The Bar Where Secrets Burn

Draco Malfoy's POV

I find her on the floor—my mother. Bruised, unconscious, and far too fragile for someone who's always carried herself with such quiet grace. I drop to my knees, hands trembling as I gather her into my arms. I already know who did this. Of course I do. And the worst part? I couldn't stop it. Couldn't protect her. Couldn't do a damn thing.

I carry her to the bedroom, gently laying her down and cleaning her wounds. My hands shake, not from fear, but from the fury bubbling just beneath the surface.

How does someone do this to a person like her? She's never been anything but kind. Soft-spoken. Patient. She's never raised her wand in anger. Never once. And he—he claimed to love her. Promised to protect her. I want to scream.

This. This is exactly why I don't believe in love. Why I won't let myself feel it. Because if someone like him could do this to her—then what's stopping me from becoming the same monster?

I can't breathe in this house.

I apparate. Straight to the Muggle world. I don't care if he finds out—I want him to. Let him come. What's he going to do, hit me again? Nothing new there.

I need air. Noise. A distraction. Something that dulls the emotions I've shoved down for years. Something more than the bottles in my study back home. But I have standards. I won't rot away in some dingy bar.

I change into a crisp Muggle suit—tailored, black, clean lines. White shirt. No tie. I step into one of the upscale bars near central London, the kind with a real pianist and dim lights. I choose a corner seat, far from everyone but close enough to the stage.

Scotch, neat. One spell on the bartender and he doesn't question my age. Not that he would—I look older than I am. Taller. Broader. I've grown into my frame. My mother says I look like my uncle—handsome, sharp. My father says I look like trouble.

The drink burns down my throat, warm and bitter. I welcome it.

And then she appears.

Black dress. Black hair. Skin like porcelain and eyes—Merlin, those eyes. Blue, bright, cutting through the shadows like twin stars. She sits at the piano like it was made for her, like she owns it. Her fingers start to play, and it's flawless. Delicate. Raw. And then—she sings.

I freeze.

Her voice is—there's no word for it. It's not just beautiful. It's haunting. Like it's meant for me. Like she knows exactly where it hurts and aims right for it.

I've never heard this song before—some Muggle Christmas song maybe—but it doesn't matter. I feel every word.

A/N - Please play Snowman by Sia

"Don't cry, snowman... Not in front of me"

"Who'll catch your tears, if you can't catch me darling"

I'm no snowman. But I want to be. I want to melt.

My glass hangs loose between my fingers. I can't take my eyes off her. She closes hers when she sings, like she's channeling something too big for the room.

And then... she opens them. And she sees me.

Just me.

The rest of the room dissolves into blur. She's still playing, but her smile fades when our eyes lock. I can see her chest rise, falter. She hesitates.

I stand.

Slowly. Calmly. But I stand. Right in the center of the room. Letting her see me. All of me. I raise my brow and gesture for her to continue.

She does.

Never breaks eye contact.

The room watches her. But she watches me.

"Don't cry, snowman... Not in front of me"

I watch her mouth move. Her hands glide. Her voice soars. And still, she stares at me. Like the rest of the world is white noise.

Until the last word falls from her lips.

"My snowman and me"

The applause is thunderous. I barely hear it. She stands, bows, and disappears backstage before I can move. And I stand there, unmoving, drink forgotten on the table, wondering what the hell just happened.

She was mesmerizing.

No—she was art.

Olivia Middleton's POV

I bow after my performance, heart thudding wildly in my chest. The applause fades as I step off the small stage and slip backstage, barely keeping my hands from shaking. That was way too close. I exhale slowly, steadying myself. Thank Merlin I'd taken the time—before I landed this job—to master transfiguration. New face. Blue eyes. Black hair. Perfectly arched brows. A face so... average, no one would give it a second glance.

If I'd walked out there as me, as Olivia Middleton, Draco would've recognized me in a heartbeat.

The bar's classy—no creeps, no grabby hands, no one throwing "Galleons" at me like I'm some dancing hippogriff. Just music. Just me. I'm grateful for that.

But what the hell is Malfoy doing here?

It's already closing time when I head to my little corner to gather my things. No coat. Wonderful. I must've left it at home in my rush. The black dress I'm wearing—spaghetti straps, deep neckline, slit riding high on my right thigh—wasn't made for a cold walk home. The heels? Tall. Sharp. Definitely not winter-approved. Still, it's just three blocks. I'll manage.

Until I look up.

He's still there.

Malfoy. The last customer in the bar. Of course he is.

Policy says I have to be the one to tell the final patron to leave before the cleaning crew comes in. And I'm the last staff member on the floor. Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.

What if he recognizes me? What if he doesn't leave? What if he tries something and I have to defend myself—and they think I hexed a customer?

I cannot lose this job.

I barely open my mouth when he speaks first, voice smooth but awkward. "Oh—hi. I was waiting for you, actually. I didn't see you leave, so I thought I'd just wait."

I blink. You were waiting for me? I have to admit—he looks good. Taller than I remember. Muscles pushing at the sleeves of his suit like they're ready to tear through if he so much as breathes wrong. The shirt clings to his chest in a way that's... distracting.

"Oh?" I manage, trying to keep the surprise out of my voice. He rubs the back of his neck, his gaze flicking up to mine. "I appreciate art. But that... that was more than art. That was something angelic."

My heart stutters.

"Thank you—" I start, but I stop. Words fail me. I just sort of... stare at him. Like an idiot. "Erm... did I say something wrong?" he asks, suddenly worried. "No, no," I say quickly, shaking it off. "Just... you remind me of someone. Someone close. I'm glad you enjoyed the performance."

He nods. "Do you sing here regularly?"

"Yes. Started a few months ago."

"Well," he says with a small smile, "you've just earned yourself a regular customer. May I know your beautiful name?" I force a chuckle, flashing a bright, dimpled smile. "Oh, right! Silly me. I forgot to introduce myself."

He's smiling back—until his eyes drop to my hand.

To the ring.

Something shifts in him. His whole posture tenses. His eyes darken.

"Middleton," he says.

"Whittle," I say at the same time.

My stomach drops.

No. No, no, no.

"Um, who?" I try, desperate. "I'm Charlotte Whittle."

Too slow.

"No, you're not," he snaps.

And then his hand is around my wrist, firm but not hurting, and he's dragging me out of the bar. He's furious. I don't think I've ever seen him this angry.

"What the hell are you doing in a bar, Middleton?" he growls, voice sharp and low. I glare up at him, yanking at my wrist, but his grip doesn't budge. "I should ask you the same thing," I snap.

Instead of letting go, he pulls me closer—too close. One hand slides around my waist and tightens there, like he has any right. My breath catches. His lips brush against my ear as he leans in.

"I'll ask you again. Don't deflect. Don't question. Just answer. What. Are. You. Doing. In. A. Bar. Looking like this?" Each word is whispered, but they hit like thunder. I feel the shiver ripple down my spine, but I refuse to show it.

"I work here now," I grit out. "Didn't I just tell you that inside?" His hand flies off my waist, but now he's clutching my wrist again, harder this time. "What? Aren't you too young to work in a bar?"

I yank again, still not breaking free. "Aren't you too young to be in one? Why do you even care?"

His jaw ticks. "Why don't your parents?"

My stomach turns. My chest tightens. The word parents hits me like a gut punch, sudden and raw. I haven't thought about them in months—haven't wanted to. Not since I walked away from everything that tied me to them.

My eyes burn before I can stop it.

He must see the shift in my expression, because he lets go of my wrist, just like that.

"Malfoy," I breathe, voice thin and shaky, "what I do... where I go... how I survive—it's none of your business. You liked my voice? Great. But maybe you won't anymore, now that you know it's me."

I look him straight in the eye, holding myself together by a thread. "No one knows. Not Ron. Not Hermione. Not Harry. You're the first—and I hope to Merlin you're the only." I turn and start walking. It's all I can do. If I stay, I'll break.

"Middleton—look, I didn't mean to sound like an arse," he calls after me. "I was just... worried. Bloody hell, woman, where are you even going? Ruffle Street's that way."

I stop. Ice slices through my veins.

How does he know where I live?

I don't look at him directly. Just tilt my head, giving him a side-eye. "I don't live there anymore."

And I keep walking.

Footsteps echo behind me. Then warmth settles around my shoulders. His coat. I glance at him, the weight of it both comforting and guilt-inducing. "...Thank you," I whisper.

"Let me walk you," he says, softer now. "It's midnight. You shouldn't be out here alone."

I nod, too tired to argue.

We walk in silence. Just the sound of cars in the distance, leaves rustling, the occasional gust of wind. Our steps fall into sync without meaning to. When we finally reach my house, I pause at the gate. It's modest. Worn. But it's mine.

"As much as I hated those professors," I say quietly, "they did one thing right—gave me a place to stay. And a job."

He says nothing.

I glance back at him. "Do you want to come in? It's late. I don't want you walking back alone. I've got spare rooms. Might not be as fancy as your dungeon suite, but it's warm." He raises a brow. "Only if you promise to answer whatever I ask you."

His eyes are on me, like he already knows the questions. Or worse—like he thinks I'm the answer.

I swallow hard, then nod.

"Okay," I whisper.

And we step inside.