Nine

The Hogwarts Express rattled over the tracks, a rhythmic, metal heartbeat that felt entirely too cheerful for the leaden weight in my chest. 

Outside, the Scottish Highlands blurred into a smear of grey and green, but inside our compartment, the atmosphere was glacial.

Draco sat across from me, his head leaning back against the velvet cushion. He looked exhausted, the shadows under his eyes even darker than they had been at the Manor. 

He was holding my hand, his thumb tracing the skin just above my sleeve, a silent tether. 

To anyone passing by, we were the Prince and Princess of Slytherin, untouchable and cold. But I could feel the tremor in his fingers.

"You're thinking again," he murmured, his eyes remaining closed.

"I'm just tired, Draco," I lied. It was becoming a habit, a second skin I wore more comfortably than my own.

The truth was that the Dark Lord's voice was still vibrating in the marrow of my bones. Seduce him, Elizabeth. Peel back the layers of the Boy Who Lived until his secrets bleed out. 

I looked at my reflection in the window—at the girl who was supposed to be Harry Potter's old friend, the "bright light" he once thought he saw. Now, I was a weapon.

The compartment door slid open, breaking the tension. Blaise and Amelia stepped in, looking ruffled.

"The tension in the corridors is thick enough to cut with a Sectumsempra," Blaise sighed, dropping into the seat next to Draco. "Potter and his lot are already whispering. They saw the 'nomination' looks at the station."

Draco's eyes snapped open, turning into shards of ice. "Let them whisper. They have no idea what's coming." He looked at me, his expression softening for a fraction of a second before he turned the mask back on. "Right, Liz?"

"Right," I said, my voice sounding hollow to my own ears.

The return to the Great Hall was an exercise in theatre. Draco and I walked in sync, shoulders squared, faces set in identical expressions of bored disdain. 

I felt Harry's gaze the moment I crossed the threshold. It wasn't the usual look of annoyance; it was a searchlight, desperate to find the girl who used to share study hours with Hermione in the library.

I didn't look back. I couldn't.

Later that evening, the reality of our "academic" burden set in. 

Snape had been clear: the project started immediately. I found myself standing in the dark, damp corridor leading to the Potions classroom for our first scheduled "strategy meeting."

Harry was already there, leaning against the stone wall. He looked older, the weight of the prophecy finally catching up to his physical frame. 

When he saw me, he didn't scowl. He looked... pained.

"Elizabeth," he said, his voice quiet.

"Potter," I replied, my tone clipped. I had to play the role. I had to be the Slytherin bitch he expected, but with just enough of the "old me" visible to reel him in. "Snape really outdid himself with this torture, didn't he? Pairing me with the savior of the Wizarding World."

Harry let out a dry, humorless laugh. "I don't think he did it for the grades, Liz. What happened to you over the break? You look... different."

I stepped closer, invading his personal space just enough to see his pupils dilate. I could feel the Dark Lord's influence like a cold hand on my shoulder, guiding my movements.

"War happened, Harry," I whispered, letting a flicker of genuine fear show in my eyes—the stress of the task was real enough that I didn't have to fake the emotion, only the source of it. "Things aren't as simple as they used to be in first year."

I saw him soften. The "hero" in him was stirring, the need to save the girl he thought was lost. "You can talk to me, you know. Whatever Malfoy is caught up in... you don't have to be a part of it."

I looked down, hiding the smirk that threatened to surface. It was working. He was so predictable.

"I have to go," I said suddenly, turning away before I could say too much. "We'll start the brewing tomorrow."

I didn't go back to the common room. I headed for the seventh floor, to the stretch of wall opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. 

I paced three times, thinking of the one place I could be truly alone with my thoughts.

The door to the Room of Requirement groaned open. Inside, the Vanishing Cabinet stood like a monolith of dark wood and broken promises. Draco was already there.

He didn't hear me come in. He was slumped on a crate, his head in his hands, his wand forgotten on the floor. The "Prince" was gone; here, he was just a boy breaking under the weight of a task he wasn't built for.

"Draco," I whispered.

He jumped, his hand flying to his wand before he realized it was me. "Liz. You should be in bed."

"So should you." I walked over and sat on the floor between his knees, resting my head on his lap. He immediately began to stroke my hair, his touch frantic and needy.

"It's not working," he choked out, looking at the cabinet. "I've tried everything. If I can't fix it, he'll kill my mother. He'll kill you."

"You'll fix it," I said, reaching up to pull his face down to mine. I needed him to stop talking, to stop worrying, because every time he mentioned the future, the guilt of my own secret task threatened to choke me. "You're Draco Malfoy. You do everything effortlessly, remember?"

He let out a broken sob, burying his face in my neck. "Not this, Liz. Never this."

I held him as he shook, the rhythm of his ragged breathing filling the room. I was the one who was supposed to be "scared and stressed," the one he was supposed to calm down, but tonight the roles were reversed. I was the anchor, even as I prepared to betray the very foundation of the trust he placed in me.

As we sat there in the shadows of the room of lost things, I realized the Dark Lord hadn't just given me a mission. He had given me a death sentence for my soul. Because to save Draco, I had to ruin Harry. And to keep Draco's love, I had to lie to him until there was nothing left of the girl who once believed in "effortless" happy endings.