The Re-Sorting [Drarry, TW SMUT]

In the Shadows of Malfoy Manor

1st POV - Harry

The night swallowed me as I crept closer to Malfoy Manor. Every step was a calculated risk, every rustle of leaves and distant guard patrol igniting my nerves. The manor loomed ahead, its silhouette stark against a turbulent sky, as if warning me of the darkness within. 

I paused in a narrow hedge, eyes fixed on the side gate Remus had identified. The distraction orchestrated by our allies had plunged the main entrance into chaos, but here, silence reigned—punctuated only by the occasional creak of the ancient walls. I took a deep breath, steadying my heart and steadying my wand. 

With a silent incantation, I disarmed the wards on the side gate. The old magic, though potent, yielded to my focused determination. The gate swung open with a soft groan, and I slipped inside, my footsteps muffled by the dewy grass. 

Inside, the corridors of Malfoy Manor were dark and foreboding. The stone walls bore centuries of secrets—whispers of power, cruelty, and betrayal. Every corner felt watched, every shadow a potential threat. I moved cautiously, following the map in my mind, the one Remus had painstakingly drawn from years of intelligence gathering. 

I navigated twisting hallways and deserted corridors, passing by faded portraits of grim-faced ancestors whose eyes seemed to follow my every move. I couldn’t shake the image of Draco in distress—the fear in his eyes, the pain etched into every line of his face. The thought of him suffering at the hands of his own family sent a sharp pang of anger and determination through me. 

At last, I reached a narrow door marked only by a faint sigil. My heart pounded in my ears as I murmured a counter-charm to unlock it. The door creaked open into a dimly lit chamber. The smell of old incense, mixed with something acrid and unsettling, filled the space. In the corner, soft murmurs and the clink of metal betrayed that I wasn’t alone. 

I pressed myself against the wall, heart hammering as I listened intently. Two guards were stationed by a heavy oak door, their conversation low and cautious. Only two. If I could slip past them, I might be close to the room where Draco was held. 

Carefully, I raised my wand, murmuring a silencing spell, and edged forward. The guards’ voices stuttered into silence, their movements freezing as if held by invisible threads. I crept past them, every nerve on edge, until I reached the door at the end of the corridor. 

My mind raced with possibilities—Draco’s frightened eyes, the soft warmth of his skin, and the knowledge that I had to get to him before it was too late. The door was barred with intricate runes, but I knew some of them well. With trembling fingers, I traced the symbols, weaving counter-charms into the very fabric of the barrier. Slowly, the glow of the runes faded until, with a final sigh of magic, the door clicked open. 

Inside was a room cloaked in darkness, illuminated only by a single, flickering candle on a small table. My eyes darted around, searching for any sign of Draco. My heart sank at first—empty chairs, cold stone walls—but then a soft sound reached me: a muffled cry, desperate and muted. 

I followed the sound to a narrow passageway leading to a locked cell. My pulse quickened. Draco was here, and I could almost feel the heat of his fear and defiance seeping through the bars. I knelt before the lock, murmuring the spells I’d practiced so many times in secret. The metal groaned, reluctant at first, but then yielded to my determined fingers. 

As the cell door swung open, I peered inside. There, under a threadbare blanket, lay Draco. His eyes were closed, and his face was pale, but his hand reached out instinctively when my arm brushed against his. In that moment, all the cold distance between us melted away. 

“Draco,” I whispered urgently, moving closer. “I’m here.” 

He stirred, his eyes fluttering open to meet mine. In that moment of raw vulnerability, his usual guarded expression crumbled into something fragile and real. The fear in his gaze was tempered by relief—a silent plea that I had arrived in time.