I swallowed. “I know you took the Mark.” 

His jaw tensed, but he didn’t look away. “Yeah. I did.” 

A beat of silence stretched between us. 

“Do you regret it?” I asked quietly. 

Draco’s fingers twitched. He didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was barely above a whisper. 

“Every second. You know I didn't want this. It's not me. Not anymore, at least."

Something in my chest tightened. 

I wasn’t sure what I had been expecting—denial, defensiveness, maybe even an excuse. But not this. Not raw, unguarded honesty. 

Draco suddenly let out a sharp breath and pushed back his chair. “I need air.” 

I watched as he stormed out, the kitchen door swinging shut behind him. 

I stayed seated, my hands curled around my mug. 

Maybe I had been wrong about him. 

Maybe I wasn’t the only one trying to figure out where I belonged. 

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3rd POV

Draco stood outside, his breath coming out in uneven bursts. 

He shouldn’t have said that. Shouldn’t have admitted anything. 

Potter made it too easy. The way he looked at him—not with pity, not with disgust, but with something else, something that made Draco’s defenses crack. 

He leaned against the railing, running a hand through his hair. 

The problem with Potter was that he always saw too much. 

And Draco wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep hiding.