The Re-Sorting [Drarry, TW SMUT]

Taken, Not Left.

1st Person - Harry

Something was wrong. 

I knew it the moment I woke up. The bed beside me was cold. The sheets were rumpled but empty, and the air in the room felt off—like something had been taken rather than simply left. 

“Draco?” I sat up, rubbing sleep from my eyes. The room was silent. 

A slow, creeping dread curled in my stomach. 

I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, feet hitting the cold floor. The door was still shut, but something inside me screamed that he wasn’t on the other side of it. 

I grabbed my wand and shoved the door open. The hallway was quiet, Grimmauld Place still shrouded in early morning shadows. I checked the bathroom. The study. The kitchen. 

Nothing. 

By the time I reached the sitting room, my chest was tight with panic. “Kreacher!” 

The elf appeared with a *crack*, his bat-like ears twitching. He narrowed his beady eyes at me. “What does Master wish?” 

“Where’s Draco?” I demanded. 

Kreacher sneered. “The blood-traitor snake is gone.” 

Cold. Spreading through my veins like ice water. “Gone where?” 

The elf’s lip curled. “The house let him leave.” 

I grabbed the back of a chair to steady myself. “No. No, he wouldn't—”

Not without saying anything. Not after last night. Right?

And then I saw it. 

A single, discarded object on the floor, half-hidden beneath the edge of the rug. 

A wand. Draco’s wand. 

The breath rushed out of me like I’d been punched. My mind raced, pieces clicking into place, forming an image too horrible to comprehend. 

He hadn’t left. 

He’d been taken. 

A sharp, piercing pain lanced through my scar. I staggered back, clutching my forehead as the world blurred. 

A flash—cold stone walls—shackles—Draco on the floor, blood on his face—his father standing over him, wand raised—Voldemort’s laughter curling through the darkness— 

I gasped, wrenching myself back to reality. My hands were shaking. 

No. No no no no.

I had to get to him. 

Before it was too late.