Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“You’re very spoiled. I’ll spoil you even more and make sure you’re the happiest child in the world, I promise.” He hugged the baby as if his life depended on it, and at that moment, that baby was his new life.

Chapter Text

It had been over a week since Draco sent the note announcing Andromeda's passing, and until now, Potter hadn't even bothered to show up. Not that the blonde cared—at least he would never admit it, not even in thought. However, it wasn't the attitude he expected from the savior of the wizarding world, but he was tired of trying to understand the Gryffindor's mind.

The blonde was pulled from his reverie by the sound of the doorbell. For some reason, Harry's face flashed in his mind. He imagined what it might look like—perhaps guilty for not having come sooner, or sad and frustrated by the situation, maybe even worried about Teddy being in the hands of a Death Eater. In an automatic act, Draco ran his hand through his hair, straightening it gracefully, took a deep breath, and opened the door with his usual casual, sarcastic smile.

"Oh, it's you."

"What a warm welcome." Astoria Greengrass, Draco's ex-girlfriend, and most of the time a spoiled little princess—yet a good person.

"I thought it was someone else."

"Would that other person be Harry Potter? Hasn't he shown up yet?"

"See him around here?" The blonde couldn't contain himself. Astoria placed her hand on her chest, feigning surprise.

"Sorry, I'm just a little stressed. Teddy doesn't give me a minute, except now that he's sleeping. And my aunt, my mother... it's a lot to deal with alone." There was more to say, but he was so tired he couldn't even put it into words.

"Hey, you're not alone. I don't know much about kids, but you know I can help you."

There was a moment of silence. Both were thinking the same thing—how different their lives would be if they hadn't given up on the marriage. The decision had been mutual, but Astoria had liked the idea of marrying Draco. She just wasn't prepared to live the rest of her life with someone so soon after Hogwarts. She wanted to travel, meet new people, and not be tied down—she didn’t want to be known as someone’s wife, but by her own name.

Draco didn't feel prepared for it either. He knew he didn't like Astoria enough, though it had never been a priority for him or his family. As much as he denied it, he knew who his heart belonged to. He’d used his college as an excuse when he spoke with Astoria and saw that she felt the same. He had no doubts—this marriage wasn’t going to happen.

"Sorry, do you want to come in?" He realized they were still standing at the door.

"I thought you'd never ask."

At first, it felt a little strange. The last time they'd talked for so long was when they were engaged. That seemed like a lifetime ago, but it had only been a year.

Astoria talked about her trip to Paris and how everything they'd heard about the people there was a lie. Everyone was stressed, the Eiffel Tower wasn't impressive up close, and the heat was unbearable. She was a good listener, and Draco was grateful to vent to someone he trusted so much. He was so tired of everything—having the Ministry on his back all the time, waiting for a slip-up, knowing that at any moment, Teddy's custody might be taken from him. That little boy seemed like the only thing that made sense in his life, the only thing worth fighting for. His father was in Azkaban, unable to receive visitors—though Draco wasn't sure he'd visit him if he could—and his mother didn’t respond to him, didn’t even seem to notice he was there. And now, he had lost his aunt.

It was good to have someone to talk to about it. He would have preferred to talk to Pansy or Blaise, but the Ministry had banned him indefinitely from meeting with any of the old crowd or people with connections. Luckily, Astoria hadn’t been included in this; despite her family’s staunch belief in pureblood ideals, she had been underage at the time and wasn’t considered involved. Draco was grateful for her presence, for her being such a good listener.

"Now you're making me feel ashamed. I sound like a spoiled brat badmouthing France, and you're talking about real-life problems."

"Well, that's because you are, in fact, a spoiled brat."

...

Draco had just finished reading a story to Teddy. It was already night, and the little boy was ready to sleep. But unlike other nights, he struggled to keep his eyes open.

"What happened, Ted?"

"Why me not have mommy?"

The somewhat confused question, formed with the few words he knew, left Draco speechless. How could he explain that his parents had died? Had anyone already talked to him about it?

"You have, silly boy." Draco replied, smiling, trying to hide his nervousness. How to explain? He wished someone else were there—Andromeda, or even Pansy, or even Astoria. He didn't want to admit it, but Harry would be a great help. He knew Teddy's parents.

"Where is she?"

"She is with Grandma Dromeda in a really distant place, but she let a star up in the sky for you to remember her. Because she loves you a lot." Draco spoke hesitantly, slowly, searching for the right words, but he couldn’t find them. And as the little boy’s eyes grew downcast and sad, Draco realized he was making a mistake.

"She star?"

"Maybe when you're older, you'll understand that this is more complicated than it seems now." Draco's heart broke with every word—sadness and despair filling him. Teddy's gaze was lost, and he wanted to say something to comfort him, but the boy didn’t even understand the situation.

He picked Teddy up in his arms, holding him tightly, trying to offer comfort, praying that his embrace would convey what words could not.

"You're not alone, Teddy. Draco will always be with you." He caught the little boy’s attention, who had been staring at his hands, lost. He wasn't sure if Teddy could understand the meaning of the words, but he hoped he understood the feeling, or at least felt a little better.

He laid the boy down on the bed and covered him. He thought about what Andromeda had said—raising Teddy without prejudice. It was important to teach him these things from a young age, so Draco took the opportunity, while Teddy had his attention, to introduce the subject.

"Look, not everyone has a mommy and a daddy. Some people have two mommies or two daddies, and some people have just one mommy or just one daddy. But they are all a family. Do you understand?" The oldest had no idea why he was saying these things. The words just came out, perhaps in an attempt to avoid the subject.

"Emily?" he tried to speak, and Draco nodded, smiling. He gently stroked the boy's blue hair, who, in turn, smiled proudly.

"A family, like us," Draco muttered, immediately regretting the words. He couldn’t help but recall his aunt’s words: "You and Harry are Teddy's only family."

"Hawee... 'Emily' too?" Teddy's question surprised Draco, almost as if the boy had read his mind.

"Of course, Harry too."

"So I have two daddies?" Teddy’s innocent question left Draco momentarily speechless. The idea of a family was so much more complicated than what a two-year-old could understand. How could he explain that families could be made up of more than just fathers and mothers, but also uncles and cousins?

"Don’t think about it too much, okay?" Draco tried to steer the conversation away. "Do you want some milk so you can sleep?"

The little boy nodded eagerly, and Draco kissed him on the forehead before leaving to prepare the milk.

Hours later, it was 3 AM, and Teddy was crying—babbling unintelligibly, his words impossible to understand. Draco, desperate, regretted not paying more attention during his Healing classes on pediatrics. He had only attended the mandatory months, always copying notes rather than listening, but he never planned to work in that field, and a "son" had never been in his future plans. How could he possibly know how to deal with this?

"Come on, Teddy. Dwaco has no idea what you're saying, and would really appreciate some sleep," Draco muttered, attempting humor. He mimicked Teddy's way of saying his name to lighten the mood.

"Maybe it’s the diaper? No? Maybe you’re hungry? But you refused the bottle... Maybe a stomach ache? But how would I know?" Draco’s thoughts raced, trying to think of a spell that would help him diagnose colic, but his mind drew a blank. He remembered seeing a similar spell in a textbook once, but it was useless now—he hadn’t truly learned anything in those classes.

In his frustration, Draco did what his aunt had done when Teddy had a stomach ache. He laid the boy on his back, lifting the small shirt to expose his belly. Gently, he placed his left hand on Teddy’s stomach and tapped lightly with his right hand. The sound that followed confirmed it—gas.

Now calmer, Draco felt a sense of relief. He grabbed some Muggle medicine from the shelf, remembering that his aunt claimed it worked better than potions.

"You’ll feel better soon. Sorry it took me so long to figure it out," Draco spoke softly, feeling guilty. "Though, if you could talk, it would have been a lot easier."

The medicine began to take effect, and the sound of Teddy passing gas made Draco smile. He clapped his hands in relief, knowing that if Teddy held it in, the gas would cause more pain. At least one thing from those classes stuck.

"Is the pain gone, Teddy?" Draco asked as he cuddled the boy, whose eyes were already heavy with sleep.

"Yep. Thanks, Dwaco."

“It’s okay, just sleep,” Draco whispered gently, lowering Teddy into the crib beside his bed. He lingered for a moment, watching the boy’s tiny body settle, his chest rising and falling with the soft rhythm of sleep. When Teddy’s grip finally loosened, Draco quietly slipped away, careful not to disturb him. But as he stood there, he felt a quiet, gnawing ache deep in his chest—a strange, hollow feeling that settled over him like a thick fog.

He stood in the dim light, his gaze unfocused, the weight of it all pressing down on him. Two years. Two years he had known Andromeda, and in that time, she had become something he didn’t know he was missing—an anchor in a world that had always felt so fragile, so volatile. He had only just started to understand her, to learn what it meant to have a person who cared for him without hesitation, without judgment. 

Draco couldn’t help but let out a long, silent sigh as he stepped back. His mind, always restless, was swirling with thoughts—fragments of everything and nothing at once. The weight of his new responsibility was heavy, settling into his bones like a cold, unshakable burden. He had been prepared for a life full of complications, full of uncertainty, but this? This was something else entirely.

Draco turned away from the crib, his heart heavy. His mind, however, couldn’t stop racing, couldn’t stop dwelling on everything he hadn’t said, everything he hadn’t been able to do for her. How had she left so soon? His mother was still bedridden, too, and the thought of losing her—of losing the only other piece of family he had left—was almost more than he could bear. His mother, who had been so distant, so lost in her own world, and yet still, she was his mother. He was responsible for her now, and the thought of facing that alone was something he could hardly fathom.

She had never been the strong, comforting presence Andromeda had been. Narcissa had always been wrapped up in her own struggles, her own pain, and now she was broken—lost in a way that made Draco want to give up on her altogether. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t leave her, not now. He owed her something, didn’t he? And yet, the thought of taking care of her, of shouldering the burden of her care while grieving Andromeda, felt almost too much to bear.

A sharp pain twisted in his chest, and he clenched his jaw, trying to push the thoughts away. He couldn’t afford to break down. Not now, not when there was so much to do, so many responsibilities that weighed him down. And then there’s Teddy.

Draco walked toward the door, each step slow, deliberate. He felt utterly exhausted, as if the weight of the world had been placed squarely on his shoulders. Teddy was the only one who still needed him, the only one who still looked up to him with trust and hope in his eyes. He couldn’t afford to fail him. Not like he had failed Andromeda.

He stopped in the doorway, glancing back at the crib. This isn’t fair.

The grief, the loss, the weight of everything—he didn’t know how to carry it. But he had to. For Teddy. For his mother. And somehow, in the middle of all this, for himself.

With one last breath, Draco steeled himself and closed the door quietly behind him. Teddy was safe. And that, for now, was enough.

…

Just when Draco thought he might be able to handle everything on his own, Harry barged into the sitting room, looking like he’d barely escaped a battlefield. His hair was its usual untamed mess—wild, with strands sticking out in every direction—but today, it somehow looked worse. His clothes bore smudges of dirt, and his glasses—those crooked, maddening glasses—sat askew on his nose. Despite his disheveled state, Harry carried himself with an air of unyielding resolve, as if sheer determination was the only thing holding him together.

Draco’s fingers tightened on the edge of the cabinet he was sorting through, grounding himself against the unease Harry’s presence always seemed to provoke. It was ridiculous, really, how after all these years, Harry Potter could still set him off balance. To Draco, he was the same reckless Gryffindor who acted first and thought later, yet there was something different now. Beneath the chaos, Harry carried a quiet, weathered strength that both intrigued and unsettled him.

The room itself felt heavy, the kind of weight that houses of grief tend to carry. Andromeda’s modest but cozy home, now also belonged to Harry — As he would told guardianship of Teddy. The thought still grated on him, though he knew it was Andromeda’s wish. The low lamplight illuminated the corners of the room, casting shadows over the stacks of Teddy’s toys and a few untouched mementos of Andromeda herself.

“To what do I owe the honor of your dramatic entrance?” Draco drawled, turning toward the couch with an exaggerated composure. His voice was sharp, but the too-tight clasp of his hands in his lap betrayed his discomfort.

“Where’s Teddy?” Harry demanded, still catching his breath as he lingered in the doorway.

“Sleeping,” Draco answered curtly. The edges of his voice softened, though, despite himself. Then, with a dry sneer, he added, “And did it occur to you that you have a godson?”

Harry winced at the jab but didn’t retaliate. “I just got back into town and came straight here. How’s he doing?”

Draco’s posture stiffened, his tone clipped. “It’s been a week since she passed, Potter. You tell me how a child copes with losing the only parent he’s ever really known.” His voice wavered, just for a moment, before he masked it.

Harry’s expression faltered, guilt flickering across his face. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t make it to the wake, but you know I admired her.”

Draco’s jaw tightened as he stared past Harry, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “I regret not getting closer to her sooner.”

The silence that followed was thick, saturated with shared grief for Andromeda. Harry shifted uncomfortably, suddenly aware of how little he actually knew about Draco—this Draco, the one who now stayed in a house filled with reminders of loss and responsibility.

“How did you explain it to Teddy?” Harry asked quietly.

Draco exhaled slowly. “I told him... she turned into a star and is watching over him now.”

Harry blinked, surprised. “That’s... poetic. Didn’t think you had it in you.”

Draco shot him a withering glare. “Neither did I. But desperate times call for creative measures. Do you think it was a bad explanation?” His voice wavered slightly, betraying his genuine concern.

The honesty in Draco’s tone caught Harry off guard. “No, it’s fine. Comforting, I guess. Though not exactly original,” he added with a faint smile, hoping to lighten the moment.

Draco’s lips twitched involuntarily, softening for the briefest of moments before he composed himself again. Harry noticed anyway, warmth flickering faintly in the dim room.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty; it felt fragile, like the wrong word could shatter it completely.

Draco, predictably, was the first to break it. “Merlin, Potter. When was the last time you showered?”

Harry flushed, glancing down at himself. “Yesterday. Or maybe the day before,” he muttered, clearing his throat. “Can I use the one here? We can talk after.”

Draco sighed theatrically but gestured toward the bathroom with a lazy flick of his wrist. “Fine. Just don’t flood the place. Or break anything.”

As Harry disappeared down the hall, Draco sank back into the couch, his fingers tapping against the armrest. He glanced toward the hallway occasionally, half-expecting Harry to emerge having somehow disrupted the fragile peace of the house.

When Harry finally returned, freshly showered and dressed in a simple blue shirt and sweatpants, Draco blinked. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but it wasn’t this—Harry, unguarded and almost... ordinary. The casual clothes softened his sharp edges in a way Draco didn’t know what to do with.

“So, it’s been a while,” Harry ventured, his voice lighter than the tension in the room. He leaned against the doorframe, trying to bridge the space between them with a forced casualness.

“We saw each other ten minutes ago,” Draco retorted without even glancing up. His dry tone carried just enough bite to remind Harry this wasn’t a social visit.

“You know what I mean,” Harry replied, a faint grin tugging at his lips. “You’re taking care of Teddy, right?”

“What do you think I’m doing?” Draco arched a pale brow, his expression a challenge daring Harry to question him further.

“I don’t know,” Harry quipped, his grin widening, “you look so pale I thought you might be drinking his blood.”

For a moment, Draco simply stared at him, his sharp grey eyes narrowing. Then, to Harry’s surprise, the tension cracked, and they both laughed—a short, unguarded sound that filled the quiet house. It was strange, almost unsettling, to share a moment so trivial after everything. But as quickly as it came, Draco’s expression sobered again.

“Seriously, though,” Harry continued, feigning suspicion. “I can’t imagine you with a kid. You haven’t hurt him, right?”

Draco’s gaze snapped to him, irritation flaring in his eyes. “Really, Potter? You think I’d hurt him?” His voice was sharp, defensive—but beneath the edge, there was something else, something unspoken.

“Well,” Harry replied with a teasing smirk, “you’re not exactly known for your nurturing side.”

Draco leaned forward slightly, his tone sharp enough to cut. “How did you manage to come back here in such a state, anyway? Couldn’t even clean yourself up first?”

Harry scratched the back of his neck, the motion sheepish. “I was in a rush. Didn’t really think about it.”

Draco’s gaze dropped to Harry’s arm, where blood had seeped through his sleeve in dark, uneven patches. “And healing yourself wasn’t worth the effort, either? Merlin, Potter, this will get infected.” He rose to his feet, retrieving his wand with practiced precision.

Harry instinctively tensed, the motion reflexive, his muscles coiling as if anticipating a duel. Draco paused mid-step, his expression flickering between offense and exhaustion. Then, with a roll of his eyes, he muttered, “Relax. I’m not about to hex Saint Potter. I’m going to close that wound before you end up in St. Mungo’s.”

Harry said nothing, though he forced his shoulders to relax as Draco approached. The incantation came quickly, the magic cool and efficient. The sharp sting in Harry’s arm melted away, replaced by a strange tingling warmth. Draco’s skill with the spell surprised him; it was precise, methodical—almost clinical.

“How do you know these spells?” Harry asked, his curiosity slipping past his weariness.

Draco didn’t look up as he worked. “How did you get yourself so thoroughly fucked up?” he countered smoothly.

“It’s classified,” Harry replied, his tone dry.

“Then so is my personal life,” Draco retorted. The final syllable was clipped, his words a clear end to the subject. He stepped back, turning toward a nearby cabinet. A moment later, he handed Harry a small vial, his expression unreadable. “Here. Drink this.”

Harry eyed the potion warily. “Are you sure it’s not poison?”

“I wouldn’t waste a perfectly good vial on you,” Draco replied, his voice dripping with mockery. “But by all means, if you don’t trust me—”

Harry didn’t let him finish. He uncorked the vial and drank it in one go. Draco’s brows shot up, a flicker of amusement playing across his face. “It was supposed to be a sip,” he muttered, shaking his head.

The potion worked quickly, a faint shimmer spreading over Harry’s arm as the wound knitted itself shut. The skin smoothed over, leaving no trace of the injury. Harry flexed his fingers experimentally, marveling at the results.

“Andromeda really left us as guardians,” Harry said after a moment, his voice soft, the weight of the words pressing heavily between them. He wiped his thumb across his mouth, clearing away remnants of the potion. “What’s the plan, then? A week at my place, a week here?”

“Too far to be traveling back and forth. And Teddy’s too young for Apparition,” Draco replied, his tone brisk but practical. His gaze lingered on Harry just a beat too long before shifting away.

Harry nodded, his mind already working through the logistics. He lived at 12 Grimmauld Place, but Andromeda’s home—Teddy’s home—was in southern England, hours away. The arrangement wasn’t sustainable.

Draco broke the silence. “Besides, the Ministry sent an owl a few days ago. They want us both to go in and sign the custody papers by Monday. Otherwise, it won’t be valid.”

Harry frowned. “They don’t trust you?” He tilted his head, genuinely puzzled. “Can they even do that?”

Draco stiffened, his expression hardening. “I have a Dark Mark on my arm, Potter. Trust isn’t something I’ll ever have again. Of course they can do it.” He paused, jaw tightening. “I’m sure that bastard Abasi has something to do with it.”

Harry’s brow furrowed. “Abasi? Who’s that?”

“One of the Healers at St. Mungo’s,” Draco muttered. “He’s got ties to the Ministry and would love nothing more than to ruin my life. He’s been trying for years.”

“Why? What did you do to him?” Harry’s curiosity sparked, his green eyes bright as he leaned forward. Draco groaned inwardly. That look—he hated it. Too earnest, too hard to ignore.

“He doesn’t want me finishing my residency at St. Mungo’s. Thinks I’ll curse the patients or something equally idiotic.” Draco’s voice was laced with bitterness, and he inwardly cursed the potion for loosening his tongue. He wasn’t supposed to be telling Harry any of this.

“You’re a Healer?” Harry’s eyebrows shot up, genuine surprise lighting his face. He couldn’t hide his amazement—or the faint grin tugging at his lips.

Draco rolled his eyes. "It’s amazing how long it takes for you to understand the simplest things, Potter."

But Harry wasn’t fazed by the jab, his thoughts already racing. “So it’s his fault the Ministry’s making this hard for you?”

“Likely,” Draco admitted with a shrug. “But they don’t need much of a reason to hate me. Half the people there still act like they’re heroes for tolerating me in the same room.”

Harry’s lips twitched with a dry smile. “All this trouble over one resident? Someone must think the world revolves around them.”

Draco glared. “You’ll meet him on Monday. Then you can see for yourself.”

Harry didn’t push further, sensing Draco’s patience thinning. Instead, he shifted the subject. “Why insist on St. Mungo’s? You could work at a smaller clinic, right?”

Draco’s face betrayed nothing, his tone deliberately flat. “I completed their program. Top of my class. They offered me a position.” He shrugged again, but Harry could tell it wasn’t that simple.

“And?” Harry pressed, his Auror instincts flaring—or maybe it was just how well he could read Draco. “There’s something more, isn’t there?”

Draco hesitated, visibly weighing his words. “My mother’s a patient there,” he finally admitted, voice quieter now. “Every time I visit, they ‘forget’ her meals or delay her treatments. I don’t trust them to care for her properly.”

Harry’s face softened. “So you’re staying to look after her.You really are the same, protecting your family no matter what."

It was the closest thing to a compliment that Harry could give, and Draco’s lips curved upward slightly. For the first time in a long time, he smiled. The words, though spoken with a casual tone, mattered more than he was willing to admit.

Draco’s lips tightened, his usual defenses wavering. “I don’t need your pity, Potter.”

“It’s not pity,” Harry said, his voice firm. “It’s... admirable.”

Draco’s eyes widened slightly at the unexpected compliment, and for a fleeting moment, the corners of his mouth twitched upward.

“Wait a second.” Harry squinted at him. “Did you take a Truth Potion?”

Draco rolled his eyes, the moment gone. “Trust Potion. Helps me trust myself—and Teddy. But clearly, it works a little too well.” He muttered the last part under his breath, but Harry still caught it and grinned.

“Mad at me for making you talk?” Harry asked with mock concern, though his teasing grin remained.

Before Draco could retort, Harry’s gaze shifted to something behind him. “Oh, Astoria forgot her bag.”

"What was she doing here?" Harry’s voice was sharper than he intended, but before he could apologize, Teddy’s sleepy voice interrupted.

"Hawwy!" The little blue-haired boy was standing in the doorway, his hand tugging at Harry’s pants in silent request for a lap.

"Teddy! Good to see you!" Harry scooped the boy into his arms, grinning. "You’re really fast, didn’t even see you coming."

"You don’t know how fast he is at making me mad," Draco muttered, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

"Hawwy live here too?" Teddy asked, making both adults look at each other.

"What do you think about spending time at my house?"

"With Dwaco together?"

"How about just the two of us? I missed you so much." Harry smiled, stroking the boy's blue hair. But then he closed his smile and pouted his lips.

"Together, 'emily."

"Who’s Emily? I’m Harry."

"Ted, I told you to forget about it," Draco reprimanded the boy, embarrassed. Harry looked at them, confused.

"What does 'emily' mean?"

"He meant family," Draco muttered, embarrassed. He shouldn’t have said that to Teddy. He tried to control his blush, but he was probably as red as a tomato, especially since he was so fair-skinned.

"We are a family?" Harry asked, unsure, though his words sounded almost angry in his mind.

"I shouldn’t have said that to him, but—" Draco almost apologized, but he was startled by the thought. What was that child doing to him? The old Draco would have handled it easily. Before he could say anything, he was cut off by Harry’s laugh, followed by Teddy’s.

Draco had never heard anything so pure.

"I never thought I’d live to see Draco Malfoy calling me family."

"Who said you’re included?"

"Dwaco say Hawwy 'emily." Draco wished Teddy was still a year old when he only spoke gibberish.

Draco groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Merlin, help me.”

"Looks like someone’s unmasked Dwaco," Harry teased, smiling at the blonde, who just rolled his eyes and turned his face away, trying to hide his blush.

Teddy was smiling brightly, his little face lighting up the room—until, out of nowhere, his expression crumpled. He let out a wail, startling both men into a mild panic.

“What’s going on, kid?” Harry asked, bouncing him slightly in his arms as if that might help.

“Are you hurt? Did something happen?” Draco leaned closer, concern etched into his face.

“Maybe he’s just sleepy,” Harry suggested, glancing at Draco for confirmation.

Draco frowned, shaking his head. “That’s not his sleepy cry. Merlin, that’s his hungry cry. Bloody hell, it’s way past his breakfast time. He must be starving. Sorry, poor Ted.” Guilt flashed across Draco’s face as he hurried to prepare a bottle of milk.

Harry frowned, watching the baby’s tear-streaked cheeks. “He doesn’t cry for food,” he muttered, half to himself.

Draco, already setting Teddy into his high chair, glanced back. “Normally, no. But everything’s been off lately... I think he’s just sensitive to everything that’s happened.” His tone softened, a hint of unease creeping in as he avoided saying too much in front of the boy.

Harry caught the unspoken meaning. “Does he ask for her?” He kept his voice low, not daring to say Andromeda out loud, but Draco understood.

“Sometimes,” Draco admitted, his gaze focused on Teddy, who was now drinking his milk. “It must be hard for him to understand. To be honest...” He hesitated, looking like he was about to say something he shouldn’t. “I know it’s awful, but sometimes I just wish he’d forget about it soon. Forget about her.”

The words hung in the air, sharp and heavy.

“Don’t say that,” Harry said, his voice tinged with reproach. “What if it were you? You wouldn’t want people to forget about you just because you died.”

Draco’s jaw tightened, but his eyes didn’t waver. “I wouldn’t want Teddy to suffer,” he said firmly. “I’d want him to be happy. Anything for my Teddy.”

Harry arched an eyebrow. “ Our Teddy,” he corrected.

Draco rolled his eyes, muttering a half-hearted, “Whatever.”

Harry smirked, clearly amused, but let it slide. “So,” he started, his tone more casual now, “should I stay here? At least until we go to the Ministry on Monday?”

Draco turned his gaze toward Teddy, who was now happily smearing yogurt across his face and hands. “You should ask the house’s owner,” he said, nodding toward the little boy.

Harry crouched slightly to be at Teddy’s level. “What do you think about me staying here this weekend?”

Teddy paused mid-splash, his big eyes locking on Harry as he processed the question. “Stay together? With Dwaco and me?”

Harry grinned. “Yes, together as a family.” He let the last word hang in the air, his gaze drifting to Draco, who predictably rolled his eyes, though his cheeks betrayed a faint flush.

“Family,” Teddy repeated with a giggle, pointing at them both. “Hawwy, Dwaco, and me!”

Draco muttered something unintelligible under his breath and turned back toward the sink, but Harry didn’t miss the faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

It wasn’t perfect, and it wasn’t easy, but for a moment, they really did feel like a family.

Chapter Text

There were only three bedrooms in the house: one for Teddy, another for the recently deceased Andromeda, and the third for Draco. Harry wasn't going to invade Andromeda's room, much less Draco's, and he was reluctant to wake up Teddy, so he opted to sleep on the couch. It left him sore the next day, but it hardly counted as sleep anyway. He had only managed to nap for three hours after the sun had already risen, which barely made a dent in his exhaustion. That was, until Teddy woke up and jumped on him, making the tiredness unbearable.

The day had started well in Draco's opinion. Teddy didn’t cry, had gone to sleep right after his 5 o'clock bottle, and didn’t stir until 8, which for Draco was later than usual. For Harry, however, it was too early on a Saturday. Still, he didn’t complain. He was woken up with a burst of excitement and a wide grin from the little blue-haired boy.

"What do we do before we eat, Teddy?" Draco asked sleepily, though he tried to muster some enthusiasm. He wasn’t fully awake yet, but he did his best to pretend otherwise.

" Hand. Wash hands!" Teddy replied, as always, ready for his morning routine.

" That’s right. Can you open the tap for me?" Draco lifted the little boy into his lap so he could reach the kitchen sink.

When Teddy managed to open the tap, too much water came rushing out. Startled, he tried to cover it, but this only caused a splash that hit him directly. In a moment of panic, Draco pushed him away, but because he was holding Teddy with both hands, he was left unable to defend himself from the water now soaking him.

" Aaah, stop, Teddy! Let go! My hair is wet!" Draco’s surprised shout only made Teddy laugh harder, his innocent giggles ringing through the room.

Draco held him tightly with one arm and quickly turned off the tap with the other, then placed Teddy back on the floor. He pulled off his black pajama top, already used to getting soaked or losing clothes in the process. Stripping in front of Teddy was no big deal, but as he turned around, he was met with an unexpected sight.

Harry Potter was standing there, frozen in place, watching.

" Potter," Draco mumbled, still processing what had just happened, his voice low and guarded.

" Malfoy," Harry said, equally surprised and still not fully awake, unsure how to react.

" Teddy!" The little boy’s laughter only grew louder, clearly entertained by the antics of the adults.

...

After that moment of awkwardness, Draco quickly retreated to the shower to avoid any more embarrassment, leaving Harry to prepare breakfast for Teddy. By the time Draco returned, the little boy was almost finished, but he asked for juice.

" Which cup do you want your juice in, Teddy?" Harry asked, searching through the cabinet filled with mugs and glasses.

" Kitty! Kitty!" Teddy pointed at one with bright eyes.

" Oh, this one?" Harry was taken aback by the pink cup with little flowers, unsure how to feel about it. He was almost certain that Hello Kitty was a Muggle toy for girls.

" Yes!" Teddy confirmed, nodding vigorously, and Harry could only shrug in resignation.

"Looks like a girl mug," he muttered, mostly to himself.

"No, Ted's mug. Ted is boy," Teddy explained, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Harry blinked in surprise, unsure how to respond, but Draco had just entered the kitchen, now dressed in long sleeves and shorts. Harry couldn’t help but notice how oddly mismatched his outfit was. Was Draco wearing a hoodie in mild weather just to avoid showing the Dark Mark? The hoodie still fit him perfectly, of course. Draco always had clothes that seemed made for him.

"My muuug," Teddy declared with exaggerated enthusiasm, oblivious to the sharp look Draco shot at Harry. " Like, Hawwy?"

"That’s a pretty mug, Teddy," Harry said, forcing a smile, suddenly feeling awkward under Draco’s glare.

The two exchanged a few quiet looks, Draco's expression a clear warning: "Say something and I’ll kill you." Harry wisely chose to remain silent.

The rest of the morning passed with an unusual level of peace. Harry and Draco didn’t interact unless absolutely necessary. They silently settled into an agreement, taking turns playing with Teddy. Sometimes, one would forget their turn, or simply ignore it, and the other would subtly try to pull Teddy’s attention away from them. This inevitably forced the little boy to choose sides, but he mostly alternated between them or simply went to whoever had the cooler toy.

They were still the same competitive kids from rival Hogwarts houses.

For lunch, Harry surprised Draco with his cooking skills. Draco had never expected the Boy Who Lived to be capable in the kitchen. After all, Harry had lived a life of privilege, constantly recognized for his heroic act as a baby. He was genuinely stunned.

"You were obligated to cook? But... you’re the Boy Who Lived!" Draco exclaimed, his disbelief clear.

"Actually, my uncles didn’t really like magic, so I didn’t know about wizards, or that I was one," Harry replied, his voice quiet, eyes fixed on his plate. He fidgeted uncomfortably with his hands.

Draco’s surprise faded as he realized that Harry didn’t have the life he had imagined. It made him feel somewhat guilty for his earlier outrage.

"I didn’t know some people didn’t like magic. That must’ve been... rough," Draco muttered, trying to smile but not quite managing it. " You were like an elf, but one who didn’t even want to be. That sucks."

"It’s not a big deal," It was, actually, a big deal. Harry never told this to anyone besides his closest friends, his family. Why was he telling Malfoy? "Besides, I once turned my aunt into a balloon. That was enough of a revenge for me."

Draco laughed, sounded as an approve. "That’s very Slytherin of you."

"Well, I was supposed to be a Slytherin, so I guess we have something in common," Harry added, almost absentmindedly.

"What?" Draco nearly spat his drink in surprise. "You, a Slytherin? But you’re like... the most Gryffindor person I’ve ever met."

Draco seemed to sink into thought. "You’d be literally the heir to Slytherin."

Harry, who hadn’t intended to share that much about his past, was surprised at how easy it had felt. Words that usually lodged themselves deep inside him had spilled out, unbidden and unguarded. Maybe it was Draco’s smile—or the way he seemed so carefree in this fleeting moment—that made it easier to talk.

It was strange. They’d known each other for so many years, yet Harry realized that this was the first time they’d truly talked . Not traded barbs, not shouted accusations, not exchanged hexes in a fit of rage, but talked .

For years, their interactions had been defined by sharp words and clenched fists, a constant battle of sarcasm and bitterness. It was almost funny, in a way. All those years of animosity, and now they were sitting here, casually unraveling pieces of their lives like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Harry’s gaze flicked toward Draco, who was now distracted by Teddy babbling about something at the table. His platinum hair caught the light, and his face, free from the scowls Harry had once been so accustomed to, seemed softer.

It felt oddly disarming.

When did this happen? Harry wondered. When did Draco Malfoy—his childhood rival, his sworn enemy—become someone he could speak to without walls up? Without anger bristling between them like a live wire?

Perhaps it was Teddy. The little boy had a way of making the most complicated things feel simple, his presence softening even Draco’s sharpest edges. Or maybe it was the war—the way it had left them both battered and changed, no longer able to cling to the same petty grievances that had once felt so monumental.

Whatever it was, Harry couldn’t deny that the space between them now felt... different. Tentative, maybe. Fragile, definitely. But it wasn’t hostile. And that, in itself, felt like a small miracle.

For the first time in a long time, Harry allowed himself to wonder what might happen if they kept talking. If, instead of insults and punches, they exchanged stories. If they peeled back the layers of who they had been and started to see each other for who they were now.

It was a risky thought. Dangerous, even. But as Harry watched Draco laugh quietly at something Teddy said, he couldn’t help but think that maybe—just maybe—it was worth the risk.

"Dwaco look sad," Teddy said, his voice clear and growing more confident with every word. His vocabulary was expanding, and Draco couldn’t help but marvel at how intelligent the little boy was.

"You’re really smart, kid," Harry said, gently holding Teddy’s sticky hand.

"If you're done eating, let’s wash those hands," Draco said, eager to break the awkward tension. "Come on, Teddy."

"Be careful he doesn’t get you wet again," Harry teased.

“I got this.” He tried to sound confident, but was kinda afraid too.

"You think it’s going to be difficult, huh? I mean, Monday... with the guard," Harry said, a bit more serious.

"Well, they’ll make it hard for me, but there’s no need to tease you. Changing the subject, how about we go for a walk? Teddy loves Muggle London, but he’s only going to wear his magic hat and not take it off. Right, Teddy?"

"Muggles would find a little boy with blue hair... unusual, to say the least," Harry added.

"We went on Wednesday, and Teddy was having so much fun changing his hair colors for the ice creams. I completely forgot where we were and had to use a confundus charm—thankfully, only a couple of Muggles saw," Draco recalled, a hint of guilt in his voice.

We’re confessing felonies now... cute , Harry thought but kept it to himself.

"So now Draco Malfoy mixes with Muggles?" He tilted his head, his grin laced with mocking, surprised yet teasing.

"My aunt spoiled Teddy too much. He kept asking me to take him," Draco muttered defensively.

The trip to Muggle London was much more interesting than last time. It had been Draco’s first visit, and back then, he hadn’t known what to do. Teddy wanted to go to a playground—whatever that meant—but Draco couldn’t find the place, and they nearly got lost. This time, though, Harry knew all the cool spots. He always went to Muggle London when he could, and it was nice to blend in with the crowd without being recognized.

Draco freaked out at every outfit Harry suggested. Always leaning toward the expensive, Draco was persistent, and Potter had to dip into his fortune to pay, but it was worth it.

"Teddy, don’t you like this one?"

A yellow T-shirt with jeans. It wasn’t as fun as the printed animal shirt Draco had picked earlier, but Harry liked its simplicity. The fabric felt soft, and he was all about comfort. His closet was filled with plain, basic clothes. What mattered to him was that everything was comfortable.

"Don't you dare, Potter. I won't let the boy be dressed up as a peasant."

" What's wrong with being basic?"

"It's basic, I don't like it. It's soulless. Will you let your godson have no personality?"

Harry rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t help smiling. He'd known that Draco would care about this. It wasn’t just the clothes, it was the way they made a statement. Draco had always been like that—always aware of appearances, of what people saw. Harry, on the other hand, had always leaned toward comfort over style. He’d never given much thought to how he dressed, never worried too much about fashion. But he couldn’t deny that Draco had an eye for it.

He had already realized it, but it still struck him every time—since school, Draco had always cared about his appearance. Harry used to see it as vanity, something he found superficial, but now? Now, he couldn’t help but appreciate it. When it came to picking clothes, Draco knew what he was doing. Teddy loved every piece Draco chose for him. Even though Harry didn’t understand much about fashion, Teddy looked adorable in everything. Draco, with his careful selections, made Harry realize that clothes could be more than just fabric. They could have personality.

Was Draco always this pretty? Harry thought as his gaze flickered over to the blonde.

Draco sat beside him, the ice cream cone in his hand, his fingers lightly grazing the edge of the cone as he watched Teddy swing, the little boy's blue hair bouncing with each push Harry gave. The shopping bags were scattered on the ground around them.

"Dwaco!" Teddy's voice rang out, full of joy. Draco turned, a smile spreading across his face, and waved back at him. As he did, his gaze inevitably shifted to Harry, meeting his eyes for a brief moment. Harry felt something stir in his chest, but he quickly masked it with a forced smile.

"Dwaco, next time we should buy Muggle toys for Teddy." Harry said, trying to get a reaction, maybe a little amusement, but secretly, he was trying to push Draco’s buttons. However, to his surprise, Draco only smiled as if it were a joke. There was something in the way he responded that didn’t sit quite right with Harry.

"The real urgency here is to renew your closet," Draco said, his voice light, but there was a small, contemplative edge to his words. He shifted his focus, though, almost imperceptibly, on Harry’s “next time” comment. It made Draco wonder... if there would be a next time.

"Well, maybe I will let you give me some opinions," Harry said with a relaxed, almost teasing smile. It was a smile that didn’t match the burden of his past.

Harry’s smile stood out like a flicker of warmth in the chill that surrounded them. It was disarming, almost out of place—not the smile of someone who had spent years in battle, endured losses that reshaped his soul, or carried the weight of a world that demanded too much. Draco’s sharp gaze caught on it, puzzled by its incongruity.

The way Harry smiled made Draco’s chest ache in a way he couldn’t fully articulate. It wasn’t forced, not the polite tight-lipped curve of someone putting on a face for others’ comfort. And yet, it wasn’t quite unburdened, either. It was a smile that sat at the threshold between peace and pretense, like it didn’t quite know where to belong.

Draco understood that. He’d worn those kinds of smiles before—ones that didn’t fit the pain in his chest or the memories crowding his mind. In the quiet moments when no one was watching, he’d seen his own reflection sneer back at him, accusing him of trying too hard to seem okay.

And yet, watching Harry now, Draco couldn’t muster his usual cynicism. There was something else there, something that made him hesitate before letting his thoughts spiral. A faint warmth stirred in him—annoying, uninvited, and too dangerous to entertain for long.

Maybe Harry’s smile wasn’t about pretending at all. Maybe it was about finding something small, something momentary, to hold onto despite the weight they both carried. Draco hated the thought that he might envy that. He told himself not to dwell on it. Harry’s peace—real or not—wasn’t his to decipher. Yet, against his better judgment, Draco found himself drawn to it, even as his instincts urged him to turn away before the fragility of it could crack and demand something from him that he didn’t know how to give.

What Draco didn’t know was that Harry himself didn’t fully understand why he smiled so easily now. He wasn’t sure if it was the simplicity of moments like this—the mundane and the everyday—or the small comforts he’d found in a life that had once been so uncertain. Maybe it was the familiarity of it all: Teddy’s laugh, Draco’s usual sharp commentary, the way the world felt a little bit more normal with each passing day. Maybe it was even the way he could just... be . No one expected anything from him here, not like they used to. There was no hero’s weight on his shoulders, no prophecy to live up to.

But still, despite everything, Harry couldn’t forget the years that had come before this, couldn’t forget the scars that lingered, even if they weren’t visible.

However, for reasons he didn’t quite understand, this... this moment, with Draco at his side and Teddy’s innocent joy in the background, made him believe that life could still be good. That maybe... maybe it was worth it.

But even the most peaceful moments had their shadows. The night would eventually come, as it did for everyone. And for Harry and Draco, the night was always followed by nightmares.

As the sun set behind the city skyline, the weight of the day faded into the quiet stillness of the evening. Teddy was already asleep, and Harry and Draco found themselves sitting in a comfortable silence, the dim light from the streetlights filtering through the window. Harry was eating some sweets while Draco seemed to be studying some papers.

"I hate feeling like I owe you something," Draco murmured, breaking the silence. His voice had softened, as though the confession was something fragile he wasn’t sure he wanted to hand over. He looked away, his hands gripping the fabric of his trousers. "So, just to be equal, should I tell you a secret?"

Harry glanced at him, startled by the shift in tone. "You don’t have to feel obligated," he replied, his voice gentle.

Draco hesitated, his throat working as if he were swallowing back the words. But then he sighed, his shoulders slumping ever so slightly. "Wednesday was the first time I went to Muggle London," he admitted quietly, his gray eyes fixed on the far wall as if the memory lived there. "My family never let me go. Said it was too dangerous, full of... unpredictable people."

He gave a dry, humorless laugh that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "I never thought much about it growing up. Why would I? If Father said it wasn’t worth my time, then it wasn’t worth my time. But being there now, seeing it for myself..." He trailed off, biting his lip before continuing, softer now. "It surprised me. They weren’t at all what I imagined."

Draco shifted in his seat, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve. His next words were quieter, tinged with something Harry couldn’t quite place—fear, shame, maybe both. "Still, I was afraid today. Afraid someone would figure it out—what I am. That I don’t belong there."

He hesitated again, his jaw tightening before he forced himself to go on. "My father used to say... He told me that if Muggles found out you were a wizard, they’d burn you. I even read some books about it." He let out a shaky breath and looked down at his hands, his voice barely a whisper now. "I know it sounds ridiculous. Childish. They had to be lying, right? But today... I couldn’t stop thinking about it."

Harry didn’t answer immediately. He wasn’t sure what to say. He didn’t even realize Draco was having a hard time, for him it was just a nice walk.

The silence stretched, thick and heavy, until Draco looked up, forcing himself to meet Harry’s gaze. "I feel like a fool even saying it," he admitted, his voice brittle. "I’m supposed to be above all that, aren’t I? The perfect pure-blood heir, unshaken, untouchable." His laugh was bitter, self-deprecating. "And yet, there I was, in broad daylight, terrified of people buying their groceries."

Harry’s expression softened as he watched Draco struggle with his words. "You’re not a fool," he said at last, his voice steady. "Your father is cruel."

Draco blinked, startled by the firmness in Harry’s tone.

"Muggles don’t burn wizards," Harry continued, his green eyes locked on Draco’s. "Well, they actually did, but it was a long time ago. So not anymore. Most of them wouldn’t even believe in magic if you told them. Your father... He used fear to control you, Draco. To keep you from questioning things. It’s what people like him do."

Draco looked away again, his jaw clenching. "Maybe. But knowing that doesn’t make it any easier to shake off years of conditioning."

"No," Harry agreed quietly. "It doesn’t. But you’re here now. You’re trying."

The sincerity in his voice made Draco glance back at him, a flicker of something vulnerable crossing his face before he quickly masked it. "Well," he said, his voice sharper now, as if trying to regain some control of the conversation, "don’t think this means I’m about to become some sort of Muggle enthusiast. I still think half of their contraptions are utterly nonsensical."

Harry’s lips twitched in amusement, but he didn’t press. He could see that Draco was deflecting, retreating back to safer ground. "But you like their fashion style,” he said lightly. "Maybe next time, you’ll let me show you more. It doesn’t have to be scary."

Draco didn’t answer right away. He stared at Harry for a moment, his expression unreadable, before he nodded once. "Maybe," he said quietly.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough for now.

Chapter Text

Draco wasn’t sure what had driven him out of bed that night. Maybe it was the way his thoughts tangled in endless loops, refusing to quiet, or the suffocating weight of memories he couldn’t shake. Sleep had long since given up on him. Teddy was still sound asleep, and according to Draco’s calculations, wouldn’t wake for another three hours or so. Still, the blonde had given up trying to rest and opted instead to read or make tea until exhaustion forced his body into compliance.

The sleeping potion was there, as always, but the aftereffects were insufferable—nausea, grogginess, and that dull, heavy ache in his chest that lingered for hours. It was his last resort, and tonight, he wasn’t desperate enough.

Moving quietly through the dimly lit house, Draco made his way to the kitchen. He hesitated when he reached the living room. There, lying on the couch, was Harry Potter. The sight of him—the messy dark hair, the furrowed brow—always stirred something bitter in Draco.

He hated that stupid Gryffindor. Or at least, he told himself he did. Maybe not Harry himself, but everything he stood for—the past, the light side, hope, and triumph. The things Draco lost when the war stole everything from him.

But something shifted as he watched Harry toss and turn. The boy who had won everything looked utterly defeated. Then Draco heard the murmurs.

“Voldemort… he’s back… Sirius, no… I have to fight…”

Harry’s voice was broken, frantic, as though he were drowning in some horrible dream. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his body twitched uncontrollably.

“Potter,” Draco hissed, stepping closer. “Stop it. You’ll wake Teddy.”

But Harry didn’t wake. His mumbles became more desperate, his body thrashing. “My fault… I couldn’t… everyone’s gone… because of me…”

Draco froze. There was no way anyone could fake that kind of anguish. Draco’s hesitation vanished. Without thinking, he knelt beside the couch, gripping Harry’s shoulders and legs to stop him from thrashing. It was an awkward, clumsy attempt to hold him still, and Draco winced as Harry’s knee jabbed him sharply in the ribs.

“Potter! Wake up!” Draco snapped, gripping him more firmly.

Harry’s eyes flew open, wide and panicked. He gasped for air, his emerald gaze locking onto Draco’s.

“Malfoy?” he rasped, disoriented.

“What the hell was that?” Draco demanded, his voice sharp but edged with something Harry couldn’t quite place.

Harry shook his head, sitting up slowly. “Just a nightmare.” His voice was hoarse, unconvincing.

“Nightmares don’t make you look like you’re being under a Crucio,” Draco retorted, crossing his arms.

Harry avoided his gaze. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

“You’re a terrible liar,” Draco shot back, his tone cutting. He hesitated before adding, “You need help. A potion, a mind healer, something. You can’t keep going like this.”

Harry ran a hand through his damp hair, forcing a weak laugh. “I’ve tried. It doesn’t change anything.”

Draco huffed, clearly annoyed. Without another word, he turned toward the kitchen. “I’m making tea,” he muttered, as if daring Harry to stop him.

Harry followed him a few moments later, his legs unsteady. By the time he sat at the table, Draco was already placing a steaming cup in front of him. They drank in silence, the quiet punctuated only by the occasional clink of a spoon or the soft hum of traffic outside.

Draco was the first to speak. “Your nightmare. It’s about the war, isn’t it?”

Harry studied him, trying to read his intentions. Was it curiosity? Politeness? Pity?

He hesitated before nodding. “It’s always the war. Memories mixed with… other things. Sirius, Voldemort, people dying. Sometimes it feels like it’s happening all over again.”

Draco frowned, his fingers tightening around his cup. “The war’s over, Potter. You won.”

“Did I?” Harry’s voice cracked. He looked up, his eyes haunted. “Why does it feel like I lost?”

Draco sighed, his frustration bubbling to the surface. “Because it was a war. No one came out unscathed. But you stopped it. That has to mean something.”

Harry shook his head, his voice trembling. “I was the reason it started. If I didn’t exist, Voldemort wouldn’t have—my parents would be alive. Teddy’s parents. Sirius. Fred. Cedric. Dobby. All of them. It’s my fault they’re gone.”

“Stop,” Draco said firmly, his voice rising just enough to startle Harry. “You didn’t kill them, Potter. Voldemort did. My father, my aunt, the Death Eaters—they’re the ones to blame. Do you know how many people screamed in that house? None of it was your doing. You were a child.” I was a child.

Harry blinked, caught off guard by Draco’s outburst.

“You can’t change what happened,” Draco continued, his voice softening. “But you’re still here. And Teddy needs you. Don’t let your guilt drown you.” He hesitated before adding, almost reluctantly, “It’d be… inconvenient if you dropped dead.”

Harry stared at him for a moment before a faint smile broke through his anguish. “Worried, Malfoy?”

“You wish!” Draco shot back, rolling his eyes as a faint blush crept up his neck. “Don’t get it wrong, I don’t care about you. But if they found your body here, I’d definitely be suspect number one. And Merlin knows they’re itching to throw me in Azkaban.”

Harry laughed quietly, the sound strange but not unwelcome. “Thanks, I guess.”

Draco huffed, his cheeks still flushed. They lapsed into silence again, but this time it felt lighter, less oppressive.

For the first time in a long while, Harry felt like he could breathe.

“What if they don't recognize us as Teddy's guardians tomorrow?”

It was so sudden that Harry needed a moment to understand. They were sitting in the kitchen, the atmosphere calm, just enjoying the tea. Harry felt better now, but the question hung in the air like an unexpected storm cloud.

He hadn't noticed Draco’s tension until now—sitting there, nervously tapping his fingers on the table, his leg bouncing as though he couldn’t stop. There was an anxiety about him that Harry hadn’t seen before.

“They don’t have a reason to,” Harry replied, trying to sound more certain than he felt. 

They had reasons, they both knew.

Draco didn't seem convinced, so Harry shifted in his seat, trying to come up with something reassuring to say. It was strange, he thought, how the roles had reversed—Draco had just comforted him, and now it was his turn to offer some kind of support.

“If it gets to that point, I have a plan,” Harry said, trying to sound confident.

Draco frowned immediately, skepticism clear in his expression.

“I have a bad feeling about this plan,” Draco muttered, leaning back in his chair.

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, genuinely confused.

Draco, always quick with words, held back a bit. He wasn’t used to being nice, and he certainly didn’t want to sound too soft. He tried to keep his tone light.

“Do you ever get that voice in the back of your head telling you an idea is stupid?”

Harry blinked. “No?”

“Well, that explains a lot,” Draco shot back, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Harry's lips twitched at the sarcasm, but he couldn’t help himself. “To be honest, I had that voice in my head once. It was just Voldemort. Since he’s gone, my head’s pretty light.”

"Of course, it must be empty," Draco muttered, rolling his eyes. At this point, he was giving up on trying to be nice, it took too much energy to hold back.

Harry grinned, enjoying the moment of teasing. "You know, I don’t mind when you’re being mean to me. It’s the only time you’re not talking about yourself."

Draco froze, his gaze lingering on Harry for a moment. He wasn’t quite sure how to respond, but there was a flicker in his eyes, recognition, maybe confusion. Whatever it was, it made Harry's heart race a little.

"Cunning," Draco muttered, shaking his head. "Maybe you were a Slytherin after all."

Harry let out a quiet chuckle, not because he liked the idea of being called a Slytherin, but because he knew it was the closest Draco would ever come to giving a compliment.

…

After both of them had calmed down, they tried to sleep, knowing the next day would be a big one, and they needed to be in good shape. Draco returned to his bed, but sleep wouldn’t come. The thought of going back to the courtroom terrified him.

The last time he was there, two years ago, felt like a lifetime. He hadn't met Teddy then, and he was being accused of killing Dumbledore and being part of the Death Eaters. He couldn't deny the latter; the Dark Mark on his arm was enough to speak for itself.

Then Harry Potter had appeared, like the saint everyone made him out to be. Even though Draco hadn't asked, even though they weren't friends, Potter had saved him once more. To Harry, it hadn't been a matter of kindness—he was just doing what he believed was right, sticking to the truth. He hadn’t been nice about it, either. He'd said the worst things about Draco, stating he wasn’t there to defend him but to be fair. But Harry had saved him anyway.

Harry's testimony, confirming that Snape had killed Dumbledore and not Draco, had been crucial in the judge’s decision.

And then there was Luna Lovegood, someone Draco never expected to see again. She too had been key in helping him avoid a near-certain sentence to Azkaban. Back when she had been a prisoner in the Malfoy Manor, Draco had tried to help her in his own way. At first, he hadn't understood why she showed up, but now, looking back, he thought it might have been out of sympathy for the small act of kindness he’d shown her. Maybe it was that simple.

Draco remembered sitting next to her in the dungeon of Malfoy Manor, watching as she looked absolutely miserable. He’d always finished his meals first and would often pass by the kitchen, grabbing extra food to bring her, pretending he was still hungry. Dobby knew the truth but never said a word. His mother would have been furious if she knew what he was doing. But he couldn’t just stand by, not when it was classmates being tortured. Tomorrow, it could be him.

“Nobody will touch you,” he had told her one evening, surprising even himself with his words. “Surprisingly, it was my father’s wish.” He had spoken without thinking, but there was a strange sense of comfort in those words. He had never told anyone about his father's twisted rules. “Did you know? Your mother’s my father’s cousin. They were probably close, if my father was willing to spare you.”

Luna hadn't spoken much, but her murmurs had been enough to fill the silence. The other prisoners were kept apart, and the loneliness was something Draco couldn't ignore. Maybe it was guilt, or maybe it was because he wasn’t a complete monster. Either way, he couldn’t let her go crazy in that dungeon.

He’d laughed bitterly to himself, trying to lighten the dark moment. “That makes us cousins, too. Funny, huh?” He attempted a smile, but it fell short. “If I could leave and be sure my mother would be safe, I’d help you. But I can’t risk it all.”

Luna’s response had been sharp, her voice a strange comfort amidst the madness. “They’ll kill you too.”

Draco hadn’t known what to say, the weight of her words sinking in. “I have no choice,” he muttered. “If Potter were in front of me now, if it meant protecting my mother, I’d kill him. And then, maybe, I could help you.”

Luna had looked at him then, eyes wide with certainty. “You’re lying to yourself for so long that you don’t even know who you truly are.”

Draco’s words had been angry, desperate. “I could kill him for real. Don’t you believe it? I killed Dumbledore.”

“No, you didn’t,” she said, calm and firm, her belief in him unwavering. And in that moment, Draco had felt something stir in him, something he couldn’t quite name. Perhaps it was hope—something he hadn't allowed himself to feel in a long time.

At the moment, he said Luna was just being crazy and too optimistic of him, she would be disappointed to know he wasn't a good guy. However, some days after saying this, Potter was in front of him, and that was when he found out that Luna was right. He couldn't bring himself to do it. Harry Potter, Draco thought for a second that maybe he was worth risking it all. It had taken him some time to understand Luna’s words. He never did go to visit her after that, but he had seen her at the trial, standing there to help. And when he was declared innocent, Narcissa had wept in gratitude, thanking Luna profusely. She had looked around for Potter too, but Harry had already gone.

Draco had approached Luna afterward, feeling awkward and uncertain. He had never apologized for the things he'd done to her at school, the cruelty and disdain he had shown. But to his surprise, Luna forgave him instantly, her kindness never wavering, as if none of it mattered anymore. From that moment, their bond had grown, something unexpected but real.

He recalled, in a distant memory, when Luna had said something that had stuck with him, a reflection of the world she'd seen that no one else did. She had turned to both him and his mother, and in her usual serene manner, she spoke: “I always wondered why Narcissa wasn't named after a star or constellation like the rest of the Blacks: Sirius, Andromeda, and so on. I think about how Narcissa's love for Draco saved Harry. Again, Harry was saved by a mother’s love. That's why she was named after a flower, like Lily.”

Her words had struck a chord with Draco, and it wasn’t lost on him how deep Luna’s insight went. She saw things differently, almost always in a way that made others reflect harder than they wanted to.

Draco had since moved to London to care for Teddy, and their interactions were limited to letters now, a form of communication that had become their only connection. But knowing he'd be in the city the next day, Draco had sent an owl to Luna. He wasn’t sure why, exactly, but it felt right to reach out, even if the words weren’t enough to truly convey everything he wanted to say.

The room fell into a tense silence as Kingsley Shacklebolt’s words lingered in the air.

— “The Ministry of Magic does not believe that Mr. Malfoy is capable of taking care of the child, so we would like to transfer full custody of Edward Remus Lupin to Mr. Potter.” Kingsley said it with an air of finality, as though he expected Harry to be grateful for the offer.

Harry's gut clenched, and a heavy sigh escaped him. It wasn’t just the unfairness of the situation—it was the sudden weight of what was being asked.

Draco had never been his first choice as Teddy’s guardian. Harry had spent enough time wondering how he could ever trust Draco Malfoy with the child. But the fact remained: Draco had been the one there for Teddy in Harry's absence. He had cared for him. He had kept him safe.

But this? This felt like a betrayal.

"That's messed up," Harry muttered, looking at the Minister as if to demand an explanation, but none came. "It’s not like I’ve ever dreamed of Draco Malfoy raising Teddy, but you can’t just take him away like this."

The room shifted uncomfortably, eyes darting between the two men.

Draco, who had been quietly seething in his seat, now leaned forward. His voice was sharp, barely controlled. "With all due respect, the Ministry doesn't have to believe anything. I have partial custody of Edward—my aunt's decision, not yours."

Some of the judges scoffed at his words. It was clear they hadn’t forgiven the Malfoys, despite they not being that much different. But perhaps it was not about liking or not Draco, for them, it was about cutting ties with purebloods familys as much as they could to not be perceived as the supremacists that deep down they still were. 

Omar Abasi, one of the judges, was quick to stand. "The issue here, Mr. Malfoy, is that the Ministry has the final say. We don’t care about your aunt’s wishes if we don’t believe you are fit to raise the child."

Draco’s hands clenched at his sides. He opened his mouth to respond, but Harry spoke up first. "No one’s even asked what Teddy wants," Harry said, his voice growing more intense. "He’s been with Draco, and he’s fine. He’s safe. You can’t just—"

A woman with dark curly hair, a name Harry didn’t recognize, stood up, interrupting him. "I say this with no ill will toward you, Draco, but you have a criminal record, no experience raising a child, and frankly, no dignity. This kid needs someone he can look up to, someone who can protect him. You can’t provide that."

Her words cut through the room like a blade. And Harry could see Draco stiffen, his usual defenses coming up. He didn’t respond, though—just looked away, somewhere deep in thought. He wasn’t angry, not even defensive, just… resigned.

But Harry wasn’t about to let that slide. "You can’t just decide that. You’re not thinking about Teddy," Harry said sharply. "What he needs is stability. And Draco’s been there. So, yes, we’ll share custody."

One of the judges, Clark Abbot, cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable. "Well, if it’s Potter’s wishes, then… custody can remain shared. But we’ll need an official agreement on who takes primary responsibility."

A few more murmurs from the room, but Harry was already shaking his head. "No. Draco should have the same custody as me. He’s part of the family, whether anyone likes it or not."

The words stung, but Harry didn’t resist. Family , he thought, still wrapping his mind around it. Draco Malfoy was his family now, something he never thought he’d say, but here they were.

Draco would be grateful if not too worried as Abasi stood again, his voice dripping with contempt. Harry had a sinking feeling of what was coming.

"Do you want to bet he’s going to say ‘Malfoy is a Death Eater and this shit’?" Draco whispered to Harry, and before Harry could even process the words, Abasi did exactly that.

“I must remind everyone present of the Malfoy family’s past,” Abasi began, his voice rising with righteous fury. “What this man here did! Draco Malfoy was a Death Eater who fought alongside Voldemort and is guilty of the death of Albus Dumbledore—directly or indirectly. The Death Eaters were responsible for the murders of many people, including Mrs. Abbot.”

Draco’s blood was boiling. He clenched his fists, ready to retort, but before he could, Clark Abbot stood, his voice cutting through the room.

“Don’t use my wife’s death for your argument, Mr. Abasi,” Abbot said, calm but full of quiet fury.

The mention of Mrs. Abbot’s death hit Harry hard. Mrs. Abbot, a former member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, had been murdered by Death Eaters. It wasn’t just another tragedy; it was personal. Hannah Abbot, her daughter, had been one of Harry’s classmates. He could still remember her bright, friendly face, now marked by the shadow of her mother’s death.

“Even if he didn’t directly kill anyone, he’s no innocent,” Abasi yelled, his voice full of venom. “He stood by and watched as the world burned.”

Before anyone could respond, Kingsley slammed his gavel down with a force that made the whole room jump. “Enough,” he commanded, silencing the chaos.

Harry felt a shift in the room. It wasn’t just about Draco anymore. Abasi wasn’t just attacking Draco; he was attacking the judges. These were the same people who had stood by, silent and passive, while Voldemort’s influence poisoned the Ministry. They had hidden behind their need for safety, saying they were powerless to do anything. But Harry wasn’t buying it. Bullshit.

Draco’s gaze flicked to him, wide with surprise. For a moment, Harry saw something in his eyes—a flicker of relief, maybe. 

The sound of the door creaking open was rare, a disruption in the otherwise tense silence of the courtroom. Everyone turned, ready to dismiss the intruder, but when Hermione Granger walked in, none of them dared speak. Her presence was immediate, commanding, and in that moment, it was impossible to imagine anyone telling her to leave.

At her young age, Hermione already embodied the future of the Ministry. The weight of her intellect, the years of fighting for what was right, and the quiet determination in her stride made it clear to all present—she was not someone to be ignored. It was as if the room itself shifted, subconsciously aware that one day, this woman would hold the power to change everything.

She moved toward the center, her gaze sharp and unwavering. The murmurs of the room died down as she reached the front, and with the air of someone who had nothing to prove, Hermione spoke.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but there’s something you missed,” she said, her voice cutting through the room like a knife. She held up a piece of paper “This letter arrived for the court after Andromeda Tonks’s passing, addressed to both the Ministry and the family. It was her final request.”

The letter was opened, and its contents made everyone pause.

— To the esteemed members of the court, and to those who will care for my beloved Edward,

— It is my hope that, in the event of my death, both Draco and Harry will continue to be Teddy’s guardians together. I leave this responsibility to you both. Not just out of a sense of familial obligation, but because I know that together, you will provide him the love and care he deserves.

— Do not, for any reason, consider alternative arrangements. This is not a suggestion—it is my final command.

The room was silent as the letter was read aloud. Draco’s eyes darted to Harry, and there was something soft, vulnerable in his expression—something Harry had never seen before.

Kingsley cleared his throat. "Well, it seems the matter is decided. We have a final ruling. Custody will remain shared between Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy, effective immediately."

And just like that, the tension lifted, but the weight of what had just been decided didn’t quite disappear.

As the room emptied, Harry turned to Draco, meeting his gaze. "You know, I still don’t really understand this family thing," Harry said with a slight grin. "But we’ll figure it out, right?"

Draco exhaled through his nose, and for the first time that day, he offered a small, genuine smile. "I guess we will, Potter."

Chapter Text

The Ministry hallway bustled with activity, its occupants too preoccupied to notice Harry Potter walking through the crowd. He wasn’t complaining; anonymity was rare and welcome. The case had gone differently than expected, and Harry still couldn’t quite process everything. Sharing custody of Teddy with Draco Malfoy wasn’t part of his original plan, but Andromeda’s letter had left no room for argument. Hermione's intervention had been the final push that swayed the court, ensuring Draco wasn’t cut out of Teddy’s life.

“Don’t you dare dismiss her wishes,” Hermione had declared, her voice a razor-sharp rebuke as she held up Andromeda’s letter. The courtroom had gone deathly silent. “She trusted both Harry and Draco with Teddy because she knew what was best for her grandson. Now, it’s up to us to honor that trust.”

Draco had looked stunned, and even Harry hadn’t expected such fervor from her. But Hermione was Hermione—fierce and resolute when she believed something was right.

It was this same determination Harry saw now as he turned a corner and spotted her, juggling a precarious tower of parchment. Her curls were messier than usual, and her brow furrowed in concentration.

“Hermione!” he called.

“Harry?” She looked up, startled, her frown quickly melting into a mixture of relief and exasperation. “What are you still doing here? I thought you’d left after the hearing.”

“I was going to, but—” Harry hesitated, thinking about Draco still speaking with the Minister. “There were a few things to finish up. Need a hand with that?” He gestured to her teetering stack of documents.

“If you don’t mind,” she sighed, dividing the stack in two and handing him half. “And while we walk, you can explain how you feel about co-parenting with Draco Malfoy.”

Harry groaned. “It’s... complicated.”

“I can imagine,” she said dryly, adjusting her grip on the remaining papers. “The Draco Malfoy I remember wouldn’t have lifted a finger to help anyone, let alone share responsibility for a child. What changed?”

Harry hesitated. “He’s... different now. At least, he’s trying to be. For Teddy.”

Hermione shot him a skeptical look but said nothing, allowing him to continue.

“He loves Teddy, Hermione. You should’ve seen him in court. He’s serious about being there for him. Andromeda wouldn’t have named him if she didn’t trust him.”

“Trust is earned, Harry,” Hermione said pointedly. “It’s not a blank check.”

“I know,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair. “But maybe... maybe people can change. He’s not the same person he was at Hogwarts. And you know, Teddy seems happy when he’s around. I thought you believed Draco had changed,” Harry said suddenly, his voice low but pointed. “You defended him back there.”

Hermione glanced up sharply, brow furrowing. “I defended Andromeda’s wishes,” she corrected, her tone clipped. “I don’t know Malfoy well enough to believe in his redemption or whatever.”

Harry stopped mid-step, causing Hermione to pause as well. She looked back at him, arms crossed, expression expectant.

He took a breath. “Right,” he said slowly. “That makes sense. You don’t know him. But don’t you think Andromeda did? She trusted him enough to name him as Teddy’s guardian.”

“That’s not the same thing, Harry,” Hermione replied, her voice softer but still firm. “Andromeda hadn't met him before; she had nothing to forgive. She must have seen something in him, something I haven’t. What I’ve seen is someone who spent years sneering at people like me, like you. And now, because she believed in him, I’m supposed to trust that he’s a different person? It’s not that simple.”

Harry pressed his lips together, choosing his next words carefully. “You’re not wrong,” he admitted. “He was a right prat. But... he’s trying, Hermione. For Teddy.”

Hermione shook her head, looking at him with a mixture of confusion and concern. “I don’t understand you, Harry. You’re not the type to just... let things go. You never have been. So why are you being so forgiving with him? It’s not like he’s ever been kind to you.”

Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “Maybe it’s Teddy. Maybe it’s because I’ve seen what it’s like when people don’t get a second chance. Or maybe... maybe it’s because I’m tired of holding onto all of it.”

Hermione’s gaze softened, though her expression remained skeptical. “You’re a better person than I am, Harry,” she said quietly. “I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt for Teddy’s sake. But that doesn’t mean I’ll stop watching him.”

Hermione stopped in front of her office door, eyeing Harry carefully. “That’s big of you, Harry. Really. But don’t let your Gryffindor tendency to see the best in people blind you to who they’ve been. Just—be careful, alright?”

He nodded, setting her papers on the desk as they stepped inside. “I will. But he’s a good guardian, Hermione. He deserves the chance.”

“And St. Mungo’s?” Hermione asked as she began sorting through the stack.

Harry stiffened. “What about it?”

“He’s applying, isn’t he?”

“Yeah. And he’s good, Hermione. He was top of our class in Potions and Defense—right behind you, of course.”

Her lips twitched, but her expression remained skeptical. “St. Mungo’s doesn’t accept mediocrity, Harry. He’ll have to work harder than anyone else—he’s not just another applicant.”

Harry’s frustration bubbled up before he could stop it. “He’s more than capable, Hermione! It’s not fair to hold his past against him forever.”

She raised an eyebrow, her voice calm. “It’s not about fairness. It’s about trust and competence. Both take time to prove.”

“I should get going, I still have to pick up Teddy before heading to work,” Harry said with a shrug, as if that were enough of an excuse, and opened the door, cutting off Hermione’s chance to retort.

But just as he was about to step through, something made him freeze. Hermione, still inside, noticed his sudden stillness and, curious, stepped closer, trying to find what had caught Harry’s attention.

At the far end of the room, amidst the bustle, Draco Malfoy sat in one of the waiting chairs, speaking with Luna Lovegood. His dark, formal attire contrasted sharply with Luna’s eccentric colors, but his small smile as she spun in place and spoke animatedly was startlingly genuine. He seemed so different from the Draco she remembered. The Draco she had in mind would never be smiling at Luna unless it was in a mocking way, but this—this was something else entirely.

Harry froze, caught off guard by the sight. Hermione followed his gaze, her expression unreadable.

“Well,” she said quietly, “that’s unexpected.”

“I told you people can change,” Harry said softly.

…

The Burrow was warm and lively as always, but Harry could feel the tension in the air as soon as he stepped inside. Teddy was curled up on the sofa, his little body shaking with sobs and his hair flashing through colors in a frantic, uncontrolled pattern.

“Teddy, what’s wrong?” Harry was by his godson’s side in seconds, crouching down as the boy reached for him with tiny, trembling arms.

“Hawwy,” Teddy whimpered, his voice small and pitiful. Harry scooped him up, holding him tightly as the boy buried his face in his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry, Harry,” Molly began, wringing her hands. “He woke up looking frightened, and I couldn’t calm him down. He kept asking for something—I couldn’t understand him. The poor thing got so upset, and now he’s like this.”

Harry nodded, gently rocking Teddy as the boy clung to him. “It’s okay, Mrs. Weasley. Teddy, can you tell me what you want? What’s got you so upset?”

The child sniffled, pulling back just enough to whisper, “Dwaco... I lose Dwaco.”

Harry blinked. It took him a moment, but he understood the toddler’s words. “He misses Draco,” he translated softly.

“Draco?” Molly repeated, her tone laced with shock. “How does he even know Malfoy?”

Harry adjusted Teddy’s position in his arms, careful to keep his voice calm. “They’re family. And they... like each other.”

Molly’s expression tightened as if she had a thousand questions ready to burst out, but Harry wasn’t in the mood for explanations—or criticism. He had a crying toddler in his arms, and that took priority.

“We’ll talk later,” he promised, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Still looking deeply puzzled, Molly simply nodded. “Of course, dear.”

…

Harry barely had time to brush the ash from his robes before Teddy wiggled out of his arms, his face lighting up as soon as he spotted Draco. The blonde was sitting on a bench near a Ministry information desk, Luna Lovegood beside him, animatedly gesturing as she described something undoubtedly whimsical.

“Dwaco!” Teddy cried, running full speed toward him.

Draco’s head snapped up, and he immediately stood, catching the child mid-run and pulling him into a tight hug. Luna smiled serenely at the reunion, her silvery hair catching the light as she leaned back against the bench.

“Hey, hey,” Draco murmured, crouching to Teddy’s level as the boy’s arms wrapped tightly around his neck. “What’s all this crying about? Did someone upset you?”

Teddy mumbled something incoherent into Draco’s shoulder, but his body had already relaxed in the blonde’s embrace. Harry stood awkwardly a few steps away, feeling strangely like an outsider in the scene.

“He missed you,” Harry said finally, scratching the back of his neck. “Mrs. Weasley said he woke up looking for you and wouldn’t calm down.”

Draco glanced at Harry, his expression sharp, but he didn’t offer any cutting remarks. Instead, he adjusted Teddy in his arms, one hand brushing through the boy’s hair as it shifted to match Draco’s pale blonde.

Luna tilted her head, watching them thoughtfully. “You’re quite good with him, Draco,” she said. “I always thought you’d be better with magical creatures than with people.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “I’m bad at both.”

Harry snorted despite himself, earning a glare from Draco.

“Well,” Luna continued dreamily, “I suppose children are a bit like magical creatures, aren’t they? Full of wonder, unpredictable, and very sensitive to emotions. Teddy’s lucky to have you.”

Draco’s glare softened into something almost bashful, though he quickly masked it by turning his attention back to Teddy. “Are you hungry, my little monster?”

Teddy nodded solemnly, his grip on Draco tightening. Harry heard him calling that like this sometimes, even though sound mean, he always said it softly 

“I guess that’s my cue,” Draco muttered, standing and balancing the child on his hip. He glanced at Harry, his tone curt but not hostile. “We’ll grab something to eat. See you at home.”

Harry nodded, watching as Draco strode off with Teddy still clinging to him and Luna trailing behind, cheerfully continuing her earlier conversation. The sight left Harry with a peculiar warmth in his chest, one he couldn’t quite name.

Harry stood alone by the Ministry’s fireplace, staring into the flames with an unfocused gaze. Teddy and Draco had gone back home—"our home," Harry realized with a strange, unfamiliar warmth in his chest. He hadn’t expected to feel this way—so relieved to see Teddy comforted, so strangely at ease with Draco’s presence in his life.

“Oi, mate,” Ron’s voice broke through his thoughts, and an arm clapped heavily over his shoulder. “Why does my favorite work partner look like he’s been dumped?”

“I’m your only work partner,” Harry replied dryly, brushing Ron’s arm off.

“Exactly! So what’s got you looking all mopey?”

Harry hesitated, then shook his head. “Nothing, Ron. Just... a long day.”

Ron smirked knowingly but didn’t push further. “It’s just 11 am. But if you say so, mate.”

Harry didn’t respond, his thoughts drifting once more to Draco and the small, unexpected ways his life was changing.

…

At dinner time, Harry cooked while Draco and Teddy hovered nearby, “helping.” The two, looking every bit like father and son, hummed an old wizarding nursery rhyme. Draco lifted Teddy into his high chair with ease, turning to prepare the little boy’s plate. Harry couldn’t help teasing as he finished up.

“Think you can match my hair this time, Teddy? Let’s see it go black.”

Teddy’s small brows furrowed, his hair shifting back to blue as if responding to his confusion. Draco raised a brow at Harry’s earlier suggestion.

“He doesn’t seem to control it consciously,” Draco said, brushing a stray strand of hair from Teddy’s forehead. “It’s instinctual. Probably harder than it looks.”

Harry nodded thoughtfully. “You’re right. Tonks always made it seem effortless.”

At the mention of her name, Teddy perked up, his small face lighting with recognition. “Tonks?” he repeated in his tiny voice.

“Yeah,” Harry said softly, forcing a smile. “Tonks was your mum.”

Teddy giggled, the name sparking joy instead of questions this time. “Mummy!” he exclaimed, happily poking at his food.

Draco stiffened, his hand faltering mid-motion as if the word struck a nerve. Harry noticed but didn’t push. Instead, he turned to Teddy with a warm smile. “Eat up, Teddy.”

Draco exhaled, his thoughts tangled. Tonks. She had died for what she believed in—something Draco hadn’t dared to do. His cousin had fought for people like Harry, for a world where Teddy could grow up free of prejudice. And here he was, a former Death Eater, trying to be a father to her son.

He glanced at Teddy, who was gleefully making a mess of his dinner, and his chest tightened. Andromeda trusted him with this little boy, but why? Was he worthy of that trust? Of Teddy's love? The mark on his arm still felt like a brand of shame, and sometimes he wondered if Tonks would hate him for touching her child with hands that had once served Voldemort.

But then Teddy turned his little face up toward him, grinning with a smear of peas on his cheek. “Dwaco, I eat!” the boy declared proudly. And for that moment, it didn’t matter. Draco smiled back, warmth spreading through his chest. He couldn’t remember feeling this kind of love before—unconditional, unrelenting. He’d fight anyone who tried to take Teddy from him, even if he didn’t believe he deserved him.

Harry watched the exchange silently, his chest tightening for an entirely different reason. He was used to thinking of Malfoy as arrogant, selfish, and cruel. Yet the way Draco looked at Teddy now, as though the little boy was the most precious thing in the world, didn’t fit that mold. It reminded Harry of how Sirius had looked at him when he was younger—protective, proud, and full of love.

And then there was Harry himself, who knew all too well what it was to be judged unfairly. He thought of the Dursleys’ sneers, the years of whispers about being “The Chosen One.” Draco had been a villain in his life for so long that it felt unnatural to think of him as anything else. But wasn’t that what Harry had always wanted for himself? For someone to see past the stories and the labels?

The silence stretched until Draco finally broke it with a sardonic laugh. “What is it, Potter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Harry hesitated, unsure how to phrase it without sounding like he was prying. “Mrs. Greengrass didn’t seem to think you were capable of taking care of Teddy,” he said finally. “But she’s wrong.”

Draco’s laugh was sharp, almost bitter. “Wrong? No, Potter. She’s right. I’m a Malfoy with a criminal record, no experience with children, and plenty of people who’d love to see me fail. Why wouldn’t she think I’m incapable?”

“You’re not that person anymore,” Harry countered firmly. “And you’re proving it every day with Teddy.”

Draco set the glass down with a clink, his jaw tightening. “Abasi’s hatred, Greengrass’s doubts, they don’t bother me because they’re lies. They bother me because, at some level, they’re true.”

“She is wrong,” Harry said simply. “And Abasi…” He hesitated, weighing his words. “I don’t know him, but I think he’s holding onto something that has nothing to do with you.”

“Oh, it has everything to do with me. I represent everything people like Abasi have a right to hate. To be honest, I’m not mad, at least Absi hates me for good reasons.”

“What reasons?” Harry asked, feigning disinterest as he wiped some food from Teddy’s face.

Draco leaned back, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s my winning personality. Or maybe,” he added dryly, “it’s because I didn’t exactly make an effort to be nice. I could tell he hated me the moment he saw me, so I gave him reasons to.”

Harry didn’t laugh, but he smiled faintly. It made sense in its own Draco-ish way. Absi was the only Muggle-born judge and had likely faced prejudice from purebloods his entire life. For him, Draco must have been the epitome of everything he despised.

“Still,” Harry said lightly, “you’re not exactly easy to love.”

Draco’s gaze shifted to him, something vulnerable flickering in his eyes before he scoffed. “So I’ve been told.”

Harry winced, regretting the teasing. “Sorry. That was—”

“True.” Draco cut him off. For a moment, it was just plain silence. Then he sighed, looking at Harry with something close to resignation. “You should understand him as someone who hated me once.”

“I did,” Harry admitted. “And maybe I was wrong about you then, too.”

Draco blinked, clearly caught off guard.

“I know what it’s like to be judged,” Harry continued. “Everyone expected me to be something—‘The Chosen One,’ their hero. And when I didn’t live up to it the way they wanted, they tore me down. It’s exhausting, isn’t it? Trying to live with everyone else’s expectations.”

Draco’s gaze softened, and for a moment, the tension between them eased. “You’re not as clueless as I thought, Potter,” he said quietly.

Harry snorted. “High praise coming from you.”

Teddy chose that moment to interrupt, waving his tiny hands. “Dwaco, done!” he chirped, his hair shifting to a soft blond like Draco’s.

Draco stood, scooping the boy into his arms. “Good job, Teddy. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

As Draco carried him to the sink, Harry watched them, his thoughts spinning. He didn’t know what to make of this new Draco Malfoy—the one who hummed nursery rhymes and worried about being good enough. But he realized one thing for certain: he wanted to find out.

Harry watched Draco as he adjusted Teddy's high chair, lifting the boy with an ease that reminded him of the precision of a Slytherin. He didn’t care who saw him or who disapproved—his focus was Teddy, and Teddy alone. It wasn’t a show for anyone; it was pure Draco. Harry had always known Slytherins had a certain loyalty that ran deep, hidden behind layers of cunning and self-preservation. But seeing it now, in Draco’s every movement as he hovered protectively over the child, Harry couldn’t help but admire it.

Draco didn’t flinch at the judgment of others. Not Greengrass, not Abasi, not anyone who still clung to the idea of who he had been. In this moment, he was everything Harry had never expected him to be—strong, unshakable, fiercely loyal to the boy in his care.

And there was something else. Despite the weight of the past, Draco didn’t give a damn about the opinions of those who hated him. His loyalty wasn’t about gaining anyone’s approval; it was about protecting those he cared for. In a way, Harry could almost appreciate the Slytherin ruthlessness of it. He’d seen it in himself, too—only, his had always been a raw, unrefined version.

But Draco? He had it down to an art.

Harry felt an unfamiliar stirring of respect. Perhaps there was something to be said for Slytherin tenacity after all.

Chapter Text

Harry decided to move to London. Tonks’ house didn’t have room for him, and it felt wrong to take Andromeda’s room. Teddy was too small to Apparate, so they relied on the Floo Network. Every trip to London meant Apparating first to 12 Grimmauld Place, the ancestral Black family home that now belonged to Harry.

Grimmauld Place was far from pleasant. Harry struggled to rid it of its perpetual gloom—fighting against the rotten smell, cobwebs, and peeling wallpaper. Over two years, he renovated the house, replacing furniture and removing the threadbare carpet. Yet, no matter how much he changed, the house clung to its oppressive vibe. Perhaps 80% of the misery could have been solved if he’d been able to remove Walburga’s portrait, but its permanent charm made her screeching a permanent feature. That said, Harry did remove every other portrait he could, ignoring Hermione’s protests about disrespect. She hadn’t argued when she tossed one out during the war, after all.

Despite the updates, Harry had avoided the fourth floor almost entirely. It housed only two rooms: Sirius’ and Regulus’. He didn’t need them; the house had seven bedrooms, and he only used one on the second floor. Occasionally, Hermione or Ron stayed on the first floor, but the third floor was rare territory, and the fourth was practically a myth.

Moving was a pain, but London made life easier with all his friends nearby. Harry had asked Draco’s opinion out of courtesy, but the decision was already made. Teddy had been upset about leaving the home he’d grown up in, but his excitement at having a massive room of his own in Grimmauld Place softened the blow. “I’m okay with moving as long as we stay together,” Teddy had said, melting Harry’s and Draco’s hearts. The boy had been terrified upon first entering the house, but within three days, he’d grown to love it.

Now, the house was quiet. Harry was at work, and Teddy had dozed off, leaving Draco alone with his studies. Despite completing his Healer training, Draco was still neck-deep in books, determined to excel and prove himself. He had to be the best; anything less would invite scrutiny, even in a small hospital where few recognized his name.

Draco was absorbed in his work when he noticed Teddy peeking down from the top of the stairs. The boy, wearing a white jumpsuit with pink polka dots and clutching his stuffed rabbit, rubbed his sleepy eyes.

“Don’t! Don’t come down! Draco’s coming to get you.” Draco rushed up, scooping the little boy into his arms before he could attempt the stairs. Harry had been helping Teddy practice, but Draco didn’t want to take chances.

“Dwaco, where’s Hawwy?” Teddy mumbled, snuggling into Draco’s neck.

“He’s at work. What should we do now? Hungry?”

Teddy nodded, grinning, and they headed to the kitchen. The cupboards were sparse—they’d need to go shopping soon—but Draco hoped Harry would handle that. Grocery shopping wasn’t his forte, especially when it came to inspecting fruits and vegetables. For now, he settled on cutting an apple. Potions class had taught him precision with a knife, but fruit preparation was an entirely different matter. His slices lacked Harry’s whimsical animal shapes, but they sufficed.

While Teddy played in the adjacent room, Draco sat by the fireplace, staring at the green flames flickering in the hearth. Draco stood in the middle of the parlor, a weight pressing heavily on his chest as he stared at the fireplace. The letter from the Ministry approving his Floo call to Pansy rested in his hand, the parchment crumpled at the edges from where he’d clenched it too tightly. He had requested this conversation days ago, carefully framing his reasons. They had been reluctant, no doubt wondering why a former Death Eater deserved such leniency.

And they weren’t wrong. Why did he deserve this? Why did he deserve anything?

Teddy’s laughter echoed faintly from upstairs, pulling Draco from his thoughts. The boy had been his salvation and his punishment all at once. He didn’t deserve the trust Andromeda had placed in him, nor the laughter of a child who saw him as more than the sum of his sins. But he’d promised himself he wouldn’t fail again. Teddy was the one good thing in his life, the only reason he still stood here instead of crumbling under the weight of who he’d been.

He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, glancing at the clock on the mantel. Time was running out on the precious few minutes he’d been granted. He picked up the small pouch of Floo powder sitting next to him, his fingers hesitating over its cold surface.

"Don't be dead," he muttered under his breath. He tossed the powder into the flames with more force than necessary, muttering her name.

“Pansy Parkinson.”

The flames roared higher, casting a green glow on the walls of the room, and her face appeared in the fire. She looked... drained. Even her sarcasm, which could normally cut glass, seemed dulled around the edges. Still, she smirked when she saw him. Draco wasn’t faring much better, but he had Andromeda’s kindness and Teddy’s joy to ground him.

 Pansy had no one. Her father was in Azkaban, her mother had fled, and she’d dropped out of Hogwarts when the 8th year reopened. She lived alone in the ruins of the Parkinson estate, her savings dwindling. One day the money she had left would run out and she just wished that by then she wouldn't be alive. She did not deserve this. She wasn’t perfect—far from it—but Draco knew neither was he.

“Well, well, if it isn’t my favorite ex-Death Eater. Missed me that much, Malfoy?” she teased, though the sharpness in her tone felt forced.

Draco huffed, rolling his eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself. The Ministry finally let me call. Took weeks, thanks to Harry and his bleeding-heart arguments about letting me keep custody of Teddy.”

“Harry,” she said with a raised eyebrow, her smirk shifting into something more knowing. “First name basis now, is it?”

“It’s just practical,” Draco snapped, but the heat in his voice betrayed his discomfort. “We live together. For Teddy’s sake.”

Pansy’s smile widened. “Of course. For Teddy’s sake.”

“Did you eat today?” Draco asked.

“Yesterday, maybe. Grapes.”

“Fermented grapes?”

“Fine. A bottle of wine. But I don’t regret it.”

“You should.” Draco’s voice was firm but not unkind. The conversation shifted, and Pansy brought up Andromeda’s passing. She offered no condolences, but Draco didn’t expect any. It was common for her, no words of comfort, if she didn't feel it she just didn't say it.

“How are you?” he asked, the words coming out softer than he intended.

“I’m managing,” she said with a shrug. “The house feels too big, too empty. But that’s the price we pay, isn’t it?”

Her words hit him like a blow. Draco looked away, his gaze falling on the ornate rug beneath his feet. He thought of Blaise, isolated in his own way, and Pansy, with no one to pull her out of the shadows she had fallen into. And here he was, living in Andromeda’s house with a child’s laughter filling the halls and Harry Potter— Harry Potter —willing to share his home. What right did he have to feel anything but guilt?

“I called Blaise last week,” he said, breaking the silence. “He asked about you.”

Pansy snorted. “Did he now?”

“He cares,” Draco said firmly. “We all care.”

Her eyes softened, but she didn’t respond. Draco’s throat tightened. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Pansy was supposed to be the unshakable one, the one who carried them through with her sharp wit and endless confidence. Seeing her like this... it made him question everything.

“Draco,” she said, cutting through his thoughts. “How are you holding up?”

He hesitated. “I’m... adjusting.”

“To Potter?”

“To all of it,” he admitted. “Living with him... it’s practical. For Teddy. But I don’t understand why he trusts me. A Death Eater. Someone who...” He trailed off, his throat closing around the words.

Pansy leaned closer, her expression unreadable. “Such a Gryffindor thing to do, seeing the best in people… I bet he tried to forgive Voldemort”

Draco scoffed, but her words lingered in the back of his mind. What did Harry see? Did he even trust Draco? Or was he just waiting for him to fail, to prove that a Malfoy could never change?

The sound of the door opening pulled him from his spiraling thoughts. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Harry stepping inside, his Auror uniform still covered in soot. His heart leapt for reasons he didn’t want to examine.

“Potter’s home. I have to go.” Draco said quickly, turning back to the flames.

“Don’t you want to introduce me to your dear Harry ?” Pansy teased. “And how do you even know he’s coming? Does he have a tracking spell on him?”

“Firstly, my dear Harry wouldn’t want to be disturbed,” Draco deadpanned, lacing the words with sarcasm. “Secondly, that portrait makes an expression of disgust every time he’s near. Bye” The flames flickered while her laugh was heard.

Harry entered, the sight of him in his Auror uniform making Draco freeze. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen Harry in it, but the tight leather emphasized the shoulders and tapered waist in a way Draco found maddening. His arms, muscular and veined, looked strong enough to cradle the world—or Teddy, at least.

“Everything okay?” Harry asked as he unzipped his jacket and hung it neatly by the door.

“Yes,” Draco replied, his voice slightly strained. “Teddy just woke from his nap.” The words came out too fast, almost as if to hide the thoughts that had surged to the forefront of his mind.

“Good. I’ll shower first—probably covered in ashes.” Harry removed his gloves with a practiced ease, his hands red from the cold but strong, veins standing out just enough to be distracting. Draco’s eyes followed them involuntarily before darting back to Harry’s face, where that infuriatingly earnest expression lingered. His mind betrayed him. All he could focus on was how Potter seemed to fill the room, the breadth of his shoulders under that Auror’s jacket, and the way his shirt clung to his chest as he moved.

Draco bit the inside of his cheek. He knew how hypocritical it was to feel this way, considering the myriad reasons he assumed Harry hated him—or worse, found him disgusting. Surely, the great savior of the wizarding world didn’t trust him, not fully. Why would he? Draco wasn’t even sure he trusted himself most days. His past was a permanent stain, and yet, when he was face to face with Harry, his guilt and self-loathing were eclipsed by something much more troubling. Potter was hot as fuck .

He needed to say something, anything, to keep his thoughts in check. “Confidential?”

“Technically. But who cares?” Harry shrugged, his demeanor relaxed as he began recounting his day. He described a house fire they’d been called to, one that should have been handled by Muggle firefighters but ended up as an Auror task. There’d been a dog trapped inside, which Harry had rescued. His voice lit up as he shared the story, and he veered into a tangent about how much he loved dogs but didn’t feel ready to have one yet, given the chaos of his life.

Draco caught pieces of it—“fire,” “dog,” “I love dogs”—but his focus kept slipping back to Harry’s face, to the curve of his lips as he spoke, the way his hands moved animatedly when describing the rescue. It was unbearable how easily Potter commanded his attention without even trying.

“Draco? Are you even listening?” Harry’s sheepish grin snapped him back to reality.

“You talk a lot,” Draco deflected. “But your voice is tolerable now. Compared to when you were a teenager, I mean. Back then, you sounded like a Grindylow.”

“Fuck you,” Harry retorted, laughing. It wasn’t an angry laugh, just an easy, familiar sound that made Draco’s chest ache in a way he wasn’t ready to examine.

“Where’s Teddy, anyway?” Harry asked, glancing toward the staircase.

“Entertained by his new toy. Don’t ask me why, but he loves it.” Draco allowed a small smirk to tug at his lips.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “That’s obvious. The toy is for kids Teddy’s age.”

Draco’s smirk widened. “The box said 6 months and up. I’m up. I’m not laughing.”

Harry shook his head with a grin, heading toward the bathroom. As the door clicked shut, Draco exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. Being in the same house as Harry Potter was going to be the death of him.

Chapter Text

Living with Teddy Lupin had reshaped Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter's lives into something neither could have imagined—balanced, chaotic, and oddly… manageable. Teddy was at the center of it all, a whirlwind of energy, laughter, and occasional tears. His presence was grounding, forcing Draco and Harry to co-exist in a way that went beyond tolerance or obligation. They were building something fragile but genuine—an understanding that didn’t quite reach the warmth of true friendship but was far from the bitter enmity of their past.

Draco had taken on bedtime rituals with a precision Harry found both amusing and endearing. He claimed it was to maintain order, but Harry suspected Draco secretly enjoyed Teddy’s enthusiastic requests for “one more story.” Meanwhile, Harry often found himself mediating between Draco and the toddler when their stubborn personalities clashed. Yet, it was Draco who always managed to coax Teddy into a better mood with a conjured butterfly or a perfectly-timed distraction.

Their dynamic had settled into a rhythm. They weren’t friends in the traditional sense—there were still sharp edges and moments where irritation flared—but there was also camaraderie in shared routines and mutual respect. Draco’s biting remarks had softened into sarcastic quips, and Harry found himself firing back with a wit he hadn’t realized he possessed. It wasn’t peaceful exactly, but it was enough.

Draco leaned back against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching as Harry methodically wiped down the table. His brow furrowed slightly as he observed the dark-haired man work, sleeves rolled up, hands brisk and efficient.

“Why haven’t I met your house-elf?” Draco asked, the question slipping out with a tinge of suspicion.

Harry paused, turning to him with a genuinely confused expression. “What house-elf?”

Draco gestured vaguely toward the room, his tone exasperated. “The one who’s been cleaning, doing the dishes, and cooking our food?”

Harry straightened, rubbing the back of his neck. “We don’t have a house-elf. Well, I had one, but he’s working at Hogwarts now.”

Draco’s face froze, his eyes narrowing. “Then who’s been doing all the chores?”

Harry’s mouth quirked into a smirk, though his tone remained sharp. “Me, you bloody slob.”

There was a beat of silence. Draco blinked. “Oh.”

Harry tossed the damp cloth into the sink and turned back to Draco, crossing his arms. “Good that you brought this up because I’ve been meaning to ask you for some help. I get it, you’ve got a lot on your plate with studying and looking after Teddy, but maybe—just maybe—you could clean your room? That’d be a start.”

Draco stiffened, his voice rising defensively. “You’ve been entering my room!”

It wasn’t a question, and the indignation in his voice made Harry snort.

“How else am I supposed to clean it? It’s a bloody disaster there.”

Draco’s face turned a shade pinker, his usual poise slipping. “You could’ve just left it!”

Harry rolled his eyes, stepping closer and leveling a gaze at him. “Left it? The pile of dirty clothes in the corner was starting to smell. And don’t get me started on the stack of parchment spilling ink everywhere. Merlin, Malfoy, it’s like living with a teenager.”

Draco huffed, straightening his posture as if trying to reclaim some dignity. “Well, maybe I would’ve cleaned it if I’d known you were the one invading my space.”

Harry grinned, his green eyes glinting with mischief. “Oh, so you don’t mind if it’s a house-elf, but when it’s me, suddenly it’s a problem?”

Draco’s lips pressed into a thin line, his arms tightening around himself. “That’s different. House-elves are—” He stopped himself, catching Harry’s raised eyebrow.

“Go on,” Harry said, his voice challenging but light, leaning against the counter opposite Draco. “Say it. House-elves are what?”

Draco sighed, his shoulders sagging slightly. “Never mind,” he muttered.

Harry chuckled, pushing off the counter. “Thought so. Anyway, you’re on dish duty tomorrow. No excuses.”

Draco opened his mouth to protest, but Harry was already heading out of the room, his footsteps fading up the stairs. Left alone, Draco stared at the spotless kitchen, suddenly acutely aware of just how much effort Potter had been putting in to keep everything running smoothly.

He groaned, running a hand through his hair. “Dish duty. Bloody hell.”

Draco stood at the kitchen doorway, arms folded, watching Harry stir a pot on the stove. There was something both fascinating and irritating about how effortlessly Potter seemed to move around, like he belonged there. The smells wafting from the pan were undeniably appealing, but Draco couldn’t stop himself from glaring at the scene.

He had known Harry cooked on occasion—there had been evidence of that, and Teddy had casually mentioned Harry’s pancakes being "the best ever" more than once—but Draco had never connected the dots. The pristine house, the folded laundry, the stocked fridge—it had all felt like the work of an invisible hand, a house-elf he’d never seen. He hadn’t asked questions. Why would he?

But Potter had burst that bubble with his infuriatingly casual, "I do the chores, you slob." And now, Draco couldn’t unsee it.

How? How did Harry manage it all? Being an Auror alone seemed demanding enough—chasing dark wizards, getting home at all hours, looking like he’d been through hell. And yet, somehow, he kept the house running. Perfectly. It made no sense.

Draco scowled, shifting uncomfortably. He didn’t like the twist in his chest, that unwelcome feeling crawling up his spine. Guilt. He hated it. Growing up, he'd never had to lift a finger. House-elves had always managed everything. There’d been no reason to learn how to cook, or clean, or even make his own bed. 

It wasn’t just that Draco didn’t know how to do any of it—cooking, cleaning, organizing—it was the fact that he was now expected to learn. The thought grated at him. He was Draco Malfoy, heir to one of the most powerful wizarding families, not some... Muggle housewife .

And yet, here he was, staring down at his own useless hands, wishing he had his wand, cursing the Ministry for taking it from him, and trying to muster the will to admit that, fine, maybe he could contribute more around here. Begrudgingly. For Teddy.

His eyes wandered to Teddy, who was seated at the table, happily coloring. The boy’s face lit up with every swipe of crayon across parchment, his tongue poking out in concentration. Draco felt the guilt twist harder. Teddy deserved better than a deadbeat godfather who couldn’t even make tea without Potter’s supervision.

He clenched his fists. This wasn’t about Potter. It wasn’t about his pride. It was about Teddy.

“Alright, fine,” he muttered under his breath.

“What was that?” Harry asked, glancing over his shoulder. His cheeks were slightly flushed from the heat, and his hair—somehow messier than usual—made Draco want to roll his eyes. Of course Potter could look both ridiculous and effortlessly capable at the same time.

“I said, I’ll help,” Draco repeated, louder this time, his jaw tight. “What else can I do?”

Harry blinked in surprise, then smirked. “About time. I was starting to think you’d never offer.”

“Don’t push it, Potter,” Draco snapped. “I’m not scrubbing floors or anything absurd like that.”

“Noted.” Harry turned back to the stove, but Draco didn’t miss the grin on his face. “You could start with your room. Or the laundry. Or maybe—and this is just a wild suggestion—try not to set the kitchen on fire next time you attempt toast.”

Draco glared. “That was one time.”

Harry’s laugh was infuriatingly warm. “Whatever you say, Malfoy. Just... thanks. It’ll help.”

Draco shifted on his feet, refusing to acknowledge the gratitude in Harry’s tone. He wasn’t doing this for Potter . He didn’t care what the Gryffindor thought of him. But the idea of Teddy growing up thinking his godfather was useless? That was unbearable.

He didn’t have to like it. He just had to do it.

His eyes flickered to the small, tidy corner of the kitchen, and for the first time, he wondered if maybe Harry wasn’t just some infuriating, overly nice person. Maybe he was actually just... good —in a way that made Draco uncomfortable to admit, and even more uncomfortable to face.

…

Ron Weasley was drained. All he wanted was to see Hermione, but work at the Ministry had kept her busy, and he was often away on his own assignments. Yet, here he was, reluctantly sitting in Harry's flat, because whatever it was that Harry needed to tell him sounded serious.

"I need to talk to you and introduce someone. Well, you already know him."

"I saw Teddy this morning," Ron said, sprawling on the couch. He leaned forward, eyeing the papers on the coffee table. "What’s all this?" He gestured to the cluttered mess of documents.

“Oh, Malfoy’s fault,” Harry replied, distracted as he glanced over at the baby.

"Is that some kind of new expression?" Ron raised an eyebrow, his voice laced with disbelief. "I swear, Harry, parenting it’s already affecting your brain."

Before Harry could respond, a strange smell hit Ron. It took a moment before he realized what it was.

"Something’s burning," Ron muttered.

“Must be him,” Harry muttered under his breath.

"Who?" Ron asked, assuming Harry meant the house-elf, but his friend simply shook his head.

“Malfoy.”

Ron gave a short laugh. "One day, I’ll believe in myself as much as you believe Malfoy’s behind every single disaster. Look who's back in 6th year."

Harry didn't respond immediately, and the tension between them seemed to increase when the fireplace suddenly flared to life, announcing the arrival of the Weasley family. Molly was first, immediately fussing over Harry and cooing at Teddy. Arthur followed close behind, beaming as he carried a tin of homemade biscuits.

“Hope you don’t mind the intrusion,” Molly said cheerfully. “I know you only called me, but this people follow me anywhere”

 “We thought we’d surprise you. Did Ron tell you? Fleur had a girl, and now I’m a grandpa!" Arthur chimed in with a cheerful grin, taking a seat next to Harry.

Ron sat up, his expression shifting from surprise to mild annoyance. “Bit of a crowd, don’t you think?”

Ginny entered next, looking curious but wary. George brought up the rear, his usual smirk in place. “Wouldn’t miss a chance to see what Harry’s got himself into this time.”

This wasn’t part of Harry’s plan. He had thought he could manage the situation, prepared to handle Molly’s well-meaning but firm lectures and even Ron’s inevitable hotheadedness. Ron, after all, would be the most vocal and aggressive toward Draco. But Harry had counted on Molly’s sensibility to keep her son in check.

What he hadn’t prepared for was the entire Weasley family showing up unannounced. Molly might keep Ron at bay, but Harry doubted she could calm an entire room filled with wary eyes and strong opinions.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair as he considered his options. Maybe he could delay Draco’s introduction. Letting Draco meet the Weasleys tonight, in this state, felt like throwing him into a lion’s den. Worse, Harry realized with a pang of guilt, he hadn’t even warned Draco about the possibility of company. It had seemed like such a minor oversight earlier, but now, it felt like a glaring mistake.

Before Harry could decide how to handle the situation, the door creaked open. Draco appeared, his expression wary as he cracked it just enough for Teddy to notice.

“Duaco!” Teddy squealed, immediately pointing toward the door, his voice filled with excitement. The room fell into an awkward silence as everyone turned to look.

“Potter,” Draco drawled, his voice cutting through the room like a knife. “You didn’t mention this was a family reunion. Should I have brought a casserole?”

Arthur stepped forward, his jovial mood evaporating. “Harry, explain. Now.”

“Wait,” Ginny said, her brow furrowing. “Harry, what’s going on? Why is he here?”

Harry took a deep breath. “Draco’s been... helping me with some things. I thought—”

“You thought what?” Ron interrupted, his voice rising. “That we’d just welcome him with open arms? After everything?”

Draco’s smirk sharpened. “Oh, please, spare me the moral grandstanding. It’s exhausting.”

“Exhausting?!” Ron’s face turned red as he stepped closer. “You’ve got some nerve, Malfoy.”

Draco didn’t back down, his tone growing colder. “And you’ve got an impressive knack for stating the obvious.”

Arthur’s hand went to his wand, his eyes narrowing. Before Harry could do something about it, Teddy toddled over to Draco, his face lighting up. “Duaco!” he squealed, raising his arms.

The boy giggled, and for a fleeting moment, Draco’s expression softened. But the moment passed quickly, his usual mask snapping back into place. He seemed ready to accept Teddys in his arms, but there was a wand pointed to him, so he hesitated. 

“That’s enough!” Molly’s voice rang out, sharp and commanding. She grabbed Arthur’s hand that was holding his wand. “Everyone, calm down. This is Harry’s house.”

“Mum, you can’t be serious,” Ron said, his tone incredulous. “He’s—”

“A Death Eater?” Draco cut in, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Go on, Weasley, say it. You’ll feel better.”

“You’re one to talk about using words” Ron snapped, his fists clenching.

“Stop it!” Harry finally shouted, stepping between them. “This isn’t how I wanted this to go.”

“Really?” Draco said dryly. “Because I think it’s going swimmingly.”

“This is not a place for him" Ginny’s voice was sharp, disbelief and anger in her tone.

“And I suppose your place is Hogwarts, brat” Draco shot back, his voice dripping with disdain, but the comment only heightened the tension.

“Watch your mouth, Malfoy,” George said in a low, but strong voice. It was the first time he said something in the fight, he didn’t look as angry as the others, but it was somewhat a powerful warning 

“I can’t believe you’d let him into your house, Harry.” Ron accused 

The room was thick with hostility. The Weasleys were angry, the tension too high to ignore, and Harry suddenly regretted thinking he could make this work. Teddy, scared by all the shouting, clung to Harry’s side, his eyes wide and confused.

"Enough!" Harry shouted, trying to bring order to the madness. "This was a bad idea. I get it, alright? Can everyone just stop for a second?"

But Draco wasn’t done. "Not as bad as yelling at me while holding Ted, Harry."

Draco grabbed the child out of Harry’s arms, his movements swift but controlled, though his face remained a mask of barely contained rage.

"Don’t touch him!" Arthur's voice had a dangerous edge now, his wand was with Molly now, but he raised his hand in reflex.

“I’m not afraid of you, old man!” Draco’s voice cracked through the air, his defiance obvious as he held Teddy firmly in his arms. Harry quickly stepped in front of Draco, his hand raised, trying to protect both Draco and the child.

"You’re wicked! You can’t hurt Duaco!" Teddy shouted, his small voice ringing out, cutting through the noise.

Arthur, momentarily stunned, blinked. "Am I wicked?"

“Yes!” Teddy replied, his tone resolute, his loyalty to Draco unwavering.

“You’re just a child,” Arthur muttered, his gaze flicking to the boy. “You don’t know who this man is—he’s the wicked one.”

“He care of me,” Teddy said simply, his words laced with innocence and trust.

A deep silence settled over the room, all eyes now fixed on Draco, who stood frozen as he looked down at Teddy, who smiled up at him. Teddy's hair shifted from blue to blonde as he hugged Draco tightly, his small arms wrapping around the older man’s neck.

Draco’s voice was soft, almost defeated, as he broke the silence. “I guess we’re not wanted here.” With a look of disdain, he shot one last taunt in Arthur’s direction. “Just be careful not to hit Ted while you’re aiming for me.” With that, he turned, carrying Teddy upstairs.

No one spoke for a moment. Arthur, still in shock, slumped into a chair, while Molly rushed to soothe him, murmuring about his health. Ginny stood silently, watching Harry with a mix of confusion and concern.

As Draco disappeared upstairs, the silence that followed was thick with tension. George, ever the one to break the ice, let out a low whistle. “Well, that was cheerful,” he said, his tone wry. “Anyone else up for biscuits? Or maybe I’ll just head home to see my niece. Much more uplifting crowd there.”

The humor didn’t land. The room remained heavy, his words dissipating like smoke in the air. Ron shifted uncomfortably, his jaw clenched as he avoided meeting anyone’s gaze. Finally, he turned to Harry, his voice low but loaded with frustration. “How can you forgive him, Harry? After everything he’s done to us—to you?”

Harry ran a hand over his face, exhaling slowly as he searched for the right response. “Ron, this isn’t about forgiveness,” he said, his voice steady but tinged with weariness. “It’s about moving forward. I thought we could try having dinner together, maybe talk it through, but... I see now that it was a mistake.”

Ron, still standing near the couch, laughed bitterly. “You don’t get it, do you, Harry? You think you can just invite him into your house and expect everyone to be fine with it?”

“Ron, I’m not asking for permission,” Harry snapped. “I’m asking for understanding. And Draco isn’t invited here. He lives here now. And it’s going to stay that way until Teddy is grown up and doesn’t need us anymore.”

The room fell silent for a moment, the weight of Harry’s words sinking in. Ron looked stunned, his mouth opening and closing as he tried to form a retort.

Ginny stepped forward, her voice softer but no less insistent. “Harry, we’re not trying to make this harder for you,” she began, her brown eyes earnest. “We’re just... worried about you. I see he cares about Teddy. But is he really a good example for Teddy? Is it even safe for him to know about Grimmauld Place?” She paused, her voice dropping slightly. “We just don’t want to see you get hurt.”

Harry’s jaw tightened, but he softened slightly as he turned to Ginny. “I know you’re worried. And I know it’s hard to understand why I’m doing this. But Draco’s not the same person he was during the war. He’s trying, Ginny. For Teddy, if nothing else. He’s been through hell, just like we all have.”

Ginny hesitated, her brow furrowed, “Well, it didn’t look like he was.”

Harry let out a slow breath, glancing toward the staircase where Draco had disappeared with Teddy. “Look, I’m not asking anyone here to like him. But this isn’t about you or me. This is about Teddy. Andromeda wanted us to raise him, both of us. She trusted Draco enough to include him, and so do I.”

Ginny looked as though she wanted to argue but stayed silent, her arms crossed tightly. Ron, however, wasn’t finished. “You really think this is the best thing for Teddy? Growing up in a house with a Death—”

Harry’s expression hardened, his voice unwavering. “Teddy needs stability, Ron. He needs people who care about him, and Draco does. He’s proven that time and again. I’m not doing this for Draco. I’m doing it for Teddy.”

The silence that followed was heavy and uncomfortable. Ron shifted uncomfortably, his frustration still evident but muted by Harry’s words. Ginny looked at Harry, her face a mix of concern and reluctant understanding.

As Harry turned to leave, George broke the silence with a wry grin. “Well, this has been a lovely family chat. We should all head home, let’s go my red-hotheads”

The corner of Harry’s mouth twitched at George’s attempt to lighten the mood, but he didn’t stop. Without another word, he ascended the stairs, leaving the room steeped in unresolved tension. He could hear the steps as George was pushing his family out of the house. 

Draco was going to kill him.

The thought came unbidden, vivid, and insistent. It wasn’t hyperbole; Draco had tried to Crucio him for far less provocation. And now? Now, it sounded even plausible for him to do so.

The voices from the living room had quieted, but the weight of the evening pressed down on him like a stone. Ron’s bitterness, Ginny’s worried logic, Arthur’s stern disapproval—none of it was unexpected, yet it still stung.

Why did it matter so much to him that they accepted Draco? Why was he so desperate to prove something to them, to Draco, to himself? The obvious answer—just for Teddy’s sake—began to feel like a mask, something he hid behind to avoid confronting something deeper. But Harry couldn’t quite understand it. Maybe it was more than just wanting Teddy to be safe, more than ensuring the boy had a family he could count on. Maybe, just maybe, he was trying to prove something to himself. The feeling churned in his gut, uncomfortable and unresolved. He didn’t know why he cared. It didn’t make sense. Not after everything Draco had done to him. Not after all the times Draco had tried to bring him harm. And yet, here he was, fighting for him. Fighting for a chance that seemed impossible.

When he reached the bedroom, he found Draco and Teddy on the floor. Blocks were scattered around them, and Draco was carefully stacking one onto another as Teddy watched, eyes bright with excitement. For a brief moment, Draco’s face was unguarded, his lips curling into a faint smile.

Harry hesitated in the doorway, reluctant to disrupt the fragile peace. But then Draco glanced up and saw him. The smile vanished, replaced by a familiar scowl, his body tensing as if bracing for a fight.

Then his gaze flicked to Harry, and the scowl returned like a slammed door. “Haven’t you done enough damage for one evening, Potter?”

Harry stepped inside, closing the door behind him. He lowered himself onto the floor across from them, his movements deliberate but cautious. For a moment, he said nothing, letting the silence stretch between them. Teddy, oblivious to the tension, continued stacking blocks with single-minded determination.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said at last, his voice quiet. “For what happened downstairs.”

Draco snorted, not looking at him. He kept building the blocks. “Save it, Potter. I don’t need your pity.”

“It’s not pity,” Harry replied, a little more firmly. “It’s an apology. I didn’t know they’d react like that,” Harry started, already feeling the heat rise in his chest.

Draco’s laugh was bitter. “Didn’t you? What part of that circus surprised you, exactly? The screaming? The insults? The part where every single person thinks I’m scum? 

“They don’t get it, and I can’t force them to. But I expected you to try, at least.”

“Why would I? And here I thought you Gryffindors were supposed to be brave. Guess I was wrong, you’re just bloody idiots.”

Harry’s temper flared.“Don't talk about them like this!” he snapped, his voice louder than he intended. Teddy glanced up, startled, and Harry immediately regretted raising his voice. Draco’s eyes shot daggers at him. 

Teddy’s blocks collapsed in a heap, and Harry’s chest tightened. He hated this—this fighting, this anger. He couldn’t keep doing it, but Draco wasn’t giving him a choice.

“Keep your voice down,” Draco hissed. “If you’re going to yell, do it where he can’t hear.”

“Don’t act like you care more about him than I do.”

“Care about him?” Draco’s eyes narrowed, a bitter smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “He’s the only reason I still tolerate you and all this humiliation, Potter. I don’t want their forgiveness, and I don’t want yours either. I didn’t ask for any of this. All I want is to be with Teddy.” His voice dropped, raw and painful, and Harry couldn’t stop the flicker of guilt that surged through him.

“Yeah, I got that,” Harry shot back, his voice thick with frustration. “And maybe if you’d stop acting like a prat for five seconds, they’d see what I see.”

“Oh, and what’s that?” Draco’s voice was razor-sharp now. “What do you see, Potter? Enlighten me.”

Harry opened his mouth, then closed it, his anger tangling with guilt. What did he see? Someone trying, maybe. Someone who, despite everything, was still here. Someone who deserved a chance, even if the world thought otherwise. But how could he say that to Draco without sounding like he pitied him?

Draco didn’t wait for an answer. “That’s what I thought,” he muttered, turning back to the blocks. “You don’t know. You dragged me into your perfect, shiny life, and now you want to play hero again. Well, guess what? I don’t need saving, Potter. i’m not a charity case”

“I’m not trying to save you,” Harry said, the words almost a growl. “I just—” He stopped, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know what I’m trying to do, okay? I’m just…I want this to work. For Teddy. For all of us.”

Draco’s hands stilled, his shoulders tense. “Well, be realistic,” he said quietly, his voice devoid of its usual venom. “Because this? This isn’t working.”

Harry’s chest ached at the vulnerability in those words, but he didn’t know how to fix it. All he could do was sit there, watching as Draco continued to build a tower that he knew would inevitably fall.

And maybe that was the point. Maybe it was never going to work.

But he wanted it to work. For Teddy. For them . And that thought alone left him caught in a storm of guilt, frustration, and an ache that he couldn’t shake.

Draco gave up his pride for Teddy. He followed Harry around, going with the flow, which Harry initially thought was just normal behavior. But as he reflected, he realized how significant that effort was for Draco—agreeing without protest, tolerating decisions without argument, and setting aside his ego for the sake of a child who needed them both.

Draco wasn’t one to yield easily; his pride had always been his armor. Yet for Teddy, he had let go of that, adapting quietly to a dynamic that wasn’t natural for him. Harry could now see the effort it took for Draco to bite back his instincts, to defer to Harry’s lead, and to accept his role in a shared life where his opinion wasn’t always the dominant one. It struck him suddenly that Draco wasn’t just tolerating this arrangement—he was trying to make it work.

It wasn’t about convenience or obligation. Draco’s actions showed a conscious choice to prioritize Teddy’s happiness over his own discomfort. Whether it was agreeing to Harry’s plans without a fight, staying patient through Teddy’s tantrums, or even the simple act of sitting through long, mundane meetings like the one today, Draco’s sacrifices were becoming clear.

Harry felt a pang of guilt. He’d taken it all for granted, assuming this was just how things were supposed to go. But for someone like Draco—someone who had lived his whole life with a rigid sense of control and superiority—this was monumental.

Because actions like these couldn’t be faked—they were the marks of someone who cared. Truly, deeply cared. And, Harry realized, it made him trust Draco more.

Chapter Text

Three weeks had passed since the heated confrontation between the Weasleys and Draco, and though the tension remained a lingering presence, the storm had somewhat quieted. Draco and Harry, despite the unresolved feelings and awkwardness still hanging between them, had fallen into a routine. They shared custody of Teddy, and although there was no major conflict, the air between them remained thick with things unsaid. Their once frequent exchanges had dwindled, and their time together was now a rare occurrence, swallowed by their demanding schedules.

Draco had finished his Healer training months ago, and though he was eagerly awaiting an opening at St. Mungo's, he wasn’t idle. He worked night shifts at a small hospital nearby, providing the only real structure to his otherwise chaotic days. Between that and his attempts to manage the endless responsibilities that came with taking care of Teddy, Draco barely had a moment to himself. The house, a constant source of frustration, was an ongoing challenge. Learning how to keep it in order and functioning, particularly without the help of magic for most chores, had become a task in itself.

Meanwhile, Harry was consumed by his work, his days stretching long into the evenings with barely enough time to breathe. Between his duties as an Auror and his commitment to Teddy, there was little left for anything else, let alone conversations with Draco. October was ending, and as the date got closer, Harry got quieter.

The Auror office hummed with low-level magic, parchment, and ink perfuming the air. Papers cascaded over both Harry and Ron’s desks in equal measure. They’d maintained a fragile truce since the fight—Quidditch talk on Fridays, work chatter otherwise. But today, rain lashing the windows and the weight of the date hanging between them, Ron broke protocol. 

It was October 31st. And it was obvious in Harry’s face, the weight of what this day meant. 

Even Draco had seen that something was wrong, even if he didn’t know exactly why, he assumed it was a bad day, maybe Harry had another nightmare. He hadn’t said anything, and Harry appreciated having a silent breakfast. But Ron seemed to have other plans. 

“How are you doing, mate?”

“Fine,” Harry said, too quickly. His quill hovered over a report he hadn’t read.

Ron lobbed a crumpled memo into the bin. It missed. “Hermione’s furious with Dad.”

Harry glanced up. “Arthur?”

“I was surprised, honestly. She’s been trying so hard to be accepted by my family, not that she needs to, but you know her. Despite this, the moment she heard about what he did to Malfoy, she practically gave him a lecture on the judicial system.”

Harry smirked, the image of Hermione sternly explaining magistrate procedures to Arthur Weasley playing in his mind. “I imagine there aren’t many women who’ve spoken to your dad like that.”

Ron snorted, shaking his head. “You’d think. But the most shocking part? She defended Malfoy. And—” he hesitated, giving Harry a pointed look, “—she didn’t even look surprised when I mentioned he was living with you.”

Ah, there it was. Harry felt a pang of guilt twist in his chest. Of course, this was where Ron was going with it. He knew it hadn’t been fair to confide in Hermione and not Ron, but the truth had spilled out so naturally with her. Their conversations had a way of flowing, and before he knew it, Hermione knew everything. Besides, she’d likely have figured it out even if he hadn’t told her. That was Hermione Granger, after all.

“Sorry,” Harry said, setting the file aside. “I should’ve told you properly. I don’t know what I was thinking. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“It wasn’t,” Ron said bluntly but without heat.

Harry winced. “Yeah, I know. And I get how you feel about him. I felt the same way for years. But Draco’s…” he paused, searching for the right words. “He’s trying, Ron. You didn’t see when he—”

“—he called Ginny a ‘brat’? Oh, I saw.”

“That’s just his… thing.” Harry waved a hand, frustration bleeding through. “Like you calling him Ferret.”

Ron snorted. “Fair.” His expression softened. “Maybe I can understand that. What I don’t get is why you are defending him so much?”

Harry opened his mouth, but no words came out. He looked down at his hands, as though the answer might be scribbled on the desk in front of him. Finally, he admitted, “I don’t know.”

Ron leaned forward, gathering his scattered papers. “Just don’t make me say ‘I told you so’ when he inevitably drives you mad.”

Harry cracked the smallest smile he’d managed all day. “Deal.”

…

The first time Draco met Morgana, it had been entirely by chance. A rainy evening had left him and Teddy stranded without an umbrella, their initial errand forgotten as they sought shelter from the downpour. The Copper Kettle, with its warm, glowing windows and cozy atmosphere, had been a beacon on the gray, wet street. Draco hesitated outside the door, unsure of whether they’d be welcome, but Teddy’s insistent tug on his coat made the decision for him.

Stepping inside, Draco was greeted by the comforting hum of chatter, the scent of freshly baked bread, and a woman who immediately radiated warmth. Morgana, with her soft smile and calming presence, approached them without hesitation, offering a towel to dry off and a seat near the fireplace. She didn’t flinch at his last name, didn’t recoil from the sight of his face. For the first time in a long while, Draco wasn’t treated like the sum of his mistakes.

From that evening on, The Copper Kettle became something of a refuge for him and Teddy. Draco hadn’t expected to find kindness here, let alone in a Ravenclaw woman who, by all accounts, should have been wary of him. Instead, Morgana seemed to have an unshakable intuition, one that told her exactly how to disarm his defenses.

Draco’s visits to The Copper Kettle had started as a convenient escape, a way to reduce the mounting responsibilities at Grimmauld Place. After all, he could see Harry becoming increasingly drained by their shared duties. While he didn’t mind looking after Teddy, Draco found it impossible to ignore how overwhelmed Harry had become, shouldering more than his fair share of everything.

Harry worked long hours, leaving early, coming home late, and every night, Draco could hear him tossing and turning in bed, plagued by nightmares and sleeplessness. He kept his exhaustion hidden behind a smile for Teddy, making sure he had his fun with the boy, even taking time off to explore Muggle London with him on Sundays. Draco couldn't understand it. Harry was clearly at the edge of a breakdown, but he kept pushing forward, grinning through it all, as though pretending everything was fine could make it so. Draco found it infuriating.

Harry was, as always, the loyal Gryffindor, the one who would sacrifice everything for the people he cared about. Yet, in the process, he was wearing himself to the bone, and Draco resented it. He couldn’t understand why Harry insisted on doing it all, as if the weight of the world depended on him alone.

That’s where Morgana came in. Draco hadn’t admitted it to anyone, least of all Harry, but he found himself going to the restaurant more and more, not just for the comfort of her cooking and friendly way, but because it allowed him to take something off Harry’s plate. 

Draco could handle some of the chores, especially now that Morgana had taken a soft spot for him and Teddy. The older witch’s calm and maternal presence was a stark contrast to the cold distance that had been his mother’s way of "looking after him." Narcissa, though fiercely protective, had always been distant, her affection more a duty than a natural instinct. Morgana, by contrast, exuded a maternal warmth that enveloped not only Teddy but Draco as well. She didn’t seem to see him as a former Death Eater or a broken man trying to redeem himself, just a person doing his best.

He also tried to help with the cleaning and organizing at Grimmauld Place, keeping the house in order when Harry was out. Draco knew the last thing Harry needed was to come home to a mess when he was already running on empty. But his efforts didn’t pay off. He wasn’t good at it and couldn’t ask Harry for help so had to figure it out alone, also he didn't have magic to handle anything.

Teddy, perched on Draco’s hip, wriggled with excitement as his little face lit up at the sight of Morgana bustling behind the counter.

“Well, if it isn’t my two favorite troublemakers!” Morgana greeted warmly, brushing her graying hair back and stepping out from behind the counter. Her deep blue eyes sparkled as she wiped her hands on her apron. “Let me guess, hungry as ever?”

Draco gave a sheepish smile, shifting Teddy slightly. “More like completely unprepared for dinner. Again.”

Morgana chuckled, her voice carrying a soothing, maternal cadence. “Well, that’s why I’m here.” She crouched slightly to be at Teddy’s eye level. “And how’s my little helper today? Did you bring me another drawing for the wall?”

Teddy giggled and held up a crumpled piece of parchment he’d been clutching tightly. “It’s a dragon! Dwaco helped with the fire!”

Morgana accepted the drawing as though it were a masterpiece, holding it up to the light. “Why, it’s magnificent! We’ll have to make room for it right over here.” She turned to Draco with a grin. “You know, I’ve been meaning to ask: how are your lessons coming along? Or should I assume I’ll be feeding you forever?”

Draco huffed, though there was no malice in it. “I’m improving,” he said with a tilt of his chin. “I managed toast this morning. Didn’t burn it this time.”

“That’s progress!” Morgana teased before turning her attention back to Teddy. “Do you think Draco should learn how to make my famous stew?”

Teddy’s eyes went wide with enthusiasm. “Yes! Can I help?”

“Of course, sweetheart,” Morgana said, ruffling his turquoise hair affectionately. “You can be my official taste-tester.”

Draco settled at one of the small wooden tables, watching as Morgana bustled around the kitchen with Teddy toddling behind her, eagerly accepting small tasks. She showed him how to stir the pot and add sprigs of herbs, narrating each step in a way that was both educational and entertaining. Teddy soaked it all in, his giggles occasionally rising above the clattering of pots.

For a moment, Draco allowed himself to relax. The atmosphere was soothing, almost surreal in its normalcy. Morgana’s easy kindness was something he wasn’t used to—especially after the war—but it was a balm he hadn’t realized he needed

…

Draco and Harry had spent the morning rearranging Teddy’s room in Grimmauld Place. The day was unusually quiet, with the rain tapping gently against the windows, filling the space with a peaceful rhythm. The room was still cluttered with boxes, half-built furniture, and scattered toys. Draco had, as usual, taken charge of the smaller details—arranging the shelves, placing some stuffed animals here and there. He’d been fascinated by this concept he’d learned about—Montessori rooms—where furniture was at a child’s level, designed for their independence. And so, he’d placed the toys on the lower shelves, organizing them in neat rows.

Harry, on the other hand, was struggling with the new dresser. His brow furrowed in concentration, but the task seemed more complicated than it should have been. He was twisting his wand in different angles, trying to enchant the screws into place, but they kept slipping from his grasp. It wasn’t the first time he’d found himself frustrated with something mundane, but this felt different—his mind was far away, wandering through responsibilities that didn’t seem to end.

Draco paused, watching Harry for a moment, his hands still occupied with the toys. He could see the lines of exhaustion around Harry’s eyes, the set of his shoulders too tense for comfort. He hadn’t had a full day off in what felt like forever. The weight of Harry’s responsibilities was suffocating, and Draco felt an odd mixture of frustration and sympathy for him. That part of Harry’s character—the endless drive to do the right thing, no matter the cost—was both admirable and maddening.

“Do you remember Fleur?” Harry asked, his voice cutting through the quiet, seemingly out of nowhere.

Draco looked up, raising an eyebrow. “The half-Veela from the Triwizard Tournament?”

Harry nodded, seeming to feel the need to continue. “Yeah, well, she married Bill. Ron’s older brother.”

Harry paused, waiting for a reaction. All he got was a soft chuckle and murmured, “A Weasley.” he muttered, his voice betraying more than a hint of sarcasm. But his words weren’t meant to insult Harry; they were more an attempt to deflect, to hide the tightening in his chest. He wasn’t interested in hearing about the Weasley family’s latest drama, but he knew Harry wasn’t making small talk for the sake of it. 

“They had a daughter,” Harry continued, his voice softer now. “Her name’s Victoire.”

After a beat, Harry spoke again, his voice quieter this time, more tentative. “I was wondering if you’d mind Teddy visiting their family with me.”

Draco froze, his grip tightening on the toy he was holding. The question caught him off guard. He hadn’t expected Harry to ask for permission. It wasn’t that he didn’t want Teddy to meet Harry’s extended family. It was that Harry hadn’t even thought to consult him before. It was like Draco’s opinion didn’t matter in the decisions about the child he was helping to raise.

Draco shouldn’t have cared, but he did. It made him feel a flicker of warmth, thinking that Harry was genuinely trying not to hurt him as he had before. Yet it also made Draco want to pull away. The more hope Harry gave him, the more painful it was to harbor feelings for him. He turned his face as he couldn't stand looking to him.

Before Draco could fully process, Harry crossed the room in a few quick steps, grabbing his wrist and spinning him to face him. Draco’s breath hitched, surprised by the sudden closeness.

Harry's face was a mix of frustration and confusion, his voice low but firm. "You don’t have to look at me like that. I’m just trying to be considerate."

Draco’s pulse quickened, and he quickly pulled his wrist from Harry's grip, his tone defensive. "You can do whatever you want," he muttered stiffly, not wanting Harry to see how much the question had affected him. "You don’t need my permission for that."

But Harry wasn’t about to let it go. He could feel the tension rising between them, the space narrowing. “I'm just being nice, but guess you don't know how to not be an ass.”

Draco snapped. “The great Saint Potter, condescending even to a heinous criminal like me,” he drawled, his words coated with sarcasm as he returned to his task, trying to regain control over the situation. He wasn’t going to let Harry see how much it hurt. He couldn’t.

“Why are you doing this?” Harry asked, his voice rising with confusion. “It doesn’t suit you to wallow in self-pity.”

Draco shot him a sharp look, his defenses flaring up. “Well, that ridiculous shirt doesn’t suit you, either, and I hadn’t said anything,” he snapped, his tone biting.

Harry’s frustration finally broke through. He moved closer, his voice softening as he reached out, “I’m just trying to understand why you’re acting like this. Why push me away?”

Draco felt a flicker of something—guilt, perhaps, or an instinct to retreat further. He couldn’t explain it, the way Harry’s kindness was both comforting and unbearable. Every time Harry looked at him with those damn hopeful eyes, it made Draco want to pull back, to shut down. But Harry’s presence, the way he was so determined to include him, made it all the harder.

Harry’s frustration was clear now, the space between them shrinking by the second. He reached out, gently taking Draco’s wrist, forcing him to face him. Draco’s breath caught in his throat. For a moment, everything else ceased to matter. For a heartbeat, they were so close that they might have kissed without much effort. The storm in Draco’s gray eyes betrayed too many emotions, but in a blink, all that was left was the fiery glint of anger.

“That hurts, you brute,” he muttered, wrenching his wrist free and stepping back, his voice low with something that could’ve been pain, or something darker.

“I thought we were getting along. Why are you picking a fight?” Harry’s voice was confused, frustrated.

Draco shook his head, his mouth twisting into a mockingly sweet smile. “A mere Death Eater like me could never quarrel with the Savior,” he said with exaggerated surrender, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Without another word, he turned and walked out of the room, leaving Harry standing there, heart pounding in his chest. The room felt colder without Draco’s presence. Harry collapsed onto the floor, staring at the ceiling, wondering what had just happened between them.

What the hell had just happened?

...

The image of Draco sleeping peacefully that morning still lingered in Harry’s mind. The door to Malfoy’s room had been slightly ajar, and Harry had glanced in without thinking. What he’d seen had caught him off guard: Draco sprawled across the bed, his face uncharacteristically relaxed, his sharp features softened in sleep. The sight had been... disarming.

"Malfoy’s kind of... pretty," Harry muttered to himself at his desk, shaking the thought away.

"Do you think so?" Hermione’s voice cut through his muttering like a hex.

The women stood at the doorway, holding a stack of files, one eyebrow raised in curiosity.

Harry jumped, nearly spilling his inkpot. "Merlin, Hermione! Don’t sneak up on people like that!"

"I didn’t sneak up; you were too busy muttering to yourself." She set the files down and crossed her arms. "What were you saying about Malfoy?"

"Nothing!" he said, far too quickly.

Hermione gave him a long, knowing look as she set a stack of parchment on his desk. "Right. Nothing. You’ve been distracted all day, Harry. And now you’re muttering about Malfoy. Care to explain?"

Harry groaned, leaning back in his chair. "It’s stupid, okay? This morning, I saw him asleep, and it just... threw me off. He looked so... peaceful. It was weird."

"Weird," Hermione echoed, her tone deliberately neutral.

"Yeah, weird. Because it’s Malfoy," he added hastily, as though that explained everything.

Hermione hummed thoughtfully, tapping her chin. "You know, some people might interpret that as you noticing something nice about him."

"It’s not nice! It’s just... unexpected," Harry argued, flailing slightly.

"Unexpected can be nice," she countered, her lips twitching in amusement. “Are things good between you two?”

“They are strange, as always”, Harry groaned again, dragging a hand through his hair. "Can we not do this, Hermione? I’m not... whatever you’re thinking, I’m not that."

"I’m not thinking anything," she said, a little too innocently. "But you seem to be doing enough thinking for both of us."

"I’m not thinking about him!"

Harry glared at her, but she simply smiled and gathered her things. "Just a thought, Harry: maybe let yourself think about why you’re so adamant you aren’t thinking about him."

With that, she walked off, leaving Harry staring at his desk in frustration. "Brilliant," he muttered, shaking his head. But later, as he tried to focus on his paperwork, her words kept circling back in his mind, refusing to let him go.

Of course, Hermione had harbored her suspicions about Harry’s feelings toward Draco for years—perhaps since sixth year, when Harry’s obsession with Malfoy had been nothing short of relentless. It wasn’t that she faulted him; their world had been teetering on the brink of collapse, and Draco had undeniably been at the center of so much intrigue and danger. But there was something about the intensity of Harry’s focus, something more than strategy or mistrust.

While Ron treated it as typical Harry behavior—overly determined, singularly focused—Hermione saw something more. She couldn’t ignore the subtle contradictions in Harry’s actions. His expressions when Draco's name was mentioned, his constant need to prove something about or to Malfoy, and the way their confrontations seemed to carry an unspoken weight. She had seen those lingering glances, the way Harry spoke about Draco with a fervor that felt too personal to be rooted solely in hatred. 

And then there was Draco himself. Hermione was observant enough to notice the subtle shifts in Malfoy’s demeanor whenever Harry was around. She had caught the fleeting looks—half longing, half defiant—and the way Draco’s sharp retorts seemed designed not just to wound but to capture Harry’s attention. It was almost adolescent in its transparency, like the antics of a boy desperate to disturb the girl he fancied.

But it wasn’t simple. It wasn’t a schoolyard crush. Hermione had also seen the weight of guilt and fear in Draco’s eyes, the way he sometimes looked at Harry as if he were both salvation and torment. It was as if Draco carried a quiet, unspoken admiration for Harry—perhaps even a longing for the kind of courage and integrity that Harry seemed to embody so effortlessly. Draco’s need for Harry’s attention had always been palpable, even when it came in the form of sneers and insults. It was the need of someone who had been denied something vital, who didn’t know how to ask for what they truly wanted.

Hermione didn’t bring it up to Harry. She knew her best friend well enough to understand that he wasn’t ready to confront those kinds of truths about himself, let alone about Draco. But she kept her observations close, piecing together the nuances of their interactions, and waiting for the moment when Harry might start to see what had been right in front of him all along.

Hermione had always prided herself on being analytical, but this? This was tricky. She understood Harry better than anyone, and it seemed to her that he might not fully understand himself when it came to Draco Malfoy. 

…

Teddy slept with Draco. The plan was for the adults to take turns on different nights, but Harry moved too much during the night, and now that the little one had outgrown his crib and slept in a bed, Draco feared his cousin might get squished by Potter during one of his nightmares.

Draco had his bad nights, of course, but most of the time it didn’t give him nightmares—instead, it kept him from sleeping. Which wasn’t exactly advantageous, but it didn’t pose a risk to Teddy, and that was enough.

However, that particular night, the little Metamorphmagus was sick with a simple cold, and he decided he wanted to sleep with his godfather.

“Teddy, could you please get out of that damn bed and come sleep?” Draco asked for the thousandth time. The little boy just crossed his arms and sat on the bed.

Harry couldn’t help but laugh, which only made Malfoy angrier. Draco hated messing up the schedule and had no idea how long he’d been trying to convince Teddy. He was on the verge of giving up.

“What are you laughing at, Potter?”

“Sorry, it’s just that he has the same arrogant face as you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” It was impressive—without even realizing it, Draco made the same expression, and Harry had the privilege of comparing it to the one the little boy had beside him.

Both had their arms crossed, chins raised, and lips pressed into a slight line. Some of Teddy’s blue hair began to shift to a more platinum hue, and in that moment, Harry truly thought that the strange family they’d built might actually work.

“The color of Teddy’s hair doesn’t lie.”

“You’re ridiculous, and I want to sleep.” Draco was wearing a bathrobe over his silk pajamas. Harry couldn’t stop laughing every time he saw it. The shimmering fabric had the initials D.M. embroidered in cursive.

“Stay, stay, stay!” Teddy exclaimed, throwing himself onto the bed and kicking his legs. This wasn’t like him, so the two adults exchanged surprised looks.

“Don’t be like that, little monster. This isn’t my room, but if you want to sleep here, it’s fine.”

“You wouldn’t be a bother either,” Harry even surprised himself with what came out of his mouth. “I mean, the bed is big enough. Ted can sleep in the middle, and you don’t actually have to sleep, just stay until he falls asleep.”

A million things ran through Draco’s head at that moment, and he didn’t know if accepting the invitation was a good opportunity to improve his relationship with Harry or just a new form of torture.

Chapter Text

It had definitely been a terrible idea. Potter was already fast asleep, and, needless to say, he wasn’t exactly a quiet sleeper. Meanwhile, Malfoy hadn’t even managed to close his eyes. He was far too aware of everything around him to relax. Staying alert felt like the better option; that way, he could make sure Teddy was okay. Every now and then, he placed a hand on the little boy lying next to him, but Teddy seemed bothered by the cold touch, shifting uncomfortably.

At some point, however, sleep hit the blonde so suddenly that he couldn’t fight it.

“Dwaco…” Luckily, his sleep had been light, and the softest murmur from the boy was enough to wake him.

“What is it, little monster?” Malfoy responded groggily, reaching out to touch Teddy’s face.  

Malfoy had a repertoire of nicknames for the boy, using whatever came to mind depending on his mood or the moment. On most days, Teddy was a little monster, ma puce or even imp, but when Draco was feeling particularly affectionate, softer terms slipped out, like mon cheri or mon chaton, borrowed from the French nannies who’d raised him. Tonight, though, little monster seemed to fit best—it was endearing and exasperated all at once.

He frowned when he realized the child felt slightly feverish.

“It hurts…”

“Where?”

“Here.” Teddy didn’t know the name of the body part he was pointing at, and it was far too dark for Draco to figure it out.

“I’m going to turn on the light. Wait here.”

After stumbling a bit, Draco reached the light switch. He glanced over at Harry, hoping he would wake up too, but the man just pulled the blanket over his head.

“Useless savior…” Draco muttered, already frustrated, as he turned back to Teddy.

When the light finally illuminated the room, Draco examined the boy. His throat seemed red, likely inflamed from the cold, but the lighting wasn’t good enough to be certain. Reluctantly, he decided it was time to wake Harry, not just because of Teddy’s condition but also because Draco refused to be the only adult dealing with this in the middle of the night.

“Hawwy, wake up!” Teddy tried to pull the blanket off Harry’s head, but it seemed Harry was holding onto it. The little boy wasn’t strong enough to win the tug-of-war.

Harry remained completely still, facing the wall. That’s when Draco decided more drastic measures were needed. He began shaking Harry and making enough noise to force him awake.

“Harry Potter!” Draco and Teddy were now both kneeling on the bed, jostling him back and forth.

“What is it?” Harry startled awake, confused and clearly unaccustomed to being woken up by these two.

“Come check Teddy’s throat. I think it’s inflamed.” Draco’s tone was serious.

“You can check it yourself. You don’t need my eyes for that.” Harry’s reply was gruff, his voice still heavy with sleep and impatience. Harry groaned, burying his face in the pillow.

“I can’t see well enough in this light. Do something useful for once!” Draco snapped.

“My eyes don’t even work properly without my glasses, Malfoy. What do you expect me to see that you can’t?” Harry’s voice was thick with sleep and irritation, but he still pushed himself up, rubbing his face.

“This isn’t the time for your bad sarcasm, Potter. Cast a lighting spell! Now!”

Grumbling the entire time, Harry reluctantly did as Draco demanded. After a few more complaints and instructions from the blonde about “holding the wand steady” and “illuminating the right spot,” Harry finally confirmed Draco’s suspicion: Teddy’s throat was inflamed, and they’d need Muggle medicine.

“You’ve got to be kidding me. You want me to go to Muggle London in the middle of the night instead of just giving him one of the potions you have stocked in the cabinet?”

“They’re completely different, you ignoramus! Muggle medicine works faster and carries fewer risks than potions.” Draco’s frustration was clear, but so was his conviction.

“I trust your Healer skills. Now, I’m going back to bed.” Harry dismissed Draco’s dramatics, too tired to argue further.

“Don’t you dare, Harry Potter!”

“And what exactly can I do awake besides irritate you?” Since he’d been woken up, all Draco had done was complain about how “useless” Harry was and how he couldn’t even hold a wand properly.

“You can go get the bloody medicine!”

“I’m not going!” That was the last thing Harry said before being hit by Draco’s death glare. Begrudgingly, he threw off the covers and headed to Muggle London, still in his pajamas.

As Harry Apparated into the cold, quiet streets, his irritation gnawed at him. It wasn’t the task itself—Teddy’s health was, of course, important—but something about the way Draco had barked orders at him had struck a nerve. Or maybe it was the fact that Draco hadn’t even hesitated to wake him, as if Harry was supposed to leap into action at his command.

Yet, as Harry trudged into the all-night pharmacy, he realized the irritation wasn’t really about Draco at all. It was about the sleep. For the first time in what felt like years, Harry had been in a deep, peaceful sleep, unburdened by nightmares or stress. His body had pleaded with him to stay there, and being pulled out of it had set his nerves on edge in a way he wasn’t used to.

By the time he returned to the house, medicine in hand, most of his irritation had faded, replaced by a strange sense of guilt for snapping at Draco.

…...

That horrible situation wasn’t resolved even after the medicine arrived, because, to make things worse, Teddy decided to throw a tantrum and refuse to take it.

“Come on, ma puce. Some of us didn’t sleep last night and are on the verge of collapsing if we don’t sleep tonight,” Draco muttered, seriously considering getting down on his knees—anything to stop the crying and get some rest.

“Aren’t you supposed to be used to night shifts by now?” Potter asked, his genuine curiosity at such an out-of-place moment managing to irritate the blonde even more.

“Shut up, Potter!”

“’Ut up!” Teddy repeated, puffing his cheeks and glaring with all the conviction a toddler could muster. Draco bit back a laugh, while Harry groaned inwardly. Great, now Teddy’s first rebellious words would be courtesy of Draco.

Harry opened his mouth, ready to fire back, but decided it wasn’t worth the energy. Instead, he tried asking something that might actually help. “What did your parents do to get you to take medicine?”

Draco paused, his expression shifting to something unreadable.
“Well,” he said slowly, “I could try that... but I’m not sure if it’ll work or just traumatize him.”

Harry’s brows furrowed in concern, a flicker of hesitation crossing his face. He wasn’t entirely sure what kind of upbringing Draco had endured, but something about his tone made him uneasy.

“What about you?” Draco asked suddenly, turning the question back on him. “What did your relatives do when you got sick?”

Harry blinked, surprised by the question. Then, with a bitter smile, he answered, “Nothing. They didn’t even give me food. Bold of you to assume they cared.”

His tone was playful, but Draco didn’t laugh. For a moment, the blonde just stared at him, his lips pressing into a thin line, before turning his attention back to Teddy.

“So we’re gonna go with my parents way, brilliant,” Draco muttered under his breath, though Harry barely heard him.

Draco seemed lost in thought for a moment before he sighed and picked Teddy up, rocking him gently in his arms. The motion was smooth, calming, and Harry couldn’t help but notice how naturally it came to him.

“You liked that milk you had earlier, didn’t you, Ted?” Draco asked, his voice soft as he wiped the boy’s tear-streaked face.

Teddy hiccuped, nodding hesitantly. “Y-yeah.”

Draco smiled a little too sweetly. “What a shame. It was poisoned, and here’s the antidote to save you from a slow, painful death.”

Teddy’s eyes widened in terror, and before Harry could process what was happening, the little boy opened his mouth obediently, letting Draco feed him the medicine without further complaint. But as soon as he swallowed, tears welled up in his eyes again, and he began sobbing anew.

“Draco, what the fuck was that?” Harry demanded, horrified.

“Language, Potter. There’s a child present,” Draco replied, throwing him a reproachful look as if that were the worst thing to happen tonight.

“He’s crying!” Harry gestured helplessly at the distraught toddler, still clinging to Draco. “You traumatized him!”

“But he took the medicine, didn’t he?” Draco countered, utterly unbothered. “And besides, you’re the one who told me to use my parents’ technique.”

“I didn’t think they would do it!” Harry threw his hands up, exasperated. “You really grew up in a messed-up household.”

“You are one to talk, just confessed to be starved,” Draco shot back, his tone sharp.

“It wasn’t that bad,” Harry lied to himself, “they are your parents!”

“Oh, good. Potter’s finally pieced together the obvious. Shall we alert the Prophet?” Draco snapped, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

Harry sighed, shaking his head. No matter how much progress they made, Draco’s defense mechanisms were always on high alert. Despite his irritation, Harry couldn’t help but think of the stark contrast between them. The Dursleys hadn’t cared about him enough to force him to take medicine, let alone invent some dramatic lie to get him to cooperate. And yet here was Draco, unflinchingly devoted to Teddy, even if his methods were questionable.

Flawed methods and all, they were trying to raise a child. 

Draco sighed, rocking Teddy a little more as the boy’s sobs finally began to subside. “There now, mon chaton,” he murmured, his voice softer. “You’re safe. No more poison, I promise.”

Harry shook his head, torn between disbelief and admiration. “You’re unbelievable, Malfoy.”

...

Draco had been staring at his sandwich for what felt like an eternity, chewing slowly as if trying to gather the energy to say something. He had hoped for a quiet morning, a brief respite after the chaos of the night, but it seemed impossible. The kitchen was empty save for them, the soft hum of the clock ticking in the background, marking the passing time as both of them sat at the table in silence, exhaustion settling like a weight in the room.

Draco stared blankly at his sandwich, taking slow, deliberate bites as if the act of chewing could somehow give him the energy to speak. The morning, still shrouded in darkness outside, felt like an extension of the previous night’s exhaustion. 

Neither of them had truly rested, both trapped in an unspoken agreement to stay awake. Caring for a child was hard work. In the end, neither of them could bear the thought of letting the other sleep while they stayed awake. Since someone had to watch over Teddy’s condition, the other made sure the first wouldn’t nod off in the process.

The kitchen was quiet except for the ticking clock, the sound filling the empty spaces between their thoughts.

“I made coffee,” Harry murmured, setting his mug on the table without looking up.

Draco wrinkled his nose, taking another bite. “I hate coffee.”

Harry shrugged, not bothering to meet Draco’s eyes. “I didn’t make it for you.”

“Then why tell me?” Draco’s voice carried a sharpness, a defensiveness that lingered longer than necessary.

“Starting a conversation,” Harry replied with a casual flick of his eyes toward Draco, a hint of a smile playing at his lips.

Draco scoffed. “That’s a terrible way to start a conversation, Potter.”

“Eh, but we’re talking anyway. Checkmate.”

“Pathetic,” Draco muttered under his breath, though a brief twitch at the corner of his lips betrayed the crack in his stoic mask. For a fleeting second, his guard lowered, his tiredness pulling his expression into something softer—vulnerable even—but it was gone almost immediately, hidden beneath the familiar scowl.

The silence stretched between them, the weight of their exhaustion settling into the space like a quiet storm. It wasn’t just the coffee or the sandwich—it was everything. The unspoken tension, the things neither of them knew how to voice. The war, their differences, and everything that had happened between them. They were close, but never really close enough. They shared the same house, the same responsibilities, and even now, they shared this moment. But it was awkward, fragile. Neither of them could seem to define the space they inhabited, not really.

Draco shifted in his chair, stiffly crossing his arms over his chest as if trying to keep himself together. He suppressed a yawn but failed, his shoulders slumping. His tired eyes briefly flicked to Harry, but the other man was too lost in his own thoughts to notice. Draco’s jaw tightened, and for the briefest moment, Harry caught a glimpse of something raw in his gaze—a moment of vulnerability, one Draco quickly masked, like it was a reflex.

Draco hadn’t slept at all. His shift at the small healer’s clinic had been tough, even though the night shifts were easier, there weren’t many patients, just the occasional emergency or check-up for those still hospitalized.   

When he’d finally come home, he found Harry still awake, papers scattered across the table, the faint shadows of exhaustion under his eyes. And Draco had noticed the bruise on Harry’s arm. Dark, purple, a stark contrast against his pale skin. Draco didn’t ask, didn’t need to. The evidence was clear—Harry had been in another fight, and Draco had seen the headlines. Death Eaters making appearances again, as if the war had never really ended, just paused. The remnants of it still lurking in the shadows.

Draco’s chest tightened. But they didn’t talk about it—not their wounds, not the things they didn’t want to face. So he didn’t say anything. Not yet.

The small form of Teddy, curled up in his bed, was a welcome distraction. He had taken the medicine, but now they had to wait, uncertain if it would work. Draco sat there, unsure whether he should feel relieved or anxious. Time seemed to drag as he tried to focus on the quiet rise and fall of Teddy’s breath. He hated this feeling—the helplessness. Watching, waiting, and praying it would work. The uncertainty gnawed at him.

Harry, too, was drained. He never said anything, but Draco could see it—the subtle way his body sagged with exhaustion, the barely contained tension in his shoulders. Harry was always so determined, so relentless in his need to protect those around him, but Draco saw the signs—the faint bruises, the signs of recent magic battles. Harry didn’t like to talk about his injuries, not the physical ones, not the emotional scars that lingered long after the fight was over.

“You’re not going to sleep, are you?” Harry’s voice broke through his thoughts, sharp but weary.

Draco rubbed his eyes, stifling another yawn. “Not yet. We need to make sure he’s alright. We’ve still got time.”

Harry nodded, his gaze drifting toward the boy in the next room. Teddy was calm now, his breathing steady. The worst seemed to be over, but neither of them would allow themselves to relax just yet.

Draco’s mind wandered back to the newspaper from earlier. The war had ended three years ago, but the scars were still visible in the world. The Death Eaters hadn’t all been caught. Some still lurked, waiting in the shadows. The headlines were filled with whispers of their return, their resurgence in small corners of the wizarding world. Draco’s stomach tightened with the thought of Harry getting hurt again.

Harry’s suggestion cut through the tension like a knife, pulling Draco back from his thoughts. “Maybe we should get some sleep once Teddy’s settled.”

Draco’s gaze never left the boy. He’d been awake for over twenty-four hours, and the fatigue was catching up with him. But there was no room for rest just yet. Not until Teddy was out of danger.

“Yeah,” Draco murmured quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “We’ll sleep when we can.”

...

The clock on the wall ticked toward six as he stripped out of his work clothes, relieved that the shift was finally ending, Draco was startled by the sudden flutter of a bird outside. A tawny owl perched on the windowsill, carrying a message. He frowned, surprised by the unexpected interruption.

Approaching the owl, he took the letter and unrolled it. The handwriting was shaky and rushed, he recognized Astoria’s handwriting. That alone made his chest tighten in an odd mixture of curiosity and unease. The words on the page only intensified his sense of urgency.

"Draco, I need to see you urgently. Meet me at the family house in Muggle London. I’ll be waiting. - A.G."

Draco’s brow furrowed, and he felt an odd knot twist in his stomach. There was something in her message that felt different, something that pulled him in despite the exhaustion weighing heavily on him.

He couldn’t quite place it, but there was a sense of danger hidden between the lines of her words. Astoria had always been calm, controlled, she wasn’t the type to send such an urgent message unless something was wrong.

But then again, it was Astoria. And her family’s house in Muggle London? It was familiar enough, a place he’d been to a few times, but something felt off. A feeling that lingered in the pit of his stomach. 

For a moment, he hesitated, the exhaustion of the previous night’s shift trying to pull him back into the comfortable embrace of his bed. But he couldn’t ignore it. He needed to know what this was about, even if he felt the weight of the world pressing against him.

Draco glanced toward the door where Teddy was probably waiting, safe in Harry’s care. With a deep sigh, he stuffed the letter into his pocket. “I’ll be back soon,” he muttered to himself, adjusting his shirt and running a hand through his tousled hair, ready to face whatever awaited him.

Chapter Text

The Burrow was quiet, nothing like the usual. The kids — As the couple called their adult sons and daughter — were already at their rooms,  Hermione had chosen this late hour deliberately, seeking privacy for a conversation she could no longer postpone. Her sense of fairness wouldn’t let her rest until she had addressed the matter.

Hermione didn’t falter. Her expression remained neutral, her voice measured as she replied, “I understand your concerns, Mr. Weasley. But I do ask that you look at this situation rationally. Legally speaking, Draco has been acquitted. He stood trial, answered every question under Veritaserum, and the Wizengamot found no evidence to convict him. To call him a Death Eater now, after that process, is not only unfair, it’s dangerous.”

Arthur tilted his head slightly, his expression softening but not yielding. “Dangerous how, Hermione? Surely you can understand why someone might still see him as a threat. His family—”

“His family’s actions are not his own,” Hermione interrupted, though her tone was firm rather than sharp. “And labeling him a Death Eater, despite the court’s ruling, undermines the integrity of our entire justice system. How can we expect anyone to respect the law if we disregard its outcomes when it’s inconvenient?”

Arthur’s mouth opened, but Hermione pressed on. “Defamation, calling someone a criminal without evidence, isn’t just morally wrong; it’s legally a crime. Draco Malfoy has been cleared by the law, and calling him otherwise doesn’t just harm him, it undermines the justice system itself.”

Arthur sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “You make a good point, but it’s not just about the law, Hermione. It’s about the harm he caused—whether directly or by standing by and doing nothing. It’s hard to forget the pain people suffered because of his side.”

“And it’s not my place—or yours—to forget that pain,” Hermione said, her voice softening. “But the law doesn’t exist to perpetuate punishment. It exists to establish accountability and provide an opportunity for rehabilitation. Draco wasn’t convicted because the evidence wasn’t there. We may not like it, but that doesn’t give us the right to call him something he legally isn’t.”

Arthur frowned, his eyes narrowing slightly in thought. “You truly believe he’s changed?”

“I believe he’s trying,” Hermione replied, her tone unyielding. “And that’s all we can ask of anyone. Prejudice—whether against Muggle-borns or those with criminal pasts—only perpetuates harm. Studies show that people who’ve been stigmatized, even after serving their sentences, are significantly more likely to reoffend or withdraw from society entirely. By refusing to let Draco move forward, we’re not protecting anyone—we’re creating a cycle of mistrust and alienation.”

Arthur glanced at Molly, who was seated quietly at the edge of the room, her hands folded tightly in her lap. “And what about Teddy? Is it fair to expose him to... it?”

Hermione’s gaze softened. “Teddy doesn’t see a Death Eater. He sees someone who cares for him, someone Andromeda trusted enough to help raise her grandson. Are we going to say that her judgment was wrong? That Harry’s judgment is wrong? Draco’s actions now matter far more than the mistakes of his past.”

Arthur let out a long breath, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “You always were good at presenting an argument, Hermione.”

Hermione allowed a small smile. “This isn’t about defending Draco Malfoy as a person. It’s about defending the principles we fought so hard for during the war: fairness, justice, and the belief that people can change. If we abandon those values now, what was it all for?”

Arthur’s jaw tightened, his hands clenching on the arms of his chair. “I feel like forgiving him is betraying Fred. Betraying everyone who died in that war.”

The room fell silent for a long moment, Arthur’s thoughtful expression mirrored by Hermione. Then, Molly broke the quiet with a voice that was soft but firm, drawing all attention to her.

“I watched the trial,” she said, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. “I don’t know why I went, but I was there. I was satisfied watching all those Death Eaters receive their sentences, years in Azkaban for the horrors they caused. But then I saw Narcissa Malfoy.” Her voice wavered slightly as she continued, “She screamed ‘my boy’ like her world was ending. She cried, Arthur. And in that moment, I realized… he was just a kid. Like my kids. That moment, I couldn’t feel satisfied holding a child accountable for being born into a family like that.”

Her gaze turned to Hermione, then back to Arthur. “I’m not saying I’ll forget what he did to our children—the hurt he caused, intentional or not. I’m not saying I’ll turn a blind eye. But I can give him a chance to prove me wrong.”

Hermione’s voice was quiet but steady as she spoke. “I will never forget the things he said to me too. That word is etched into my skin—a scar I’ll carry forever. But I can’t judge him forever based on who he was when we were young. If we’re going to condemn him, let it be for his actions now—not the sins of his upbringing or the mistakes of his youth.”

Arthur looked away, his gaze distant. Molly reached out, placing a hand on his. “I miss Fred every day,” she said softly. “But I also know he wouldn’t want us to hold onto hate. That’s not who he was. Maybe… maybe it’s time to try letting some of it go.”

“How are you planning to do it?” Mr. Weasley asked his wife.

“First, asking them for Christmas” even Hermione was surprised by Molly, but she smiled. That was a fresh start. 

…

The Greengrass mansion wasn’t exactly as Draco remembered it. It still retained its elegance, as dazzling as any other ancestral home of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, which the Greengrasses, of course, were. But being situated in the Muggle world, it wasn’t used often—just a countryside retreat, something their family visited sporadically, more for novelty than necessity. Now, the house bore the signs of neglect: layers of dust coated the furniture, and cobwebs clung to the corners of the grand, high ceilings.

When Draco and Astoria were still engaged, this was their hideaway. She’d once told him that not even her parents remembered this place existed, making it the perfect escape. Now, sitting across from her in the dimly lit kitchen, he found it harder to reconcile the woman in front of him with the memory of those times.

Astoria looked different. It wasn’t anything obvious—not her features or her posture—but something in her eyes, her smile. Even her hair seemed lighter, glossier. She seemed... happy, glowing even, despite the clutter and abandonment of the house around them. But there was something guarded beneath the glow, an edge to her cheerfulness that Draco couldn’t quite place. He didn’t have long to dwell on it before the real reason for her demeanor came to light.

Draco's sharp gaze drifted over her as she moved about the room. There was something about her movements—restless and protective. He frowned as his eyes caught the way her hand occasionally drifted to her stomach.

“You’re pregnant.” It wasn’t a question.

Astoria froze, then sighed, her fingers brushing her abdomen. “Two months,” she admitted. “I only found out after I left Paris.”

“Paris,” Draco repeated, his voice tight. “And the father?”

The hesitation was brief but damning. “Theo,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

Draco blinked, his mind stumbling over the name. “Theodore Nott?”

“Don’t look so surprised,” Astoria snapped, her nerves fraying. “It’s not like you have a monopoly on poor romantic decisions.”

Draco’s laugh was bitter, almost painful. He sank into a chair, running a hand through his hair, a futile attempt to smooth the mess of his thoughts. “You have a thing for Death Eaters, don’t you? First me, now Theo?”

In another time, she would’ve defended Theo—she would’ve tried to explain away Draco’s bitterness. But this time, she didn’t. The words caught in her throat.

“It’s complicated” She cut herself off, looking away. “When I ran into him in Paris, some months ago, it felt easy. Familiar. Like a fresh start.”

“Except it wasn’t, was it?” Draco said, his tone sharper than he intended. “You didn’t deny he was a Death Eater.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and for a long moment, she didn’t say anything. Finally, her voice was barely above a whisper. “Aurors came to our place. They said Theo was under suspicion of aiding Death Eaters. He begged me to believe him, but... Potter was there. I thought you knew something.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “Like if Nott is innocent? Don’t kid yourself. You ran because you know he isn’t. Or because you are a coward.”

Her head snapped up, her eyes burning with a sudden fury. “Don’t you dare judge me, Draco. I did what I had to do to protect my child.”

The words stung him, but it was the way her hand moved to her stomach—so instinctively, as if she couldn’t help it—that silenced him. Her gesture was small, yet full of conviction, and Draco found it impossible to look away.

“Do you really expect that he’s innocent?” he asked, his voice softer now, hesitant.

She hesitated, her expression faltering just enough for him to see the doubt. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “He’s changed—or at least, he said he had. He helped Hogwarts during the war. He helped you.”

Draco snorted. “Sure. Because switching sides when the Dark Lord’s about to lose counts as redemption now.”

“It counted in your turn!” Her voice was sharp, biting—just the kind of retort Draco would expect from her.

But the words hit harder than he anticipated.

“We both know it didn’t,” Draco said quietly, the weight of his own words hanging heavily in the air. “I’m still being watched like a bloody criminal, I did community service, I don’t have a wand.  Being declared innocent in the papers doesn’t change how people see me. They hate me,” Draco thought of the Weasleys.

“Theo passed through the same, that's why he was in Paris, where no one knew him.” Astoria’s gaze dropped to her hands, clasped tightly together in her lap. She stared at them, the tension in her shoulders unmistakable. “But he didn’t have the Mark,” she murmured, almost as if speaking to herself.

“And you expect me to believe that Theo is different from them because of it? He hated me for getting the Mark, hated me for being part of the inner circle. You think he doesn’t still hold that grudge?”

Astoria’s eyes hardened, a hint of frustration breaking through the veil of uncertainty in her voice. “It’s hypocritical of you to think it’s only you who can change, Draco. You don’t get to decide that for everyone else.”

Draco’s breath caught in his chest, frustration mixing with a strange ache. “Then tell me this,” he said, voice thick with the weight of his own frustration. “Are you hiding here because of the Death Eaters or Theo?”

Her head snapped up. “I’m not hiding because of Theo,” she said, her voice trembling. “They’re after me, Draco. And you. And anyone else they think betrayed them.”

Draco stiffened. “Let me guess. We’re at the top of the list.”

“Probably.”

“And you think they’ll come for my mother?” he asked, his voice quieter now.

Astoria’s expression grew grim, and her hand reached across the table, grasping his with surprising strength. “And for you,” she added, her tone urgent. 

Her grip was firm, her eyes pleading. “Stay here. Just for a while. It’s safer here, away from the magical world.” 

Draco shook his head. “Astoria, they’ll find me no matter where I go. And I can’t leave Teddy. Potter barely manages as it is.”

“Barely manages?” she asked, arching a brow.

“He can’t keep up with a kid without going mad,” Draco said, a reluctant smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “And that’s when he’s not busy being a Gryffindork.”

For a moment, they sat in silence, the weight of everything unsaid settling heavily between them. Draco knew he couldn’t stay, couldn’t hide. But as he watched Astoria cradle her stomach, her fear carefully hidden behind a mask of false cheer, he couldn’t shake the feeling that things were about to get far more complicated.

Trying to mask the tension, Draco leaned back in his chair, gripping the edge of the table as if bracing himself for a storm. “I can’t believe you like Theo. You’ve gone mad.”

“At least I’m not hopelessly in love with the so-called savior I claim to hate,” she shot back, her voice rising just enough to mask the unease lingering behind her words.

Draco raised an eyebrow. “What? Everyone knows?”

Astoria smirked. “Draco, darling, you climbed a bloody tree to impress him.”

Draco groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I thought we agreed never to mention that again.”

She sipped her tea, the delicate porcelain cup nearly hiding her smug grin. The two of them sat facing each other at the rickety old kitchen table, the dust motes swirling lazily in the faint sunlight streaming through the curtains. Their banter softened the tension, the ridiculousness of their conversation acting as a fleeting escape from the heavy reality pressing in around them.

Draco stared at her, at the light catching her gaze, and for a moment, he was reminded why he’d almost agreed to their engagement all those years ago. Her eyes were so similar to another pair he knew—though those were hidden behind ridiculous round glasses.

Astoria huffed, as though something had just occurred to her. She chuckled, pouring herself another cup of tea. “You’ve got him living in your house, and you’re not even trying to slip an aphrodisiac into his food? Pathetic.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “First, he’s the one who cooks. Second, even Amortentia couldn’t help me.”

Astoria frowned in mock disbelief. “That’s ridiculous.”

“What’s ridiculous,” Draco snapped, “is that a heart on the black market costs 400,000 galleons, and he got mine for free.”

Astoria burst into laughter, tears welling in her eyes. “Oh, Draco,” she said, shaking her head. “You really think staying near a Gryffindork is going to save you?” She wiped a tear from her eye, still laughing softly.

Draco’s attempt at a sarcastic smile faltered. “It’s not about saving me. It’s my place. I don’t know who I’d be anywhere else.”

Astoria’s expression softened as she looked at him. Her pregnancy hormones made her emotions harder to suppress, and for a brief moment, tears welled in her eyes. They sat in silence again, the weight of their unspoken fears and decisions hanging between them.

…

Draco knew he was already running late, so what did it matter if he also stopped to see Narcissa? As much as it pained him to see his mother like this—so different from the proud, composed woman he had grown up with—he couldn’t bear the idea of abandoning her completely. Adjusting the lapel of his coat, he stepped through the Floo, the familiar green flames depositing him in the starkly lit visiting area of the long-term ward.

He had stopped bringing flowers months ago. She never noticed them, and they always ended up wilting in the corner, untouched. Instead, he carried books tucked under his arm—texts on Muggle psychiatry and neuroscience. Narcissa wouldn’t care to know that her son had been delving into Muggle medicine, but Draco found it fascinating. The magical world’s approach to mental health was archaic at best, dismissive at worst. In comparison, Muggles seemed... almost enlightened. It was scientific, logical, structured. It made sense. Not that he’d ever say it aloud.

When he entered the ward, the sterile smell greeted him, faintly medicinal and oppressive. A nearby Healer murmured softly to another patient, the sound blending into the background. Narcissa was seated by the window, her posture immaculate but her gaze distant, as though she were staring through the glass into some other world. She hadn’t even flinched at the sound of his arrival.

“Mother,” Draco greeted softly, his voice careful not to disrupt the fragile stillness of the room.

She didn’t turn her head, didn’t even acknowledge his presence. That wasn’t unusual. Narcissa often seemed locked in a world far removed from his. She hadn’t been this bad before Andromeda’s death, but the loss had hollowed her out. Today, she seemed even more distant than usual.

Draco settled into the chair opposite her, setting the books aside on the small table. He folded his hands, unsure of how to bridge the silence. Conversations with his mother had become a minefield—half-hearted attempts at small talk, one-sided anecdotes, or simply sitting quietly. She rarely replied, and when she did, her words were fragmented and unrelated.

“I brought a few new books,” he began, his voice tinged with awkwardness. “They’re about treatments Muggles use for... cases like yours. It’s all very rational. Methodical. I think you’d hate it.”

His lips quirked into a faint smile, but Narcissa didn’t respond. She continued to gaze out the window, her hands resting limply in her lap. Draco sighed, leaning back in his chair. He hated this—hated seeing her like this. But he had promised himself he would come every week, no matter how hard it was.

The anger that had been simmering all day finally broke free, and his voice trembled as he spoke.

“Mother,” he said sharply, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the chair, his whole body tense as though holding himself together. His breath came faster now, uneven, and his fingers trembled against the polished wood. “I’m afraid. Astoria said people might try to hurt me—to hurt you. And I won’t let them.”

His voice rose, his desperation breaking through. "I’ll protect you no matter what, I swear it!" His shoulders shook as anger warred with fear, his words hanging raw in the air.

His voice cracked, but he pressed on, his tone more desperate now. “But I can’t do it alone, Mother. I need you. You’re supposed to be here with me! Can’t you—can’t you be my mother again? I miss you so much.”

He paused, his breath shaky, emotions bubbling over despite his best efforts to contain them. Memories of her cold yet commanding presence played in his mind. If she could hear him now, he thought bitterly, she would admonish him for his outburst.

“Pure-bloods don’t beg, Draco. Pure-bloods don’t cry,” she would have said, he imagined. “What would your father think?” Draco could almost hear the words in her voice, a sharp reminder of his upbringing that lingered more as a memory than something she would truly say now. Her usual refrain echoed in his thoughts, a sharp reminder of his upbringing. Lucius’s opinion had always mattered most, and Narcissa knew how to wield it like a blade.

It wasn’t hatred that had colored her interactions with him. She had her moments of coldness, moments that stung, but Draco knew it wasn’t out of malice. As everyone said he was the spitting image of his father, and perhaps that had been the problem. However, he could never bring himself to resent her, not when he, out of everybody, knew how hateful he could be. How hateful the person he acted and looked like was. 

See, he hadn’t grown up in a loving family. There were no "I love yous," no soft reassurances. But he had known—he had believed —that his parents would do anything for him. Or at least, he had tried to believe it. He could ask for any gift and receive it, but how could he ask for love? Love wasn’t a trinket to be handed over or an expectation to be met; it was elusive, conditional, earned through some unspoken merit he was never quite sure he possessed. The absence of it was a void he could neither name nor fill, and the longing for it felt like a weakness he despised as much as he craved. Love wasn’t something you demanded; it was something you earned. And if you didn’t have it, well, that only meant you hadn’t deserved it.

“I can’t lose you, please, please,” he sobbed, barely noticing when the tears began streaming down his face. His words echoed in the stillness, raw and heavy. He expected silence. It was always silence.

But then she moved. Slowly, as though waking from a long sleep, Narcissa turned her head. Her eyes, usually distant and empty, locked onto his, and for the first time in what felt like years, Draco saw her.

“Draco,” she whispered, her voice soft but steady. It was her voice—not hollow, not far away, but hers .

Draco froze, his breath catching in his throat. “Mother?”

She opened her mouth as though to say more, but the spark faded just as quickly as it came. Her gaze drifted back to the window, her body retreating into stillness once more.

Draco slumped back in his chair, trembling. The words he wanted to say stayed lodged in his throat. For a fleeting moment, he had seen her again—truly seen her—and it left him both shaken and unbearably hollow.

That small flicker of recognition made all the pain worth it. For a fleeting moment, it felt as though he had his mother back—close enough to touch, close enough to believe she might return.

...

Draco walked through the door, expecting silence. But it was nearly lunchtime, and he found Harry sitting at the kitchen table, papers scattered in front of him. The house felt unusually still, save for the soft sound of Harry’s breathing, Teddy was not in sight. 

"Sorry I’m late," Draco said, his tone more apologetic than usual, his shoulders slumped as he glanced at Harry. "Got caught up with something. Where’s Teddy?"

Harry, tired and a little on edge, didn't immediately look up. "He's fine. But it’s been a long morning. I had to skip work. Couldn’t bring him in today, so..." His voice trailed off.

Draco winced, guilt stirring in his chest. "I didn’t mean to leave you with everything," he muttered, glancing at Harry’s exhausted posture. "I had to work until later than usual. Emergency."

“Is it really true?”

"Don’t try to imagine things, Potter, I was just working and stopped to see my mother" Draco muttered, irritation lacing his voice. He wasn’t in the mood to entertain Harry, especially while the man was clad in his ridiculous Auror uniform, looking far too serious for his taste.

"I know you are lying, just tell me the truth." Harry's voice was sharper now, but Draco was in no mood to respond.

"I don't know what you are saying. Where’s Teddy?" Draco asked, deliberately avoiding the question.

"Sleeping," Harry replied, his tone softening a little. "I had to figure out how to work with Ted underfoot. If I'd known you were off wandering in Muggle London, I would’ve just left him with you."

Draco raised an eyebrow, his suspicions piqued. "How do you know where I was?"

"Why were you there?" Harry countered, his voice taking on an edge. Draco froze, caught off guard by the sudden tension in the air.

"You're insane," Draco muttered, stepping back as Harry closed the distance between them, effectively blocking his escape.

"Why aren’t you answering me?" Harry demanded, frustration creeping into his voice.

"Because it’s none of your business! Merlin, you can be insufferable!" Draco snapped, brushing past Harry a little too roughly, his shoulder grazing Harry’s—whether it was intentional or not, Draco wasn’t sure.

"Alright, it’s none of my business if you were meeting with your girlfriend. But you exposed yourself to danger!" Harry's voice rose, his anger evident. "There are rules that you have to follow, you know you can not see people without Minister authorization, but you went anyway, just to see Astoria!"

Draco didn’t flinch. He kept walking down the long hallway, his back to Harry. But when Harry’s words hit him, he froze, hand gripping the door frame as he tried to regain control. He forced a sarcastic smile instead of unleashing the fury threatening to boil over.

"Wow, wow... You’re following me, Potter? What are we, back in our sixth year?" Draco smirked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"An Auror saw you acting suspicious and followed you. He saw you with Astoria. He reported it to me—that’s part of my job," Harry explained, but the words only made things worse. The tension between them was palpable as Draco’s expression hardened.

"Wait, I’m being watched by you? I mean, I get it. I’m a Death Eater, and the Ministry’s keeping an eye on me. But shouldn’t the Aurors be chasing the other Death Eaters, or whatever? And you’re involved because we live together? Is that part of your job, too—extracting information from me?" Draco’s words rushed out, disbelief mixing with a simmering anger.

"What? No! Look at the nonsense you're spouting!" Harry protested, but it was too late. The damage had already been done.

Neither of them was particularly calm, and anyone who had seen them interact knew they never really got along. But this argument was by far the most intense since they’d moved in together. Compared to the fight after Draco's chaotic encounter with the Weasley family, this one had started small, almost trivial. But suddenly, it had escalated into something much larger. What began as a complaint about Draco not answering Harry, and Harry’s frustration with managing Teddy alone, quickly spiraled into accusations and insults.

Things didn’t even make sense anymore. Draco started complaining about Harry leaving glasses scattered around the house, and somehow, Ginny became part of the argument. Harry wasn’t much better, ranting about Draco’s inability to do anything domestic—whether it was cooking, cleaning, or working late.

"Why are you bringing Ginny into this?" Harry snapped, his irritation evident.

Draco’s laugh was sharp, almost bitter. "Because she’s just as ridiculous as your arguments." But even as the words left his mouth, he could feel himself spiraling further.

Harry's frustration deepened. "You’re not making any sense," he said, his voice strained.

"And you are?" Draco shot back, his eyes flashing with a mix of anger and disbelief.

Harry scoffed, stepping closer, the air between them growing heavier. "You’ve been hiding things from me. And I’m supposed to just trust you? You’re out there, running around, and I’m supposed to stay here and wait until you feel like going home?"

Draco’s jaw tightened. "So that’s a valid reason to stalk me?" His voice was sharp. "You want to talk about hiding things? Why didn’t you tell me the Death Eaters are after me?"

Harry froze, his expression faltering. "That’s not—did Astoria tell you?" Draco’s gaze hardened. “It’s confidential, not even the media knows about it."

"Well, confidential or not," Draco bit out, his frustration mounting, "I’d appreciate a heads-up if there are people trying to kill me."

“I didn’t want to alarm you.” Harry’s voice softened, but the strain was still there. 

“Do you think I’m buying it? I don’t trust you.”

"I know. That’s why I’ve been trying to gain trust, to deserve it, Draco. Did you see me at Weasleys' house? They’re my family, and I’m choosing you over them. Can’t you see I’m giving up something important for you?"

"Great. But I never asked you to do that," he said, his words cutting. The second they left his mouth, regret slammed into him. The weight of his own words pressed down, but there was no way to take them back now.

Draco wanted to apologize, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. His pride was a force he couldn’t shake off; it was what had driven him to say those hateful words that he didn’t even mean.

Sometimes, when he opened his mouth, Draco felt as though it wasn’t his own voice coming out. It was his father’s. He could hear Lucius’s cold, commanding tone, the same one that had dominated his childhood, echoing in his mind. It was as if his father still had some sort of control over him, even though the man wasn’t physically present. The thought of it terrified him. The idea that, despite everything, he was still tethered to his past, still bound by the weight of expectations, of that legacy that hung around his neck like an iron chain.

He remembered how, throughout his life, people had looked at him with a mixture of pride and expectation, saying, “You’re just like your father.” They’d say it with admiration, like it was something to aspire to. He would smile, of course—he was Draco Malfoy, after all, and he knew how to play the part. But later, when he was alone in the silence of his room, that smile would fade, and a knot would form in his stomach. He would lie awake at night, staring at the ceiling, wondering if it was a blessing or a curse.

"Stop!" Teddy shouted as loudly as he could from the top of the stairs, his small voice echoing lightly through the mansion.

Both adults reacted instinctively, rushing toward the little boy in a panic, afraid he might descend the stairs alone or lose his footing. Moving to a safer place for children seemed more appealing with each passing day.

"Sorry, Ted. Did we wake you?" Harry asked, his tone softening as he crouched down to meet the boy's gaze.

"Yes, now Ted hungry," Teddy said in his most demanding voice, rubbing his eyes sleepily.

"It's lunch time already. Why did you let him sleep until so late?" Draco began, his tone edged with irritation.

"Maybe because I was busy working," Harry replied, trying to hold back his own frustration.

"Going to fight again?" Teddy crossed his arms, pouting with a serious expression, the only way he thought to look stern.

"It was him who started it," Harry and Draco answered in unison, exchanging a glance before both chuckled. Neither of them could have imagined being scolded by a little boy not even three years old.

In the end, it was Teddy—the little boy who had once seemed like an unexpected complication—who had quietly become the center of it all. Neither Draco nor Harry had the courage to admit it to each other, but deep down, they both knew that Teddy had become the reason for everything. He was the thread that tied their chaotic lives together, the unexpected joy in their otherwise tumultuous world. Despite the moments of frustration, the petty arguments, and the complications of living under one roof, they couldn’t deny how much Teddy had changed them. It was almost as if he had breathed color into their once-gray lives, turning everything from dull and routine to vibrant and full of meaning.

Neither man could have imagined, when they first started living together, how much they would come to rely on the little boy. His laughter, his questions, his innocence—it all had a way of pulling them out of their darker moods. He was their shared purpose, their reason to try harder, to be better, even when they didn’t think they had it in them. No matter how difficult the days were, they both knew that they wouldn’t change a thing.

Chapter Text

The break room at the Ministry of Magic wasn’t exactly cozy, but it served its purpose, with a long table dominated the middle of the room, its surface covered in mismatched coffee mugs. The faint hum of enchanted quills filled the air, scribbling away on unfinished memos in a nearby corner. The magical kettle on the counter released a soft hiss, keeping the tea perpetually hot. Harry sat across from Ron, the two enjoying a rare pause from their chaotic Auror work.

Harry hesitated for a moment, leaning back in his chair as he avoided looking directly at Ron. “Hypothetically, thinking a guy is pretty... would that make you gay?”

Ron, who had been mid-sip of his tea, paused. He slowly set the mug down, his brows furrowing. “I dunno,” he replied, attempting nonchalance. “It’s not exactly what makes you straight, is it?

Ron tried to seem casual, but the suddenness of Harry's question left him momentarily off balance. Was this some kind of test? Since the whole debacle with Teddy and Malfoy, Harry hadn't set foot in the Burrow. While they still spoke at work, the subject of Malfoy had become a unspoken barrier between them.

If Ron seemed uncharacteristically calm, it was because he had already done his fair share of freaking out—with Hermione, of course. He wanted to believe Harry was just messing around. But he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that something had changed between them ever since Draco moved in. Something that neither of them had fully addressed, not even with Hermione’s pointed comments.

His mind briefly flashed back to the conversation with Hermione—a conversation he’d rather not think about. Her voice, calm and logical, echoed in his mind: “Harry and Draco... they’re already tangled up in something, Ron. And you know it.” Ron had hated hearing it, hated how she’d said it with that maddening tone of reason that made it impossible to ignore. He rubbed his temples, the weight of it settling in. Was Hermione right? Had Harry already figured something out, something that Ron had refused to see?

Trying to shake off the thought, Ron met Harry’s eyes again. The way Harry was acting—avoidant, fidgety—made his stomach churn. Was this really happening? 

Ron grudgingly admitted she might have a point. If his family had reacted so poorly to the simple fact of Draco living with Harry, how would they handle anything more significant? The collective discomfort and hostility had likely forced Harry to bury whatever he might be feeling, assuming he was feeling anything, Ron had added skeptically, though Hermione had merely raised an eyebrow at his denial.

Her reasoning haunted him now, as Harry’s words hung in the air. Could it be true? Were they already navigating something beneath the surface, something neither of them could fully understand yet?

And if they were, what the bloody hell was Ron supposed to do about it?

Harry was still in silence, so the redhead tried again, “Is this about Malfoy?”

“What? No! I mean…” Harry’s voice rose an octave before he cleared his throat and forced a laugh. “Hermione insinuated— I was just— it's not attraction or anything. Just… his face is symmetric.”

Ron blinked, his confusion evident. “Right…” he said cautiously, watching Harry like he was trying to decipher whether this was some sort of elaborate prank or a genuine crisis. “Well, I guess there’s a reason half the Durmstrang boys asked him to the Yule Ball.” 

Please be a prank

Harry nearly choked on air. “What?!”

“Oh, Muggles don’t expect people to be gay, right? Well, wizards don’t care about that stuff. We don't have to come out of the closet, cause there's nothing to hide, it’s not a reason to attack anyone. I mean, look at Dumbledore. Loved and respected by everyone.”

Harry’s jaw dropped. “Dumbledore was gay?!”

“Seriously, mate? No child, never seen with a woman, nice clothes…” Ron said, his exasperation laced with humor. “I’m thick sometimes, yeah, but even I caught onto that.”

Harry’s mind reeled. “But… thinking back, wizards are still a bit… prejudiced, aren’t they? I mean, they might not care that someone’s gay, but they’d care about bloodlines. 

“You might be right. He still would have to marry a woman, have kids, and these things. Just like it was with Salazar Slytherin.”

“Salazar was gay?”

“We studied it in the History of Magic! We had an exam about his life. I mean, I was paying attention," Ron added with a mischievous grin.

"Honestly, I was just glad I did not," Harry muttered, leaning back in his chair. "Didn’t need to know about Slytherin’s dating habits."

Ron laughed. "Well, good for you,” Ron added dryly. “I know more than I wish. Always saw Malfoy snogging blokes all over the place. It was disgusting.”

“But you just said wizards were not homophobic, Ron.”

“What? No, no, don’t get me wrong!” Ron raised his hands defensively. “I’m good with people kissing and being gay. Just can’t respect that man to be Malfoy.”

“That sounds pretty homophobic.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “More like Malfoy-phobic. And anyway, one of my best friends is gay, remember?”

Harry frowned. “I’m not gay.”

Ron groaned. “Not you, dumbass. Seamus!”

Harry froze. “Seamus? What?! How come nobody told me? Was it supposed to be a secret? And since when is he your best friend?”

“First,” Ron said, counting on his fingers, “everybody knows. Second, I said one of my best friends. I can have more than one, you know. Third, we went to their housewarming party last month, Harry.”

“Seamus and Dean?” Harry blinked, stunned. “I thought they were just roommates!”

“For Merlin’s sake, Harry!” Ron leaned back, laughing. “They’ve been dating since the Yule Ball! Dean’s not gay, though. He’s bi.”

Harry looked utterly lost, still trying to piece things together. “But… how did I miss this?”

Ron smirked. “You were probably too busy stalking Malfoy.”

“Shut up, Ron,” Harry muttered, cheeks reddening as he turned back to his paperwork.

Ron snickered to himself, clearly pleased with the outcome of the conversation. Harry could still feel his gaze burning into him, but he refused to look up. There were some things he wasn’t ready to admit—not yet, anyway.

Breaking the silence, Ron leaned back in his chair and said casually, “Oh, by the way, Mum wanted me to ask what you’re bringing for Christmas dinner. And she said there’s room for two more.”

Harry blinked, caught off guard. “I didn’t even know I was invited.”

Ron rolled his eyes with a grin. “Come on, mate. Of course, you’re invited. You’re family. We argue sometimes, sure. But that’s just how it is. Life’s messy, yeah?”

The simple warmth of Ron’s words wrapped around Harry like a comfort he hadn’t realized he’d needed. Family. The idea was both foreign and familiar, and for a moment, Harry couldn’t help but smile faintly at the thought.

But first, Harry would need to reconcile with Draco if he ever hoped to have the chance to bring it up. Still, the only thing that gave him a sliver of hope was the knowledge that Christmas was still two weeks away.

…

Because of their fight at lunch earlier, Teddy, in his childlike way, decided to impose what he thought was a fair punishment for the day’s events. He requested—almost demanded—that both Draco and Harry sleep with him, just like when he was sick. It was a simple request, yet it held an undeniable weight, one that Draco couldn’t refuse. The little boy’s wide, pleading eyes were impossible to ignore, and Draco, despite his reluctance, couldn’t bring himself to say no. 

The next morning, however, there was a subtle shift in the dynamic. Teddy had climbed out of bed and quietly made his way to his room, a small, contented smile on his face. He didn’t want to wake the adults, nor did he mind waiting patiently for them to rouse themselves. He was used to the slow, drawn-out mornings now, watching as the grown-ups stumbled to consciousness. In his young mind, they were always so boring when they were asleep, unaware of the world around them, just as he was slowly growing aware of the world around him.

By the time the sunlight had fully spilled through the curtains, illuminating the room in soft golden hues, Harry and Draco were still tangled in each other’s arms, lost in the peaceful depths of a much-needed sleep. The world outside had already begun to stir, but they remained undisturbed, their breathing synchronized, a quiet reminder of the unspoken connection they had forged over time. It was a small moment, almost inconsequential, but it was theirs, shared in the silence of the morning. And for that moment, nothing else mattered.

Harry slowly opened his eyes, adjusting to the brightness of the room. Even with the curtains closed, light flooded the space. However, he was startled when he reached out to grab his round glasses from the nightstand and felt a weight on his chest, quite literally. Glancing down, he saw a mop of blond hair sprawled across him.

He didn’t have time to think. On instinct, he shoved the pale body off with more force than necessary, completely forgetting one small detail: Malfoy wasn’t sleeping on the side of the bed closest to the wall. But it was too late. The only thing Harry heard was the dull thud of a body hitting the floor, followed by a groan of pain.

“You troll!” Draco shot up, glaring at him with an expression that could have melted steel. Harry had faced countless monsters and terrifying moments in his life, but there was something positively demonic about that beautiful face twisted in fury.

“Sorry, it’s just that you were lying there... and I woke up—”

“I get it, Potter.”

Despite the situation, Harry had to fight the urge to burst out laughing. Once Draco’s anger started to fade, he looked more like the boy from their Hogwarts days. The only difference was his hair; instead of being perfectly slicked back with gel, it now resembled what he often called Harry’s “rat’s nest.”

“Wait. If we’re here together, then where’s Teddy?” Harry’s face shifted to concern as he looked at Draco, who appeared oddly calm. It only took him a second to conclude. “You were awake.”

“And you’re insane,” Draco snapped back quickly. “Of course, my greatest dream was to wake up wrapped around your sticky, sweaty body. Truly, I’m radiant with happiness, Potter.”

He was awake, but would NEVER admit.

The truth was, Draco had woken up earlier and noticed Teddy crawling over him. After seeing that the boy wasn’t heading for the stairs, he decided to follow Astoria’s advice for once. They’d been living together for so long, and Draco had never taken the chance to relax or enjoy moments like these. So he had shifted closer to Harry. What he hadn’t anticipated was Harry pulling him onto his chest. And honestly? It wasn’t all that comfortable. The morning’s rude awakening, with a push strong enough to send him to the floor, only made it worse. Not the ideal way to start his day.

The household routine quickly resumed. Harry prepared breakfast while Draco got Teddy ready for the day. As usual, when the little boy came downstairs—his small hand clasped in Draco’s—he called out for “Hawwy,” but Harry was already gone.

“Seriously? On a Saturday?” Draco muttered irritably. That idiot worked far too much. One of these days, he’d collapse from exhaustion, and honestly, it would serve him right.

Still grumbling, Draco reached for his tea, only to notice the mug was emblazoned with a Gryffindor crest. It was probably because there were no clean cups left—it had been Harry’s turn to do the dishes, but he’d left in a hurry. Draco briefly debated which was worse: washing dishes or enduring the mug. Ultimately, he decided he wouldn’t lift a finger to clean anything and reluctantly sipped his tea, doing his best to ignore the gaudy golden lion glaring at him. He would do it if he had a wand, otherwise, he decided it would be easier for Harry, although Potter rarely used magic for things like this.

Talking about him, Harry was already at work. He didn’t want to be—he never wanted to be. Things had gotten chaotic because of a sudden rise in new Death Eater activity. Paperwork, meetings, and long hours weren’t exactly what he’d envisioned for himself. But when the Ministry called him for overtime, it wasn’t something he could ignore. Most of the cases he dealt with weren’t glamorous or exciting. They were tedious, exhausting, and occasionally heart-wrenching. But they mattered. Harry didn’t work himself into the ground because he enjoyed it; he did it because someone had to.

And maybe, deep down, he believed that if he helped enough people, he could somehow make up for all the ones he hadn’t been able to save.

…

“What the hell are we doing here?” Draco leaned closer to Harry’s ear, keeping his voice low so the boy in his arms wouldn’t hear.

“An apology.”

The two adults—Draco holding Teddy and Harry walking beside him—were strolling through the busiest shopping area in wizarding London, Diagon Alley. They weren’t using any spells for disguise or even wearing hats, just casual winter clothes. As soon as people caught sight of Harry, the entire crowd paused their shopping to gawk. Some offered brief greetings, others asked for autographs, tried to shake his hand, or even requested him to hold their children, believing they’d be blessed by the Savior. Perhaps this spectacle distracted them from noticing the Death Eater walking beside him. Draco took advantage of the commotion to attempt an escape. But as if reading his mind, Harry grabbed his arm without hesitation, pulling him away from the crowd while offering apologies and excuses about being in a hurry.

Only then did the crowd notice who Draco was, and even though he tried to ignore them, the murmurs were impossible to miss:

“Who’s the blonde?”

“How do you not know? He’s a Malfoy, has Voldemort’s mark on his arm.”

“What’s our Savior doing with him?”

“And that child—who is he?”

“Murderer.”

“You okay, Dwaco?” Teddy’s small hands cupped Draco’s pale cheeks, his tiny face filled with concern.

Slowly, the distant look in Draco’s eyes faded, and some color returned to his face. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and noticed that he’d stopped walking. Harry no longer had a grip on his wrist. Looking up, Draco read the sign above the shop they now stood in front of: Ollivanders. The famous wandmaker. Draco felt his stomach twist. Garrick Ollivander had spent nearly two years imprisoned in the basement of Malfoy Manor.

“You’re insane. I can’t go in there.”

“He’s not a vengeful man.” Harry lied, and Draco knew better than to trust this blunt and childish lie. 

“And I’m not an idiot. I can get a wand on my own, thanks. Your permission was more than enough.”

Every time Harry made a mistake, he could feel the wall between them grow thicker and stronger. Draco would pull away, becoming colder and more distant. The sarcastic smiles and teasing remarks vanished, replaced by indifference and icy detachment. And Harry had discovered that it was far worse.

“This was a terrible idea. Again,” Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair.

“I’m not surprised. You’re not exactly known for thinking things through,” Draco quipped. He’d intended to say something comforting but abandoned the attempt halfway, defaulting to his usual sarcasm. To his surprise, Harry took it well, smiling as he lightly shoved Draco’s shoulder, seeming unbothered.

“So, maybe I should just return this?” Harry said uncertainly, opening his hand to reveal a worn wand. As he removed the shrinking charm, it grew to its full size, and Draco instantly recognized it. Made of hawthorn with a unicorn hair core, it was his wand.

“I thought it was destroyed,” Draco’s voice faltered as he stretched out trembling hands to take the wand back.

He had believed he would never see it again. The chaotic day when the Golden Trio had been captured at Malfoy Manor was seared into his memory. He remembered Harry charging toward him and how he had loosened his grip, allowing Harry to take the wand. That day was unforgettable for another reason: it was when Draco realized he was in love.

When they had called him to identify Harry, whose face had been disfigured, Draco had tried not to look. But one glance, out of the corner of his eye, was enough. He could never mistake those green eyes.

Until that moment, he had convinced himself that he hated Harry the same way his parents had taught him to hate, the same way all those bearing the same cursed mark on their arms did. But when Draco found himself surrounded by Death Eaters, all eager to see Harry dead, he realized he didn’t want that. He could never want Harry dead. He had never wanted anyone to die, but he had always stayed silent, even as he heard the screams of the innocent being tortured. Draco had no courage, no power. So, he let them suffer.

But Harry was different. Draco couldn’t let him suffer. Still, he was a coward and had a family to protect. So he stayed silent, though he decided to help in the only way he could. He knew that if anyone could find a way out, it would be those three.

Draco had chosen Harry’s side, even knowing the end of the war might not be kind to him. Harry Potter couldn’t die because if he did, a part of Draco would die too.

And so, he’d said, “I can’t be sure,” and seized the first opportunity to slip into the kitchen, his legs trembling. He had asked the house-elves for a glass of water, his hands shaking as he held it. He didn’t know their names—had never cared to—but he prayed that one of them would hear him. Turning the glass in his hand as his whole body trembled with fear and sweat, he murmured just loud enough: “It’s your lucky day. We’ve captured Harry Potter and his annoying friends. Too bad the Dark Lord won’t arrive for hours. They’d never be able to escape on their own.”

The elf froze for a moment, looking at its young master in confusion. Relief washed over Draco as he realized his gamble had worked. Dobby, confused but trusting, had believed him. It was the first time Draco had spoken to the elf without issuing an order, and somehow, Dobby understood that it wasn’t one. It was a plea.

“Draco?”

“What?” Draco blinked, realizing he’d been daydreaming. He hadn’t noticed how much time had passed until he saw Teddy already running around the park, his laughter echoing in the crisp air. Harry’s hand rested on his shoulder, his green eyes filled with quiet concern.

They were sitting on a bench in a Muggle park they usually visited every weekend, since they started to live together two months ago. It was a peaceful place with a beautiful lake, which, unfortunately, was frozen due to the winter. The fresh green grass was covered in snow. But that didn’t stop the kids from playing, and Teddy was rolling around in the snow, smiling. Only then did Draco realize how long they had been living together. He was sure that the first time they visited the park, the sun was so bright that his eyes burned.

Around them, Christmas decorations adorned the lampposts and park entrances. Strings of twinkling lights lined the pathways, and a large, brightly decorated tree stood in the park's center, its ornaments catching the light in dazzling bursts of color. Teddy had insisted on stopping to admire it earlier, his wide grin filled with delight as he pointed out every detail to Draco and Harry.

“You seem distracted today,” Harry said gently. “Sorry for dragging you along. If you’d rather go…”

“I don’t need your concern, Potter.” The words were out before Draco could stop them. He cringed inwardly, hating himself for the automatic sharpness in his tone.

Harry’s expression stiffened, but his reply matched Draco’s bluntness. “I wasn’t worried.” Then, softer, almost teasing, he added, “And my name is Harry, you know that.”

“Why do you care?” Please, shut up. Draco reprimanded himself mentally.

“Well, it’s better that Teddy hears me calling you that, so he gets used to it, right?”

“Oh, sure, Ted ,” Draco muttered, running a hand through his messy blond hair and leaning back against the bench. His gaze shifted to Teddy, who was now laughing as he perfected the snowman’s lopsided features.

“You didn’t seem too happy,” Harry said quietly, his voice tentative. “About your wand. I thought you’d be more excited.”

Draco’s shoulders stiffened. “… Thank you,” he said after a pause, exhaling heavily. “Damn, I feel horrible for how I acted. I was so angry yesterday, and—”

“I was angry too. It’s just that Teddy was fussy that day, you arrived late, and you didn’t want to tell me anything, I was worried,” Potter explained, “You were right, if some Death Eater were to hurt you, I’d never forgive myself.”

Draco frowned. “I get it. It’s your job. There are things you can’t tell me, just like there are things I can’t tell you. Like Astoria, I promised her I’d keep her confidence.”

“Yeah,” Harry murmured. “You don’t owe me anything.”

Draco’s gaze softened. “I do,” he said quietly, a bittersweet smile playing on his lips. “More than I could ever repay in a lifetime.” His silver eyes glimmered with something deeply melancholic, a beauty that struck Harry to his core.

Draco had the kind of beauty that touches one's soul. Or at least, Harry felt like this.

“I was an idiot yesterday,” Harry said, not even realizing what had come out of his mouth. He was just so frustrated, and that smile Malfoy had given him had mesmerized him like a spell.

The teasing was light, and it made Harry’s green eyes widen before a sly grin spread across his face. For a moment, everything felt easier, like they’d fallen back into their strange but familiar rhythm.

“You shouldn’t stop talking to your… family because of me,” Draco added, his voice softer now.

“I know,” Harry said, ruffling his already messy hair. “I thought I could fix everything, but I just made a mess of it.”

“Invite them again,” Draco suggested, his tone measured. “But maybe not all at once this time. Let me know beforehand, so I can decide whether to stay or run for the hills.”

Harry chuckled, shaking his head. “Deal.”

Draco looked at him, this time more lightly, and Harry’s green eyes watched him intently, causing Draco’s face to warm slightly. They stared at each other for a moment, feeling the shock run through their bodies and the butterflies in their stomachs. Despite their differences, they both recognized the effort the other was making to make the relationship, whatever it was, more harmonious and easier to endure.

“Excuse me.”

The two adults jumped in surprise when a woman approached them. They were so absorbed in their bubble that they hadn’t noticed her coming. She looked like a regular Muggle, smiling kindly with a few lines of expression on her face as she pushed a baby carriage. Her dark brown hair was tousled by the wind.

“Yes, ma’am?” Harry turned his attention to her, but Draco didn’t bother looking. To him, she seemed like a single mother they had seen around the park on weekends. She was probably trying to make friendly small talk like many others.

“That blonde little boy is yours, right? The one who always wears a hat?” It was true, Teddy wore a magic hat that kept his blonde hair all the time, since sometimes the little boy’s hair would change color by accident, or he couldn’t keep it blue.

“He’s not ours. I mean, we’re not—” Harry was interrupted.

“Ted’s mine. What’s the problem?” Draco finally lifted his head, and his expression wasn’t the warmest when he looked at the woman.

“It’s just that there are some older boys throwing snow at him, and it doesn’t seem very fun.”

“What?” When Harry made a move to get up, Draco was already running toward the boys.

“Thanks for letting us know.”

“You’re welcome, and… I know it must be hard being a young couple, but you always have to pay attention to the kids. Sorry if that sounds rude. It’s just advice from a woman who’s had three kids.”

“No,” Harry couldn’t even deny that they were a couple or thank her for the advice, as he heard Draco yelling at the older kids, who were already starting to call for their mother. “I’d better go there.” The two smiled, but the dark-haired man regretted giving Draco a wand and had to run before something bad happened.

...

At that moment, Teddy was sitting in a chair, eating an ice cream. His face was red from the force with which those boys had thrown snowballs at him, but even so, he had managed to keep his blonde hair intact. Draco was ready to cast a forbidden spell on those boys as soon as Harry arrived, calming him down. The children ran off, calling for their parents and apologizing.

Even with the apology and tears Draco huffed in frustration as he shook Teddy, trying to get the snow off of him.

Despite everything, Potter seemed genuinely cheerful and carefree, even with the earlier incident and the argument he had had with Draco the day before. He felt like the day was still going well. He decided to buy some Muggle items, even though it was difficult to exchange money. Part of him had always wanted to understand and use Muggle technology, even though he wasn’t sure if it would even work in the wizarding world.

“What’s that?” He walked up to the dark-haired man, who had managed to open the box and pull out the newly purchased item.

“A muggle camera. It’s popular these days,” Harry said with a smile.

“We have cameras in the wizarding world.”

“Yeah, but these take color photos and can record videos.”

“Videos?” Draco asked, confused. He never heard that word before.

“Yeah, it’s like pictures, but they move.”

“We have that,” the blonde man turned his attention to the ice cream, losing interest.

“But it’s different. I’ll show you.”

After some difficulty, since he wasn’t yet familiar with the technology, Harry managed to make the camera work and record a video. He hadn’t even noticed, but he was pointing it in Draco’s direction and smiled when the camera focused entirely on the beautiful, distracted expression on Draco’s face as he looked at Teddy with a small smile.

“Say something.”

“How do you mean?” Draco looked confused, only now realizing the camera was pointed at him.

“To record, the camera picks up your voice, too.”

“That’s creepy. How the hell do they manage to do that without magic?” The horrified expression on Draco’s face was amusing. He seemed disbelieving that something like that could even exist.

Harry let out a small laugh before turning his attention back to the godson, who was now squeezing his hands together, fascinated by the sticky texture caused by the ice cream that had spilled on his palms.

“Teddy, look ahead. Tell us about your first time getting hit.”

“Harry!”

“It hurt,” the boy said indifferently, then smiled. “But Dwaco came and yelled, ‘ the bad ones.”

“You should’ve run to us when they hurt you,” Draco scolded.

“I knows , I was going to ‘ that, but Dwaco came quickly,” the little one tried to explain, though with some difficulty. Maybe it was because Harry had grown up getting beaten up by older kids, and didn’t see much of an issue with it. Of course, he didn’t want Teddy to go through the same thing, but he seemed to be taking it lightly.

“Ted, who do you like more?” Harry crouched down to record the, for now, blonde boy.

“Dindo bumm, Duaco buummm,” Teddy exclaimed excitedly. The adults weren’t sure what he meant at first. They thought it was a failed attempt to say “good,” but it didn’t seem like that was the case. Malfoy said it was common for kids to invent words as they tried to express themselves, so they let it slide, only vaguely understanding that it meant something positive and good.

“Why do you like him more than me?”

“Dwaco gave Ted ice cream,” the little boy explained as if it were a great reason.

Draco didn’t bother hiding the satisfied smile when he looked at the dark-haired man, who was pretending to be angry, but soon decided to defend him.

“It was Harry who gave the money. You should thank him, too.”

“What’s money?” Teddy repeated with difficulty.

“Oh, money is a paper Harry gets after working hard. With money, he buys your toys.”

“He works to get money for Ted?” The boy’s eyes brightened as he tried to understand the somewhat complex situation for his little mind.

“Yes.”

“I don’t need toys anymore. I want to play with Hawwy. No need to work anymore.”

The older men exchanged a look. They should have known that Teddy would say this sooner or later. Harry worked too much, and now Draco had started working as well, though Teddy didn’t usually see him leave. The dark-haired man had said that some nights, Teddy would wake up in the middle of the night looking for him and cry when he couldn’t find him.

Potter turned off the camera and knelt next to Teddy, enough for the boy to hold his hands, even though they were a little sticky from the ice cream he had just eaten.

“Harry has many things to pay for and wants to give you a good life, so that’s why I work a lot. But I promise I’ll try to come home earlier. Would you be happy if we always had lunch together?”

The boy nodded eagerly, but then his smile faded.

“But Hawwy always makes me eat the ‘yuck’,” that’s what Teddy called vegetables.

“Draco doesn’t make you eat them?”

“It’s getting late. We should head home. What else did you buy, Harry?” The blonde man blatantly interrupted the little boy, who had opened his mouth to speak. Potter thought about returning to the subject, but decided that the best thing would be to make all the meals together. That way, he’d make Teddy eat his vegetables, or at least try.

...

In addition to the amazing camera, Harry had bought another strangely fascinating item called a television. Draco was completely mesmerized by it. He didn’t understand some of the shows and took a while to get used to it, but after a few days, it became a habit to sit on the couch as soon as the little one fell asleep, although he still found the camera more fun. Teddy wasn’t far behind either; he watched it way too much, so the adults agreed on screen time. Draco was also a bit concerned, knowing that with just one more channel, the boy might end up seeing things that were very inappropriate for his age.

It was dinnertime, and Draco was in the kitchen. He wasn’t doing much, just reheating leftovers and trying not to burn them — he had done that a few times already. It was a complex task for him; he’d gotten used to doing things like cleaning or sweeping, now that there wasn’t a house-elf around, and neither Harry nor he had one. But cooking was not his gift.

“It’s a bit sweet,” Harry tilted his head, wondering if his taste buds had betrayed him.

“I’m picking up two shifts tomorrow, so I’m off today,” Draco tried to change the subject, but it wasn’t working.

“The salad tastes weird,” the dark-haired man frowned, now sure of it after trying it again.

“It must be the poison I added,” Draco said, but Harry ignored him deliberately.

“Teddy, do you taste the sweetness too?” Harry asked, spooning some salad into the boy’s mouth. Teddy chewed and nodded, and Draco let out a frustrated sigh, irritated at not being heard.

“Seriously? I accidentally added sugar. Happy now?”

Malfoy crossed his arms, frustrated. The scarred man sure knew how to be annoying, although Draco didn’t entirely mind that part of him.

“I can’t believe you added sugar to the salad!” Finally, green eyes turned to Draco, and he wasn’t sure whether to throw a glass of water in that idiot’s face or punch him.

“I mixed it up with the salt!”

“You only needed to add the salt! I had everything chopped!”

“I get it, okay?” Draco hid his face, yelling in frustration as he heard the laughter of the other two. Even Teddy was laughing, and Draco could bet the boy didn’t even understand the situation fully.

Things had settled into a more manageable rhythm. With Harry coming home earlier, Draco found himself able to adjust his schedule as well, leaving for work sooner and returning earlier in the evening. It was strange at first—spending so much time in the same space—but they managed, even if it occasionally led to friction.

Their disagreements were mundane, almost laughably so. Harry’s infuriating habit of leaving tea rings on the table drove Draco mad, while Draco’s inability to cook anything more complicated than toast became an easy target for Harry’s teasing. Sometimes, the arguments weren’t about anything at all—just the remnants of old tensions flaring up in bad moods, sending them back to the petty bickering of their Hogwarts days.

But the fights were different now. They never escalated the way they once had; they were quieter, softer, even tinged with an odd kind of fondness. 

Their home wasn’t perfect—it was messy and chaotic, with too much history between them for things to ever be simple. But it was theirs, and for all their flaws, they were learning to build something better. Something real.

Chapter Text

The dishes in the sink had already been cleaned, gleaming as if by magic—which, in fact, they had been.

Draco had taken it upon himself to handle the chore, even though it wasn’t his turn, a quiet demonstration of how useful he could be now that he had his wand back. He hadn’t mentioned it, but Harry suspected it was Draco’s way of showing gratitude, even if his pride wouldn’t let him say it outright.

Harry descended the stairs, his hair as messy as ever and his shirt slightly wrinkled. He looked tired, though there was a lightness in his step. The truth was that he’d spent most of the night tossing and turning. The good news was that he knew exactly why he hadn’t been able to sleep. The bad news was that the reason stood right in front of him: irritatingly blond, perfectly poised, and as arrogant as ever.

The weekend lingered in Harry’s mind like an unshakable spell, even when it was already Wednesday. He couldn’t understand why Draco’s smile was so captivating, so thoroughly impossible to forget. 

It reminded Harry, vaguely, of the Veela from Beauxbatons. Though, in truth, he’d never quite understood the hype surrounding them. Back during the Triwizard Tournament, everyone had seemed bewitched by Fleur Delacour. Even Ron had barely been able to string a coherent sentence together when she was near.

Harry, on the other hand, had never been particularly enchanted. Sure, he wore glasses, but he wasn’t blind. He knew Fleur was strikingly beautiful, as were the other Veela he’d seen, but their allure had never hit him the way it seemed to affect everyone else. 

Draco’s smile, though… 

“Good morning,” Harry greeted, flashing a lazy smile as he headed toward the kitchen counter.

“I was starving,” Draco said flatly, though his eyes briefly flicked over Harry with a quick assessment. “Teddy will be up soon, you know.”

“It’s not that late,” Harry replied with a shrug, rolling up his sleeves. “Relax.” He started rummaging through the cabinets, gathering utensils and ingredients with an ease that spoke of habit.

Draco sighed, leaning back in his chair. Offering to help would be pointless; Harry wouldn’t accept it. Besides, Draco’s culinary attempts often ended in disaster, and he knew better than to risk turning the kitchen into a hazard zone. 

Although Morgana said that Draco was better the last time. She even ate, but Teddy didn't, apparently, Harry’s food was still unreachable. 

“Your hair looks nice today,” Harry said suddenly, his back turned as he began slicing fruit for Teddy.

“It always looks nice,” Draco replied without missing a beat, his tone clipped but vaguely amused.

“Not when you first wake up. Then, it’s like a rat—”

“Don’t,” Draco cut in with a sharp exhale, his irritation slicing through Harry’s teasing.

Before they could spiral further into bickering, a childish, sleepy voice called.

“Teddy’s awake,” Draco announced, his expression softening almost imperceptibly as he stood. Without another word, he headed upstairs, leaving Harry alone with his breakfast preparations.

By the time Draco returned, Teddy was cradled in his arms, his small frame wrapped snugly in pajamas. The boy’s hair was delightfully messy, and his eyes were still half-lidded with sleep. Draco’s entire demeanor had shifted; his usual sharpness gave way to something warmer, gentler. A soft smile tugged at his lips as he whispered something to Teddy, who yawned in response and buried his face against Draco’s shoulder.

“Harry, what’s that smell?” Draco asked as he stepped back into the kitchen, his nose wrinkling slightly.

Harry froze. He’d been so distracted by thoughts of Draco—how his smile seemed brighter when Teddy was around, how his laugh had an unguarded quality lately, that he hadn’t noticed the smell.

“Uh… my overwhelming desire for you?” Harry blurted, though his voice wavered with a hint of panic.

“The toast is on fire!” Draco exclaimed, his eyes widening as he instinctively shifted Teddy behind him, shielding the boy from the potential chaos.

Potter took a second to realize that it wasn’t a metaphor. The toast was indeed on fire.

Harry snapped into action. Grabbing the pan, he flung the burning toast into the sink and turned on the tap. Which only made the water the flames flare higher.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” Draco muttered, his free hand already reaching for his wand. Before he could act, Harry cast a quick extinguishing spell, dousing the fire entirely. He turned back to face them with a sheepish grin, smoke still curling faintly in the air.

“Oops,” Harry said sheepishly, lowering his wand.

“Oops?” Draco repeated, his voice dangerously low. “ Oops ?”

Before Harry could respond, a sleepy voice interrupted them.

“What’s that smell?”, Teddy said rubbing his eyes. 

“Your godfather’s culinary incompetence,” Draco replied coolly, as he gently set Teddy in his high chair, with a warm smile that seemed to melt away his previous frustration.

Harry served up a plate of toast and slices of pear, placing it in front of Teddy, who clapped his hands with glee.

“Toast! Toast! Toast!” Teddy chanted, his small feet swinging beneath the table.

“Where’s the newspaper?”

“You’re not going to want to see it, Draco,” Harry said, adjusting his glasses as he met the blonde’s confused gaze. “The three of us are on the front page.”

Potter had no intention of handing over the paper, but the cold, expectant glare Draco shot him left no room for argument. With a resigned sigh, Harry extended the newspaper. Draco snatched it from his hand, his movements sharp and devoid of patience.

Draco’s eyes darted across the article, his expression shifting rapidly from annoyance to anger. His grip on the paper tightened as his pale fingers crinkled its edges. Each word stoked the fire building in his chest, but it wasn’t until his gaze fell on Teddy’s face that his breath hitched. Now the little boy was exposed to the wizard community. 

“That idiotic rag thinks it knows something,” Draco muttered, his voice cold and sharp. The headline alone was preposterous: “Harry Potter Protects a Death Eater and His Child?”

Draco’s face hardened. The journalist’s words were insidious, painting a picture of scandal rather than truth. They tried to suggest that Harry, the so-called savior of the Wizarding World, was playing some dangerous game by housing Draco and raising “his kid”. The article claimed the writer had spoken with Harry and his supposed “girlfriend,” Ginny, the previous week, where they allegedly confirmed their engagement.

Draco’s jaw clenched. It was as if the mention of Harry’s supposed engagement was a calculated move, a desperate attempt to disassociate Harry from a former Death Eater by tying him to a more palatable narrative. He opened his mouth to ask if that was true but then closed it. That was a dumb question, it didn't matter if they were dating or not, Draco could never stand a chance with Harry Potter

He set these ugly feelings aside, there was a great evil. What infuriated him most was the implication that Teddy—his Teddy—was just a pawn in the narrative, a “child of a Death Eater.”

“They’re after him,” Draco murmured, his voice quieter now, edged with fear. He set the paper down on the table, his hand trembling slightly. “They’ll start hounding Teddy, won’t they? Digging into his life, twisting everything for the sake of a headline.”

Harry’s hand found Draco’s wrist, his touch steady and reassuring. “They won’t get near him,” Harry said, his voice firm. “I won’t let them.”

Draco didn’t look at him, his gaze fixed on the paper as if willing it to burn up in flames. “You can’t control the press, Potter,” he muttered. “They’ll write whatever they want, and people will believe it.”

Harry’s grip tightened just a little. “Let them write. If they cross the line, we’ll handle it. Together.”

There was something in the way Harry looked at him—those green eyes, bright with an intensity that made Draco uneasy. It wasn’t just the weight of Harry’s gaze, but the way it felt as though it pierced straight through him. In truth, when Harry Potter was in the room, Draco could never look away. But to be on the receiving end of that gaze now… It unsettled him in a way he hadn’t expected.

That trust. That confidence. Draco had never imagined Harry would give it to him. Honestly, sometimes he thought Harry must be mad to even look at him, to give him a second chance after everything that had happened. Yet here Harry was, unwavering, seeing him for who he was—no pretense, no judgment.

For a long moment, Draco said nothing. His silver eyes darkened with worry, but there was a flicker of something else there—a kind of silent gratitude—that quickly disappeared behind the walls of his usual stoic expression.

“I’ll make sure they stay away from Teddy,” Harry added, his tone sharpening with resolve. “And if Rita Skeeter decides to stir things up, I’ll send Hermione to have a word with her.”

Draco arched an eyebrow, a brief smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I wouldn’t want to be Rita Skeeter right now.”

Harry’s lips twitched, the smallest of grins appearing. “Neither would I. But she’ll get the message. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

Draco’s smile faded, and he carefully folded the paper, setting it aside. “Let’s hope you’re right,” he muttered, though the concern still lingered in his eyes. “For Teddy’s sake.”

…

Draco stood in the kitchen, stirring the contents of a bubbling pot with an intensity that bordered on obsession. The kitchen, once filled with chaos and frustration, was now oddly peaceful. Morgana was beside him, calmly chopping vegetables with a rhythm that was both graceful and steady.

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, surprised at how easy it felt. For someone who had always kept people at arm’s length, he never expected to feel this… open, this relaxed, in her presence. There was something about Morgana—gentle but unflinchingly honest, like Luna had been in a different time. It was disarming, and for once, it didn’t feel like a weakness to trust her.

“Do you think the potatoes will need longer?” Draco asked, his voice softer than usual, looking to her for guidance.

Morgana glanced up from her chopping, her pale blue eyes meeting his with that familiar, reassuring calm. “They’ll need another few minutes. But don’t rush it. Let the flavors settle in.” Her tone was unhurried, as if time slowed in her presence.

Draco nodded, a small flicker of relief settling in his chest. He didn’t have to explain himself, didn’t have to hide behind walls he had carefully built for years. With Morgana, it just… made sense.

The sound of Teddy’s laughter floated from the living room, and Draco’s lips curled into a smile. Morgana had this effect on everyone—her presence had a way of putting people at ease. And Teddy… well, Teddy adored her.

He glanced over at Morgana again, this time his smile lingering. “You know, I never thought I’d trust someone like this. But…” He trailed off, unsure of how to express what he was feeling. “I left you alone with Teddy today. Didn’t even second-guess it.”

Morgana’s smile softened, but for the briefest moment, something unreadable flashed behind her eyes. The flicker was so subtle that Draco almost thought he’d imagined it. “I know we haven’t known each other long—hell, it’s only been weeks. But I hold you and Teddy in a special place in my heart. You can trust that.”

The words hung in the air, quiet but absolute. There was a sincerity in her voice that made Draco’s chest tighten, the warmth of the sentiment settling deeply in him. He hadn’t expected to hear those words from anyone, especially not from someone who’d come into his life so unexpectedly. Her tone was so sure, so certain, with no hint of hesitation.

It was a kindness that he didn’t quite know how to handle. He had always feared trust, feared being let down. But with Morgana, in that moment, it felt different. It felt... real.

He swallowed hard, the weight of unspoken things shifting inside of him. For the first time in a long while, the walls he’d built around himself seemed unnecessary. He wanted to believe her. Wanted to believe this was the truth.

“It’s kinda scary,” Draco murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, “trusting someone.”

Morgana’s smile softened further. She continued chopping, the blade rhythmically cutting through the vegetables. “It’s okay to trust, Draco,” she said gently, though her voice held an odd calmness, almost detached. “People like us—people who’ve been hurt, betrayed—we build walls, yes. But that doesn’t mean we have to live behind them forever.”

When she spoke like this, it was as if he could see the pain in her eyes, a shared understanding. It made him trust her even more, recognizing in her something he had never seen in anyone else. Maybe that was why he believed her so completely—the quiet, unspoken suffering they shared.

Morgana guided him through the rest of the process, showing him how to chop the vegetables, how to brown the meat just right, and even how to season the stew without overdoing it.

Teddy, with his uncontainable enthusiasm, eagerly took on the role of taste tester, offering exaggerated nods and enthusiastic murmurs of approval with each sample. “It’s good, Dwaco! Hawwy ‘ like it.”

Draco, despite his earlier reservations, found himself easing into the rhythm of the kitchen. Morgana’s gentle instructions and Teddy’s infectious excitement made the experience almost... enjoyable.

When the stew was finally done, Morgana ladled a portion into a bowl and handed it to Draco. “Here. Try it.”

Draco hesitated, then took a spoonful. The rich, savory flavors hit him unexpectedly. He blinked in surprise. “It’s... edible.”

Morgana’s lips twitched upward in a small smile. “High praise,” she said dryly, though her eyes sparkled with amusement. “You did well, Draco.”

Teddy clapped his hands together. “Dwaco’s a chef now!”

Draco chuckled softly, the rare smile pulling at the corners of his lips. “Perhaps,” he said quietly, looking at Teddy, “but let’s not get carried away.”

Morgana patted his shoulder. “You’re on the right track. Now, take this home and serve it up. I want a full report on Harry’s reaction.”

As Draco left the kitchen with the warm bowl of stew in his hands, he couldn’t shake the feeling that, despite everything, he was on the verge of something he had long given up on. Maybe it was trust. Or maybe it was the sense that, for once, things weren’t going to fall apart. He just hoped he wasn’t fooling himself.

Draco straightened, his pride restored. “If he doesn’t faint from shock, I’ll consider it a success.”

As he left The Copper Kettle with Teddy at his side and a pot of stew in hand, Draco couldn’t shake the strange warmth spreading in his chest. Maybe, just maybe, he was starting to understand what it meant to care for someone in ways that didn’t involve grand gestures or clever words.

And maybe, just maybe, he liked it.

…

Draco stood in the kitchen, arms crossed and feet tapping restlessly against the tile floor. The remnants of dinner hung in the air—roasted vegetables, a casserole that had only vaguely resembled something edible, and an undeniable hint of frustration. Morgana did most of the cooking, but Draco had insisted on helping. The result was… less than perfect.

The front door creaked open, and Harry stepped in, still fumbling with the buttons of his coat.

  I made dinner, was the announcement he wanted to make, but Draco couldn’t just say it like a kid expecting a gold star. But he was anxious to know how Harry would react. Not that he did it for him, cooking was an essential skill that anyone should have.

“What time do you call this, Potter?” Draco’s voice sliced through the quiet, a cutting edge to his words. “Dinner was ready an hour ago!” 

“Bloody hell, Malfoy,” Harry groaned, kicking his boots off haphazardly near the door. “I literally just walked through the door. Give me a chance to take my coat off before you start moaning at me.”

“Moaning?” Draco arched an eyebrow, the sharpness of his words softened by the amusement dancing in his eyes. “I’d hardly call holding you accountable for your tardiness ‘moaning.’ Teddy’s already eaten, and frankly, I don’t see why I should be late to work because you can’t manage to be punctual.”

Harry rolled his eyes as he shrugged off his coat and tossed it onto the nearest chair. He might have felt guilty about Draco being late for work as he had to wait until Harry was home with Teddy to leave, but the constant nagging quickly erased any trace of remorse.

“Teddy didn’t seem to mind,” Harry said with a grin, clearly enjoying himself.

“He’s a child, Harry,” Draco snapped, but there was a softness in his voice that betrayed the sharpness of his words. “He’d eat chocolate pudding for every meal if you let him. He has no concept of proper mealtime etiquette.”

“And neither do I, apparently,” Harry laughed, sinking into a chair and crossing his arms behind his head as if completely at ease.

Draco rolled his eyes, but there was no hiding the slight curve of his lips. “You’re lucky I’m here to civilize you, Potter.”

Harry leaned back further in his chair, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “You’re lucky I tolerate you, Malfoy,” he teased, pushing his luck.

“You call this tolerance?” Draco huffed, turning back to the oven to retrieve the reheated plate. “I must be a saint.”

As Draco was about to leave the kitchen, Harry took a bite of the casserole. He chewed thoughtfully for a moment before looking up at Draco, offering a slightly strained smile. “It’s… not bad. Definitely edible.”

Draco paused his hand on the doorframe, then turned back to give Harry a sharp look. “Not bad?” His voice held a note of disbelief. “That’s all I get? You’re not going to lie and say it’s ‘delicious,’ are you?”

Harry raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “If you want me to lie, I could say it’s perfect, but I’m not that cruel, Malfoy.”

Draco smirked, but there was a hint of frustration in his eyes. “Good. Because if you did, I might’ve had to hex you.”

Harry chuckled. “You wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t I?” Draco replied, turning to grab his coat. “Well, one day, I’ll make a meal so perfect that it’ll leave you speechless. No sarcasm. Just pure perfection. And you’ll be begging for seconds.”

Harry leaned back, clearly skeptical. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Draco shot him a sly look over his shoulder as he opened the door. “Just wait, Potter. One day, I’ll make a meal so good, it’ll shut you up for good. You’ll finally understand what a real Malfoy meal tastes like.”

As Draco stepped out, the soft sound of Harry’s laughter echoed through the house. But inside, something stirred in Draco, a quiet determination. It wasn’t about the praise. It was about proving himself. One day, he promised, he’d make the perfect meal. No more jokes, no more sarcasm. Just pure, flawless food.

…

Draco stood by the counter in the quiet healer's wing, his fingers mechanically tracing through paperwork that had accumulated over his shift. The night was always slower—less urgency, fewer patients—but the weight of responsibility never left him. He leaned back in his chair, stretching his neck, and ran a hand through his platinum hair, savoring the brief moment of calm.

The door creaked open, and Luna Lovegood stepped inside, her usual serene demeanor interrupted only by the faint burn on her sleeve, the edges blackened.

"Luna?" Draco said, rising in surprise. "What happened?"

"Oh, just a little incident with a fire-breathing flower," she replied casually, her voice as light as ever. She waved a hand as if the burn were nothing more than an inconvenience.

Draco frowned, moving to retrieve the necessary salve. "A fire-breathing flower? Why would you mess with those things?"

Luna’s smile remained unfazed. "It’s for my column. I thought it’d make an interesting story next week."

Draco raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. "Can’t you write about something that doesn’t try to set you on fire?"

"Well, they’re not as interesting," she replied lightly.

"I think I’m more interesting, and I don’t burn." Draco joked, then immediately regretted it as Luna turned to consider him, her gaze piercing in a way he wasn’t prepared for.

She didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she just studied him for a moment, her expression unreadable. "It’s not that bad," she said eventually, the calm in her voice never wavering. "I came here to see you, actually."

Draco blinked, feeling a flicker of surprise. I’m flattered, but no need to burn yourself to see me"

Luna’s smile softened. She tilted her head slightly, as though she could see something more in him than he was willing to show. "You’re worried about your mother."

Draco’s jaw tightened. He didn’t have to say anything, Luna had an uncanny ability to read him. "It’s hard not to be," he finally said, his voice low. "She’s not getting better. It’s like she’s stuck in this place where nothing can reach her anymore." He swallowed, his hand clenching into a fist. "I can’t even protect her from the world anymore."

Luna’s gaze softened, her eyes filled with understanding. "She is lucky to have such a good son," she said quietly, her voice as gentle as ever. 

Draco let himself believe, even if a part of him could never. His thoughts drifted to Teddy then, and the ever-present worry for the child. "And there’s the press, Skeeter’s been using him for her headlines. He’s just a child."

Her voice was heavy with empathy. "People will do anything for attention. But you’re protecting him.”

"I don’t know if I’m doing a good job."

Luna’s response was soft, almost like a mantra. "You’re doing what you can. And sometimes, that’s enough."

Draco nodded, but his mind was still racing. There was a brief silence before something else slipped out of him, almost absentmindedly. "Do you happen to have a relative named Morgana?" he asked, his voice casual but with a subtle edge of curiosity. "I met someone recently with that name, and... well, I thought I’d ask. Maybe a long-lost aunt or something."

The woman blinked, her expression thoughtful. "Morgana, you say? That’s an interesting name. I don’t think anyone in my family has that name, but... it’s possible. The Lovegood family tree is rather... sprawling."

Draco nodded slowly, though a knot tightened in his stomach. He hadn’t expected this conversation to bring up doubts about Morgana. But now that it had, his mind couldn’t let go of the question. What if she had ties to the Ministry? What if she wasn’t who she seemed? Worse, what if she was a Death Eater?

Luna seemed to sense the shift in his thoughts, her gaze softening further. "I’ll keep an eye out, just in case," she added, her voice a gentle reassurance.

"Thanks," Draco said quietly, unsure if he was hoping for answers or just trying to settle the unease that had taken root.

Then Luna added, almost as an afterthought, “By the way, you mentioned some muggle treatments before for your mother.”

“Yes, I’ve been reading some. But it’s a little confusing as I don't have knowledge about muggle medicine.” Malfoy said frustrated, he didn't even want to think about this.

“Well, I found a healer who’s also a muggle-born doctor. He’s not specialized in mental health, but he might be able to help. Maybe he can shed light on some of the things.”

Draco’s interest piqued immediately, and he leaned forward, his attention suddenly sharp. A strange flutter of hope stirred in his chest, an agitation that almost made him feel like a child eagerly opening a present. “Do you know where I can find him?”

Luna nodded, pulling out a small piece of parchment and handing it to him. "Here’s his clinic address."

Draco took the parchment, feeling a sense of hope creeping through him. Maybe, just maybe, this healer could offer a solution, something to help his mother, something that made sense of the chaos.

But as he read the name on the parchment, his heart sank. The healer’s name was Omar Abasi.

Draco froze. Omar Abasi, the very healer who had once openly despised him, who had made no secret of his hatred for Draco’s existence. The man who viewed Draco as nothing more than a legacy of pain and shame.

It felt like a cruel twist of fate. Here was a potential lifeline, one he had been hoping for, and yet the very person offering it was someone who would never treat him with anything other than disdain.

Draco’s fingers tightened around the parchment as his thoughts churned. He could hardly believe it. It was as if the universe was mocking him, offering help in the form of someone who would never let him forget who he was.

A healer he might have to rely on if only his own past didn’t stand between them.

Chapter Text

It was late at night, and the house was wrapped in heavy silence, save for the soft creaks of the floorboards and the occasional crackle from the dying embers in the fireplace. Teddy had been asleep for hours, his tiny snores audible if you lingered just outside his bedroom door. He had exhausted himself with a day full of adventures, leaving the adults with a rare quiet moment.

Even though Harry and Draco had spent months cohabiting, navigating the chaos of raising a child together, moments like this—just the two of them—were rare. They were used to each other’s presence by now, their routines overlapping in an oddly seamless way, but they had never sought time alone. It had seemed pointless. Most of their interactions without Teddy had ended in biting remarks and tension-filled silences, the residue of years of animosity that neither fully knew how to shake.

And yet, over time, something had shifted. The arguments were still there, sharp and inevitable, but they no longer stung in the same way. The bitterness had dulled, replaced by a strange sort of rhythm they were beginning to fall into. Neither of them would admit it, but they had started to appreciate these exchanges. Perhaps not enjoy them, not yet, but there was something about the way they challenged each other that felt... grounding. Familiar.

Harry didn’t find it strange to see Draco waiting for a letter, the blond received plenty of them. From what Potter could glimpse, driven by occasional curiosity, they came from a variety of senders: Pansy Parkinson, the Ministry, Luna Lovegood, and even Lucius Malfoy, who, sitting in prison, likely had little else to occupy his time.

Of all these, the letters from the Ministry were the most unpleasant. They always left Malfoy with a hesitant, almost guarded expression that Harry couldn’t help but notice. But this time was different. 

Draco stood by the window, his back to Harry, his usual poise replaced by a restless energy. His leg bounced in a steady rhythm, and though his eyes occasionally flicked toward the television, it was clear he wasn’t paying attention. His anxiety was almost tangible, the air between them heavy with unspoken tension.

Harry, watching from the sofa, couldn’t help but ask. “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing,” Draco replied curtly, his tone clipped and dismissive. He didn’t look away from the window.

Harry wasn’t surprised by the response. Draco wasn’t the type to bare his soul, and Harry hadn’t expected him to. Yet, as the silence stretched on, Harry found his gaze drawn to Draco’s face, to the faint lines of tension carved into his features.

There was something there, something soft, vulnerable, even with the tension etched into his features. The way Draco’s blue-gray eyes shimmered with emotion as they briefly met his... It stirred something in Harry he couldn’t quite name.

But one thing he knew for certain: it wasn’t hate.

A letter came in, as expected. Harry couldn’t see what it was, but Draco’s expression turned desperate as his eyes flew over the paper. Moments later, he sighed deeply and let his body sink into the couch. Harry interpreted it as good news, even if Draco didn’t smile.

The black-haired man felt a silly sense of pride as he realized he could read Malfoy a little better now. He also knew Draco wouldn’t appreciate being asked about it, so Harry held his tongue, using all his willpower to remain quiet.

Mr. Malfoy,

Your letter was unexpected, though not unwelcome. Let me be clear: I do not believe in allowing personal feelings or past grievances to interfere with my duty as a healer. 

I made a vow to aid those in need, regardless of circumstance. If you trust that I will do everything in my power to help your mother, I will assist you without hesitation. I cannot promise miracles, but I can promise that I will approach this with the care and dedication it deserves.

You may find this difficult to accept, but your willingness to set aside pride for her well-being has earned my respect. It is not easy to ask for help, especially from someone you may believe would deny it.

Let me know how you wish to proceed.

Omar Abasi

If Draco were more of an optimist, he might have been jumping around or even smiling. But optimism was a foreign concept to him, as unattainable as a dream he didn’t dare to have. Instead, he sat frozen, the letter still clutched in his hands, his heart pounding in his chest. Telling himself that this was only the first step, his mother was still sick, there was nothing to celebrate, no need for useless emotions such as hope. 

Each beat felt like a reminder of how exposed he had allowed himself to become. He focused on his breathing, trying to calm the rush of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him, but it was no use. 

The weight of the letter—and what it meant—was crushing.

Guilt began to creep in, sharp and unwelcome, wrapping around his thoughts like a suffocating fog. He couldn’t stop thinking about Omar, about their history. Draco knew exactly how he had treated the healer in the past: with indifference at best, and hostility at worst. It had been easier then, to dismiss Omar as nothing more than a bitter annoyance who lashed out at him without cause.

But now, in the quiet of this moment, Draco couldn’t hide from the truth. It hurt far more to acknowledge that Omar was not only a good man but one who had every reason to hate him.

The realization cut deep, leaving Draco raw and unsettled. No, he hadn’t done anything directly to Omar—no hexes, no cruel confrontations—but that wasn’t the point, was it? His name, his presence, his silence in the face of the injustices perpetuated by people like his family—all of it was enough. Omar’s disdain wasn’t misplaced; it had been earned.

Draco’s mind wandered to the words he had used in the past, words he had grown up hearing and repeating without thought. Mudblood. How easily that word had slipped from his tongue as if it were nothing. He winced at the memory, shame rising in his chest like a burning flame. He didn’t know if Omar had ever heard him say it, but it didn’t matter. The harm was done.

And yet, despite all of this, Omar had responded with professionalism, with respect. He had set aside their shared past to extend a hand of help. It was more than Draco felt he deserved.

He wanted to believe he was a better man now. He tried to be. But as he sat there, staring at the healer’s words, it was hard to feel any sense of growth. His past loomed over him like a shadow, its tendrils winding their way into his present, refusing to let go.

For every step he took forward, it seemed there was always something pulling him back—a reminder of who he had been and the harm he had caused, intentional or not. Could he ever truly move past it? Could he ever be someone who deserved the forgiveness he wasn’t sure Omar would grant or even the respect the healer had offered?

Draco folded the letter carefully, his hands trembling as he tucked it away. The words lingered in his mind, not yet ready to settle. 

“Isn’t this movie strange?” Harry asked, his tone light, though his real intention was to pull Draco out of the dark expression settling over his face. He knew Draco wasn’t paying attention to the film, and honestly, the question didn’t matter.

Draco didn’t respond immediately but shifted his gaze to the television. For the first time in a while, his leg stopped bouncing, and his restless fingers stilled.

Harry tried to focus on the screen, but having Draco Malfoy sitting so close made it impossible. Instead of following the plot, his eyes kept straying to Draco, tracing the sharp lines of his profile, marveling at the way the light from the TV danced across his pale skin. He knew he shouldn’t stare, but he couldn’t seem to help himself.

Luckily, Draco was too preoccupied with his thoughts to notice. At least, that’s what Harry thought—until Draco suddenly caught his gaze. His eyes narrowed slightly, a furrow forming between his brows.

Harry quickly looked back at the screen, heat rising to his cheeks. The movie, which he had completely lost track of, was apparently about zombies and some kind of resistance group fighting for power. The plot had long since become irrelevant, but the eerie suspense and sudden jump scares were enough to make both men react.

Each scare brought them closer, inch by inch, as if the sofa were shrinking. They had started the movie on opposite ends, but now, somehow, they sat side by side in the middle. Draco clutched a pillow tightly, using it as a shield during particularly intense scenes. Harry, meanwhile, was horrified by the graphic imagery but couldn’t look away.

“Scared, Potter?” Draco muttered, his voice quiet but edged with discomfort. His silver eyes flicked toward Harry’s green ones, an unspoken challenge lingering in the air.

“You wish,” Harry replied, his voice lower than he intended, almost distracted.

The tension between them was palpable. Slowly, their faces drew closer, as if some invisible force were pulling them together. Their minds were blank, their focus entirely on each other. Harry could feel the warmth of Draco’s breath, and for a fleeting moment, it seemed like they might close the gap entirely.

But then, a peculiar moaning sound erupted from the television, shattering the moment. Both men jumped apart, startled, before dissolving into awkward laughter.

Harry stood quickly, moving toward the TV to turn it off. “Yeah,” he said, his voice a little too loud, “definitely a weird movie.”

Draco didn’t respond, but as Harry glanced back at him, he caught the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips—a rare and fleeting expression that sent Harry’s heart racing all over again.

"What if..." Harry began, his voice breaking the silence as he returned to the sofa, sitting nearer to Draco than before. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to say, only that he needed to fill the uncomfortable quiet. "What if there’s a zombie apocalypse?"

Draco raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching into a smirk. "From what I understand about zombies, you’ll be perfectly safe."

"What?" Harry paused, narrowing his eyes. "Why? Because I’m the Chosen One?"

Draco’s smirk widened. "I’d say it’s because you wouldn’t have any food to offer."

"What—hey! You git!" Harry exclaimed, lunging to grab the pillow Draco had been clutching.

Draco dodged, laughing in a rare moment of unguarded amusement. They wrestled playfully, the tension of the earlier moment seemingly forgotten. Harry lunged again, but this time Draco shifted too quickly, causing Harry to lose his balance. With a startled yelp, they tumbled off the sofa.

Somehow, Harry ended up on top of Draco, his legs straddling either side of the blond. His hands instinctively pinned Draco’s wrists above his head, and they both froze, their laughter dying as the reality of their position set in.

Draco’s silver eyes flickered with something unreadable—fear, maybe, or anticipation. His smirk faltered for the briefest moment, and Harry saw it: the vulnerability Draco so carefully kept hidden. It made Harry’s breath hitch, his chest tightening with something he couldn’t name.

"Well, I’d rather face zombies than you any day," Harry muttered.

"Get off me, Scarhead," Draco said, his voice steady but his eyes betraying him. There was a flicker of hesitation, a moment where he seemed to consider saying more. His sarcastic smile reappeared, as though it were a shield.

"So we’re back to name-calling?" Harry asked, his green eyes locked onto Draco’s lips, glinting with something unspoken.

"Well, you’re the one acting like a child."

"Does this seem childish to you?" Harry’s voice dropped, the tension crackling between them as he leaned in.

Abruptly, Harry closed the distance, his lips crashing against Draco’s. For a moment, Draco’s mind screamed that this couldn’t end well, that it was reckless, foolish. But then the warmth of Harry’s mouth chased the thoughts away. He hesitated, his heart racing, the instinct to push Harry away warring with the desire to pull him closer.

In the end, the need to feel won out. Draco responded by returning the kiss with a mix of uncertainty and fervor, matching Harry’s messy, fervent rhythm.

It was intense, aggressive, but undeniably pleasurable, just like them. The kiss was filled with everything they couldn’t say, everything that had built up over years of animosity and unspoken emotions. It only ended when air became a necessity.

They broke apart, their breaths ragged, eyes wide as reality came crashing back.

"Draco, I—I’m so—" Harry stammered, scrambling off Draco as panic began to creep into his voice. His mind raced, overwhelmed by the enormity of what he’d just done.

The blond didn’t let him finish.

"You kiss like a virgin," Draco quipped, his tone deceptively calm. Internally, he was grateful he was lying down—his legs felt like they’d turned to jelly.

Draco stood abruptly, brushing imaginary dust off his clothes with exaggerated nonchalance. His smirk was back, sharp as ever. "Well, that was... childish," he drawled, his voice laced with sarcasm.

He turned and strode toward the stairs without a backward glance. His steps were hurried, his shoulders tense, but his smirk lingered, even as he disappeared from view. 

Once alone, behind the safety of his closed bedroom door, Draco let himself fall against the wall, sliding down until he was sitting on the floor. His head dropped into his hands as he struggled to breathe, the tightness in his chest refusing to ease.

He had lived with guilt. Guilt for his family’s choices, for his cowardice, for surviving when so many others hadn’t. And now, for wanting Harry Potter in a way he had no right to.

The kiss had been everything and nothing. It had been fire and chaos, a momentary escape from the crushing weight of his reality. But it had also been a cruel reminder of all he could never have.

You’re not a good person, he thought bitterly. You never were.

Draco let out a shaky breath, his eyes burning as he stared at the ceiling. He didn’t cry. But the ache inside him felt unbearable, a hollow pit that nothing could fill.

When Harry stumbled over his apology, Draco felt the words hit him like a poorly aimed spell, clumsy but heavy nonetheless. He didn’t want to hear them. His chest tightened as the weight of the moment pressed down on him, suffocating in its intensity.

Draco had spent so long barely holding himself together, and now it felt as if he was being pulled in every direction at once. His mother, a shadow of the woman she once was, needed him, but he couldn’t fix her. Teddy, sweet and innocent, deserved a better guardian than the man who had once worn a Death Eater’s mark. And now there was Harry— bloody perfect Harry Potter, who had kissed him with the kind of abandon Draco couldn’t fathom.

And yet, Draco couldn’t even let himself enjoy the memory. Instead, he felt the familiar sting of inadequacy, sharper now that it came from someone he had always secretly admired.

You’re not enough, a voice in his head whispered, cruel and insistent. It was a mantra he knew well. He had tried to ignore it for years, tried to drown it out with arrogance and excuses. But no one could run away from their own mind.

…

Harry’s lips tingled as the reality of what had just happened hit him like a rogue Bludger. He had kissed Draco Malfoy. 

He sat back, running a hand through his hair in a futile attempt to untangle the mess of thoughts spiraling in his head. What the bloody hell was that?

He had never thought of himself as someone who liked guys. He had dated Cho, and Ginny. And yet, here he was, the lingering warmth of the kiss making it hard to focus on anything else.

He wasn’t into Draco Malfoy, of all people. That was absurd. Sure, Malfoy was… objectively attractive. Harry could admit that. Sharp cheekbones, piercing eyes, that arrogant tilt of his chin. Anyone with eyes could see it. But recognizing someone’s good looks didn’t mean anything, did it? He wasn’t gay.

The next morning, Draco acted as if nothing had happened. Casual. Cool. Almost too casual, Harry thought. He couldn’t tell if it was calculated or if Draco genuinely didn’t care. Harry had to replay the moment in his head multiple times, over and over again, to reassure himself that it hadn’t been a dream. It had happened. But Draco was so composed, so indifferent, that Harry began to wonder if it had been meaningless to him.

Maybe Slytherins were just like that—cold, detached, the type to kiss someone and brush it off like it was nothing more than shaking hands. Maybe Draco kissed people all the time. Maybe this was just... what he did.

Harry wasn’t like that. He couldn’t compartmentalize things so easily, couldn’t pretend it hadn’t happened. The memory of it clung to him like a stubborn charm, no matter how hard he tried to push it away.

But that didn’t mean he wanted something with Draco. He didn’t even like the guy. Draco was arrogant, sarcastic, and infuriatingly smug. Sure, he had improved—he wasn’t the same cruel git from Hogwarts, not entirely—but he was still an asshole most of the time.

Harry groaned, dropping his head into his hands. What does it even mean if I kissed someone I don’t like? He didn’t know if he wanted Draco or if the moment had just been... there. They had been arguing—of course, they had—and maybe the adrenaline or frustration had gotten to him. People did impulsive things all the time, didn’t they? It didn’t have to mean anything. Some surge of adrenaline, or frustration, or—Merlin forbid—attraction. And the worst part was, he wasn’t sure what scared him more: the idea that he didn’t want Draco, or the possibility that he did.

The memory of Draco’s eyes flashed in his mind—bright, searching, vulnerable in a way Harry had never seen before. He shook his head, trying to push it aside.

It was easier to tell himself it was nothing. A mistake. A weird, fleeting lapse in judgment. But no matter how hard he tried to convince himself, the weight of it pressed against him, stubborn and unyielding.

Because deep down, Harry knew it hadn’t been nothing. It had felt like something . And that terrified him.

So Harry visited Hermione’s small apartment, knowing Ron would be there as well. He had rehearsed this conversation in his head, yet their reactions still made him nervous.

Harry decided it was time for Draco, Hermione, and Ron to sit down for a proper dinner together. He wasn’t entirely sure what had pushed him to make the decision. Maybe it was the awkward but strangely consistent progress Draco had been making at being a slightly less insufferable housemate. Or maybe it was a misguided attempt to see if Ron and Hermione could finally start seeing Draco as more than an ex-Death Eater and perennial thorn in Harry’s side.

It certainly had nothing to do with the kiss. Absolutely nothing.

The memory of it was tucked away in the furthest corner of Harry’s mind, locked in a mental box he refused to acknowledge. Sure, it sometimes clawed its way to the surface—like when Draco walked into a room, or when their hands brushed while passing the salt, or when Harry caught himself staring at the curve of Draco’s smirk for longer than he should. But the dinner had nothing to do with that.

He told himself it was just practical. After all, they were all a part of his life now, in one way or another. It made sense to try and bridge the gap, didn’t it? He wanted things to be easier, more seamless, less fraught with tension. That was all.

As expected, the couple wasn’t entirely surprised—Harry’s stubborn nature meant he often pushed boundaries—but the idea of having dinner with Draco Malfoy caught them off guard.

They exchanged a quick glance, their unspoken concerns evident. While they had promised to try being kinder after hearing about Malfoy’s supposed transformation, the years of animosity were hard to overlook.

The uncertainty on their faces wasn’t rooted in distrust of Harry’s judgment; it was the sheer weight of everything that history carried. Harry and Malfoy had always been opposites—volatile and intense in their interactions, whether as enemies or, apparently, something else now. Accepting this new reality felt almost impossible as if they had missed a crucial chapter in Harry’s life.

“Well, we argue a lot,” Harry admitted, “but we’re more mature now. We talk things out. No physical fights.” He sounded almost proud as if this was an achievement worth noting.

“That’s… good,” Hermione replied, her tone carefully measured.

“I’ll be nice,” Ron added with a shrug, “as long as he doesn’t irritate me too much.” Then, as if recalling something, he said, “Oh, and you should stop by the Burrow later. Dad wants to talk to you and Malfoy.”

Harry’s hesitation was obvious, so Ron quickly clarified. “To apologize.”

Harry blinked in surprise but nodded. “Right, okay. Anyway, as I was saying, Malfoy is… nice when you get to know him. Fine, he’s still kind of a jerk. And yes, he’s spoiled, always has to be right.” He paused, a broad smile spreading across his face as a light laugh escaped. “And he has this uncanny knack for making the most cutting remarks. Merlin, his biting comments—”

“Where are the good qualities?” Ron interrupted, staring at him in disbelief.

By now, Ron had pieced together what he saw as a baffling mystery: Harry was interested in Malfoy. That was barely tolerable. Living with him? Absolutely not. Talking about him with that dumb smile? Unbearable.

“Draco is part Veela,” Harry declared suddenly, his voice filled with conviction.

“Why do you think that?” Hermione asked cautiously, her brow furrowing.

“Isn’t it obvious? He has this… charm. It has to be supernatural,” Harry replied, waving his hand as if the answer was self-evident.

Ron and Hermione exchanged uneasy glances.

“No, I’m serious. I can’t stop thinking about him. My heart practically jumps out of my chest whenever he’s near, and when we—”

“Please, be a prank.” Ron groaned, covering his ears. He leaned forward, his head between his knees, as though on the verge of a breakdown.

“Harry, it’s going to take a while for you to admit having a crush on Malfoy?” Hermione asked, her voice calm but exasperated.

“I don’t have a crush on Malfoy,” Harry said, genuinely confused as if he had no idea why they would think that.

“Right. So it’s going to take a while,” Hermione muttered under her breath.

“I don’t—”

“Sure, Harry. Whatever you want to believe,” she cut him off, clearly done with the conversation. Whether it was their lingering dislike of Malfoy or Harry’s obvious denial of his feelings, now wasn’t the time.

“Well,” Harry said, his voice quieter, “just don’t forget—you promised to be nice and give him a chance. Try not to get upset with him.”

For a moment, he seemed lost in thought, almost as if he was considering his own emotions for the first time. With a quick goodbye, he promised to head home soon. But there was a distant look in his eyes, a clear sign of the confusion swirling in his mind over what he had just admitted, however unintentionally.

…

Harry figured he’d bring it up with Draco later—maybe when Draco was in one of his more tolerable moods or too preoccupied to argue. But since the kiss, Harry had noticed that Draco never seemed to be in a good mood. At first, he tried to dismiss the idea as paranoia, but things felt undeniably off. Then, he wondered if he was giving himself too much credit. After all, that same night, Draco had received a letter that had visibly shaken him. Maybe that was the real reason.

Even though Harry could piece that much together, it didn’t help. Draco was never one to talk about his personal feelings, especially not with Harry. And honestly, Harry couldn’t blame him—he wasn’t even sure how he’d help if Draco did open up.

As Harry made his way to the kitchen, he tried to ignore the nagging feeling that he might be setting himself up for disaster. He also tried to ignore the flicker of something else—something he couldn’t quite name—that stirred whenever he thought about Draco being there. Because this wasn’t about the kiss. It wasn’t about Draco. This was just about making life simpler.

At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

“So, the youngest Weasley and Granger are coming here? Tonight?” Draco’s incredulous reaction was unsurprising.

“Only if you agree,” Harry said quickly. After all, things hadn’t gone well the last time he acted without consulting Draco.

“I think you’ve misunderstood the concept of giving advance notice,” Draco replied dryly. “It usually means a day or two beforehand, not two hours. Where am I supposed to eat dinner? And when can I return?”

Harry winced at the frustration in Draco’s voice. “I was hoping you’d stay for dinner too. All of us, together.”

“Me, dining with the Golden Trio?” Draco scoffed, as though the mere suggestion was laughable. And in his mind, it might as well have been.

“I’ll cancel if you’re not okay with it,” Harry offered, his tone earnest.

“No,” Draco blurted out, the response surprising them both. It was instinctive, driven more by the look of disappointment in Harry’s green eyes than by any rational thought. “If they don’t have a problem with it, I can manage. Besides, Teddy seems excited about having visitors.”

“Friends!” Teddy chimed in enthusiastically from the living room. The boy had learned the word from a cartoon he watched recently, though he still struggled with its meaning. He didn’t know many children his age, aside from the ones he occasionally saw at the park on weekends.

This was one reason Harry had brought up the idea of preschool, though Draco had been resistant. For now, Harry let the topic drop.

“Great! I’ll start making dinner. Do we have the ingredients for lasagna?” Harry asked, his tone light, trying to ease the tension.

“What’s—” Draco began, only to be cut off.

“Muggle food,” Harry clarified with a grin.

Draco gave a small nod, glancing over to make sure Teddy was still focused on his painting project before following Harry into the kitchen.

“We’ll need to go shopping. If you’d told me earlier, I could’ve taken care of it,” Draco said with a faint, teasing smirk.

Harry, pulling ingredients from the cupboards, didn’t rise to the bait. “You wouldn’t have gone. You hate grocery stores.”

“And who was it arguing with me just last week to avoid going shopping themselves?” Draco countered, raising an eyebrow.

Harry rolled his eyes, conceding. “Fine. You’re right. I hate them too. There are too many people, and they hover like I’m under surveillance.”

Draco quirked a brow, the faintest trace of pride flashing in his eyes. He was pleased he understood the Muggle concept of surveillance cameras—he was slowly adapting to this world.

“We should go together,” Draco suggested lightly.

“Sure. Now that we’ve made the front page, why not let the entire world see us shopping for pasta?” Harry quipped, a grin tugging at his lips as he began prepping the meat.

Draco leaned casually against the counter. “Aren’t you going to ask for my help?”

“You look fine just standing there,” Harry teased. “Actually, I think you should be banned from the kitchen entirely—for public safety reasons.”

“A sweet salad never killed anyone, Potter,” Draco retorted, though his cheeks flushed the faintest pink. He ran a hand through his hair in mock exasperation, his irritation genuine yet somehow endearing.

Harry chuckled despite himself, quickly refocusing on the lasagna before his thoughts strayed too far. It wasn’t the time to dwell on the flush of Draco’s cheeks or the way his smirk lingered in Harry’s mind. After all, there was dinner to make. And dinner wasn’t about Draco.

At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

Chapter Text

Harry stood at the counter, focused on the rhythm of his knife against the cutting board. The quiet hum of the house filled the air—the distant sound of Teddy playing in the next room, the faint creak of old floorboards, and the occasional rustle of parchment from the stack of papers Harry had shoved aside earlier. It was a rare moment of calm in their otherwise chaotic routine, but Harry should have known better than to expect it to last.

Draco Malfoy strolled into the room with the casual arrogance of someone who thought they owned the place, even though Harry distinctly remembered signing the deed himself. 

Harry didn’t look up, but he could feel Draco’s presence in the room—a swirl of sharp-edged arrogance and restless energy that made the air feel heavier. He’d learned by now that Draco never announced himself like a normal person; he preferred theatrics, whether in his words or his silences.

Draco tilted his head, studying Harry’s determined focus with the air of someone who was deeply unimpressed. “You could at least act like I’m distracting you.”

“I’m ignoring you on purpose,” Harry muttered, voice clipped, though a ghost of a smile tugged at his lips.

“You’re really no fun, you know.” 

Harry’s hand paused briefly over the onion, his shoulders tense but his tone dry. “Why? Because I asked you to pretend to be decent for one hour?” He was referring to the conversation they had earlier, about having his friends coming, one that didn’t go well.

“I am a very decent human being,” Draco replied, his tone dripping with feigned offense. His pale brows arched dramatically, though the faint twitch of his lips betrayed the amusement bubbling just under the surface.

Leaning theatrically against the kitchen counter, Draco contorted his face into an exaggerated grimace, as though the very idea of decency offended him. It was so absurdly over-the-top that Harry nearly laughed, but he forced his focus back to the cutting board, slicing through an onion with mechanical precision.

“Poor choice of words,” Harry admitted after a beat, not looking up from his work. “I meant… kind, maybe? Civil?” He tested the words as though they tasted bitter on his tongue.

Draco tapped his chin, as though genuinely considering the suggestion. “That’s... difficult,” he mused, drawing out the words in mock deliberation.

Harry sighed and pressed his palm to the counter, pausing for just a second. “Just be yourself,” he finally offered, though his tone made it clear that he wasn’t holding out much hope.

Draco’s silver eyes sparked with mischief as he raised an eyebrow. “Am I supposed to be kind or myself? Because I can’t do both.”

Harry rolled his eyes, returning his attention to the onion. He resumed slicing with brisk precision, but a stray tear escaped down his cheek, quickly followed by another.

Draco froze mid-step, his teasing smirk faltering. "Wait… are you crying?" he blurted, alarm coloring his voice.

Harry stilled, confused, then brushed a hand over his cheek. "What?"

"Merlin, I didn't think you'd cry!" Draco exclaimed, his voice unusually high-pitched as he crossed the kitchen in two long strides. "I got it. I'll behave, so don't—"

"It's the onion," Harry interrupted, turning to give Draco an incredulous look.

Draco froze, blinking rapidly. "The… onion."

"Yes, the onion. I'm not crying over you," Harry deadpanned, though a spark of amusement twinkled in his green eyes.

For a moment, Draco just stared at him, his pale cheeks faintly flushed. Relief washed over him – why, he wasn't entirely sure – but it was quickly followed by a surge of irritation with himself. Since when did he care if Harry bloody Potter cried?

Recovering swiftly, Draco folded his arms and tilted his head with mock indignation. "Well, how was I supposed to know? You've got tears running down your face, and I can be devastatingly charming."

Harry looked at him more intently, the tension between them shifting subtly. The faintest trace of worry had flickered across Draco's face, something Harry wasn't accustomed to seeing in the usually aloof Slytherin. His heart gave a little lurch, and before he could stop himself, he wondered why it mattered to Draco.

Harry snorted. "Right. Devastatingly. If I ever find myself weeping uncontrollably, I'll let you know it's all because of you."

Draco opened his mouth to retort, but Harry continued, his voice quieter but no less firm. "You already said you'd behave, right?"

"You misled me by crying."

"I wasn't—" Harry began, then caught himself and sighed. "Ron and Hermione… they don't like you. At all. And their opinion matters to me."

Draco’s jaw tightened, and for a fleeting moment, something unspoken passed between them. The way Harry’s voice softened at the end, the almost pleading look in his eyes—it irritated Draco more than he cared to admit. But beneath the irritation was something deeper, something heavier.

Why does it matter to Potter? Draco wanted to ask but didn’t trust himself with the answer.

Instead, he forced a sarcastic smile, his lips curving just enough to mask the sudden pull of vulnerability. “I can’t imagine why they don’t like me,” he drawled, folding his arms in mock nonchalance.

“I could list a thing or two,” Harry retorted, narrowing his eyes slightly.

Draco smirked, raising his chin in mock defiance. “Well, I’ll make them like me. In fact, they’ll leave here fighting for my hand in marriage.”

Though the words were spoken with the air of a joke, Harry caught the faintest flicker of sincerity in Draco’s expression. For all his bravado, there was something else there—something almost vulnerable.

Why did he care? Draco wondered, his heart giving a traitorous flutter at the idea of Harry crying or worse, at the thought of being the reason for it. He’d known for years that he liked Harry, but it wasn’t supposed to feel like this. It wasn’t supposed to get heavier with each passing day, pulling him deeper into something he didn’t know how to navigate.

Why was playing nice so exhausting? Raising a child was already more than enough responsibility. Did it have to involve being a role model, too? For a brief, fleeting moment, Draco felt an odd sense of gratitude toward his parents. How had they managed to raise him without tossing him into the lake out of sheer frustration?

“I’m saying this one more time,” Harry said, his voice dipping into the no-nonsense authority that Draco secretly found both irritating and fascinating. “No sarcastic comments, no backhanded compliments. Just be nice. Be pleasant for once.”

“In other words, don’t act like myself. Got it, Mr. Potter,” Draco replied with an exaggerated air of obedience. Then, with a sly grin that was pure Draco, he added, “And let’s be clear, this is the only day you get to boss me around. Savor it.”

As Draco turned to leave, the sunlight streaming through the window caught the sharp angles of his profile, highlighting the mischievous glint in his silver eyes. He threw Harry a deliberate wink over his shoulder, his presence leaving a lingering air of chaos in the room.

Harry shook his head, exhaling sharply as he picked up the knife again. He tried to ignore the way his thoughts kept wandering back to Draco’s maddening smirk, the elegant grace of his movements, the exasperating allure that seemed to cling to him like a second skin.

Draco Malfoy was utterly insufferable.

And yet, Harry couldn’t seem to stop thinking about him.

…

Harry was lost in thought, watching Teddy sit obediently on the carpet, his tiny legs crossed as he half-watched a colorful cartoon on the telly. The boy’s hands toyed absently with the edge of his shirt, though his bright, ever-shifting hair suggested he wasn’t fully relaxed. Draco was always nearby, but not close to either of them, sometimes he seemed to have this need to keep everybody at a secure distance, Harry observed, thinking this was one of Draco’s many ways to cope with the whole dinner situation. 

But if it was what he needed, whatever. Put him in a corner where he could see the room fully and try to feel protected. 

The knock on the door pulled Harry back to the present, and before he could get up, Hermione and Ron walked in.

“Wow,” Ron muttered, pausing just inside the doorway. “No matter how many times I come here, this place still gives me the creeps.”

“It’s hard not to think about when we were hiding out here,” Hermione agreed, folding her arms as though shielding herself from the memories. “After Fleur’s wedding… the Death Eaters attacking—” Her voice faltered, and her shoulders hunched slightly as the memories seemed to darken her mood.

“Oh, yes, I’m sure you’ve got loads of tragic war stories to tell,” Draco drawled from his perch against the wall. His arms were crossed, and there was a faint smirk. When Harry shot him a sharp look, Draco raised a hand mockingly. “Not that I’m complaining, of course. Bravo to you. You won.”

Hermione’s expression turned steely. “No one wins a war, Malfoy. You survive it. That’s all.”

Draco opened his mouth, a cutting retort likely on the tip of his tongue, but Harry was already groaning and rubbing his face. “Merlin, this is going to be a long night,” he muttered under his breath.

Deciding to break the tension before it could escalate, Harry crouched next to Teddy and pointed toward the visitors. “Teddy, look. These are my friends. This is Hermione, and that’s Ron,” he said gently, his voice softening in a way it only ever did when he spoke to Teddy.

Teddy’s wide, curious eyes flicked to Hermione and Ron, then darted back to Harry. The little boy leaned closer to Harry, clutching his pant leg with one small hand. “Hi,” he mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Aw, Teddy,” Hermione said, her expression instantly softening. “The last time I saw you, you were so tiny. You’ve grown so much.”

Ron crouched next to her and gave Teddy a wide, friendly grin. “Hey there, mate. Do you remember me? Big, freckly bloke?” he teased, gesturing to himself dramatically.

Teddy’s fingers tightened on Harry’s leg as he half-hid behind him. “No,” he said honestly, though there was no fear in his tone—just quiet shyness. His free hand moved to his mouth, and his hair flickered from its usual soft blue to a light pink. That happened when he was shy.

“Teddy,” Draco called from his spot, his voice dry but not unkind. “We talked about this. It’s fine, right?”

Teddy peeked out from behind Harry and glanced at Draco, then at Hermione and Ron. After a long moment, he stepped closer to Harry, lifting his arms in a silent request to be picked up. Harry obliged immediately, hoisting the boy into his arms.

“You were excited to see my friends, weren’t you?” Harry asked, smoothing a hand over Teddy’s head.

Teddy gave a tiny nod, his hair shifting back to brown as his confidence returned. “Hi, friends,” he said shyly, resting his cheek against Harry’s shoulder.

Both Hermione and Ron beamed, the tension in the room dissolving instantly. Hermione leaned in slightly, her voice warm and encouraging. “Hello, Teddy. You’ve got such lovely manners.”

Teddy’s lips twitched into a small smile at the praise, and he extended a tentative hand toward her. Hermione took it gently, her eyes bright with delight.

“See?” Harry murmured, brushing a hand over Teddy’s back. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

As the adults moved to the sofa, the atmosphere became lighter. Teddy eventually climbed down from Harry’s lap and toddled over to Hermione, intrigued by her earrings. Ron pulled a small wooden toy from his pocket—a tiny, enchanted dragon that flapped its wings lazily—and soon had Teddy giggling softly as he tried to catch it.

Draco watched the scene from the corner of the room, his arms still crossed. A faint, unreadable expression flickered across his face as Teddy’s quiet laughter filled the space. When Harry glanced over, their eyes met for a brief moment, and Draco glanced back before approaching, but he sat the farthest possible.

“Christmas is coming soon, and Teddy’s turning three,” Hermione said, his voice carrying a lightness that hinted at his excitement.

“Yes, and depending on how the conversation with Arthur goes, we might all spend Christmas at the Burrow,” Harry added, a hopeful smile tugging at his lips.

Draco raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms with a dramatic scoff. “Why on earth would I willingly spend Christmas crammed in the Weasley hideout?”

“It’s not a hideout. It’s a home,” Harry shot back, his tone playfully chastising.

Draco ignored him, clearly unimpressed. The truth was, he had little desire to face Arthur Weasley again. Harry had mentioned—briefly—that Arthur had regrets about their past animosity, but Draco wasn’t one to believe in sudden changes of heart. He remembered the look in Arthur’s eyes the last time they’d crossed paths. Hatred wasn’t something easily erased.

“Teddy didn’t like the Burrow much either,” Ron cut in, his tone unusually subdued, though his words carried an edge. He cast a sidelong, accusatory glance at Draco.

Draco immediately bristled. “Are you insinuating something, Weasley?”

“I don’t know, Malfoy,” Ron said, folding his arms as he leaned back in his chair. “It’s just odd. Every kid loves my mum, but Teddy doesn’t? And who spends the most time with him? You.”

Draco’s silver eyes narrowed, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, yes, you’ve caught me. I spend my days telling Teddy to burst into tears every time a redhead comes near him. It’s practically a hobby of mine.”

Ron leaned forward, undeterred. “Wouldn’t put it past you.”

Harry sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Ron, Draco—”

Before he could say more, a small voice piped up from the corner of the room. “No fighting,” Teddy declared firmly, his tiny arms crossed in a manner that mirrored Draco’s earlier posture. His bright blue hair shifted to a soft pink as he glanced between the adults, his expression a mix of innocence and authority.

Ron blinked, taken aback. Hermione, who had been quietly helping Teddy dress a doll, stifled a laugh. Draco, however, simply rolled his eyes, entirely unphased. 

Harry grinned, ruffling Teddy’s hair, which quickly morphed back to blue. “Sometimes I wonder who the real adult is around here.”

“Oh, it’s definitely not you,” Draco quipped, bumping Harry’s shoulder lightly.

The atmosphere in the room lightened, and Harry realized he’d all eyes on him. He glanced at Hermione, silently inviting her to speak. She hesitated for a moment, then set the doll down and took her chance.

“I’m an only child, but I think Teddy seems pretty advanced for his age,” Hermione said, watching the young boy intently.

Draco’s lips twitched in what could’ve been a smirk. “He’s been talking a lot—must be all thanks to the magic television Harry bought.” His tone was laced with subtle sarcasm, though it wasn’t entirely hostile. He couldn’t help himself; there was something about Muggle inventions that rubbed him the wrong way.

“My mum tried to set up a TV, but it didn’t work too well at the Burrow,” Ron commented.

Draco had to control himself and not respond that this explained the number of children.

“I suppose it works better here, it’s closer to the Muggle world,” Harry mused, taking a sip of his drink. It was odd, but they were managing to have a civil conversation. Talking about Muggle's inventions and how the wizarding world should be more open to them was something he and Draco had disagreed on numerous times, but today, they were keeping it civil. For now.

“I don’t know… Muggle inventions can be dangerous if we just start using them without thinking,” Draco chimed in, his tone still a bit sharper than he intended. “I mean, I’m not exactly thrilled about living in a house that could explode just because a Muggle gadget malfunctions.”

“We need to know how to give in a little, so we can mix the goods of magic and technology and have the best of both worlds,” Hermione said, eyes shining with hope, she had an awful lot of fate in the world like she hadn’t seem the worst of it years ago.

“Some would call you delusional,” The blond said in an insinuating tone, a smug in his face.

Harry gave him a pointed look, but before the conversation could escalate, Teddy, who had been playing quietly by the window, suddenly tugged at Draco’s trouser leg.

“Water for I,” Teddy said, looking up at him with those big, inquisitive eyes. He reached for Draco’s leg again, his small fingers pulling at the fabric.

Draco sighed, but the annoyance faded when he looked down at the little boy. “It’s for me, Teddy,” he corrected, bending down to meet his gaze.

“Get two, for Dwaco and I,” Teddy insisted, holding up both hands as though offering a simple solution.

The adults around them exchanged surprised glances, and Draco couldn’t help but chuckle despite himself. Teddy’s confidence was beyond his years.

“Please,” Teddy added, his voice soft but firm.

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Just when I was trying to prove how clever you are,” he muttered to himself, but Hermione’s voice cut through the moment.

“He’s clever, alright,” she said with a smile, laughing lightly. “Not every kid his age would say something like that. You’re doing a great job, both of you.”

Draco and Harry exchanged a glance. For just a moment, their smiles were genuine, and there was something almost affectionate in the air. Even Teddy seemed to sense the shift, looking between them with a shy smile of his own.

Harry stood up abruptly when the smell of lasagna wafted from the kitchen. “Right, I’ll grab the water and check on the lasagna,” he said, his voice a little too bright.

“Do you need help?” Draco asked, though his tone suggested he was more eager to avoid being alone with Harry’s friends than actually wanting to assist in the kitchen.

“No, stay there,” Harry answered quickly. It was a simple response, but there was a tension in his eyes that made Draco suppress a frown.

Harry had barely stepped out when Ron slowly leaned toward Draco and muttered under his breath, “I don’t like you.”

“Ron—” Hermione didn’t even get the chance to stop him before Malfoy shot back immediately.

“Really, Weasley? And now, how am I supposed to live with the pain of knowing that every fiery strand of that carrot hair doesn’t love me?” Draco placed a hand dramatically on his chest and flung himself backward, exaggerating the gesture as though struck by some deep, emotional wound. He quickly recovered, returning to his usual sardonic smile and malicious gaze.

Hermione frowned, clearly baffled by the absurdity of their interactions. She gave up trying to make sense of it and walked over to Teddy, who was deliberately ignoring Draco as he scooted closer to him. The little boy leaned his back against Draco’s leg, and every now and then, he would glance up at him.

“I don’t like you,” Ron continued, his voice growing more heated. “You’re arrogant, a jerk, prejudiced—”

“Oh, Merlin. I cannot live with this rejection. Should I jump from the bridge?” Draco shot back, still sarcastic, but his eyes narrowed in annoyance.

Ron didn’t let up. “Not yet. I just want to say that, even though you’re all—” he gestured toward Draco as though he were something contagious “—I can try to tolerate you. Don’t think I like you, but... you’re not rejected.”

Hermione rolled her eyes at the childish bickering before turning to leave. She pulled Ron aside for a serious talk after Harry went to invite them to the dinner. The two had concluded that, whatever kind of relationship Draco and Harry had, they’d support it as long as Harry was happy. But Ron didn’t seem to be showing much support. It felt more like a father trying to chase away his daughter’s new boyfriend. Of course, Draco never took any of this seriously.

“Oh, the little pauper Weasley is asking me out? What a momentous occasion, Where you are going to take me?” Draco said dryly, his voice dripping with sarcasm. But even as he spoke, he made sure his tone didn't go too far. He reminded himself of the boundaries they had set—no more provoking the Weasleys.

Ron scowled, the vein in his neck visible as his anger flared. Draco could see him fighting to keep his composure, but Draco wasn’t here to make things worse—not today. It was a fine line to walk. He had his pride, but he wasn’t about to jeopardize Harry’s peace.

“The only place I would take you is in a fight.”

Draco sighed inwardly and leaned back slightly. Keep it civil , he reminded himself. “I would never go any place with you, so I suppose that’s a victory of sorts, Weasley.” He gave Ron a look that could have been interpreted as somewhat resigned, though his mouth still curled in a faint smirk.

Ron stared at him, blinking in disbelief. "What, are you going soft now, Malfoy?"

“I’m not going soft. Just... there are some words that I will never say. Teddy should never hear them.” Draco’s voice was more measured this time. It wasn’t easy, especially after everything, but he’d made a promise to himself, to be a better person. He wasn't going to break that just to win some petty argument with Ron.

Hermione gave a small, approving smile from the other side of the room, watching the exchange quietly. Draco had to admit, it felt strange—almost foreign—being civil with the Weasleys. But for Teddy, he could manage it.

“I’d say it’s a start,” Hermione commented, her voice warm but teasing. “You two are tolerating each other. Progress, I’d say.”

Teddy, who had been quietly playing at Draco's feet, suddenly looked up, his blue hair flickering to a soft pink as he tilted his head curiously at the adults.

“Is it better now?” Teddy asked innocently, his voice high-pitched but with a surprisingly perceptive tone for an almost three-year-old. The room fell silent for a moment as the adults looked at the little boy, who had picked up on the tension between Draco and Ron.

Draco couldn’t help but smile faintly, his heart softening at Teddy’s question. "I think it's better, Ted," he said quietly, running a hand through the child’s hair. He felt a warmth spread through him, reminded of his commitment to making things right for Harry—and by extension, for Teddy.

“I suppose I can’t argue with that,” Ron muttered, trying to hide his smile but failing. Even he couldn’t resist the charm of Teddy’s innocent wisdom.

"The dinner is served," Harry announced as he appeared in the doorway, his smile wide as he took in the food, unaware of the tension lingering in the room.

The dinner went smoothly. Draco, however, seemed to be entirely focused on Teddy, helping him eat and casually wiping his mouth whenever necessary. It made enduring Ron and Harry’s chatter about work and the Ministry and the occasional gossip. Especially when Ron’s expression shifted, clearly surprised by Draco’s behavior. He had never seen Malfoy smile in a way that wasn't laced with sarcasm, but now Draco was smiling at Teddy genuinely, and perhaps even deliberately, with a sweetness that seemed almost... out of place.

Harry was certain the smile had been calculated. It came at the exact moment he had stopped talking and noticed Draco murmuring something about how well Teddy had eaten. The smile was small, yet it held an elegance, a subtle sweetness. The dim light of the room made it even more striking, as Teddy, with his usual innocent joy, smiled back, his blue hair shifting slightly to reveal a few streaks of blonde.

And then, in another carefully timed move—one that was meant to seem natural—Malfoy realized he was being watched and quickly turned the smile toward the others. This time, there was a touch of shyness. Harry barely managed to stifle a laugh. If he didn’t know Draco so well, or understand what he was doing, he could’ve easily fallen for the act. But deep down, Harry knew the performance, and yet... a part of him still wanted to overlook it and just be swept away.

Hermione, once she snapped out of her trance as if breaking free from a Veela’s charm, gave Ron a gentle nudge. Ron, of course, didn’t try to hide his reaction. He shook his head, his face contorting in disbelief, and anyone could guess what was running through his mind: Merlin, I can’t believe I almost thought Malfoy was... handsome! Malfoy!

Draco, now with his usual sly grin returning, directed it at Harry. It was clear that he was reveling in the small victory. He mouthed the words, I did it, and Harry couldn’t help but laugh.

...

As dinner wrapped up, Draco took the little one upstairs, handling the bath and putting him to bed. Teddy seemed genuinely tired, though he didn’t like the idea of sleeping while the adults stayed up. Harry knew Draco wouldn’t have the patience to convince Teddy, so he was prepared to let Draco give in and wait for him to handle it.

The trio was finally gathered in the living room, sitting near the fireplace as they chatted casually. But in a sudden shift, Harry’s mood brightened, and his tone became animated.

"Don’t you think he’s a Veela now?" Harry grinned, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

"Sort out your sexuality issues on your own," Ron shot back, rolling his eyes.

"Harry knows what that is, right?" Hermione asked, glancing at him with a frown. She was almost certain Harry had figured it out after Cedric.

"Hum, straight," Harry answered quickly, almost too quickly, like he was trying to convince himself as much as anyone else. His voice faltered for just a second, but he quickly recovered.

"You’re as straight as Malfoy," Ron teased with a raised brow.

Harry blinked, looking back and forth between them. "I don’t get it."

Ron and Hermione exchanged a glance, a silent debate passing between them about who would break the news. Ron sighed and shrugged. "Mate, everyone knows Malfoy never played for that team."

"Malfoy’s gay?" Harry’s voice dropped to a whisper, his eyes wide with shock, as though he’d just uncovered a hidden truth. All he received in response was a nod, and before he could ask more, a sudden gust of wind caused the lights to flicker, and the window to slam open with a loud bang. The cold air swept into the room, but it was too weak to cause any damage.

Harry’s green eyes wandered, lost in thought, as his friends looked at him knowingly. They all turned to him, waiting for him to process, but his expression remained distant, a faraway look in his eyes.

Hermione sighed, clearly frustrated. "Are you seriously telling me you don’t remember? Pansy Parkinson freaked out one night at dinner, saying Draco shouldn’t spend his whole life in love with the same guy—right in the middle of a meal! Everyone heard!"

"Malfoy liked a guy? Who?" Harry’s voice was thick with disbelief, his mind racing to put the pieces together.

"Theodore Nott. They kissed in the middle of class," Hermione said, almost in disbelief that Harry hadn’t caught on.

"It became the biggest topic, and no one confirmed it, but Blaise told me they didn’t date," Ron added, still looking at Harry, whose expression had shifted to something that hinted at dawning realization.

What in the world had Harry been doing at school that he hadn’t noticed this?

"I used to partner up with Blaise for some class. Don’t remember which one, but we’d talk sometimes. He was a decent guy, despite everything," Ron said, shrugging.

"I think I remember that," Hermione laughed, "but then the professor swapped you two around because you talked too much."

Harry, however, remained still, his mind racing with this new information. His words came out in a whisper, almost as though he couldn’t quite believe it. "He kissed a guy... in the middle of class?"

Before anyone could respond, Draco’s voice broke through the tension. "Harry, I know you’re not the most observant, but this is next-level."

The trio looked up in surprise, not noticing Draco had come down the stairs. He stood in the doorway, his arms folded with a faint, knowing smirk. His eyes locked onto Harry’s for a moment, as if searching for something. Harry, still lost in his thoughts, met his gaze, the pieces finally starting to click into place.

As expected, Teddy was with Draco, looking somewhat triumphant, and Harry needed a second glance to understand the reason. The little boy was without his trousers. There was no apparent issue; Teddy had simply decided that he didn’t like pants, and now, every day was a struggle to get him to wear them. He’d wear his nappy and underwear without complaint, sometimes even a pair of shorts, but pants were simply unacceptable. Harry could usually persuade him with a deal about sweets or extra time in the park, but Draco had far less patience for it. Either Teddy would end up crying, or Draco would get irritated—sometimes both. Not wanting to ruin his mood, Draco had decided to let the little one win, knowing Harry would be the one to deal with it later.

Harry didn’t particularly enjoy being the "adult" in these situations and made a mental note to talk to Draco about it. It was frustrating to always be the one to argue, especially when Draco was so much more devious with the child than he was.

"Teddy, trousers," Harry said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. Teddy looked at him in surprise, as if he’d been attacked.

"No trousers”, he replied, eyes wide with defiance.

"Yes trousers. No one wants to see your pale legs," Harry retorted, trying his best to keep his tone light.

As if on cue, Draco handed Harry a pair of pajama trousers, his eyes conveying the message— he is difficult today .

Ron and Hermione watched, amusement mixed with some apprehension. It was strangely funny to see their friend so serious, already accustomed to this routine, like a real parent.

“George didn’t like to wear pants either. I guess it's a common problem with kids, mom was always mad at him. He overcame it when he was 10,” Ron said trying to be helpful.

“Not gonna put up with this for another 7 years,” Harry complained, exasperated. Draco rolled his eyes at the comment, while Hermione looked surprised.

It was hard to imagine Harry and Draco enduring this until Teddy was an adult. Not that Harry hadn’t said it before—he’d joked about the tantrums, the difficult stages of parenthood, and how they’d somehow manage to survive the chaos. But Hermione, ever the pragmatic one, couldn’t help but see how unlikely it all seemed. She had always admired Harry’s resilience, but even he couldn’t have predicted this type of domestic challenge.

The way Draco had stepped into the role of father, albeit begrudgingly at times, was something she never would’ve imagined. Turning away from the two stubborn ones, Hermione addressed Draco, who was standing by Harry and tried to catch his attention.

"Sorry we’re talking about your life so openly," she said with a friendly smile, but Draco could feel the tension inside him. He hated when people pried, though he knew he'd done much worse to Hermione in the past. Still, she tolerated him for Harry’s sake, and he couldn't help but admire that about her.

"It wasn’t a secret," Draco said, his voice controlled. "Besides, he was the one who pulled me into the kiss, and it wasn’t him I liked."

"What? Then who was Pansy talking about?" Ron asked, genuinely curious, though he had his own guesses.

"You don’t know him, forget it," Draco replied quickly, not wanting to elaborate.

"Ron, stop teasing him," Hermione intervened, noticing Draco's irritation growing. "You’re annoying him."

"Alright, I’ll stop," Ron said, raising his hands in mock surrender.

"Teddy, you put on your trousers. Good job," Hermione praised, recalling a parenting book she’d read that suggested rewarding small victories with praise. She was testing it out now, and Teddy beamed proudly.

"Thank you," Teddy replied in a tone that somehow sounded very aristocratic, a side of him that was very much Malfoy’s influence. He tilted his chin up, thanking Hermione as if he were royalty.

"Now that you’re in your pajamas, it’s bedtime, right?" Harry tried to persuade him, noticing it was getting late.

"No, I want to sleep with you," Teddy said, his eyes wide, his voice tinged with a hint of sadness. It seemed he had developed a habit of sleeping between Draco and Harry after a few nights of it.

"Teddy, you’re getting bigger now. You need to sleep in your bed," Draco said, his tone soft but firm, as he sat down on the nearby sofa.

"But you’re older and sleep with Hawwy," Teddy retorted, trying to justify his request.

"Teddy!" Draco called, his patience wearing thin, but he didn’t have the energy to explain further.

"Mate, I didn’t know you were already at that level," Ron said with wide eyes and a surprising smile.

"Ronny, you’re embarrassing Harry. We talked about this, we need to support him," Hermione scolded gently.

"It’s not that," Harry mumbled, his face turning red as he tried to explain. Draco could only stare at the scene, his eyes flickering between Harry and Teddy. Teddy looked back at him with a mischievous smile, almost as if he knew exactly what he was doing. For a moment, Draco couldn’t help but wonder if Teddy already had a spot reserved in Slytherin.

…

Harry eventually distracted Ron by handing him a bowl of ice cream, which seemed to do the trick. Teddy got his serving, after Harry worked some magic to convince Draco. Neither Hermione nor Draco were particularly interested in the treat, but they both agreed to leave the room and head for the kitchen to get something stronger.

Harry didn’t quite know what had happened during their brief absence, but when they returned, the atmosphere had changed. Hermione was standing with her arms crossed, her expression stormy. Whatever had transpired in the kitchen, had set her off. Harry glanced at Draco, who looked strangely unfazed, but the tension between them was palpable.

“You know, Malfoy,” she snapped, her voice cutting through the room, “I think you should try therapy. You pay someone to listen to you talk about yourself for an hour. Sounds like a dream come true for you.”

Draco, who had just sat after pouring himself a glass of firewhisky, froze mid-step. His silver eyes narrowed as he took in Hermione’s glare. “How original, Granger,” he drawled, his tone cutting but laced with faint amusement. “I didn’t realize I was here for an amateur roast.”

Hermione didn’t back down. “I’m serious,” she insisted, her tone sharp.

Teddy, sitting on Harry’s lap with his dragon toy, yawned but kept playing, his eyelids fluttering occasionally. Harry looked up from Teddy’s dragon, his brow furrowed. He opened his mouth to say something but stopped when he saw Draco’s expression change ever so slightly. It wasn’t annoyance or anger—it was a flicker of something else, something more complex.

Draco straightened, his gaze cool as he took a deliberate sip of his tea. “That’s an oversimplification, Granger,” he said lightly, though his voice carried an edge. “Therapy isn’t about self-indulgence. It’s a structured process designed to help individuals address emotional, psychological, or otherwise challenges. But I wouldn’t expect you to understand nuance when you’re too busy jumping to conclusions.”

Hermione blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “You... know about therapy?”

Ron, who had been silent until now, let out a surprised laugh. Clearly in a good mood after the dessert. “Blimey, Malfoy, you sound like a bloody expert. Been sneaking off to sessions yourself?”

Harry didn’t laugh. Instead, his eyes remained on Draco, observing how he shifted and his gaze flickered to the floor for the briefest moment. Harry had seen something similar before—the night he’d found Draco in the study, reading a thick tome about Muggle's mental health practices. At the time, Harry hadn’t questioned it. But now...

“Narcissa’s still at St. Mungo’s, isn’t she?” Harry asked quietly, cutting through the banter. His voice was soft, but it carried the weight of understanding.

Draco’s grip on his teacup tightened, and for a moment, he didn’t respond.

“It’s not a curse, is it?” Harry continued, his green eyes unwavering. “Whatever she’s suffering from... it’s mental. And magic can’t fix it.”

The room went still. Hermione stopped pacing, her brows knitting together as she processed Harry’s words. Ron sat up straighter, his teasing grin fading. Teddy was now leaning against Harry’s chest, barely able to keep his eyes open.

Draco finally spoke, his voice quieter now, stripped of its usual sarcasm. “Magic has its limits,” he said, his words measured. “Sometimes, it does more harm than good.”

“I’ve read about it,” Draco added, almost as if to himself. “The Muggles are more advanced in some areas than we like to admit. They’ve had to be, without magic. Therapy, medication... they’ve built systems where we’ve ignored the problem entirely.”

Hermione, now more curious than combative, spoke cautiously. “And... have you thought about it? For her? Or even for yourself?”

Draco’s jaw tightened, and he glanced at Teddy, who was now dozing in Harry’s arms.  “This isn’t a conversation I’m having with you, Granger,” he said, his tone firm but not unkind.

Hermione, unfazed, softened her expression but remained resolute. “Just so you know, I already suggested therapy to Harry, too,” she said, her voice gentle but unwavering. “It’s not something I just came up with on a whim.”

Harry, watching her closely, recognized the flicker of genuine concern in her tone.

“I remember,” Harry said with a short laugh, trying to dismiss the thought. “You think I’m depressed.” He did his best to sound sarcastic, but as the words left his lips, he caught the faintest flinch from Draco. It was so subtle that Ron and Hermione missed it entirely, but Harry didn’t.

Hermione pressed on, ignoring Harry’s attempt to deflect. “I just think it could help,” she said, her voice quieter now, but her conviction still clear. “After the war, I tried to establish a kind of therapy for wizards—especially for those of us who lived through... everything. But it didn’t really catch on. Wizards want results they can see, like broken bones mended in seconds. They don’t trust what they can’t measure.”

Draco’s expression shifted, his curiosity sparking to life in a way that surprised Harry. “That was you?” he asked, his voice less guarded than usual. He hesitated, his fingers tightening slightly around his glass almost empty. “It was a good idea. But...” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “It lacked... insight into how wizards think. They won’t accept something that doesn’t feel magical—it’s too foreign. But...” He stopped, glancing at Hermione as if weighing whether to continue. “Maybe... you should try again.”

Hermione blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the suggestion. "Even the healers didn’t back me up."

For a moment, the tension between them softened, giving way to something almost like mutual understanding. As they began to talk—Draco’s pointed questions meeting Hermione’s impassioned explanations—he slipped in adaptations they could make for Muggles.

"What about including potions, like to relax in the beginning? They believe in this and would feel better. It's a comfort zone."

"Meeting halfway.” The woman smiled, approving how it sounded. “So let therapy be as magical as possible, that could word."

Ron shot Harry a puzzled look, his eyebrows climbing higher as if to say, Are we watching Malfoy and Hermione have a civil conversation?  

A beat later, he muttered under his breath, "If they start agreeing on house-elves, I’m leaving." But Harry wasn’t paying attention to Ron.

Instead, his eyes stayed on Draco, studying the subtle shifts in his expression—the flicker of vulnerability he tried to mask behind measured words. It struck Harry that this was rare, something delicate and unspoken unraveling in front of him.

For once, Harry didn’t feel the need to interrupt. He simply listened, watching as Draco Malfoy revealed fragments of himself, one guarded thought at a time. There was a quiet intensity in the way Draco spoke, as though these thoughts had been locked away for far too long. 

Teddy was now sound asleep in his arms, his breathing steady and calm. Harry, sensing the moment, excused himself quietly to go upstairs and settle the kid into his bed. He moved softly, careful not to disturb the peaceful rhythm of Ted’s sleep.

When Harry returned to the room, the atmosphere had shifted. Ron was sitting with a scowl etched across his face, nursing a glass of Firewhisky. His eyes flicked from Draco, who was engaged in a surprisingly cheerful conversation with Hermione, to the drink in his hand, his frustration palpable.

"What? The Northern Lights aren’t caused by magic?" Draco asked, his expression disbelieving, as he looked over at Hermione, who was sitting beside him on the sofa.

Hermione smiled, adjusting her posture. "No, actually, Muggles weren’t sure about it for a long time, but recently, they figured it out. The particles from the Sun collide with the Earth's magnetic field, and—"

"I can’t believe he managed to infect Hermione," Ron muttered, his voice horrified as he stared at his girlfriend, who was happily explaining the phenomenon, while Draco casually sipped his drink, full again.

"Yeah..." Harry was distracted, his eyes fixed on Draco, not paying much attention to Ron.

Ron scowled, his irritation palpable. "He called me a 'pauper' the second you left."

"You provoked him first," Harry shot back, his tone stern. "Don’t try to make me choose a side."

Ron rolled his eyes, not bothered in the slightest. The kitchen was right next to the living room, and they were practically shouting. Harry had overheard everything.

"Of course, you left us alone on purpose," Ron grumbled. "Fine, he hasn’t changed, and you should stay away from him."

Draco sighed, looking somewhat exasperated. "He’s trying. Just... go easy on him."

"I’m going easy on him by not cursing him," Ron snapped back. "Seriously, mate, I approved that you like him and all, but Merlin, he’s a petty bastard."

"I don’t like—"

The argument grew louder as Draco insisted that the Northern Lights could indeed be caused by wizards, while Hermione argued they were a completely natural phenomenon. Ron, thoroughly confused, kept asking, "What the hell is that?"

Suddenly, Hermione turned her head towards Harry and fixed him with a serious gaze. "Harry, quickly, tell me something to stop me from killing Malfoy."

"There are no books in Azkaban," Harry said quickly, though there was a hint of doubt in his voice.

"Not true. If you killed Malfoy, I’d bring you as many books as you wanted," Ron chimed in, his smile mischievous as he teased Hermione.

Draco grinned, leaning back on the couch. "How kind, redhead. But Hermione won’t kill me. We’re becoming such good friends, aren’t we?" He draped his arm around her shoulders, his smile smirking as he looked at Ron.

Hermione rolled her eyes, pulling away from Draco. "Knock it off, Draco."

"Draco?" Ron’s face was an amusing mixture of horror and disbelief, as he watched Hermione correct herself, calling him "Malfoy" like she always did.

"Both of you are right, if that helps," Harry interjected, his voice cutting through the rising tension. "The Northern Lights were created by wizards, but they can also happen naturally. Wizards just recreated a phenomenon that already existed." He looked around at everyone, offering a shrug. "Mr. Weasley explained it to me. He’s a nice guy, and he knows a lot about both wizards and Muggles. You all should get along so you can have interesting conversations like this together."

For a moment, there was stunned silence, and Harry couldn’t help but feel a little proud of himself. He tried to keep a serious face, but then the other two burst into laughter, clearly in much better spirits than before.

"Can you believe that old man pointed his wand at me?!" Draco exclaimed, completely ignoring Harry’s comment. He turned to Hermione, who was still shaking her head in disbelief.

"Don’t talk like that, but seriously, Mr. Weasley’s been difficult lately," Hermione said, her tone frustrated. "It’s getting on my nerves. Can you believe he said I should stop working? Me?"

It seemed they had found another common topic to bond over.

"I think that brought them even closer," Harry said.

"Yeah, mate," Ron replied with a shrug, taking another bite of his dessert. "You know, my dad really went off the deep end after that. He’d never talk like that to anyone, even Malfoy. It’s just... the war."

"I know," Harry said quietly, his expression softening. "It was a terrible idea on my part. Thanks for being patient with me."

Ron nodded, but his voice dropped when he continued. "He really did scold Hermione about her job, but he’s just thinking about what’s best for her. She’s always so busy with work and... well, I’ve been thinking—" His voice went low, and he leaned closer to Harry. "—about marriage."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah," Ron smiled dreamily, his eyes sparkling. "It’s still early, but we’ve been talking about it. We want to get organized first, but yeah, we want to get married."

Ron wasn’t the only one making an effort to charm the group. After Draco had let slip—on purpose—that his mother had never cooked for him, Ron’s attitude shifted. He mentioned that Molly wasn’t too pleased with how Arthur had acted the other day, and she’d be happy to make amends. Soon enough, Draco was smiling and being polite with everyone, without any curses or insults. Sure, there were a few slip-ups, and some sharp comments, but they were either ignored or swiftly reprimanded. Things were going better than anyone had expected, and Draco was trying to behave.

By the time their friends left, it was already close to midnight. They were all slightly drunk from the Firewhisky, but still sober enough to Apparate. As they said their goodbyes, Draco couldn’t resist reaching for Hermione’s hand and kissing the back of it, giving her a teasing look that made Ron immediately pull her closer, his hand resting possessively on her waist.

"Oh, no need to be jealous," Draco said with a sly smile. "You know I prefer guys, Weasley."

Perhaps it was just instinct, but the malice in Draco’s grey eyes was so strong that Hermione instinctively wrapped her arm around Ron’s shoulders, hugging him from the side, while his hand stayed firmly on her waist.

"That was offensive, I have high standards, okay?" Draco laughed at himself as he observed his "high standard" staring at his own hand while taking off and putting on his round glasses, testing the difference.

Chapter Text

As soon as Harry finished tidying up, he noticed that the person who had volunteered to help him had disappeared. Not that it was a real surprise. He didn't mind much either, since he had managed to drink most of a half-empty bottle on his own. The alcohol was terrible, but also strangely fascinating.

He didn't have to think too hard to know where Draco was. Potter quickly climbed the stairs, switched off the lights downstairs, and headed to Teddy’s room. As expected, Draco was there, crouched beside the little boy, gently stroking his soft blue hair.

It was always strange to see him like this. He was undeniably more vulnerable and affectionate with Teddy, but still cautious. Yet, in that moment, he seemed peaceful—like an eerily calm ocean in the middle of a storm. It felt… wrong. His hair was slightly damp from a recent bath, and he wasn’t wearing his usual expensive silk pajamas. Instead, he had on a long, oversized shirt that looked a little worn and a pair of gray trousers. It was probably the most casual Harry had ever seen him.

"You spoil him too much. Let him learn to sleep on his own," Harry said, drawing Draco’s attention. The blond’s gaze sharpened as he walked toward him, closing Teddy’s bedroom door behind them.

"He’s too young. It’s perfectly fine for a child to want to sleep with their parents." Draco stopped for a moment, realizing what he just said. “I meant, not that we are his parents but…”

“I get it. When I was a child I wanted to have someone comfort me.”

Draco remembered his childhood. He had always slept with his mother when he had nightmares or on stormy nights, it was the best part about his parents sleeping in separate bedrooms because he knew that Lucius would never approve of Narcisa spoiling him. Besides, sleeping next to Teddy calmed him. When nightmares woke him, he would shift closer to the little boy, focusing on the sound of his even breathing, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Knowing Teddy was safe and right there with him was the best way to steady himself.

"But he’s all right now, and you should sleep," Harry tried. Normally, Draco didn’t take well to any kind of concern directed at him, even if it was simple and logical. This time was no different.

Draco took a step behind, creating distance between them, his whole body tense, as if caught on an unfamiliar path.

"I’m fine," he stated. A fact. Without another word, he turned his back on Harry.

For some reason, Harry didn’t want the conversation to end there. So he held the blond’s wrist lightly, just to catch his attention. Made the blond turn again facing him.

"You said you’d behave," Harry reminded him with an awkward smile, attempting to steer the conversation elsewhere.

"And I did. But now that the guests are gone, I’ve simply returned to my natural state of arrogance," Draco said, freeing himself from Harry’s grasp and instantly his shoulders relaxed slightly as a faint smirk graced his lips. 

Malfoy tried to run away again, this time Harry didn’t stop him, but he was not giving up. He knew it was late, knew they were both exhausted, and yet, like an idiot, he followed Draco to his room.

"You slipped up plenty of times, and yet none of them ended up fighting over you."

Draco raised an eyebrow, feigning disappointment. "Are you joking? I was starting to think Granger would kick Weasley’s arse and throw herself at me."

The blond entered his room, which was miraculously clean, probably because now he had his wand back and just needed to wave it to make the room shine. Harry didn’t dare to enter fully, so he leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching as Draco tossed a towel onto his bed and began drying his hair in a casual, effortless way that somehow kept Harry’s attention. The soft, rhythmic motions of Draco’s hands running through his damp hair, the way the light caught the strands, making them gleam like silver. It was all strangely captivating.

Harry rolled his eyes, trying to break the spell. "Don’t be so full of yourself."

Draco, ever unbothered, smirked. "With a face like mine, it’s impossible not to be. Not that you’d understand."

"That’s exactly why you won’t be invited to the Weasleys’ Christmas dinner," Harry shot back, a sharp edge to his tone. It was easier to be annoyed than to acknowledge how infuriatingly good Draco looked even when tired.

"They don’t allow good-looking people? That explains a lot." Draco paused for a moment, genuinely considering the thought, which was as irritating as it was amusing.

Ok, Harry had kind of forgotten that Draco was a brat.

"I’m serious, Malfoy. It could be a great opportunity."

"Of what?" He tossed a towel onto his bed and began to brush his hair, now dry, paying no attention to his unwelcome admirer. “Let’s be honest, Potter. They don’t like me, why would I go?”

"Because…" Harry struggled to find a good reason. In the end, he sighed and settled for the truth. "Because Christmas was always awful for me. It was about getting secondhand socks and cooking for the Dursleys. But the Weasleys made it something incredible. I want you to know what that feels like. I want Teddy to have Christmas with you, to decorate a tree, to make good memories together."

Draco paused the brush in his hand, “You can’t just use the orphan card forever.”

“I can if it works. Is it working?”

The blond scoffed. "Sounds like a terrible holiday. And I have no desire to be surrounded by that many redheads in one place… But, I suppose I can make an effort."

“That’s great! Just try not to offend Muggle inventions in front of Mr. Weasley,” Harry said, a small smile playing on his lips as he glanced at Draco.

He couldn’t hold himself anymore so he went to catch the wet towel Draco had tossed on his bed and put it properly hanging on the wall. The blond looked at how Harry was entering his room and tidying up but said nothing.

Instead, Draco answered him bored, though his expression had a flicker of amusement. “That’s hard. Muggle creations are as stupid as they are.”

Harry tilted his head, studying Draco with a curious intensity. “Why do you hate Muggles?” he asked. His voice wasn’t angry or accusatory. It was just soft, genuine as if he truly wanted to understand.

“It’s not hate” Draco sighed heavily, his gaze drifting away from Harry’s. Any other day he would evade the question, but he saw Harry trying, so he tried too. “Muggles outnumber us. Millions to one. Do you have any idea how easily they could overpower us if they knew we existed? Their numbers and machines can be more dangerous than any wand.”

Harry frowned, “But they don’t even know we exist. That’s the point of the Statute of Secrecy. To protect us, not to breed fear.”

Draco’s gaze snapped back to Harry’s, his silver eyes sharp. “Fear is what keeps us alive. Or have you forgotten history? Do you think the Statute of Secrecy was put in place because we wanted to be hidden? It was survival, Potter. You said it yourself, they used to burn us.”

“I get it. Fear of being hurt, of being overpowered. But think about it, Draco. If they knew the truth, what do you think they’d do? You’re giving Muggles too much credit and too little at the same time. Most of them don’t care about magic. They care about their phones and football matches.”

Draco’s lip curled slightly, but there was a vulnerability in his eyes that he couldn’t quite hide. “You’re simplifying it. One day, their technology could outmatch our magic. Wands are powerful, but they’re nothing against an army of Muggles armed with weapons we can’t even understand. My father said that too.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, his tone teasing. “You mean the father who trusted Voldemort? Because, let’s face it, he was all about this fear, and he got it wrong. You know what’s funny? Voldemort hated Muggles, but he was a half-blood. He was more ‘Muggle’ than most people in the world he tried to destroy. All that hate, all that bloodshed—for what? To hide that he hated himself?”

“That’s not the point. Yeah, I hate Voldemort too. He was wrong. My father was wrong about a lot of things too. But can you say he was wrong about this? Can you blame me for believing what I was raised to believe?”

Harry stepped closer, his voice low and earnest. “I’m not blaming you. I want to understand.”

Draco exhaled sharply, his shoulders tense. “I don’t think you can. You weren’t raised hearing how they’re inferior while also being told to fear them. That sharing the magical world with them is dangerous. That our existence is fragile. We don’t know what might happen. Maybe it weakens us—mixing our bloodlines until one day, wizards won’t even exist anymore. Or maybe, even if we still have magic, our traditions will disappear beneath theirs.”

Harry’s gaze didn’t waver. “You can’t possibly believe this bullshit. Hermione doesn’t weaken our world. I don’t weaken wizards.”  

Draco’s eyes flickered with something unreadable. “Hermione is brilliant and you’re the most powerful wizard of our time. I can admit that. But that doesn’t make it the rule. The truth is, we don’t know. Opening our world to Muggles means opening it to the unknown.”

Harry took another step forward, closing the distance between them. “That’s fear. Not logic.” 

Draco remained sitting in his bed, and at this point, Harry was so close that the blond would have to look up to see him, but he didn’t. So the dark-haired wizard searched Draco’s pale hands as he held them gently, as if this act would make Draco understand everything. Draco let him do it, unsure why, but he couldn’t bring himself to pull his hand away, so he kept looking at their hands.

“You’re missing the point. Muggles aren’t some monolithic enemy. They’re just like us. Some are good, some are bad, and most are just trying to live their lives. Yeah, they’ve done terrible things, but so have we. Wizards aren’t exactly innocent, are we? The Ministry’s done its fair share of shady stuff, and don’t even get me started on the Death Eaters.”

Draco let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right. My father, for one, is a prime example.”

“I wasn’t even talking about him,” Harry said, offering a small, knowing smile. “But... yeah. He is not the best person I ever met.”

Draco huffed, finally retracting his hand from Harry’s touch. “He’s a good father,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “But he is not a good man.”

“I could argue about the ‘good father’ part, but I’ll let it slide. I see progress here, and that’s something.”

Draco gave a half-hearted smirk, his shoulders relaxing just slightly. “Progress, Potter? You’re not going to start clapping, are you?”

Harry grinned. “Don’t tempt me.”

They paused for a moment, still looking at each other, Harry didn’t move and stood in front of Draco, who was sitting in his bed. Potter thought the conversation had finally come to an end. But Draco sighed aloud, and Harry braced himself for more. It wasn’t a bad thing, though a little tiring to refute everything. He was grateful that Draco was finally talking.

“I’m just saying… What if we start blending with theirs, we lose control. We lose what makes us wizards.”

“And what does make us wizards, Draco?” Harry’s voice was calm but insistent. “Is it just the magic? Or is it something more? Because if it’s just the magic, then you’re right—maybe we are fragile. But if it’s about who we are, and what we stand for, then it doesn’t matter how many Muggles there are or what they invent. We’ll still be us.”

Draco scoffed, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in his expression. “You make it sound so simple. You don’t just… unlearn everything you’ve been taught. You don’t just stop being afraid.”

“I know it’s not simple,” Harry said honestly. “But it’s worth it.”

Draco looked at him, his gray eyes raw and unguarded, as if all his emotions were ready to spill onto the floor. Harry couldn’t control the pull he felt, the way his hand instinctively reached out to cradle Draco’s chin, his thumb brushing lightly over the other man’s jaw. His gaze dropped to Draco’s lips, and for a moment, the world seemed to narrow to just the two of them.

“You’re drunk,” Draco accused, though his voice lacked its usual bite.

“No, no,” Harry murmured, not moving. “Maybe… a little. Just enough to get some courage.”

Draco’s lips twitched, though his expression remained guarded. “Didn’t expect a Gryffindor to have issues with courage,” he said, his tone teasing but his eyes searching Harry’s face, as if trying to unravel the thoughts behind those green eyes.

“It’s been two years since we left Hogwarts. We’re not the same people anymore,” Harry said, his voice steady but carrying a weight that made Draco’s chest tighten. Then, with a small smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes, he added, “Though I’m still brave, and you’re still a narcissist.”

“You still think the whole world should agree with you, and I’m the narcissist?” Draco shot back, though his usual sharpness was softened by the way his breath hitched as Harry leaned in closer.

Harry couldn’t think of a retort. Not a single rational thought could form when Draco’s lips were so close, looking so impossibly kissable. He could feel the warmth of Draco’s breath, the faint tremor in the hand that still rested against his chest, as if Draco couldn’t decide whether to push him away or pull him closer.

Draco pulled back just enough to smirk at the dissatisfaction written all over Harry’s face. “What do you want from me, Potter?”

Harry’s answer took a second too long. “Whatever you want and can give me.”

“Don’t look at me like that,” Draco said, his voice low and strained. He covered Harry’s eyes with his hand and pushed him back. “We will never be something.”

“We already are,” Harry said without hesitation. “We live together and raise a child. That already sounds like a relationship.”

“Don’t be a smart-ass.” Draco laughed, but there was something strained in his smile. “We’re not teenagers. Just because we kiss sometimes doesn’t mean we have a relationship. This doesn’t change anything.”

Harry saw the desire, the necessity, invite in his eyes that words couldn’t grasp. So he leaned forward, expecting Draco to stop him, to push. But he didn’t and then they kissed.

It was nothing like their first kiss, which had been desperate and furious. This was patient, calm, deep. It was the kind of kiss that spoke of unspoken words and shared vulnerabilities. Draco’s lips were soft against his, hesitant at first, but then yielding, as if he’d been holding back for far too long. Harry’s hand slid from Draco’s jaw to the back of his neck, fingers tangling in the soft strands of blond hair as he pulled him closer.

Draco’s hand, which had been resting against Harry’s chest, curled into the fabric of his shirt, gripping tightly as if he were afraid Harry might pull away. The kiss deepened, slow and deliberate, each movement speaking volumes—of longing, of fear, of something neither of them was ready to name. Harry could feel Draco’s heartbeat, rapid and unsteady, matching his own.

When they finally pulled apart, Draco’s hand lingered on Harry’s cheek, his expression unreadable but his eyes betraying the storm of emotions beneath the surface. His thumb brushed lightly over Harry’s cheekbone, a gesture so tender it made Harry’s breath catch.

“This changes everything,” Harry whispered, his voice barely audible, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile moment between them.

Draco didn’t respond, because he didn’t trust his voice to not waver.

…

The next morning was, as expected, awkward. Strangely enough, everyone had lost track of time and slept in far later than usual. By the time they stumbled into the kitchen, it was already eleven, and brunch was the only logical option. The table was set haphazardly—Harry had thrown together some toast, eggs, and fruit, while Draco brewed tea with his usual precision, though his movements were slower, more deliberate, as if he were trying to buy himself time.

Draco was quiet, which wasn’t entirely unusual for him in the mornings. He was never a morning person, often grumpy and monosyllabic for the first few hours after waking up. But this silence felt different. It was heavy, charged with something unspoken. Harry could feel it in the air—the way their glances lingered a little too long before darting away, the way Draco’s shoulders were tense even as he buttered his toast with meticulous care.

Teddy, oblivious to the tension, was chattering away in his high chair, his hair a bright, mismatched blue today, as if he couldn’t decide between two shades. He happily smeared jam on his toast, occasionally looking up at Harry and Draco with wide, curious eyes. Harry tried to smile and keep the conversation light, not wanting Draco to think he was pretending the kiss hadn’t happened, but also respecting that Draco wasn’t ready to talk about it. He could wait.

He would wait.

If anything, Harry felt a sense of relief after the kiss, as if a weight had been lifted. He’d been holding back his feelings for Draco for a while, and finally acting on them had left him both exhilarated and vulnerable. He wasn’t sure where this left them, but he was hopeful. Still, he was mentally preparing himself for the possibility that Draco might pretend nothing had happened. Harry let out a quiet sigh, his gaze drifting to Draco across the table. He imagined what it would be like if they were more than just co-parents—if they could be partners, a real family. He was willing to take things slow, but he was also ready to fight for this if Draco was.

On the other side of the table, Draco was lost in his own thoughts. He was afraid of what this meant for their lives. He’d spent so long building walls to protect himself, and now Harry was breaking them down, brick by brick. He was scared of losing control, of becoming too attached, and of what others might think. He knew he wasn’t accepted by Harry’s family, his friends, or the wizarding world.

How could he ever fit into Harry’s life when so many people still saw him as the boy who’d made all the wrong choices?

Draco caught himself questioning whether he deserved this, whether he deserved Harry’s affection and the chance to be part of a real family. He’d spent so long believing he was unworthy of love, and it was hard to let go of that belief. Optimism felt foreign, dangerous even. It was easier to retreat into the familiar comfort of pessimism, to remind himself that this fragile new dynamic they’d built as co-parents could shatter at any moment. Changing that dynamic into something more—something insatiable and unknown—felt like a risk he wasn’t sure he could take.

As they finished eating, Draco cleared his throat. "I have to go out for a bit today," he said, voice carefully neutral. He didn't meet Harry's eyes, but he knew Harry was watching him closely.

"To St. Mungo’s?" Harry asked, already knowing the answer.

Draco exhaled through his nose, annoyed but unsurprised by how easily Harry could read him. "Yes. And before you say anything, my mother is getting better, thanks for asking." He spared both from the exchange, it was still a hard topic so he was determined to make it as short as he could.

Harry didn’t say anything for a moment, only nodded. "That’s good."

Draco finally glanced up at him, searching for any sign of judgment or pity, but found none. Just quiet understanding. He didn’t know what to do with that, so he simply looked away again.

Harry stretched and stood up, grabbing his plate. "I’ve got some work to wrap up. Shouldn’t take long. Then I was thinking of going Christmas shopping."

"Christmas shopping?" Draco repeated, wrinkling his nose.

As expected, the rich bastard would have elves or whatever doing it for him. Harry was not surprised, but teased him anyway.

"Yes, Draco. It’s a thing normal people do."

"It sounds dreadful."

Teddy, who had been mostly focused on getting jam on every available surface, suddenly perked up. "I want Spider-Man!"

Both men turned to look at him.

"You want... what?" Draco asked, perplexed.

"Spider-Man!" Teddy repeated, eyes bright. "He's so cool!"

Potter blinked at Draco, who was staring at Teddy as if he’d just spoken in Parseltongue. "Is that a toy? A book? A... a spider?"

Teddy giggled. "I see ‘he’ on TV! He climbs walls and fights and— and— I want ‘he’ for Xmas!"

He ran a hand through his dark hair, utterly lost. "Right. Well. I’ll... figure that out."

The blond sighed, rubbing his temple. "I should’ve burned that damn TV."

"Too late, Malfoy. Welcome to parenthood."

Draco rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.

"Since we’re both busy today, Teddy should stay with Morgana," Draco said casually, as if it wasn’t a big deal. But Harry caught the way his fingers tapped against the table.

"Morgana?"

"Yes."

Harry leaned back, studying Draco. "You trust her."

Draco met his gaze now, chin lifting slightly. "I do."

Potter was surprised. He knew how few people Draco trusted. And if he was willing to leave Teddy with her, that meant something.

"Alright," Harry said, nodding. "If you trust her, that’s good enough for me."

Draco’s expression flickered, something soft and unreadable passing through his eyes. He didn't reply, just stood and gathered the plates, as if the conversation was already over.

But Harry knew better. This was another brick falling from the walls Draco had spent years fortifying. And Harry was patient.

He would wait.

…

Draco pushed open the door to Morgana's restaurant, the familiar scent of roasted herbs and warm spices wrapping around him like a well-worn cloak. The lunchtime rush had passed, leaving behind only the soft clatter of dishes being stacked and the occasional murmur of conversation from the few lingering customers.

Teddy, undeterred by the quiet atmosphere, bounded inside with the energy of someone who had never known the meaning of exhaustion. His hair, a brilliant shade of golden yellow, seemed to glow under the dim lighting. He spotted Morgana immediately and let out a delighted squeal.

"Auntie!" he chirped, throwing his arms up as if expecting to be scooped into the air.

Morgana, ever indulgent, bent down and ruffled his hair with a smirk. "Hi, little chef. Been causing trouble?"

Teddy giggled. "Not yet!"

Following at a more dignified pace, Draco leaned against the counter, arms crossed. He watched Teddy climb onto one of the chairs, his small legs swinging wildly under the table. It was impossible for him to sit still for more than a second. He tapped his fingers against the wood, then drummed them against his thighs, his gaze darting around the restaurant as if cataloging every small change since their last visit.

Morgana crossed her arms, smiling as she leaned against the counter beside Draco. "So, what about the casserole?"

Draco sighed, already regretting not leaving earlier. "Potter said it was edible," he muttered.

Teddy groaned dramatically, slumping over the table. "Hawwy isn't nice."

"You should consider that a win. Don’t be sad."

Draco rolled his eyes. "I don’t care what he thinks."

The woman didn’t respond immediately, just gave him a look—one of those looks Draco found unbearable, laden with an understanding that irritated him. He shifted uncomfortably.

Teddy, oblivious to any tension, grinned. "Hawwy eats everything."

Morgana drummed her fingers against her chin, her expression far too satisfied. "Hmm."

Draco narrowed his eyes. "What?"

She shrugged, overly innocent. "People aren’t always honest with words. But actions… those tell the real story, don’t you think?"

"You sound like bloody Trelawney."

"That’s offensive," Morgana paused. "To her."

Teddy, already disinterested in the conversation, hopped off the chair. "Can I get my coloring book?"

Draco glanced at Morgana before nodding. "Go ahead, mon chaton."

As soon as Teddy disappeared down the hallway, the atmosphere seemed to grow heavier, as if the absence of his childish energy left room for something more weighty.

Morgana turned her gaze back to Draco, her expression shifting to something more serious. "So, I suppose you came for a different reason than just to update me on the casserole."

Draco exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. "I need a free babysitter. Potter and I are busy for a few hours, but I’ll be right back. I’m just visiting my mother."

"Oh." That was too much information—Draco never talked about his mother unless Morgana pried. He had left Teddy with her before, but never for long, never completely. And then, the most surprising part—"But I don’t even know Potter. How could he trust me?"

"He doesn’t. He trusts me." Draco said like he also couldn't believe himself. 

Silence. Morgana’s eyes analyzed him until her expression softened again.

Draco leaned back against the counter. "Stop acting like you know me."

"But I do."

"You don’t," Draco shot back, but it sounded weak, even to him. "We’ve known each other for less than two months."

She pulled out a chair and sat down, watching him as if unraveling something invisible to the naked eye. "Maybe it’s because you remind me of someone. You feel familiar. Easy to read."

"And what exactly do you read in me?"

She exhaled through her nose. "That you’re afraid of feeling something you can’t control."

Draco stiffened. His fingers curled against his arms, nails pressing into his skin just enough to ground himself.

Morgana didn’t push. She just looked away, fixing her gaze on the teacup in front of her. For a moment, she seemed on the verge of saying something she shouldn’t.

"I used to be like that too," she said finally. "Afraid of what it meant to care. Afraid of the cost."

There was something in the way she spoke—a weight, an untold story.

"I never told you about my family."

Draco tensed. He didn’t like where this was going.

"You didn’t have to," he said. "I know who you are."

Morgana gave him a small, melancholic smile. "No, you don’t."

They stared at each other. Something heavy lingered in the silence between them.

She tapped a single finger against the wooden table. "My family was like yours, they believed in pureblood supremacy."

He felt his stomach twist. Morgana never said her last name, and Draco figured it was for the best, but given how her arms had no Dark Mark, it was not that bad. There were a lot of pureblood ideologists. Not everybody followed Voldermort or went to war. Draco had already noticed, among the many photos and paintings on the restaurant walls, a framed document—an official acknowledgment for the donated food that helped those affected by the Second Wizarding War. So how bad could Morgana be? How bad could her story be? 

A lot, judging from the pain in her eyes. 

"I was young when the war started, the first one," she continued, her voice steady. "Too young to fight. Too old to pretend I didn’t know what was happening."

Draco swallowed dryly but said nothing.

"I was raised with certain truths. And for a long time, I didn’t question them. I just... lived as expected."

There was a subtle bitterness in her words as she said, looking down at the cup in her hands. 

"But the war came for everyone. And one day, I had to choose."

Draco didn’t ask what happened. He didn’t need to.

"You hesitated."

She let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "Yes. And being neutral in times like this is almost as bad. Both sides hate you."

"Did someone get hurt?"

She held his gaze for a moment before answering, and Draco knew—he knew without her having to say it.

"Yes. They died."

Draco blinked. "They?"

“I had important people on both sides and lost them, but my biggest regret is,” Morgana looked away, the shadow of a sad smile on her lips. "... My lover. I should have told him how much I loved him. I should have lived that love. But I hesitated and paid the price."

Draco felt something tighten in his chest. "That wouldn’t have changed anything."

Morgana looked at him. "Not for him. But it would have for me. I would have been brave. I wouldn’t live in regret."

Draco looked away, uncomfortable. He knew she wasn’t just talking about herself.

"Why are you telling me this?" 

"Because I’ve seen what hesitation can cost." She watched him with a gaze that seemed to pierce through him. "And because I don’t want that to happen to you."

Draco clenched his jaw. "It’s not the same.”

"Just think about it, Draco. Time moves fast. And I know healing spells, but no magic can fix a heart broken by regret."

Teddy came running back at that moment, clutching his coloring book. "Found it!"

And as if a spell had been broken, the tension dissipated. Teddy climbed back onto the chair, immersed in his joy, oblivious to what had transpired between the two adults.

Draco watched him and, for a brief moment, wondered if Morgana was right.

…

Blaise Zabini lay on the hospital bed, his posture defiant even in the face of pain. His dark eyes flickered with irritation as he turned an apple between his long, elegant fingers. The fruit’s skin gleamed under the dim light of the room, its redness almost mocking in its vibrancy. He watched it for a long moment, his expression unreadable, before finally speaking.

“An apple a day keeps the doctor away,” he said, his voice low and sardonic.

Then, with a flick of his wrist, he hurled the apple across the room. It spun lazily through the air, lacking the strength or speed he’d intended. Unfortunately for him, dealing with plants seemed to require decent reflexes, because Neville Longbottom cautch it easily. 

"You’re supposed to eat it, Zabini," he said, bending down to retrieve it. He placed it back on the untouched meal tray, his movements calm, and patient. "That’s how the saying works."

Blaise smirked, reclining against the pillows. "Throwing it is funnier." The smirk didn’t reach his eyes. 

Neville didn’t know what had landed Blaise in this situation, but he could guess. Dark Magic clung to him like a stain, its remnants still visible in the raw, jagged edges of his injuries. Death Eaters was the obvious answer.

Blaise’s hands were steady, but there was a tension in his shoulders, the kind that spoke of someone waiting for the world to press too close. Neville had seen it before—mostly in creatures that had been handled too roughly, in plants that recoiled from too much sun. But Blaise was struggling—his posture rigid, his arm shifting awkwardly as if trying to adjust himself without jarring his injuries. Neville could see the discomfort in the way he held himself, the silent frustration in the set of his jaw.

So he asked.

“Is it alright if I—?” He let the question hang, fingers hovering just shy of Blaise’s wrist, making sure there was space between them. No hesitation. Just room to breathe.

Blaise’s dark eyes flicked to his hand, then back up. The pause wasn’t long, but Neville caught it.

“No,” Blaise said, voice even.

Neville nodded, lowering his hand without comment. He didn’t push, didn’t linger. Instead, he turned back to his task—the favor Harry had asked of him. 

It was easy, brewing a few restorative potions, not that potions were his strength, but this was more reliant on the quality of ingredients than brewing skill. And he had grown almost everything himself back at Hogwarts, so he trusted his plants more than most people.

And judging by the fact that Blaise had no visitors, it seemed they also did not trust many people.

But Zabini needed friends in a situation like this, and despite spending years in the same castle, Neville could barely recall speaking to Blaise before. They weren’t the type to seek each other out. Neville had never been particularly social, and Blaise—well, Blaise had never needed to be. He was the kind of person who was always seen, even in silence. Tall, immaculately dressed, moving through the halls of Hogwarts like the world owed him space. He had always been surrounded by people, yet somehow, he had always seemed alone.

Now, more than ever.

Back to the present, he noted the way Blaise’s fingers twitched nervously against the blanket, trying to pull them closer, the subtle tension in his shoulders. He wasn’t just injured—he was uncomfortable. His torso was bare, the left side wrapped in fresh bandages, and though the healers had likely left him shirtless for practicality, Neville could tell Blaise hated it. Hated being exposed, unable to dress himself without assistance.

Neville hesitated, then quietly reached for the folded shirt resting nearby. He had already noticed Blaise’s struggle—his limited movements, the barely concealed tension in his shoulders as he tried to adjust himself without worsening his injuries. He didn’t comment, didn’t ask if Blaise wanted help—that would have just forced him to refuse out of pride. Instead, he simply moved with careful, practiced ease, holding the fabric in a way that made it clear he wasn’t going to rush, wasn’t going to touch where he wasn’t welcome.

He unfolded the shirt and held it open, offering Blaise the first move. Blaise hesitated, his fingers twitching before finally reaching for the sleeve. His arm trembled slightly as he lifted it, and Neville saw the way his jaw tightened, the breath he took through his nose as if bracing for pain. He didn’t comment on it. Instead, he shifted subtly, angling the fabric so Blaise didn’t have to struggle as much.

Neville made sure not to touch him. But when Blaise faltered, his arm straining just slightly, Neville’s fingers brushed against his wrist, steadying without holding. A silent reassurance, light enough that Blaise could pull away if he wanted to. But he didn’t. He let Neville help, even if his expression didn’t soften.

He was always on the defensive, always waiting for a fight, for some kind of retaliation. The more gentle Neville was, the more Blaise bristled, as if expecting the softness to be a trick. It was as if Blaise didn’t know what to do with kindness when it wasn’t transactional. And when Neville didn’t meet his sharpness with sarcasm or hostility, Blaise seemed almost... lost. So Neville adjusted.

He wasn’t naturally one for banter, and he wasn’t the type to seek out arguments, but maybe this was the only way Blaise knew how to talk to someone. Maybe, deep down, he just wanted someone to talk to.

"You’re making my job harder on purpose," Neville muttered, crossing his arms. 

Blaise gave him a slow, considering look before tilting his head slightly. "I don’t care." 

Neville sighed. 

He hadn’t expected much from Blaise—not friendliness, certainly—but he had expected worse. He had expected cruelty, barbed remarks, the kind of scorn Slytherins had once used so easily against him. But Blaise wasn’t cruel. Just difficult. A little reckless. A little irritating. But not unbearable. 

“My job is to help you get better,” he said gently, “so maybe you should care.”

He gestured toward the tray again, the potion still waiting. Blaise didn’t move to take it, his fingers curling and uncurling against the sheets. That slight tremor wasn’t from the pain in his body—it was from something else. Something deeper. Neville could feel it, like a weight pressing on the room.

"I don't care about getting better," Blaise said, his voice low but edged with a sharpness that cut through the quiet. "I want to get out of here."

“You will,” Neville said simply. “When you get better.”

Blaise’s lips twisted into something that wasn’t quite a smile. "Define better, because I feel exactly like I always felt all my life."

"You were not in bandages and with marks from dark magic for all your life."

For a moment, Blaise just stared at him, his dark eyes unreadable. Then he let out a short, humorless laugh. "You got me," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I’m not a fighter."

Neville didn’t have an answer for this so he said, "Just take the potion I made."

Blaise let out a breath, sharp and dismissive, though it was laced with something else—a flicker of frustration. “You’re very bossy for someone who talks to plants all day.”

Neville allowed himself a small, quiet laugh. He wasn’t one for banter, but with Blaise, it almost felt like a challenge he could meet. “And you’re very stubborn for someone who is not a fighter.”

Blaise let out a soft, breathy chuckle, though there was little amusement in it. 

Blaise finally drank the potion and Neville moved to collect the empty vials from the nightstand, his touch careful, deliberate. He had spent years tending to things that resisted care—plants with poisonous thorns, roots that strangled rather than grew, greenery that needed patience rather than force.

"You don’t have to be difficult about it," Neville finally said, not unkindly.

Blaise let out a quiet scoff, shifting against the pillows. "And you don’t have to pretend to care."

Neville met his gaze. "I’m not pretending."

His shoulders relaxed just a fraction, and for the first time since Neville had entered the room, he didn’t look quite so guarded. There was something almost fragile about the way he sat there, his defenses momentarily lowered, as if he didn’t have the energy to keep them up anymore.

Definitely, Neville thought, he just needed someone to talk to. Someone who wouldn’t push, wouldn’t pry, but would just… be there. And maybe, just maybe, Neville could be that person.

Before either of them could say more, the door swung open. Blaise tensed immediately. Neville noticed the shift, the way Blaise’s smirk disappeared, his fingers tightening against the sheets. He wasn’t sure what he had expected, but when Harry Potter walked in, expression unreadable, everything clicked into place. 

Harry’s gaze flickered toward Neville first, and for a brief moment, his guarded demeanor softened. He gave Neville a small nod—acknowledgment, familiarity—but the moment passed as quickly as it came. Then his eyes landed on Blaise, and the air in the room turned colder.

"You look better," Harry said, stopping near the foot of the bed. 

"Not thanks to you," Blaise replied smoothly, but there was something sharp beneath the amusement. 

Harry exhaled through his nose, his expression flat. "Are you going to say anything useful today, or can I leave?" 

"You know where the door is." 

Neville resisted the urge to sigh. This, at least, was familiar—Blaise’s sharp edges, his obvious distrust, the way he pushed people away the moment they got too close. Harry clenched his jaw, visibly losing patience. 

He hadn’t seen Harry and Blaise interact much before, but this—this was different. Harry wasn’t just irritated; he was distant, cold in a way that made Neville uneasy. Weren’t they supposed to be working together? It felt wrong.

“Harry,” Neville started, glancing at him with slight confusion. “Is everything—”

Before he could finish, the door slammed open—hard—crashing into Harry’s shoulder.

"What the hell, Ron?" Harry hissed. 

Blaise laughed, genuine this time, as Ron Weasley stumbled inside, quickly shutting the door behind him. His face was flushed, eyes darting toward the hallway. 

"Sorry, mate," Ron whispered. "I was in a rush." 

"Why?" 

Ron shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting toward Blaise before lowering his voice. "Malfoy almost saw me. I don’t know how to lie, and if he asked me anything, it would’ve been awkward."

Neville raised an eyebrow, frowning slightly. Why would Malfoy even talk to Ron? But before he could question it further, he caught the subtle shift in Blaise’s demeanor. At the mention of Draco’s name, Blaise’s entire body seemed to go rigid. His jaw clenched, and his fingers curled involuntarily against the sheets, his gaze locked on Harry with newfound intensity.

"Can I see him?" Blaise asked, his voice quieter now, the playfulness completely gone. There was a rawness there, a need that he didn’t even try to hide.

"No." 

Blaise’s fingers curled slightly against the sheets. "Then can I talk to Pansy? A Floo call?" 

"You can," Ron admitted. "But you’ll have to use a spell to hide your injuries and don’t say anything about the attack." 

Blaise barely acknowledged him, keeping his gaze locked on Harry. 

"Then why can’t I do the same to talk to Draco?" 

Harry’s expression darkened. "Because he’s a suspect." 

Blaise sat up too fast, his injuries forgotten in his frustration. Pain shot through his shoulder, and he winced, but he didn’t stop. His face twisted, first in disbelief—then in fury. 

"Are you fucking stupid? Draco would never do this to me!" His voice rose. "I already told you—I saw Nott! Use your damn brains for once—" 

"Shouting at me won’t change anything," Harry interrupted, his voice low but firm. Blaise clenched his jaw, his knuckles whitening against the sheets. “But maybe I deserve it. You were attacked a day before I met with Draco. If I’d gotten there earlier, he’d have an alibi. But because I was late, he’s a suspect." 

The realization hit hard. Blaise’s frustration, his anger—all of it shifted into something colder. 

"You know," Blaise said, his voice suddenly quiet but laced with something lethal.  "It’s not that I hate you, Potter. But moments like this make me fucking sick of your self-righteous bullshit." Neville saw the way Blaise’s fingers twitched, the tension in his jaw. “Fucking Griffindor pretending to be a saint, you killed people. You are a real murderer, not Draco.”

Harry flinched and Blaise smirked, vicious and satisfied. That was how deep he could cut. This wasn’t just a sharp retort—this was hate, fire, and something dangerously close to revenge. He wanted to get under Harry’s skin. To make him feel just a fraction of the helplessness he was feeling.

"Draco’s the one at risk of going to Azkaban because of your investigation, and you still dare to act like you care about him?" Blaise scoffed. "We all know you hate him and he hates you."

Harry exhaled sharply, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. "I don’t hate him. Not anymore."

Blaise let out a humorless laugh. "Since when? Hogwarts?"

Before Harry could respond, Neville spoke, his voice calm but deliberate. 

"Did you know that Slytherin won the House Cup last year?" 

Blaise blinked, thrown off balance for just a second, and Neville saw it—that brief moment where the defensive mask cracked. Blaise had been expecting a fight. He never believed Neville would treat him as kind if he knew how cunning and cutting he could be. Yet, against all odds, Neville’s smile didn’t wave.  

"Oh, that’s very reassuring," Blaise drawled, still sarcastic, but something in his expression softened. 

Neville smiled growing seeing that he got an answer. "Yeah. The students were really happy. I thought I’d be upset about Gryffindor losing, but honestly, I was just happy for them." 

For a heartbeat, Blaise just looked at him, something unreadable passing behind his eyes. For the first time since Neville had entered the room, Blaise didn’t look so guarded. He didn’t look quite so lost. Maybe, just maybe, Neville’s kindness was starting to get through.

And for that brief moment, Blaise didn’t fight it.

Ron, watching this strange shift unfold, furrowed his brows. “Since when are you two friends?”

“Since now,” Blaise said flatly, shooting him a glare.

Neville didn’t bother hiding his grin.

….

Snow crunched beneath Harry’s boots as he made his way up to the Burrow’s front door, the glow of Christmas lights casting warm hues against the snow-covered garden. He hesitated for a moment before knocking, adjusting his scarf as he tried to ignore the nervous tension in his chest. He hadn’t seen Ginny since the fight between the Weasleys and Draco, and though things had since settled, an air of uncertainty still lingered.

Not that they were still at odds—Ron had told him how sorry his parents were and that they were even willing to invite Draco for Christmas. But Harry had no idea where Ginny stood on the matter. She had been so certain that day, so firm in her belief that Draco was not a good influence on Teddy. She didn’t trust him, and to be fair, Harry understood why. Sometimes he questioned himself as well, wondering why he trusted Draco despite everything. But there was no logical answer—he just saw something in him, something honest, something real.

He barely had time to process his thoughts before the door opened. Instead of Arthur, whom he had expected, it was Ginny standing there, framed by the warm glow of the Burrow’s interior. Behind her, Harry caught glimpses of twinkling decorations and familiar redheaded figures peeking curiously to see who had arrived.

“Working hours?” Harry asked, surprised by Ginny’s answer.

Arthur never worked during Christmas week, and even Harry, who considered himself a workaholic, had decided to take a break. He had been certain he’d find Arthur at home, his biggest concern being the color of the gift wrapping.

Ginny quickly stepped outside and closed the door behind her, sparing him the scrutiny of the others. Harry silently thanked her for the gesture, though he wasn’t sure if it was for his sake or hers.

“Well, you know how crazy things are right now,” Ginny said with an awkward smile, gesturing vaguely.

“The situation really is tough… It’s been so long, and yet it feels like every year it gets harder to shake off these problems—Death Eaters, rebels, corruption. It’s like the war never really ended.”

Ginny and Harry exchanged a glance, the weight of unspoken thoughts pressing between them. They both knew it wasn’t a good topic, so Ginny lightened the mood with a joke.

“You should quit that boring job. The Savior deserves a break.”

“I’m fine, and I’m working less now. Teddy needs me, and it’s not like I’m doing it for the money. Although… I haven’t touched the fortune."

He didn’t plan to tell Ginny that, but it just slipped out. Maybe it’s been weighing on him more than realized.

Ginny listened attentively, her expression gentle and understanding. “Why are you leaving the fortune untouched?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t feel right using their money. I mean, it’s mine now, but… it feels strange.”

“I think I get it. Not that I have a fortune or anything,” she joked, “but I know what it’s like to feel like something isn’t really yours.”

Harry nodded. He knew Ginny had struggled with that when she became Quidditch captain at Hogwarts—some had treated it as a prize for dating him rather than something she had earned. And worse, they’d already broken up by then.

“It’s not a bad thing. I like the work.”

“I know you do. But you should rest." Ginny tilted her head, watching him closely before smirking. “So… how is it, living with Malfoy?”

Harry blinked at her in surprise, caught off guard by the teasing lilt in her voice. He had expected tension, maybe even another argument, but not this. “You don’t trust him, do you?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know, Harry. I don’t think he’s the best person to have around Teddy. But… Ron told me you two have things under control. And you obviously trust him.”

“I do,” Harry admitted, the words coming easily. He didn’t know when he had stopped questioning it, when trusting Draco had become second nature. “Teddy likes him. And Draco’s trying. He’s been through a lot too.”

Ginny hummed, as if still deciding how she felt about that answer. But she didn’t press. Instead, she grinned. “Well, if you start dressing better and acting posh, I’ll know Malfoy finally got to you.”

As their laughter faded, they stood looking at each other. Snow fell slowly around them, yet Harry still refused to come inside when Ginny asked again.

“I saw the Quidditch match. Great goals,” he said proudly. He could have ended the conversation there, but he felt like there was more to say, even if he wasn’t sure what.

“It's hard to stand out. Everyone on the team is so incredible.”

“All the team members have names that start with ‘G.’ Is that how you got into such a big team?” Harry teased, knowing full well Ginny had earned her spot.

“You’re late. George already made that joke.”

George making jokes was a good sign of progress, but Harry was sure it wasn’t a great topic, so he stayed quiet.

“Ah, I know it’s your favorite team, but isn’t it hard to date when you’re always surrounded by women?” He brought up the subject, but instantly regretted it. Even though it had been two years since their breakup, they’d never talked about other relationships.

He knew Ginny had dated someone after him, but it had ended quickly. And Harry had had a few flings, but nothing serious—he didn’t have the time or headspace for it.

“About that… I’m dating someone.”

“That’s great! Congratulations,” Harry said surprised by the news. 

“Don’t tell anyone yet. Actually, you’re the first person I’ve told. I feel relieved to finally say it out loud.”

“That’s good. I’m happy for you. Uh, what’s their name?”

“Oh, I’m not sure if I should say. You know her too.”

“Her?”

“Yes?” Ginny frowned, thinking she’d made it clear. In fact, she’d only confessed because she thought Harry had figured it out and was hinting at it.

“B-but you dated guys. I mean, you even dated me! Was I such a bad boyfriend that you’ve given up on men entirely?” Harry was in total shock, and Ginny burst out laughing.

“I think I like both. Or maybe I just like women and never realized it. Who knows?” She shrugged, as if she were talking about the weather.

Harry stood frozen, his mind racing to process what she had just said. He had always known that some people were attracted to both genders, of course, but he’d never considered that it might apply to him. Now, though, the idea didn’t seem so far-fetched. It felt like a door had been cracked open, revealing a possibility he hadn’t dared to explore before.

Ginny’s red hair ruffled in the strong wind, and Harry reached out to smooth the unruly strands. If only he liked Ginny, and she liked him… everything would be so much easier.

But he didn’t and suddenly was ready to face it so he said, “I also like both.” 

The woman frowned in confusion. So he tried again, already retracting his hand from her cheeks, but she put her hand on them holding them in place. 

“I like guys, well, a specific guy… You also know him.” That was harder than he imagined. “I’m not dating him, is complicated. I also didn’t them anyone, well, Hermione probably knew before me but… You are the first I actually choose to tell.”

Ginny’s expression softened, her eyes filled with a mix of surprise and understanding. “You should tell him,” she said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Harry let out a nervous laugh. “I kissed him. He must know.”

“That’s not the same, idiot,” she replied, rolling her eyes. “Just tell him. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“He could kill me,” Harry muttered, half-joking, though the fear in his voice was real. “Or worse. He could hate me.”

“He won’t,” Ginny said firmly, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Harry hesitated, his gaze dropping to the ground. “It’s Malfoy,” he admitted, the name slipping out before he could stop himself.

“I know, Harry,” Ginny said quietly, her voice steady.

Harry didn’t question, at this point, he just accepted that everybody knew before him. 

Harry glanced to the side, suddenly feeling the strange, prickling sensation of being watched. He scanned the area, but there was no one there—just the rustling of leaves in the wind. Shaking off the feeling, he turned back to Ginny, his heart lighter than it had been in weeks. For the first time, he felt a glimmer of hope, fragile but undeniable.

Chapter Text

Draco arrived at St. Mungo’s with measured steps, his hands clenched in his pockets, unwilling to hope too much. The familiar weight of dread coiled in his stomach, twisting tighter with every step toward his mother’s room. Omar had assured him there were improvements, but progress with Narcissa was fragile, and unpredictable. Some days she was present, aware. On other days, she drifted somewhere he couldn’t reach.

He hesitated at the door, inhaling deeply before stepping inside.

The room smelled of medicinal herbs and parchment—faint traces of the past clinging to the present. Narcissa sat by the small table, her posture impeccable, fingers curled delicately around a teacup as if she were entertaining guests in Malfoy Manor, not wasting away in a hospital ward. The sight of her sitting upright, engaged with the world, sent a flicker of cautious hope through Draco’s chest.

Then she looked at him. Really looked at him.

Her sharp blue eyes narrowed slightly, studying his face with unnerving intensity. A chill ran down his spine before she spoke.

“Lucius.”

Draco stiffened. He had known this moment would come again. Each time, it cut a little deeper.

It wasn’t just that she saw Lucius in him—he had long since come to terms with their shared features, the way age sculpted his face into something eerily familiar. It was how certain she sounded. As if time had warped and dragged her backward, anchoring her in a world where he was someone else entirely.

His lips parted to correct her, but she spoke again, her brows furrowing as she examined him closer.

“No… no, that’s not right.” A flicker of doubt crossed her face. “You’re not Lucius.”

Narcissa looked at him momentarily, her eyes blue, glazing his soul. Draco exhaled, grasping this moment of clarity. These little moments made it all worth it, so he smiled, reassuring her.  

"I have a son…” she murmured, her voice thoughtful. “His name is Draco.”

“Yes, I’m Draco, Mom.”

But then she frowned, tilting her head slightly as if trying to recall something just beyond her reach. “I have another son.”

“Not that I know of,” he said lightly, hoping to guide the conversation back to reality. At least she recognized him—at least she remembered Draco. That was something.

“Blaise.” Mrs. Malfoy whispered.

“Blaise?” That was unexpected.

She nodded. “Yes… Blaise Zabini.” Her voice was clearer now, her fingers tightening slightly around the teacup. “He’s here, your brother. In this hospital.”

Draco stared at her, struggling to process what he had just heard. Blaise—strong, sharp-witted Blaise—was in St. Mungo’s? How? Why hadn’t he heard? 

More importantly, how did she remember him?

Almost no one knew and Draco didn’t talk about Blaise, so that was proof that it was her memory returning. The treatment was working. 

It was an old family secret, one buried so deep that even among the Sacred Twenty-Eight, few would dare to speak of it. Narcissa had taken Blaise under her wing when he was ten, an unofficial adoption. It had been her way of shielding him from his family problems. The Ministry never recognized it, and neither did the public, not even Lucius did that much, although he was not against it.

Never said that Blaise was not family, so within the walls of Malfoy Manor, Blaise had been family.

Only those closest to them had known. Not even Pansy knew the full extent.

And yet, here she was, remembering it clearly—so clearly it sent a shiver down Draco’s spine.

“What do you mean he’s here?” Draco asked, his voice quieter now, steadier.

Narcissa’s fingers flexed against the porcelain. “He’s in the Janus Thickey Ward, room 14. Long-term spell damage.” Her lips pressed together in that same composed way she had always carried bad news. “They won’t tell me what happened, but he’s there.”

Draco swallowed, forcing himself to focus.

“Are you sure?” he asked carefully, wary of believing too quickly. “Maybe it was a dream you had.”

“I saw him,” she said with certainty. “I was walking, and the door opened quickly. I only caught a glimpse, but I would always recognize my sons.”

That wasn’t entirely true, but she made it sound so convincing and certain that for a moment, Draco almost believed her. Until logic reminded him that she had just called him Lucius and was not a reliable source. 

At the same time, Draco could shake away a gut feeling, inside him like an instinct and sense telling him to believe, to investigate this.

 What if? 

Maybe she was right.

Draco exhaled slowly, steadying himself. His fingers drummed anxiously against his thigh before he ran a hand through his hair—a nervous habit he hadn’t shaken since childhood. His mother was improving, but she wasn’t completely back. He wanted to trust these moments of clarity, to believe they meant something lasting, but uncertainty gnawed at him.

Still, she was here, and that meant something.

…

Draco hadn’t been sure whether to believe his mother. Even in her clearer moments, she drifted between past and present, reality and illusion. But when she whispered the ward number—Janus Thickey, Room 14—with such precision, something in him told him she was right.

And now, here he was.

He hadn’t gone in immediately. Instead, he lingered outside, watching.

First, he saw Potter and Weasley leaving the room. Harry’s head was bowed slightly, hands stuffed into his pockets as he spoke in hushed tones to Ron. Ron, in turn, responded with a fierce intensity, his expression serious, his movements tense.

This caught Draco off guard. Harry didn’t lie—he was terrible at it, painfully so. Draco, on the other hand, had grown up in an environment where lying was a basic survival skill. He wasn’t particularly talented at it, nor was he the best at hiding his emotions by Slytherin standards, but compared to Potter? He might as well have been a master.

And yet, here he was, blindsided.

The realization stung more than he cared to admit. Harry’s honesty had always been one of his most infuriating traits, but also one Draco had come to rely on. It was a constant, something he could trust even when everything else between them felt uncertain. But now, that trust felt fractured, and Draco hated how much it unsettled him.

He felt exposed, as if the ground beneath him had shifted without warning. For someone who prided himself on reading people, on staying one step ahead, this was a blow to his pride as much as his heart.

And beneath it all, there was a quiet, gnawing fear. If Harry could keep this from him, what else was he hiding? What else had Draco missed?

Then, minutes later, he saw Longbottom.

Fucking Longbottom.

Draco’s breath came unevenly. Everybody knew. But not him. Despite all the claims of trust, Harry didn’t trust a former Death Eater. Good for him.

A dry laugh almost escaped his lips. He pressed a hand to his face, fingers digging into his temple as he tried to push down the sharp sting in his chest. Draco had trusted him. Let his guard down around him. He had let Harry see him in ways no one else had, and in return, Harry had kept this from him.

He couldn’t keep thinking about this, or he’d be consumed by rage. He forced himself to focus, he needed to see how bad Blaise’s condition was. So Draco pushed open the door and stepped inside.

Blaise was lying in the bed, eyes closed, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips despite the bandages covering his face.

“Forgot something, Longbottom?” he drawled, not bothering to look up as the door clicked shut. When silence met his remark, he sighed, shifting slightly against the pillows. “I’m in the middle of my beauty sleep, so whatever you want, come back later.”

“That’s a bold way to greet me.” 

“Unless you’re Merlin—” Blaise started, only to freeze mid-sentence, recognition slamming into him like a curse.

Draco leaned against the now-closed door, arms crossed, amusement dancing in his eyes as he watched Blaise crack one eye open. The blond saw the exact moment it hit. Blaise jolted upright, moving too fast. Pain flashed across his face, but he barely seemed to register it, dark eyes wide in disbelief before a slow, disbelieving smile began to form.

And then, just as quickly, it was gone.

Blaise’s shoulders tensed, his mouth pressing into a thin line. His dark, elegant features trembled, and Draco barely had time to register the way his eyes shone before his voice—thick, rough, but unmistakably Blaise—broke the silence.

“Dray…”

Draco smiled softly. The same smile he gave to Teddy. 

Before he could say anything, Blaise was already moving, clearly struggling. Bandages covered his face and legs, and although a large shirt hid his torso, Draco knew it was bad.

Draco moved quickly, intercepting Blaise before he could get out of bed. “You look like shit.”

Blaise laughed, though it was strained. “I’ll be hot with scars.”

Draco rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it.

“But I’ll kill whoever did this. Was it the Aurors? Public reprisal? Death Eaters?”

“I don’t know,” Blaise admitted, his voice weary. “I thought I saw Nott, but the Aurors said he had an alibi. They’re trying to verify, but the magical traces left at the scene don’t match his. It was probably someone on Polyjuice.” 

Draco thought about Astoria, pregnant, having Aurors in her house accusing Nott, how she couldn’t believe him and left. He also didn't want to believe it was Nott's doing, but he couldn't discard the possibility. 

“And who’s the other suspect? They don’t have any?”

“You.”

Draco froze. “What?”

Blaise sighed. “Yeah. I told them it was bullshit, but—”

“Harry thinks it was me?”

The words came out quieter than Draco intended, but the rawness in them was unmistakable.

Blaise tilted his head slightly, studying him. Harry? Since when was Potter just Harry? And why did Draco look so… broken? Potter had always assumed the worst of him. That wasn’t news.

“Probably,” Blaise admitted.

Not that Harry had said it outright… but he hadn’t denied it either. He had muttered things like, “It’s my fault. I should’ve come earlier, given him an alibi,” but he hadn’t. And if it was his fault, maybe he deserved Draco’s rage.

Draco let out a dry laugh, though there was no humor in it. “Of course. Should’ve fucking known.”

Blaise frowned, his expression darkening with something sharper than concern. “You know I don’t believe it. But that doesn’t mean you can go off and do something reckless to prove a point.” His voice was firm, but there was an edge of frustration now.

Draco exhaled sharply. “I don’t even fucking know what I want, Blaise.” He ran a hand through his hair, fingers clenching at the strands for a brief moment. “I thought—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening. “Never mind.”

Blaise didn’t look away, watching him carefully before shaking his head. “You should go.”

Draco’s eyes snapped up. “Excuse me?”

“Not forever,” Blaise said, voice level. “But you need to clear your head. And you shouldn’t be here. What if the Aurors caught you?”

“Fuck them.”

“Don’t be stupid.” Blaise’s voice was sharper now, a rare glimpse of frustration slipping through. “Go. We can talk more when you’re not standing there like you’re about to hex someone.”

Draco hesitated, searching Blaise’s face for something he couldn’t quite name. Finally, he gave a stiff nod. “Fine.”

He turned toward the door, but Blaise’s voice stopped him one last time.

“Draco.”

He turned his head slightly.

“Just don’t forget who he is,” Blaise said quietly. “You could hand him your heart on a silver platter, and he’d still choose his side in the end. You think he sees you differently, but you’re fooling yourself. He’s still Harry Potter. You still Draco Malfoy.”

Draco didn’t answer. He wanted to say that Blaise didn’t know Harry, but apparently, Draco also didn’t. So what could he say?

He just left.

…

Things were strange between Harry and Draco—not because they were fighting. In fact, that was the problem. They weren’t fighting at all. That would have been easier. At least a fight would have given Harry something to hold onto, a reason for the growing distance between them. But Draco wasn’t angry—at least, not in a way that showed. He was distant, almost too polite and that was worse. 

For two people accustomed to dissecting even the slightest remark in a conversation, spending an entire week without a single acid comment or even the tiniest bit of bickering was unusual. 

Their conversations had been filled with witty jabs and lingering tension, every interaction balancing on a knife’s edge of familiarity and rivalry. But now? Now, their interactions had been reduced to surface-level politeness, and it was driving Harry insane.

Part of it, Harry supposed, was that they were barely seeing each other. Draco was always working at night shift, spending weekends with his mother. He was home when Harry was gone, gone when Harry was home. 

When they did cross paths, their conversations were brief. He was still taking care of Teddy, still holding up his responsibilities, doing his house chores, but something was off.

The first time Harry truly noticed was during lunch, one of the rare moments their schedules aligned.

Draco had set the table. The food smelled incredible, the presentation was immaculate—because of course it was—but something felt off. The room was too quiet, the usual undercurrent of tension missing. For a brief moment, Harry almost let himself believe this was paranoia. Almost.

He picked up his fork, prodding at the plate with exaggerated suspicion. Might as well test the waters. “All right, what’s the catch?”

“It’s just a meal.”

Harry put his fork down, staring at him. “And you’ll be making that perfect meal any day now?”

Draco barely reacted, just giving the smallest of nods. “Perhaps.”

Harry clenched his jaw.

A few days ago, Draco would’ve smirked. Would’ve thrown back a challenge, sharp and smug.

"Just wait, Potter. One day, I’ll make a meal so good, it’ll shut you up for good. You’ll finally understand what a real Malfoy meal tastes like."

And Harry had laughed—actually laughed. The sound had echoed through the house, lingering even after Draco had left, like warmth that refused to fade.

But now? Now there was nothing but silence.

Teddy, oblivious to the tension, swung his little legs under the table, poking at his food with a spoon. "Dwaco cooks good," he declared proudly.

Harry seized the opportunity. "Yeah? Better than me?"

"Uh-huh! You make yucky." Teddy said that’s what he called the vegetables or things he didn’t like in general.

Draco let out a quiet snort, but it lacked his usual smugness, “I’ve been improving.”

No teasing. No obviously, I’m good at everything remark. No insult to Harry, incentivizing Teddy against him as he would always do. 

Harry pushed forward, leaning back with a smirk. “Who knew Malfoys could be domestic? What’s next? Knitting?”

Draco simply cut into his food with a quiet clink of silverware. “I suppose I could learn. Teddy would like that.”

Harry blinked. Seriously?

Teddy, missing the tension, gasped. “Knit Spider-Man!”

Harry shook his head. "Not everything has to be Spider-Man, Ted."

Teddy pouted. “But Aunt 'Mione says knitting makes socks!" He looked at Draco, hopeful. "Can you make Spider-Man socks?”

Draco barely looked up. "I'll see what I can do."

Harry exhaled slowly. This was getting ridiculous.

“So, what, you’ve finally decided to be civil? Am I supposed to be honored?” He waved his fork in Draco’s direction, waiting for the usual eye roll, the usual Potter, you’re insufferable.

But Draco just looked at him, impassive. “Would you rather I waste energy arguing? There is no point.”

Harry set his fork down. “Merlin, you really have lost it.”

Draco took a slow sip of his drink. “If you say so.”

Teddy looked between them, clearly sensing something was wrong, but not quite understanding it. He reached for his juice, brows furrowed. "You two are being weird."

Harry sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, kid. I know."

The usual sarcastic remarks? Gone.
The playful bickering? Absent.
Draco smiled, but it wasn’t real.

They didn’t talk about the kiss.

And suddenly, a week had passed.

Harry wasn’t sure what was worse—the fact that Draco was avoiding him or the fact that he wasn’t technically doing anything wrong. He wasn’t slamming doors or refusing to speak to Harry. He wasn’t openly hostile.

He wasn’t shutting Harry out.
He wasn’t ignoring him outright.

But he was slipping away.

And Harry didn’t know how to pull him back.

…

The tension in the Auror Department was already high that morning—files stacked in precarious towers, memos zooming overhead like restless birds, the low murmur of voices debating the latest surge in post-war criminal activity. The air carried the faint scent of ink and burnt coffee, a sign that people had been working for too many hours with too little rest.

Harry had barely settled at his desk when a thick folder landed in front of him with a dull thud.

“About the Zabini case,” Robards said, standing over him with his usual clipped tone. “Since Nott’s alibi checks out, we’re moving to our next suspect.”

Harry barely glanced at it before his eyes caught the name printed across the top in bold lettering.

Draco Malfoy.

His stomach twisted. His jaw clenched.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low and firm. “I won’t do it.”

The room fell silent. Every Auror in the department knew that tone—unyielding, heavy with something that dared defiance.

Robards looked up slowly, his sharp eyes narrowing. “Excuse me?”

Harry didn’t flinch. “I said it before, Draco Malfoy shouldn't even be a suspect.”

Robards exhaled sharply. “That’s not your decision.”

Harry opened his mouth to argue, but then something clicked.

Why now?

They had been dragging their feet with Blaise’s case for weeks. It had barely been on the department’s radar. No press coverage. No Ministry-wide briefings. They’d been deliberately keeping it quiet—not to protect Blaise, but to keep the public from panicking. If people knew that a well-connected, wealthy Slytherin had been attacked under suspicious circumstances, rumors of Death Eater retaliation would spread like Fiendfyre. The last thing the Ministry wanted was paranoia about old threats resurfacing.

So why was Robards suddenly eager to play detective?

And then Harry spotted him.

A man Harry didn’t recognize stood just beyond the glass window of Robards’ office, deep in conversation with another official. Expensive robes. Carefully groomed. The sharp, calculating air of someone who didn’t waste time with people he considered beneath him.

Harry’s stomach sank. Right. So that was it.

He didn’t know the man’s name, but he knew the type. Another high-ranking Ministry official, most likely with connections. 

“Who’s him?” The other man didn’t need to look aside to know who Harry was talking about. 

“Viviana Zabini’s latest lover,” Robard said mockingly, almost disgusted. 

It was all so predictable. Blaise’s case hadn’t been important until it was. Until this man had stepped in, probably demanding to know why the investigation was going nowhere. And now Robards needed to put on a show of efficiency.

And, of course, Malfoy was the perfect suspect.

Harry’s hands curled into fists.

“You’re going after Malfoy because it’s easy,” he said, his voice low, controlled. “Because people still want a scapegoat. But you don’t know a damn thing about him. And now you want to throw him to the wolves?”

Robards exhaled sharply through his nose, clearly losing patience. “We’re investigating all possibilities. And let’s not pretend your personal life isn’t clouding your judgment. You live with him. You—” His lip curled slightly. “—share responsibilities with him. I asked you before if you were friends. You said you weren’t.”

Harry’s fists tightened.

"We still aren’t." He inhaled sharply through his nose, forcing himself to keep his voice level. “If I were biased, Draco would already know about Blaise’s case. And trust me, he’d be in this very office, tearing you apart for not having someone locked up yet.” His voice hardened. “Blaise Zabini is his best friend.”

What Harry didn’t add—what he wouldn’t add—was how he’d seen Draco writing letter after letter to Blaise, even knowing there wouldn’t be a reply. How he’d watched him wait, hope, and pretend he wasn’t hurting. He wouldn’t give Robards that. Draco’s weakness wasn’t for the Ministry to pick apart.

“What, just because you two are playing house, you think you know him? Wake up, Potter. He’s an ex-criminal living under your roof. And frankly, I don’t know why you let him near a kid.”

Something inside Harry was boiling.

“I am not going to be the Ministry’s attack dog in this investigation,” he bit out, voice dangerously low. He pushed the file across the desk, his knuckles white. “In fact, the investigation won’t happen at all.”

Robards’ tone turned cold. “You don’t get to make that call.” He leaned forward, voice tight with authority. “I don’t care if you’re Harry Potter or—”

"I am Harry Potter."

The name hung heavy in the air between them, weighted with everything it meant. And for the first time in a long time, Harry let himself be arrogant about it.

“That means something, whether you like it or not.”

Robards’ nostrils flared. “You’re still under my orders.”

“Then find someone else.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

What was Robards going to do? Fire him? Yeah, right. He’d like to see him try.

“I promise you, this investigation will not happen if I’m alive.”

Without waiting for permission, Harry turned on his heel and walked out, his pulse hammering, his emotions coiling tight in his chest—rage and something else, something raw and aching.

Draco was already slipping away from him.

And Harry refused to be the one to push him over the edge.

He hadn’t wanted Draco to know about Blaise—not yet. Maybe not ever. A part of him was almost relieved that the case was classified, another secret he had no choice but to keep. Because he knew exactly how it would hit Draco, and that was a blow he couldn’t afford right now.

Draco was barely holding himself together as it was.

And then to find out—while being accused of trying to murder his best friend?

No. Harry wouldn’t let that happen. Not if he could help it.

…

Harry wasn’t mad. At least, he shouldn’t be mad.

It was only logical. He and Draco weren’t anything, so why should it bother him that Draco had spent the last two weeks treating him like a polite acquaintance rather than—well, whatever they were before?

Unfortunately, Harry was never good at being logical.

He was, in fact, mad.

The thing was, not having Draco made him realize how much he had gotten used to him. The real him. Not this polite, censored version, not the distant civility. But Draco Malfoy, the bastard, the annoying git who would pick a fight just for the sake of it, who would argue over the proper way to brew tea and how to pronounce ‘croissant’. The person who made life feel less like an endless responsibility and more like something real.

It was driving him insane. He told himself it was for Teddy.

That was the excuse, wasn’t it? It had always been for Teddy.

He and Draco had to get along because they were raising Teddy together. That was why Harry had tried so hard to make things easy between them. That was why he had worried when Draco was upset. That was why he noticed every little shift in his mood, every small sign of distress, every moment Draco pulled away. Because a tense household wasn’t good for Teddy.

It had always been about Teddy.

Hadn’t it?

But as he sat at the breakfast table the next morning, watching Draco and Teddy interact, the truth finally hit him—hard, like a Bludger straight to the chest.

Draco was fine with Teddy.

Whatever had shifted between them, whatever was wrong, it had never been about Teddy.

Draco still smiled when Teddy asked him a question. He still charmed tiny dragons toys and made the little boy giggle uncontrollably. He still tucked Teddy’s hair behind his ear when it flopped into his cereal and hummed absentmindedly as he prepared his tea.

Draco was distant, but only with him .

And that was the real problem, wasn’t it?

Harry had been so worried about their relationship for the sake of Teddy. Because of Teddy. That was what he had told himself. Over and over again. But if Teddy was fine, if Teddy was still getting that version of Draco—the one who teased and played and cared—then the only person suffering from Draco’s coldness was Harry himself.

Which meant it was never about Teddy at all.

And when it hits him, it really hits him.

Attraction was easy to explain away, Draco was objectively good-looking, and Harry could admit that. But this? The ache in his chest when Draco was distant, the frustration when he smiled but didn’t mean it, the way Harry wanted to fix things even if he didn’t know how—that wasn’t just a crush. That was something deeper.

But Draco wasn’t exactly receptive right now. So what was Harry supposed to do?

He’d never been good at relationships. Hell, he’d barely been good at friendships before Ron and Hermione forced their way into his life. He didn’t know how to date someone. How to be someone’s… whatever Draco could be.

But he knew how to be stubborn.

And if Draco wanted to be nice, then Harry would be nicer. If Draco was going to keep his distance, Harry would close the gap. If Draco wanted to act like Harry was nothing more than a polite acquaintance, then Harry would remind him exactly who he was. Harry would be thoughtful. Too thoughtful.

So, fine. If Draco wanted to build walls, Harry would climb them—brick by brick. And he’d do it with kindness.

And if that kindness happened to come with a side of flirting? Well, that was just Harry being… friendly. Right?

At first, it was subtle, bringing Draco tea before he even had to ask. Ensuring his favorite biscuits were stocked in the cupboard, as if that wasn’t completely deranged behavior. Harry didn’t know what he was doing. But if Draco thought he could just quietly pull away and pretend like nothing was wrong—he had another thing coming .

Harry came home with a bag from Flourish and Blotts, feeling particularly pleased with himself.

Draco was in the sitting room, stretched out on the couch with a book, while Teddy played on the rug, zooming his toy broom through imaginary Quidditch hoops.

Without a word, Harry dropped the bag on the table in front of Draco with an exaggerated flourish.

Draco barely looked up. “What now?”

Harry smirked. “Open it and find out.”

With an air of long-suffering patience, Draco set his book down and pulled the package toward him. He lifted the book from the bag—Explaining Muggle Medicine: Mental Diseases.

Draco froze.

His fingers hovered over the embossed title, his expression carefully blank. “Where did you find this?”

Harry shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Little shop in Knockturn Alley.” 

That was a lie. He had sent a letter to Bill, who sent a letter to Charles, and went on through another, until they got the book. But Malfoy didn’t need to know that.

Draco’s head snapped up. “You went to Knockturn Alley?”

Harry grinned. “Thought you might like it.”

Draco’s gaze flickered between the book and Harry, something uncertain beneath his usual cool exterior. He didn’t say anything right away, and for a moment, Harry thought maybe he’d pushed too far.

Draco ran his thumb over the engraving, eyes flickering with something unreadable before his mask was back in place. He shut the lid with a decisive snap. “Flattery won’t get you anywhere, Potter.”

Harry grinned. “Who said I’m flattering you? Maybe I’m just the best housemate ever.”

Draco hummed, unimpressed. “Or you’re being insufferable.”

Harry grinned, triumphant. “You’re welcome.”

Teddy, who had been mostly ignoring them, suddenly perked up. “Dwaco, are you gonna say thank you?”

Draco stared at the small boy, clearly betrayed. “Excuse me?”

Teddy nodded solemnly. “You always tell me to say thank you.”

Draco turned to him, scowling. “Did you bribe the child?”

Harry shrugged innocently. “I would never.”

Draco let out a long-suffering sigh and turned back to Teddy. “Fine. Thank you, Potter .” Then, under his breath, he added, “Brat.”

Teddy giggled.

Harry leaned back against the couch, grinning. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

Draco scowled but said nothing, turning back to the book with an air of forced indifference.

But Harry noticed the way Draco’s fingers lingered on the spine, the way he traced the embossed title absentmindedly.

It wasn’t much, but it was something.

And Harry was nothing if not persistent.

…

Harry didn’t give up. If Draco insisted on keeping his distance, Harry would close the gap in ways too small to refuse.

He sent him absurd owl deliveries, over-the-top stationery sets labeled For Your Very Important Letters , and once, an entire case of rare ink “just in case you run out.” Draco returned it with a note that simply said die . Harry kept the note.

At home, he made sure there was left-out food when Draco worked late because the blond would never admit he was hungry. When he noticed Draco’s favorite blend of tea running low, he replaced it before he could complain—adding an extra tin of a ridiculously expensive imported one, just to see if Draco would pretend not to like it.

Helping without asking became second nature. Sometimes, when Draco fell asleep on the sofa, Harry would quietly drape a blanket over him. When Draco was reading, Harry left a cup of tea by his side, just warm enough to drink. 

The thing was, Harry thought it would be a challenge, that keeping up this level of effort would be exhausting. But it wasn’t.

Always trying to stay one step ahead could be a little tiring, sure—but it was also rewarding. It felt good, knowing he was making Draco’s life a little easier, even in ways Draco would never acknowledge out loud. It was the same feeling he got when making breakfast for Teddy or baking with Molly, the quiet satisfaction of taking care of someone without needing anything in return.

Harry had never put much thought into it before, but maybe this was just how he showed love—through actions, through doing. And the best part? It was working.

So he kept going.

He started playing Glenda Chittock’s Wizarding Wireless show in the background while cooking, acting as if it was a random choice, feigning surprise when Draco hummed along.  Draco never commented on it—but Harry noticed how he lingered in the kitchen a little longer each morning.

And then there were the subtle touches. The ones Harry barely thought about. Fixing Draco’s collar absentmindedly, brushing snow from his hair as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The blond never reacted but never said no. Although Harry’d take care to not force himself. 

But sometimes, he made sure Draco had no choice but to acknowledge him. Just to see how far he could push, he sat ridiculously close on the couch, invaded Draco’s space at the breakfast table and leaned over him while he was reading. All with an infuriating grin that made Draco glare but never quite push him away.

Nothing made Harry’s heart do ridiculous things like catching Draco trying not to smile at something he said. So, he made it his mission.

Every act was small, insignificant. But together, they wove into something undeniable: I see you. I care, even if you won’t let me say it out loud.

With that, Christmas was just around the corner. Tomorrow. And Harry still wasn’t sure if Draco would go. They had agreed weeks ago. But things had been strange for some time now, better than before, but still awkward.

Harry was just planning his next move when, as soon as he stepped into the manor, he heard it.

"That useless idiot! If he shows up in front of me, he’s getting a Stupefy at the very least!"

Draco’s sharp voice rang out, filled with frustration, echoing through the high ceilings of the house.

Harry froze in the hallway, the door still half open behind him.

For weeks, Draco had been distant—calculated, careful, polite to the point of being unbearable. But here, now, when he thought Harry wasn’t listening, his words were sharp-edged and unfiltered, full of irritation and impatience.

Full of familiarity.

Harry had almost forgotten what it was like to have Draco care enough to be annoyed at him.

He should be focused on Teddy’s disappointment, on the fact that he was late. He was supposed to be here for lunch, but now it was already dinner. He had promised Teddy they’d eat together.

Instead, all he could think about was this —Draco pacing the kitchen, grumbling under his breath, cursing Harry’s very existence while waiting for him to walk through the door.

Something in Harry’s chest twisted in a way that had nothing to do with guilt.

It was stupid, really. But after two weeks of that fake, too-polite version of Draco, this—this petty, dramatic, very annoyed Draco—felt like a relief.

He had half a mind to walk in right now and say something obnoxious just to see if Draco would roll his eyes and sneer at him properly. Snowflakes clung to his hair and shoulders, melting in the warmth of the house. 

"Harry Potter, the useless savior."

Harry clenched his jaw.

Brilliant. He’s in a mood.

Teddy hummed thoughtfully. "Hawwy is like Spider-Man?"

There was a pause, as if Draco was deciding whether or not to dignify that with a response. Harry could practically see the confusion on his face. 

"Sure. Something like that," Draco said even if he had no idea what that meant.

"Spider-Man fights bad guys and saves people," Teddy continued enthusiastically. 

"Oh, so they’re pretty similar," Draco said distractedly. His gaze flicked toward the kitchen, clearly more interested in his current nemesis—dinner. “Why doesn’t that idiot get here already and do this himself?"

Yeah, he clearly didn’t pretend to be ok when Harry wasn’t around. 

"Hawwy idiot!" Teddy chirped happily, latching onto the new phrase with delight.

Harry nearly choked on air.

Draco did not correct him. Instead, he just smiled—smug, sharp, and entirely unapologetic. He had been blaming the television for Teddy’s language, but clearly, it was him all along. So what?

And Harry should be annoyed—should march in there and tell Draco to stop corrupting his godson.

But instead, he lingered just a moment longer in the hall, letting himself enjoy this. The proof that Draco was still there, beneath all the walls and distance.

Waiting for him.

Potter made sure the door creaked loudly as he opened it, letting his footsteps echo deliberately. Halfway up, though, he froze at a sudden shout. Draco’s voice yelling a spell. 

The words sent a bolt of panic through Harry’s spine, and before he could think, he ran. His coat dropped to the floor as he bolted toward the kitchen, wand in hand, instincts screaming at him. He burst into the room, heart hammering, mind racing through every possible scenario—an intruder, an attack—something.

Instead, he found Draco and Teddy huddled in the corner.

Teddy was clinging to Draco’s robes, startled but oddly amused. His little face was scrunched up in what looked suspiciously like a grin. Draco, on the other hand, looked pale, his wand still raised—pointed at nothing.

Harry’s breath came hard and fast. His brain struggled to keep up. "What the fuck is going on?"

Draco, still tense, slowly turned his head toward him. "...The pot."

Harry followed his gaze. The pressure cooker hissed loudly, steam releasing in sharp bursts.

His hands dropped to his sides. "You hexed the pot?"

Draco didn’t so much as blink. "It was threatening me."

"It was—” Harry cut himself off, exhaling sharply through his nose. "What’s in it?"

Draco narrowed his eyes. "I hope nothing alive."

"You—” Harry pressed his fingers to his temple, fighting the migraine forming. "I heard you yell a spell."

"Yes. At the pot."

"You panicked and tried to disarm a kitchen appliance?"

Draco scowled. "It sounded angry! It was going to explode, I felt it!"

Harry stepped closer, reaching out to check Draco over, but Draco batted his hands away with a glare.

"Merlin, I’m fine. Worry about the cursed object on the stove, Potter."

Harry shook his head, walking over to the pressure cooker. He casually flipped the release valve, The pressure cooker let out a long, angry hiss of steam.

Draco jumped.

Teddy giggled. "Scary!"

Harry turned, arms crossed, unimpressed. "It’s a pressure cooker, Malfoy. It makes that noise when it builds up steam. It’s normal."

Draco, still looking at the pot as if it had personally offended him, sneered. "That noise was not normal. That was aggressive."

Harry let out a long-suffering sigh, lifting Teddy into his arms. He checked him over, smoothing his hair down. "You scared the hell out of me. I thought someone was dying!"

Teddy, still in Harry’s arms, gasped dramatically. "Bad Dwaco!" he scolded, wagging his little finger at Draco.

Draco stared at him. "Excuse me?"

Teddy pouted. "No bad spells ‘ pot!"

Harry grinned. "See? Even Teddy knows."

Draco crossed his arms, sulking. "Damn. Is the Ministry going to confiscate my wand for attempted kitchen murder?"

"Honestly? They should," Harry deadpanned. "You’re going to blow up the bloody house one of these days."

Draco sniffed. "Well, if you were home on time, we wouldn’t be having this problem, now would we?"

“So now is it my fault?” Harry groaned, pressing a hand over his face. "Unbelievable."

Draco smirked, regaining some of his usual bravado. "Welcome home, Spider-Man."

Harry felt something at ease in his chest. It was the first time in weeks that Draco had felt close again. Maybe things were getting better. Maybe whatever this distance was, it was starting to fade.

…

Harry took his time in the shower, letting the heat work away the tension in his shoulders. He was still mildly irritated at Draco for nearly cursing the kitchen, but he allowed himself to entertain the thought—just for a moment—of peace. Maybe they’d have dinner, maybe Draco would smile more, maybe when Teddy went to sleep, they’d finally talk.

Maybe about the kiss.

Maybe they wouldn’t talk at all.

Maybe they’d just kiss again.

Then he remembered—dinner wouldn’t be just them.

They had invited Morgana in—a significant gesture. It wasn’t just about hospitality; it was trust. The house was still under Fidelius, though now it served more as a safeguard for privacy from media than protection from some guy trying to murder them.

For Harry, it was a long-overdue meeting. Draco had spoken about her often, but now, seeing her step inside, the reality of it settled. Draco, who rarely vouched for anyone, had vouched for her. That alone was enough to make Harry pay attention.

Still, before Morgana arrived, there was another conversation that needed to be had.

“Did you see the newspaper?” Harry’s tone was casual, but his expression betrayed his apprehension.

Draco didn’t bother looking up, too focused on drying Teddy’s damp hair with a yellow towel.

The Prophet had splashed an all-too-familiar image across its front page that morning—Harry, smiling at Ginny, their hands brushing as they spoke. The kind of picture that told a story even when there wasn’t one. Of course, Draco had seen it—him and the rest of the wizarding world—but he merely waved it off in disdain, his pride still lodged too deep in his chest to let him show he cared.

“The Prophet is always exaggerating and full of nonsense. Ginny is like a sister to me.”

“Didn’t know you were into incest, Potter,” Draco drawled over his shoulder, voice smooth, indifferent.

"Draco!" Harry snapped, exasperated.

Before he could continue, a small voice cut in.

"What’s incest?"

Harry and Draco both turned to Teddy, who was frowning in concentration, having clearly picked up a new and exciting word he didn’t understand.

Harry groaned. “See what you did? As if teaching him to say ‘shut up’ wasn’t enough.”

“I didn’t teach him that! Must be that stupid television you bought,” Draco huffed, tossing the towel aside.

Harry scoffed. “Oh, really? Because I’m pretty sure you’re the one always telling me to shut up—right in front of him. But Merlin forbids I even say ‘damn’ around him.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Ugh, you sound like a broken record—you said the same thing earlier. Just shut the—” He stopped himself just in time, catching Harry’s triumphant expression. He scowled. “I only say it for your own good. Every time you talk too much, I have the urge to bash your head against a wall.”

“Well, just looking at you makes me want to do the same.”

“I’m calling Auntie.”

Both men turned to Teddy, who stood on Draco’s bed, arms crossed, exuding the unimpressed authority of a child who had just discovered he had leverage.

“Hmm?” Draco frowned.

“She said that if you two start fighting, I can call her.”

Harry blinked. “She who?”

Draco sighed. “Mrs. Morgana.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “And she said that?”

Draco shifted, suddenly looking guilty. “Well, I might have… mentioned that we argued in front of Teddy. She was probably concerned.”

Harry turned back to Teddy, who was still standing tall, chin lifted, an expression so serious it was almost comical.

“You think that’s fear?” Harry muttered, nudging Draco. “He doesn’t look scared. He just wishes he were big enough to hit us both.”

Draco took one look at Teddy’s determined scowl—and then, to Harry’s surprise, burst into laughter.

It was rare. Not the smirks or the sarcastic little huffs, but real, unguarded laughter.

And maybe it was some Veela thing—though Harry would never admit it—but Draco’s laugh was contagious. Within seconds, Teddy was giggling, Harry was grinning, and the tension that had hung in the room just moments ago dissolved like it had never existed.

Then the doorbell rang.

It was an unusual sound in the manor. Their few visitors usually arrived through the Floo without much ceremony.

The adults exchanged glances in a silent battle to determine who would answer it. Harry lost.

With a sigh, he made his way through the house, quickening his pace until he reached the grand double doors. He pulled them open, expecting anything but what he saw.

“Hello, I have pumpkin tarts.”

Harry blinked. “Oh, Mrs. Bones?”

Morgana Bones. She ran a small restaurant nearby, one that Draco frequented. She took care of Teddy whenever Draco needed and, from what Harry had heard, had never treated Draco with anything less than kindness. Despite living in the manor for months now, Harry had never met her. He hadn’t exactly made an effort to explore the area.

Before Morgana could respond, a familiar voice interrupted them.

“Oh, Merlin help us.”

Draco appeared, a dramatic smile on his face, his voice laced with exaggerated dread.

Harry had never seen him greet anyone like that. The casual familiarity, the ease of it—it made something twist in his chest.

Morgana smirked. “Merlin trembles in my presence.”

They both laughed, and Draco pulled her into a quick but firm hug.

Harry watched, curious. Up close, Morgana wasn’t as old as he had imagined when Draco first referred to her as a Mrs. There were a few silver strands in her dark blond hair, faint lines around her eyes, but she didn’t look old.

Harry cleared his throat, a pointed reminder that he was still standing there.

Draco finally acknowledged him. “Ah. This is Harry Potter—who needs no introduction.” Then, with a smirk, he turned to Morgana. “And Harry, this is the all-powerful Morgana.”

Morgana huffed, shaking her head as she lightly smacked Draco’s arm where it rested comfortably on her shoulder. “I already said I’m not powerful.”

Harry raised a brow. “Why powerful ?”

Draco scoffed, looking at Harry as if he had just declared something absurd. “Are you joking? You’ve never heard of Morgana?”

Harry frowned. “Uh… I guess so.”

Draco sighed, exasperated. “Of course. You probably took years just to remember the four Hogwarts founders.”

Morgana adjusted her glasses with a knowing smile before explaining, “Morgana— the Morgana—was one of the most powerful witches to ever exist. She mastered Dark Magic, was an Animagus who could transform into a bird, and was known as Merlin’s greatest rival.” She tilted her chin slightly, her finger tapping the edge of her glasses, an unconscious gesture of confidence. “Naturally, she’s been dead for centuries. My parents named me after her, but Draco here found it fascinating and decided I must be her reincarnation.”

Draco grinned. “One can never be too sure.”

Harry’s brow furrowed.

Draco smiled a lot. Smirked a lot. But this —this was something different. Something lighter.

Harry tried to recall the last time he had seen Draco smile this easily, this freely.

He couldn’t.

Harry had always liked people. Even if he wasn’t the most extroverted, he had a way of getting along with most. But if this woman had somehow managed to convince Draco Malfoy to be her friend? Well, Harry figured he might just love her.

Except—he didn’t.

Not that there was anything wrong with Morgana. She was smart, quick-witted, and effortlessly charming. But something about her made him feel… awkward.

It wasn’t jealousy, not really. But Draco and Morgana had an ease between them that left Harry feeling like an outsider. They talked like people who had already learned each other’s rhythms, who didn’t need to fight for space in a conversation. And for the first time in weeks, Draco wasn’t distant—he was engaged, present, even comfortable.

Harry wasn’t used to seeing Draco like this. And he definitely wasn’t used to being the one left on the outside.

Teddy, of course, adored Morgana. The moment she sat down, he climbed into her lap like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Morgana, can you tell the dragon story again?” Teddy asked, resting his chin on her shoulder.

“You’ve heard that one a hundred times,” she teased, smoothing down his wild blue curls.

“But you tell it best,” he said matter-of-factly, as if that settled it.

Draco smirked. “The kid has taste.”

Morgana sighed dramatically, though a fond smile tugged at her lips. “Fine, but only because I can’t say no to this face.” She tapped Teddy’s nose, making him giggle.

Harry watched as she launched into an animated retelling, Teddy hanging onto every word. Draco, too, seemed entirely at ease, interrupting every now and then to add a sarcastic remark that only made Teddy more invested.

It was… nice.

Too nice.

Harry shifted in his chair, clearing his throat. “So, Morgana, you own a restaurant?”

She nodded, still half-focused on Teddy. “Small place, nothing fancy.”

“Draco talks about it a lot.”

“Oh?” She arched an eyebrow at Draco, amused. “Didn’t realize I was such a hot topic.”

Draco scoffed. “Potter’s exaggerating.”

“So, you live alone?” Harry asked, more bluntly than he intended.

Draco shot him a glare.

Morgana, however, only gave a small smile. “Yes, but I like it. It’s quiet. Though I always imagined having children.”

Harry hesitated. “Why didn’t you?”

“Harry, that’s—” Draco started, but Morgana waved him off.

“My husband died early in the war,” she said simply. “I never remarried. Having a child without him felt… wrong.”

“Oh.” Harry swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

And then, suddenly, the name clicked. Bones.

One of the families Voldemort had wiped out. Edgar Bones had been in the Order of the Phoenix—that alone had signed his family’s death sentence. It was a familiar kind of pain, one Harry knew all too well.

The problem was, Morgana had too many layers, too much hidden beneath the surface. There was something about her that made Harry wary.

Morgana watched him carefully, something sharp in her gaze.

“So,” she said lightly, “why don’t you like me?”

Harry blinked. “What? That’s not—” He faltered. “I don’t even know you.”

She tilted her head, considering him. “No, but you’ve already decided how you feel about me.”

Harry opened his mouth to protest, but before he could, Teddy tugged at Morgana’s sleeve, drawing her attention back. She turned to him with an easy smile, continuing the story as if nothing had happened.

But Harry could still feel Draco watching him.

And when he met his gaze, Draco wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t even annoyed.

He just looked like he understood exactly what was going on in Harry’s head.

And Harry had no idea what to do with that.

…

Dinner stretched on, slower than usual. Harry did his best to endure it.

"What are you doing tomorrow on Christmas Eve?" Draco asked Morgana, his curiosity evident.

"Oh, the restaurant is always packed this time of year," she said lightly. "A lot of people who don’t have family to go to—or just don’t want to cook." She took a sip of her wine, then added with amusement, "It’s always interesting, seeing people who fought on different sides of the war sitting at the same table, completely unaware."

Harry blinked. "You let them in ? "

She arched an eyebrow. "Who?"

He didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to. Earlier, she had mentioned her husband had died in the war, and Harry knew the Bones family had been wiped out by Voldemort. How could she knowingly serve former Death Eaters? How could she spend Christmas with them?

Something inside him twisted. " How could she?"

He would never forgive them. He couldn’t imagine choosing to break bread with the kind of people who had destroyed her life.

Then, a more unsettling thought crept in— I live with one.

It hit him like a slap to the face. Somewhere along the way, the weight of that truth had dulled, softened into something normal.

 Draco Malfoy, former Death Eater.

Except—that wasn’t how Harry thought of him anymore.

When had that stopped being a fact that defined him?

Draco was just Draco. And had somehow become… his person.

The man who argued with him over breakfast, who stole his tea, who nagged him about his paperwork, who read Teddy bedtime stories with a perfectly curated air of disinterest that fooled no one.

He wasn’t one of them. He wasn’t like the others.

Harry opened his mouth, about to say something—maybe to challenge Morgana, maybe to defend Draco, maybe to demand an explanation for how she could be so indifferent—when she spoke first.

"Draco isn’t the only one who changed," she said, watching him.

Something in her gaze told him she understood exactly what had just happened inside his head.

Harry didn’t like that.

Before he could respond, she smiled and continued, as if the moment hadn’t happened. "I’d invite you both, but Draco mentioned you’re going to the Burrow."

Harry hesitated.

Draco didn’t correct her.

That threw him more than anything else. He had expected some noncommittal response, an easy excuse to back out. He wasn’t even sure Draco was still planning to go, not after weeks of stiff politeness, not after everything that had shifted between them. But Draco let it stand, like it was already decided.

Harry wasn’t sure if that made him relieved or uneasy.

"You know the Weasleys?" he asked, forcing himself to focus.

Morgana nodded. "The wizarding world is small. I was in Hogwarts with Molly, went to her wedding and all. But we were never that close."

Draco smirked. "You’re not missing much. It’s chaos."

Morgana chuckled. "Sounds exactly like what I am missing."

Harry watched as they exchanged a look of easy familiarity as if they were speaking in a language he didn’t understand.

And for the first time in a long while, he wasn’t sure how to feel about any of it.

Chapter Text

It was infuriating.

Not just the absurd owl deliveries or how Harry always seemed to anticipate his needs before he could even voice them. It was all of it. The quiet, persistent way Harry pushed into his life, slipping past every carefully placed wall without even trying.

The way he saw him, Draco wasn’t used to being read so easily. Pansy had never been good at reading anyone, and Blaise never pushed. Even if sometimes Draco was too stubborn to reach for him, he waited until his presence was requested. But Potter? He never retreated. He just watched —with that sharp, insufferable gaze that always knew exactly when to press forward and when to hold back.

It was unnerving. Being known like that. Being seen.

And Draco didn’t know what to do with that.

He had spent years learning how to spot ulterior motives, how to brace for the moment when kindness turned sharp-edged. Nothing came without a price. But Harry—Harry gave freely. Without expectation. Without asking for anything in return. As if Draco deserved it.

As if he were someone worth the effort.

That was what made it unbearable.

Because Draco knew better. He knew this couldn’t last. That eventually, Harry would come to his senses and realize how much of a waste it all was. And when that happened—when the warmth inevitably disappeared—it would be just another lesson in why he should have never let himself get used to it in the first place.

Because despite everything, despite knowing better… he didn’t want Harry to stop. Draco hated this feeling. That heavy, uncomfortable weight in his chest, that restless tension that refused to fade. It was irritating. Unsettling.

It was vulnerability. And he hated it.

What infuriated him more: the fact that Harry had hidden something from him, or the fact that it mattered so damn much?

Morgana’s words still clung to him, buried deep in his mind.

"I should have told him how much I loved him. I should have lived that love."

What if he didn’t give Harry this chance?

Because worse than Harry realizing Draco wasn’t worth it, worse than the heartbreak Draco was sure would follow, was the idea of never having had it at all.

Because if he let himself—just for a moment—he could imagine it. What it would be like to be wanted. To be with Harry Potter, not as a mistake or an afterthought, but as something real .

And maybe that was worth it. Maybe it was worth everything. Even the inevitable end. But Draco didn’t know how to reach for something he had never believed he could have.

So instead, he sat in the wreckage of his own indecision, torn between self-preservation and the aching, unbearable want to just let himself have this.

Even if it destroyed him in the end.

Then, a letter came. And he felt angry and betrayed.  

The whisper in the back of his mind was unbearable, telling him Blaise had been right all along. That he’d been naive, that there had never been a ‘them’ to betray. Just Harry Potter being Harry Potter, and Draco Malfoy being stupid enough to think he meant something. 

Everything blurred. 

Draco wasn’t one for impulse, but the moment he read it, his body moved before his mind could catch up. The floor felt unsteady beneath his feet. The walls pressed in, suffocating. He barely registered the way his hands trembled as he climbed the stairs, his breath sharp, pushing forward on instinct alone. 

Anger was easy. Anger was safe. It was a language Draco had spoken fluently for years, one that didn’t require him to bare his soul or admit how much it hurt to feel like he was still the same boy Harry had once despised. Fighting with Potter was familiar, almost comforting in its predictability. But this time, the anger wasn’t just a shield—it was a weapon, sharpened by the sting of betrayal.

The door slammed open.

Harry looked up, startled, as Draco stormed into the room. His presence was as sharp and deliberate as a well-aimed curse, his silver eyes blazing with a fury that made Harry’s stomach drop. 

“You must be exhausted, Potter,” Draco drawled, waving a piece of parchment like a weapon. His voice was deceptively smooth, but his eyes were cold, brimming with something far more dangerous than anger. “Saving the world, calling off investigations, deciding which cases are worth your moral outrage. A busy man, truly.”

Harry frowned, his good mood dissipating like smoke. “What’s that?”

“A letter. From Mrs. Zabini.”

Harry tensed immediately.

Draco crossed his arms, leaning against the desk as if he had all the time in the world. “The Ministry can’t be bothered to care about Blaise, and his mother asked  me—of all people—to do something about it.” His voice sharpened. “Imagine my surprise when I find out you’re the reason no one’s looking.”

Harry exhaled sharply, jaw tightening. “Draco, I didn’t call it off, I refused to investigate you.”

“Oh, well, forgive me if that little nuance doesn’t quite make up for the fact that the entire case has been conveniently brushed aside.” His head tilted, his smirk razor-sharp. “How very Gryffindor of you. Wouldn’t want to investigate me—unless, of course, it was me during the sixth year.”

Draco wasn’t holding back. Not anymore. The polite distance, the cold civility—it was gone, replaced by something raw, sharp, and real.

“What should I have done, then?” Harry snapped. “Agree and investigate you?”

Draco’s smirk widened, cruel and deliberate. “What’s the big deal? Not the first time you’d stalk me. Might even be nostalgic.”

Harry’s hands curled into fists at his sides, his nails digging into his palms.

Draco knew exactly where to strike, where it would hurt, and he wanted to. Harry knew Draco’s weaknesses just as well, and though the rational part of him screamed don’t, he was too angry to hold back.

They said things they would later regret.

Harry knew Draco wasn’t impulsive and wouldn’t enter into a fight without preparation. Knew every word was measured, and calculated. That meant that Draco had been prepared for this for a long time, Draco knew about Blaise before the letter. And that realization made Harry furious.

His voice rose. “You knew before, didn’t you? That’s why you’ve been acting like this?” His breath came faster, frustration bubbling over. “How long? Days? Weeks?”

Draco shrugged, infuriatingly detached. “Surprise, you’re not the only one who knows how to keep secrets.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“That’s childish, Draco!” Harry yelled, “You know it’s my job, I couldn’t disclose information just because I felt like it!”

Draco scoffed, shaking his head. “Oh, of course. The Boy Who Follows the Rules. Except when it’s convenient for him.” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “Forgive me for assuming that the person who’s been living with me for months might’ve had the decency to tell me when my best friend was in a hospital.”

“What part of that don’t you get? It was confidential information!” Harry’s fists clenched at his sides. “I didn’t enjoy it, it wasn’t easy. But it was my job.”

“Oh, spare me the self-pity, Potter. You didn’t tell me because you didn’t trust me. Because no matter how much we pretend things have changed, deep down, you’re still just waiting for me to become my father.”

“That’s not true.”

Draco held his gaze, searching for a lie. “Isn’t it?” He stepped forward, jaw tight. “Tell me, then. If it had been Weasley, or Granger, or anyone else, would you have kept them in the dark too?”

Harry stayed quiet, that was all the answer Draco needed. So he tried again, almost pleading. “I was trying to protect you.”

It sounded honest, but Draco couldn’t understand it. What was it supposed to mean? That Harry saw him as some fragile creature that couldn't handle the reality? That didn't make him feel any better. So he didn’t accept that truth. 

“This isn’t about protecting me,” Draco said, his voice low and heavy with unsaid meaning. “This is about you. Saint Potter, always knows better.” He took another step closer, eyes blazing. “Tell me, does it make you feel powerful? Be honest, you must love playing god.”

Harry’s temper snapped. “You want the truth, Draco? Fine. The truth is, it wouldn’t have made a damn difference if I’d told you. You couldn’t have done anything! You’re not an Auror, people see you as a—” He stopped, realizing too late that the damage was done.

For a moment, Draco’s face paled, his eyes widening with hurt. Then his expression hardened, and he smiled—a cold, cruel smile that trembled with longing. “You’re right, of course. I couldn’t have done anything. But neither could anyone else, and you still would’ve given them the truth and trusted them to handle it. But not me. Because deep down, you still think I might’ve done it.”

“I never thought you did it!” Harry’s voice cracked, anger intermingling with hurt. “They were looking for someone to blame, Draco. Do you really think they’d give you a fair chance? I couldn’t lose you—”

“I’m not buying it, Potter,” Draco interrupted.

“Look, I thought you deserved better than being thrown to the wolves for something you didn’t do,” Harry began, only to be cut off as Draco stepped in, voice low and searing.

“You decided for me. You talk about protecting me, yet you hide everything, leaving me in the dark—and then expect gratitude.”

The accusation struck Harry like a curse, dredging up years of silent resentment: the secrecy, the unilateral decisions made in his name. He shook his head, struggling for words. “I—I thought you’d at least try to understand.”

Draco’s eyes darkened with painful emotion. “Understand? That doesn’t justify everything. You sound just like Dumbledore sometimes—sacrificing everything in the name of the greater good.”

Harry opened his mouth, then closed it, a sick, twisting feeling building in his gut. Years of resentment toward Dumbledore, the secrecy, and the decisions made without his input. And now, Harry had done the same thing to Draco.

Dumbledore had expected him to sacrifice his life to save the world. Harry had wanted Blaise to take the fall so Draco didn’t have to. He’d sought to shield Draco from judgment, guilt, and the pain of being put on trial for something he didn’t do. But at what cost?

His chest tightened as another thought struck him. If someone had told him they were going to sacrifice Ron to keep him safe, he would have lost his mind. He would have fought tooth and nail to stop them—to protect Ron, to ensure no one ever hurt him. 

“That’s not fair, Malfoy.”

“Neither were you,” Draco replied, each word cutting deep. “I trusted you to be honest and have my back. And you betrayed that trust.”

Harry swallowed hard. “I wasn’t trying to—”

“But you did.” Draco’s voice softened, though the edge remained. “You did.”

For a long, heavy moment, neither spoke. The only sounds were Draco’s ragged breathing, the soft crackle of the fire behind them, and the faint rustle of the parchment still clutched in his fingers.

Then Harry exhaled, his voice quiet and raw. “You’re right.”

Draco blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

Harry ran a hand through his hair, his eyes darting away for a heartbeat before he forced himself to meet Draco’s gaze.“I should have told you. I’m sorry.”

Draco’s eyes searched Harry’s fact—suspicion warring with something dangerously close to hope, a hope that maybe, beneath all this anger, lay the care they both refused to admit. “You can’t fix this with an apology, Potter.”

“I know.”

A heavy silence fell, charged and desperate. In that suspended moment, Harry’s mind raced. I’m losing him, he thought, the fear of loss mingling with the realization that every barrier they had built was crumbling. The memory of past hurts, the cold decisions made in the name of protection, all converged into a single, overwhelming need. He wasn’t just fighting for truth now—he was fighting for Draco, for a chance to make things right before it was too late.

Draco, too, was caught in the gravity of the moment. His thoughts flickered rapidly—anger at being used as a pawn, a raw, wounded need for honesty, and an undeniable longing that pulsed at the core of his guarded heart. I trusted you, his inner voice whispered, and now I’m terrified of what I might lose. His fingers, still trembling from the barrage of harsh words, seemed to reach out on their own accord.

Something inside Harry screamed.

He knew—knew with bone-deep certainty—that if he let Draco walk away, this would be it.

For a suspended heartbeat, the world fell away. Their eyes locked, and in that charged silence, they shared everything without words—a mutual understanding of pain, longing, and the desperate need to hold on. Then, as if compelled by a force too powerful to resist, Harry’s mouth found Draco’s in a collision of heat, breath, and raw emotion.

It was almost like their first kiss, but this time, there was no anger, no fury. This was something else entirely. Desperation. Urgency. A need so deep it felt like breathing, like survival.

Draco’s hands fisted in Harry’s shirt, gripping hard, like letting go wasn’t an option. There was no hesitation, no careful distance—only raw, unchecked need. Lips parted, breaths stolen, the taste of anger giving way to something sweeter.

Harry’s fingers slid into Draco’s hair, tangling there, tilting his head to deepen the kiss, as if he could press every unsaid word into him. I hate you. I want you. I need you.

Draco’s back hit the wall, but he barely noticed, too caught up in the way Harry fit against him, in the way everything felt terrifyingly right.

It was their third kiss—not that Harry was counting. Definitely not that Draco was counting.

And yet, somehow, each time managed to shake them more than the last. More intoxicating. More consuming. More real.

Draco had spent years mastering detachment, perfecting indifference. But this was impossible to ignore. This was ruin, laid bare. When they finally broke apart, they stayed close, foreheads touching, breath mingling in the stillness between them.

And then—

“Yucky!”

Teddy’s voice rang out, high and unimpressed.

Both men jolted apart as if hit by a hex.

“Little monster!” Draco gasped.

Teddy scrunched his nose. “Why were you eating Hawwy?”

“More like the other way around—”

“Draco!” Harry cut in, face burning, then turned hastily to Teddy. “Don’t tell anyone, we were just… doing adult things.”

“I can tell Vic?” Teddy told everything to baby Victoire Weasley.

“No! I’ll give you some chocolate if you don’t say anything.” 

“Chocolate cake?”

“Sure.”

Teddy beamed, satisfied, and Draco groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. “You just got blackmailed by a three-year-old.”

Harry sighed. “Yeah. And I’d do it again.”

Draco did not smile. Absolutely not.

But his lips did twitch.

…

They were in Teddy’s room, getting ready to go to the Burrow—something Draco still couldn’t quite believe. He was going to spend Christmas with the Weasleys. The thought alone made his stomach twist, not in fear, but in the kind of apprehension that came with stepping into entirely unfamiliar territory.

Harry, on the other hand, looked completely at ease, leaning against the doorway in his usual effortless way, wearing a pair of worn jeans and a thick red sweater with a big golden "H" stitched on the front—an unmistakable Weasley gift. His hair was its usual mess, somehow charming despite the chaos.

Draco was dressed with meticulous care, as if preparing for a diplomatic event rather than an evening at the Burrow. He wore a deep emerald-green open robe over a high-collared black sweater, paired with sharply tailored trousers and dragonhide boots. His hair was as perfect as ever.

Despite both adults being ready, they were still struggling with one last obstacle: convincing Teddy to wear his pants. Raising a child took priority over any unresolved tension or unspoken words between them, so any discussions about feelings or the charged atmosphere between them would have to wait.

“No pants,” Teddy declared, crossing his arms over his chest with the unshakable determination of a child who knew exactly what he wanted.

Draco sighed, running a hand through his hair—the first sign of his patience wearing thin. It was almost time to leave, and he’d have to fix his hair again.

“Teddy, please,” he tried, his voice hovering between exasperation and pleading.

“I don’t like pants. It’s hot.”

“Yes, I put a heating charm inside the house, but I can’t cast a spell on the entire world!” Draco huffed.

“But you could just put a spell on Ted—” Harry started, clearly understanding Teddy’s point, but he was immediately cut off.

“Harry! I am not walking around with this little monster in shorts in the middle of winter. It’s snowing!” Draco snapped, shooting him an incredulous look.

“But Hawwy, I’m not cold!” Teddy argued, puffing out his cheeks in defiance.

Harry was barely suppressing a chuckle as both Draco and Teddy turned to him, waiting—expecting him to make a decision. As if he had the final say in anything, he thought dryly. No one ever listened to him—Teddy’s word carried more weight than his most days.

“Well, you have to wear pants, Teddy,” he said finally, setting his mug down. “I’m pretty sure everyone else will be wearing them, even with the heating. Except Mrs. Weasley, she’ll probably wear a skirt.”

Teddy’s eyes lit up as if Harry had just given him the best idea in the world. “I like skirts!”

Harry, still rubbing sleep from his eyes, blinked at him. “A… skirt?”

“Uh-huh! Morgana wears ‘em, and she’s cool.”

“Well, wizards wear robes all the time, so it’s not different,” Draco said nonchalantly as if the conversation wasn’t odd at all.

Harry shot him a look. “You’re agreeing with this?”

Draco arched an eyebrow. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Harry opened his mouth, closed it, and then glanced at Teddy, who was now swinging his legs impatiently under the chair, eyes wide with expectation. “Right. Okay. But, uh—where are we supposed to get one?”

Draco sighed. “I have some.”

“You—wait. You have skirts?”

“I have robes that have the upper and bottom parts separated.” He corrected before turning to Teddy. “Come along, imp, let’s find you something.”

Teddy scrambled out of his seat, excitement buzzing off him in waves, leaving Harry sitting on the bed, still processing.

Harry followed after Teddy, barely stepping into Draco’s room before coming to an abrupt halt. Although he had been there a few times, never went through the wardrobe, so that caught Harry’s attention, left slightly ajar in Teddy’s hurried search for treasure. Silks, satins, fine wool—all in rich, dark tones and impossibly crisp lines. Even at home, Draco Malfoy dressed like he was ready to walk into a high-end gala at a moment’s notice.

Harry huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. He didn’t know why it surprised him—Draco had always been impossibly put together. Still, it was a stark contrast to his own limited collection of jeans and sweaters, most of them gifts from Mrs. Weasley.

Then, before he could think too much about it, Teddy spun toward him, grinning widely. It was long, so long that it was bigger than Teddy. 

“Found one! Look!” He held up a soft, high-waisted skirt that flared dramatically as he twirled.

Harry blinked. His brain short-circuited for a moment.

Teddy looked ridiculously happy. But the skirt — the bottom part of the robe — was huge on him, so much that he had to hold it in place. Harry still thought it was strange, but all that mattered was Teddy being happy.

“Well?” Draco’s voice came from behind him, dry and unimpressed. “You look like you have something to say.”

“I—” Harry rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know, I just—skirts, Draco?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Oh, for Merlin’s sake, Potter. It’s fabric. What exactly do you think will happen? That he’ll grow up into a menace because he liked wearing something comfortable?”

“I’m just—” Harry gestured vaguely. “Processing.”

Draco scoffed but didn’t press further. Instead, he turned to Teddy. “Alright, let’s adjust it to your size.” He pulled out his wand and muttered a quick spell to shrink the fabric.

Nothing happened.

Draco frowned and tried again. The skirt didn’t budge.

“Oh,” he said flatly. “That’s unexpected.”

“What’s wrong?” Teddy asked, his hair flickering between hopeful yellow and uncertain blue.

“The spell isn’t working,” Draco admitted. “The fabric must be charmed against resizing.”

Teddy’s face fell instantly. “But… but I want to wear it.”

“I know, Teddy,” Draco said, surprisingly patient. “But we can’t make it fit you.”

Teddy’s lower lip wobbled. His hands tightened around the fabric as if sheer willpower could make it work. “But I always get what I want,” he whispered, mostly to himself.

Harry exhaled, leaning forward. “Not always, bud.”

Teddy looked between them, visibly struggling with the concept. He wasn’t a brat—he wasn’t the type to throw tantrums—but he was used to things going his way, especially when it came to little things like this. And right now, it didn’t seem fair.

Draco crouched down to his level. “I can buy you one in your size,” he offered. “But not today. You’ll have to wait.”

Teddy’s face scrunched up. Waiting wasn’t fun. Not getting what he wanted wasn’t fun.

But…

“Okay,” he finally mumbled, even if his disappointment was palpable.

Draco ruffled his hair. “Good.”

Teddy sighed, dramatically flopping onto the couch. “Being a kid is hard.”

Harry snorted. “Try being an adult.”

Draco smirked, throwing Harry a knowing glance. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Harry shook his head with a small laugh. “You really love being right, don’t you?”

“More than you’ll ever know,” Draco said, then paused, eyes flicking toward the open wardrobe. “Though I suppose I should thank you for not making a scene about my personal clothing choices. Very mature of you, Potter.”

Harry huffed. “I wasn’t going to make a scene.”

Draco arched a brow. “Sure you weren’t. And I suppose you weren’t just gawking at my wardrobe, either?”

Harry flushed slightly, glancing away. “I just didn’t expect it, that’s all.”

Draco smirked. “Expect what?”

Harry sighed. “That you still dress like—” he waved a hand toward the wardrobe, “—that.”

Draco scoffed, clearly unimpressed. “Potter, I have standards. Just because you parade around in that Weasley sweater like it’s high fashion doesn’t mean I have to lower mine.”

Harry glanced down at his own red jumper, the giant "H" knitted into the front. It was warm. Comfortable. Familiar.

And then he looked back at Draco, who stood there in pressed slacks and a perfectly tailored shirt—because, of course, Draco Malfoy had to be impeccable even at home.

Harry snorted. “You know, I think I should be worried. You might just be raising Teddy to be as insufferable as you are.”

Draco smirked. “Only aiming for the best, Potter.”

Harry chuckled under his breath. Teddy giggled sleepily beside him. And as much as Harry wanted to pretend otherwise, he knew the truth—he wasn’t just some visitor in their lives anymore.

He was part of this.

Part of them.

….

Harry knocked on the door with barely contained excitement, the bright glow of lights spilling through the window. Inside, the hum of conversation mixed with the cheerful notes of Christmas music, signaling that at least half the family had already arrived. The warmth of it all made Teddy beam, his face alight with joy. The first time he had visited, he had woken up in an unfamiliar place and panicked when he couldn’t find Draco. But during his second visit earlier that day, he had explored the house more comfortably, reassured that Draco would always return for him.

Draco, however, was not handling the situation nearly as well. He fought to keep his breathing steady, his expression carefully neutral, but with every burst of laughter from inside, his composure frayed. He knew that the moment he stepped through that door, the laughter would die, the festive atmosphere would shift, and tension would settle over the room like an unwanted guest. His eyelids felt heavy, a side effect of the strong calming potion he had taken—likely the only thing keeping him sane. Without it, he wasn’t sure he could trust himself not to lash out at the first person who so much as looked at him the wrong way.

His thoughts, normally sharp and chaotic, were dulled and sluggish, making it difficult to focus. But the potion had granted him just enough clarity to remember how to act, what to do, and—most importantly—how to conceal just how much he wanted to collapse and sleep for the next twelve hours.

Still, for some foolish reason—probably the two idiots beside him, grinning expectantly at the door—he would endure whatever was necessary.

So when Bill Weasley opened the door, surprise flashing across his face before settling into an awkward smile, Draco returned it politely and stepped inside.

"Draco, I’m so glad you came. We were starting to worry when we couldn’t reach you earlier," Molly Weasley said as she hurried toward him, her concern immediate and unfiltered. She didn’t even greet Harry or Teddy first—her attention was solely on him. Her hand came to rest gently on his shoulder.

Startled, Draco flinched away.

Molly’s eyes softened in understanding. He wasn’t like her children. He wasn’t used to warmth, to easy affection. Gently, she withdrew her hand, her voice softening as she spoke again, carefully choosing her words. Draco could sense the sincerity in her regret, the genuine desire to bridge the gap between them.

The room had gone quiet. He had expected that, but it didn’t make it any less uncomfortable. At least there were fewer people than he had feared—nine in total. Two blonde heads stood out among the sea of red hair: Fleur and her daughter, Victoire.

“Vic!” Teddy called excitedly.

The baby, only a few months old, was already striking, her Veela heritage evident in the delicate beauty of her features. She didn’t do much beyond smiling and waving her pacifier, occasionally pulling it from her mouth and dropping it, but for some reason—perhaps loneliness—Teddy found her endlessly fascinating.

“Sorry for the delay," Harry said. "Teddy didn’t want to get dressed, and we took too long getting ready. Well, technically, I got ready. Harry, on the other hand, clearly looks like always," Draco added, his tone dry and sharp.

If he had to be in this suffocating house, he might as well ruin the cheerful atmosphere while he was at it.

But Harry only grinned, completely unfazed.

"Hmm, Harry, you look very nice," Molly interjected, offering Harry a hug. Her dress was lightly dusted with flour, and Harry was balancing a tray in his hands, but there was a warmth in her gestures, a quiet maternal affection that Draco envied. It was something he had never had.

"Sure," Draco drawled sarcastically.

“I’m sorry.” Harry shot him a smirk. "Not everyone looks good in skirts."

Draco opened his mouth to retort but hesitated as a wave of dizziness washed over him. Maybe the potion was too strong, or maybe he had simply taken too much of it. His knees threatened to give way for the briefest moment before he caught himself. When he glanced up, he found Molly watching him, trying to appear at ease, but the concern in her eyes was unmistakable.

“We brought Christmas cake,” he offered stiffly, more out of a need to fill the silence than anything else.

“Oh, how lovely! Did you make it yourself?” she asked, her smile kind but slightly forced.

Draco shook his head. “No. I just helped—Harry made it. He’s much better in the kitchen.”

“I see,” she replied, and an awkward pause stretched between them.

“But you made a pudding the other day, and it was really good,” Harry added, his tone casual, almost as if he were trying to be kind.

Draco blinked at him. “It was good? Really?”

Harry turned slightly toward him, and Draco realized too late how close they were standing. He quickly looked away, focusing straight ahead.

Then, Harry leaned in just enough that his breath brushed against Draco’s ear. “Don’t make me lie twice,” he murmured.

A shiver ran down Draco’s spine.

Molly smiled, seizing the chance to escape the awkwardness. Using the excuse of putting the cake in the fridge, she hurried into the kitchen. Before leaving, she cast a quick glance at her husband, who was deep in conversation with Charlie about a newly discovered dragon species.

"Draco, I’m going to help Mrs. Weasley. Why don’t you talk to Mr. Weasley?"

Draco didn’t bother hiding his skepticism. "He doesn’t want me here. He only invited me for your sake."

"Don’t be stubborn. He likes you," Harry lied, trying to nudge him forward.

Draco arched an unimpressed brow. "He tried to kill me."

"He wouldn’t have actually done anything—maybe a Stupefy, at most. Honestly, he cares about you."

Draco’s gray eyes narrowed, not because he believed Harry, but because he was astonished Potter could say something so blatantly false with a straight face.

"...I do a lot for you, okay? Just go." With that, Harry gave him a firm push toward Arthur, leaving Draco no choice but to move forward.

The moment he stepped closer, the interrogation began.

"Malfoy, what do you think of the house?" Arthur’s voice was casual, but the weight of expectation lingered in the air.

Draco kept his tone carefully neutral. "It’s… nice."

"Do you like dragons?" Charlie’s eyes lit up with enthusiasm.

"They’re interesting," Draco replied. He did like them—he was even wearing dragon-hide boots—but he wasn’t about to start gushing over them in front of a dragon enthusiast.

"In your opinion, which is the most intelligent species?" Charlie asked, his curiosity genuine rather than challenging.

Draco hesitated. He had no interest in small talk, but then he caught sight of Teddy, laughing as he played with Victoire. Somehow, that made answering easier. "I read that Norwegian Ridgebacks can breathe fire as early as three months old. That’s impressive, considering most species take six, right?"

"Some, yeah! I had one that started breathing fire right after hatching. She’s sharper than the others, better at hunting." That was not an invitation, but Charlie took it anyway and kept talking. 

Arthur remained quiet, simply observing. A flicker of disappointment settled in his chest—not at Charlie, who was taking this all in stride, but at himself for struggling with it.

Meanwhile, Draco maintained his polite smile, though exhaustion pulled at him. It was already later than when they usually had dinner at home.

Home.

The word crept into his thoughts unbidden. It wasn’t about a place—it was about the people.

Charlie continued talking, his excitement unshaken, but for a brief moment, Draco and Arthur’s eyes met. There was something unspoken in their expressions—shared discomfort, quiet understanding. Then, as if reaching a silent truce, they exchanged the faintest of smiles.

"You two are listening, right?" Charlie asked, glancing between them.

Draco rolled his eyes, feigning boredom.

Arthur chuckled.

…

The party at the Burrow was warm and lively, the scent of pine and spiced cider hanging in the air. Laughter and conversation filled the space, wrapping around Harry like a comfort he hadn’t realized he needed.

Draco, however, sat in the corner, nursing a drink in silence, his expression carefully neutral. He wasn’t scowling or sneering, just quiet. His gaze rested on Teddy, fond but unreadable, though he didn’t smile.

Harry hesitated before moving closer, just to check on him. To make sure he was fine—or at least, as fine as Draco Malfoy could be at the Burrow.

He lowered himself onto the seat beside Draco. Instinctively, Draco shifted, trying to give him more space—not to be rude, just out of habit. But he didn’t move.

His brows furrowed. He tried again. Nothing.

“What the—?” Draco snapped, then followed Harry’s gaze upward.

A sprig of mistletoe shimmered above them, golden vines pulsing faintly, humming with magic that felt almost alive.

From the other side of the room, George grinned.

“Ah, brilliant! Just in time to test my newest creation.” He strolled closer, eyes twinkling with mischief.

“Of course it was yours,” Harry muttered.

George beamed. “Not just any mistletoe, mind you. This one’s special. You can move closer to each other, but not apart. And—” he wiggled his eyebrows, “—it only works if at least one of you has feelings for the other.”

Draco scoffed immediately. “Well, that’s obviously wrong, because—” He made to stand, only to be yanked back into place. His expression faltered. He tried again, jaw tightening.

Harry, frowning, simply… moved.

Draco froze.

Harry took a step to the side, then another. The magic didn’t stop him.

Draco, however, was still stuck.

George’s grin widened, and Harry saw it—that flicker of realization in Draco’s eyes, followed by a sharp frown.

“Faulty charms,” Draco said, his voice perfectly even. “Clearly, this thing’s broken.”

“Yeah, the spell is just moving you back, not holding you,” George mused, tapping his chin.

Draco exhaled sharply. “Potter’s not stuck.”

“No, he isn’t,” George agreed, watching him closely. “Interesting, isn’t it?”

Draco’s fingers curled into fists. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Mm,” George hummed. “Sure.”

The party carried on around them with people laughing, drinking, unaware. George was still grinning—until Draco exhaled sharply, his breath unsteady. His hand clenched at his sleeve, and for the first time since the war, George saw something raw flicker in Malfoy’s eyes.

Panic.

Not the sharp, defensive kind. Not anger, or irritation, or even humiliation.

Just quiet, breath-stealing panic.

Draco wasn’t fighting anymore. He just stood there, stiff, frozen in place, like he had been exposed in a way he never wanted to be. Like this—this—was worse than anything George could have done to him.

Something in George’s stomach twisted. He wasn’t fond of Draco, but he wasn’t cruel.

He let out a long breath. “Alright,” he muttered. “I lied.”

Draco’s head snapped up. His whole body was still too tense, but his voice was clipped when he spoke. “About what, exactly?”

“The mistletoe,” George admitted. “It doesn’t work if only one person has feelings. Both people have to like each other.”

Silence.

Draco’s hands trembled. Just a little. Just enough that George noticed.

Harry swallowed hard. “But I could move.”

George shrugged. “Well, Draco was right about my spell being faulty.” His smirk softened, just slightly. “But I don’t think I could ever make something strong enough to control Harry Potter.”

Draco’s lips parted, but no words came. He looked at Harry, and for the first time that night, there was no mask, no sneer, no carefully practiced indifference. Just hesitation.

Draco’s breathing was shallow, but when he spoke, his voice was as sharp as ever. “Fix this.”

George hesitated. Then, with a flick of his wand, the enchanted mistletoe vanished with a quiet pop. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Look, I’m not exactly your biggest fan, Malfoy, but I’m not heartless.” He glanced between them. 

Draco took a step back instantly, arms folding tightly across his chest. His expression was angry but his hands were trembling a little.

George exhaled. “For what it’s worth,” he said, “It was a funny prank in my head.”

Draco’s shoulders twitched, like he wanted to say something—but then Mrs. Weasley’s voice rang from the kitchen.

“Harry, darling, can you help me?”

Harry blinked, as if snapping out of a trance. When he turned back, Draco was already gone.

…

The house, already warm with the scent of roasted meats and seasoned vegetables, became livelier with their arrival. The dining room, illuminated by a mix of enchanted floating candles and the soft glow of a chandelier, cast a golden hue over the wooden table laden with dishes. The flickering fire in the hearth crackled softly, its warmth seeping into the cozy atmosphere. And with that, dinner was finally served.

“Teddy, eat your vegetables too,” Draco instructed, his tone holding a note of practiced authority as he turned toward the little boy seated in a transfigured high chair. Next to him, in an identical seat, was Victoire, whose mother was struggling just as much to get her to eat.

Harry, observing the scene, smiled to himself, feeling a sense of accomplishment. After a surprisingly civil discussion—which, miraculously, hadn’t escalated into an argument—the adults had agreed that they both needed to take responsibility for improving Teddy's eating habits. Harry had a habit of indulging him with sweets, and Draco, despite his usual sharpness, was ultimately too soft when it came to denying Teddy anything. Neither of them was particularly strict, and that had to change. So now, they were trying to balance each other out.

“But you’re not eating them,” Teddy pointed out, his voice laced with simple logic rather than defiance. He wasn't accusing—just stating a fact.

Draco barely missed a beat. “That’s because I’m an adult. I don’t need to eat more vegetables,” he replied smoothly, taking a sip of his wine as if that settled the matter.

Harry let out a quiet chuckle at the flimsy excuse, shaking his head.

“Is that true?” Teddy asked, turning to Harry for confirmation.

“Of course,” Draco continued, lounging back slightly in his chair. “That’s why you should eat plenty of vegetables now—so you can grow up quickly and never have to eat them again.”

Draco must have felt the eyes on him because, he was more charming than usual. With a casual motion, he ran a hand through his platinum-blond hair, his mercury eyes narrowing slightly as they met Harry’s. There was something sharp in his gaze, almost playful, as if he were challenging him to say something. Harry, for his part, held it for a moment before rolling his eyes.

“Teddy didn’t eat much,” Draco noted, turning smoothly to Harry with calculated ease, his expression perfectly composed.

“That’s probably because I fed him before we left,” Harry admitted, shifting his gaze away to avoid the temptation of staring for too long—or worse, smiling.

Draco blinked, then frowned. “Why would you do that?” His arms crossed, his displeasure clear.

“He was hungry. Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because he was going to eat here. What’s the point of going out for dinner if he already ate at home?”

Harry scoffed. “Who cares? Is it just because he might stain his clothes?”

“It’s not just that. It’s about discipline, knowing how to wait for the right time.”

Draco’s relaxed demeanor was gone, replaced by sharp edges and pointed words. He had completely forgotten the people around them, his full attention locked on Harry in a familiar clash of wills. Harry wasn’t particularly keen on encouraging Draco’s random outbursts, but he also wasn’t the type to back down from them.

“Merlin, do they argue like this all the time?” Hermione muttered to no one in particular, too exasperated to keep quiet.

Her comment was unintentionally loud enough to be heard over the background chatter, and before anyone could answer, Teddy turned to her with a reassuring smile.

“It’s okay,” he said cheerfully. “They make peace and ‘ happy again.”

Hermione stared at him. “And how is it?” 

“Like this” Teddy turned to Victoire, who had been quietly eating beside him, and, without a second thought, pressed his lips to hers in an innocent imitation of what he had seen.

The reactions varied. Fleur laughed openly, while Bill looked both alarmed and vaguely offended at the ‘stolen’ kiss. Victoire, however, simply smiled, unbothered. Molly tried to maintain her composure but failed spectacularly, her expression a mixture of shock and amusement. Arthur, ever the diplomat, quickly turned his attention to the window, nodding to himself as if he had just discovered something profoundly interesting outside. Hermione, on the other hand, looked scandalized.

Ron and Ginny exchanged a glance. He groaned, rolling his eyes as he reached into his pocket, pulling out a note, which Ginny gleefully accepted.

Harry and Draco, for their part, were frozen. The implication of Teddy’s words had struck them both speechless. Then, as if a spell had been lifted, Draco burst into laughter.

It was rare, but Harry had seen it before—Draco laughing freely, completely unrestrained. And every time, it caught him off guard. It made his breath hitch, made something warm settle in his chest. And, as much as he tried to resist, he found himself laughing along.

The entire table turned to look at Draco, still chuckling, his usually composed features bright with genuine amusement as he wiped at the small tears gathering in his eyes.

“Teddy, you can’t do that with other people,” Draco finally managed to say, his voice still laced with amusement.

Teddy blinked up at him, clearly confused.

“Is that true, Harry?” Molly asked suddenly, her sharp gaze shifting toward him.

Harry froze.

“Er… no. Teddy has been very imaginative lately. He must have seen me fixing Draco’s tie earlier and gotten confused.”

“But Draco isn’t wearing a tie,” Molly pointed out, her expression skeptical.

Harry hesitated for half a second before recovering with an awkward laugh. “Of course not! Because I couldn’t tie it properly, and he took it off.”

“I see,” Molly said, her eyes narrowing. But after a moment, she let it go—though Harry could tell she wasn’t entirely convinced.

He exhaled in relief, only for Ron to speak at the worst possible moment.

“Oh, come on, Mum. That’s nothing compared to what Teddy said the last—”

Ron abruptly cut himself off, doubling over with a pained groan. Hermione, all smiles, had just elbowed him hard in the stomach.

No one said another word about it.

Sensing the tension, George grinned mischievously and leaned in. “Well, at least we know who the bad influence is now. Teddy’s already pulling moves better than I ever did.”

The table erupted into laughter, and the mood instantly lightened. Harry groaned, rubbing his face.

Draco, never one to let an opportunity pass, leaned in slightly, his voice smooth with feigned innocence. Ready to change the subject.

“Well, his imagination must be from watching too much television,” he mused, his silver eyes gleaming mischievously. Then, turning to Arthur Weasley, he added, “You understand Muggle technology quite well, don’t you, Mr. Weasley?”

Arthur’s face lit up with excitement, and in an instant, a long, enthusiastic monologue about Muggle's inventions unfolded.

Harry shot Draco a grateful look. Draco merely smirked, victorious.

…

After dinner, everyone moved to the living room, drinks in hand, ready to exchange gifts.

"Not drinking, Draco?" Harry asked, already holding a glass of butterbeer.

"I’ll pass," Draco replied, lifting his glass of pumpkin juice. His mouth watered at the thought of butterbeer, but the potion he had taken earlier made alcohol a bad idea. It was just as well—Teddy, sitting beside him, looked thoroughly unimpressed at being the only one unable to drink like the adults.

"Harry, don’t overdo it," Draco added when he noticed Harry refilling his glass for the second time in mere minutes.

Harry smirked. "Oh, relax, Mum."

Across the room, Bill chuckled. "It’s funny how well you and Malfoy get along. Didn’t he hate you at first?"

"Draco hates everybody at first," Harry said, taking a sip. "It’s his way of reaching out to people."

Draco rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.

Fleur, sitting beside Bill, gave him a pointed look. "That’s ironic, considering we’re the married ones, and we don’t fight like that."

"Not in front of others," she added sweetly. "But last night, you annoyed me quite a bit."

Before Bill could protest, Teddy whined dramatically at Victoire, who had taken one of his gifts hostage, making Draco have to hold him, "Mon chéri, stop that!" 

"Oh, you speak French?" Fleur asked, immediately interested. 

Draco gave a one-shouldered shrug. "Yeah. My mother’s family was French. Also, my etiquette tutor."

Harry snorted. "No way you had etiquette lessons."

"I did," Fleur said, smirking. "Some people should have had them too." She threw a not-so-subtle look at Bill, who was too busy talking to his father about work to notice.

Draco laughed. Finally, someone in this house shared his sense of humor.

Harry, meanwhile, exhaled as he watched Draco joke with Fleur. He seemed at ease for once, a stark contrast to his usual tension. Teddy and Victoire played at their feet, both giggling, and for a moment, everything felt... right. So he allowed Draco to keep talking shit about everyone else with Fleur and stepped out of the conversation.

Hermione walked over, holding several wrapped gifts. "Your gifts," she said, placing two of them in front of Harry. "This one is from Ron and me."

Harry nodded, taking them with a grateful smile before handing over a few gifts of his own.

"These are yours," he told Hermione, who smiled as she unwrapped them.

Ron grinned as he examined his new wristwatch. Like the Weasley family clock, instead of numbers, it displayed words like work , danger , and dinner. Hermione, meanwhile, looked delighted with her set of planners, pens, and highlighters—practical gifts, as always.

Harry opened one of the gifts and knew how gave him it, a magical trunk with extra compartments, enchanted for organization, with spaces for storage, documents, and even an emergency first-aid kit. 

Hermione beamed, running her fingers over the sleek stationery. "I love it, Harry."

He shrugged. "Thanks. Yours are always useful." He pointed to the trunk, and she smiled.

Then Hermione leaned in. "I, uh… I didn’t get Malfoy anything," she admitted in a whisper. "I didn’t expect him to actually come. I thought he’d be with his mother."

"Don’t worry," Harry said with a small, almost secret smile. "I got something."

There were a lot of gifts—more than he was used to. Even now, the warmth in his chest at receiving them felt unfamiliar, something he doubted he’d ever fully get used to.

A thick, cozy sock from Mrs. Weasley, charmed to always stay warm.
Some experimental sweets from George (which Harry was pretty sure were meant to explode).
A set of expensive-looking clothes from Fleur, who had sighed dramatically about his lack of fashion sense.
A Dragon board game from Charlie.
And a new broom from Ron—one Harry had admired but never let himself buy. 

They walked toward the children, who were now at the center of attention—meaning, unintentionally, so were Draco and Fleur. Neither looked thrilled by the attention.

Hermione quickly handed out the children's gifts, and both adults instinctively crouched to help them tear through the wrapping.

Then Harry held out a small, wrapped box. "Here. This one's for you, Draco."

Draco blinked, genuinely surprised. He hesitated only a second before abandoning Teddy’s half-open package in favor of his own. The paper came off neatly, revealing a black leather-bound album.

Harry cleared his throat. "It’s for your photos."

Draco ran his fingers over the smooth cover, his touch lingering. No teasing remark came to mind. He simply nodded, quiet for a moment.

Harry shifted, suddenly uncertain. "You’re always the one taking them, so I figured you should have somewhere to keep them."

Draco’s fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on the album. He had never thought anyone noticed. Taking photos was something he did absently, almost in secret—lifting the camera only when he was sure no one was looking, capturing moments in between, never in front of Harry, never openly. And yet, Harry had noticed. Of course he had.

Draco let out a soft exhale. "It’s… practical."

Harry smirked. "See? Told you I’m good at presents."

Draco didn’t answer right away, just traced the edge of the album’s cover, feeling the weight of it in his hands. Then, almost as an afterthought, he reached into his pocket.

"Here," he said, pressing a small, wrapped item into Harry’s palm.

Harry unwrapped it to find a sleek silver pocket watch, elegant and polished, with an intricate charm work that made the hands move in an oddly specific way.

He opened the lid, brows drawing together as he read the inscription:

"Try not to be late (or insufferable). – D."

Harry huffed a laugh. "Charming."

Draco leaned in slightly, voice low enough that only Harry could hear. "It’s charmed to show the exact time, hopefully, you will stop being late, and if you click here"—he pressed a small, near-invisible button on the side—"it shows how long until our next argument."

Harry glanced down just as the hands flickered, shifting and rearranging before settling into place.

"07:44:52"

He let out a soft huff of laughter. "Almost eight hours of peace? Wow, I must be on my best behavior."

"Don’t get too comfortable," Draco said, smirking. "That can change very quickly."

Harry rolled his eyes, but his fingers curled around the watch, thumb tracing its cool surface. He snapped the lid shut with a quiet click , shaking his head with a reluctant smile.

"Yeah," he murmured. "I think I can use it."

"This is my gift, Draco." Mrs. Weasley stepped forward to hand him her famous sweater.

Draco was momentarily speechless. The dark green sweater had a large silver "D" on the front, made from the same material as all the others. He simply smiled and handed her the small box he had bought. Inside were silver earrings. Since the woman wasn’t wearing any jewelry at the moment, he briefly wondered if he had chosen poorly. Regardless, she smiled and said she would wear them with care.

Beside them, Teddy couldn’t hide his disappointment upon opening his gift—a matching sweater and pants set. Though he thanked them properly, his frustration was evident. He turned to the side and noticed that Victoire had received a dress and a set with a skirt. The white sweater was quickly forgotten as his eyes locked onto the beautiful pleated fabric. It was the same shade of blue as his hair and, in his eyes, a thousand times prettier than any pair of pants.

So, without hesitation, Teddy smiled and took the skirt from the baby’s tiny hands.

"That’s not yours, Teddy," Draco scolded, trying to take it from the boy, but he wasn’t willing to let go.

"Oh, let him," Fleur said with an easy smile, waving her hand dismissively.

Draco recognized the sincerity in her permission, and though he felt slightly intimidated by the other gazes in the room, he took the opportunity to test the clothing-switching spell he had recently learned from Mrs. Weasley. With a flick of his wand, Teddy was dressed.

The skirt fit him perfectly—he hadn’t even needed a resizing charm. The shade of blue matched his hair exactly, and it went surprisingly well with his sweater. The boy ran excitedly around the room before coming back to stand in front of Draco, beaming.

"Thank you, Daddy."

Draco’s gray eyes widened, unable to hide his shock—just like Harry and everyone else in the room.

In an instant, his expression shifted from surprise to a mix of joy and melancholy. His eyes filled with tears even as he smiled. Pulling Teddy into a hug, he held him tightly.

Beside him, Harry placed a steadying arm around his shoulders.

"This is ridiculous, I’m way too young to be a father," Draco murmured, tears slipping down his face.

"I know." Harry gently tightened his hold, pulling Draco in to hide his face against his shoulder, knowing he must hate being seen like this.

"What a strange guy," Ron muttered, frowning—only to be met with a chorus of reproachful glares.

"Don’t ruin the moment, Ronald," Hermione scolded, giving him a shove.

Nearby, Arthur watched the scene before him, his eyes growing heavy with emotion. When he had seen Draco with Harry just weeks ago, all he could see was a Death Eater—just like the one who had killed his son. Fred’s smiling face overlapped with the image of his body, lying still among the ruins of the castle after the explosion.

But now, Arthur saw something different.

A boy. A boy Ron’s age, brimming with emotions just like anyone else. A boy who also knew how to love.

"He didn’t kill my son," Arthur’s weak voice wavered, barely above a whisper.

Molly placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "No, he’s just a boy."

Draco Malfoy looked very much like a lost child as he buried his tear-streaked face in Harry’s shoulder, clutching Teddy tightly in his arms. Teddy, for his part, gazed up at him with concern. Though he didn’t fully understand what was happening, he whispered words of comfort to the blond man who held him so close.

Chapter Text

When they finally went home, it was well past midnight. The scent of cinnamon from Molly’s baking clung to their scarves, a sweet, nostalgic trace of the evening. The low crackle of the dying fire filled the quiet. Teddy had been humming for the past ten minutes, twirling in the middle of the sitting room, his new skirt flaring around his knees with each spin.

“Look, Draco! It moves when I spin!” Teddy beamed, his hair flickering between electric blue and soft pink, mirroring his excitement.

Leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, Draco arched an eyebrow. “So it does. A most… dynamic garment.”

Harry shot him a look. “He means that you look brilliant, Teddy.”

Teddy grinned wider. “I know.” He spun once more, giggling at the way the fabric flared around him, before darting off, presumably to find a mirror and admire himself further.

Draco huffed but didn’t argue. His lips twitched, betraying the smirk he was fighting off. Instead, he pushed off the doorway and sank onto the couch beside Harry with a sigh, letting his head tip back against the cushions.

“Merlin, I’m exhausted. Who knew spending an evening with your family could be so draining?”

Harry just smiled. Because that was what Draco had called them. Your family. He said it so easily, so casually.

For a while, they sat in silence, the weight of the day settling between them, warm and heavy. The fire cast flickering shadows across the room, and Harry could feel the heat of Draco’s body beside him, the way their knees almost—almost—brushed.

It was maddening. The awareness. The way his mind kept circling back to that moment before Christmas—the kiss neither of them had spoken about since. The way George’s voice echoed in his head: It only works if both people like each other.

The mistletoe had worked. It had worked with Hermione and Ron. Hadn’t worked when George and Fleur stood beneath it. The spell wasn’t faulty. Draco liked him.

And, maybe more importantly, Harry liked Draco.

Harry knew, at this point, he felt something, and could say that it was a mix of attraction and friendship, in good days could admit that it was like. But that didn’t mean he fully believed. Sometimes, he wondered if he was just going crazy.

“You’re staring,” Draco said, cutting through his thoughts.

Harry startled. “I’m not staring.” He tore his gaze away, fixing it on the fire instead. “Just… thinking.”

“Dangerous habit.”

There was no real bite to it, though, and Harry exhaled a quiet laugh, dragging a hand over his face. “Mrs. Weasley liked you, you know.”

Draco glanced at him, brow arching in clear skepticism. “She was being polite.”

“Yes. She isn’t polite when she doesn’t like someone.”

Draco let out a low chuckle, the sound deep and warm, curling around Harry’s spine in a thoroughly irritating way. “Well, that’s something, I suppose. Though I’m fairly certain Mr. Weasley still wants to hex me.”

“Arthur is… coming around.” Harry hesitated. “Give him some time.”

Draco hummed again, unconvinced, but leaned back against the couch, stretching his legs out. His fingers drummed absently against his thigh—long, elegant fingers that had held a wand, a potion, and a child’s hand with equal care.

Harry found himself staring before he caught himself, forcing his gaze away.

Draco smirked, catching it anyway. “Potter, if you’re going to continue looking at me like that, at least pretend it’s my stunning wit that’s captivated you.”

Harry rolled his eyes, but his face felt warmer. “Trust me, it’s not that.”

Draco laughed, and Merlin help him, the sound did something strange to Harry’s chest.

They had to talk. Eventually. About it. About what happened before Christmas—the kiss neither of them had spoken about. The ones that happened before. But Harry knew Draco; if he pushed too hard, Draco would retreat, claws out. So, instead, he reached into the drawer on the coffee table and pulled out a neatly wrapped package.

“I got you something,” Harry said, turning to Draco with the package in his hands. “It’s not much,” he said casually. It was not the first present he gave Draco just out of impulse. 

Draco, who had been in the process of removing his outer robes, froze. “You already gave me a Christmas present, Potter.”

Harry shrugged. “So? This isn’t for Christmas.” He extended the present towards the blond.

Draco’s fingers twitched, but he didn’t move to take it. “Then what’s it for?”

“Just because.” Harry smiled. 

Damn, that smile would kill Draco, ‘cause without anything else, it convinced him to accept. Even though he should know better.

Draco slowly reached out, plucking the package from Harry’s hands. He turned it over once before carefully peeling back the wrapping, revealing an elegant box of Swiss chocolate—the kind that cost an absurd amount of Galleons. It was Draco’s favorite when he was at Hogwarts; his mother always sent him some. He wondered if Harry knew that or if it was just a coincidence. 

For a moment, he just stared. Then, with a quiet scoff, he muttered, “You can stop trying to buy your way out of feeling guilty.”

“What?”

Draco tapped the box against his palm. “Being nice to make up for hiding Blaise.” His voice was light, almost amused. Almost.

Harry exhaled sharply. “It’s not about Zabini.”

Draco didn’t look convinced.

“Okay,” Harry admitted. “It might have started that way. But it’s not anymore.” He held Draco’s gaze, steady. “I’m doing this because I want to. That’s it.”

Draco hesitated, fingers resting on the lid of the chocolate box. Then, lips twitching, he scoffed. “Tragic,” he muttered. “Now you’re earnest.”

“Harry! Draco! Come see my dance!” Teddy’s voice echoed down the stairs, high-pitched and brimming with energy.

Draco let out an exaggerated sigh, tucking the box of chocolates under his arm as he rose. “Merlin, help us. I was hoping to sleep before sunrise.”

Harry rubbed his eyes, his hair even messier than usual. “Let’s try again. He has to be tired by now.”

Though Teddy’s earlier laughter and playful shrieks had subsided, his energy remained uncontainable. From the hallway, Harry called softly, “Teddy, it’s late. Time for bed.”

From behind his bedroom door, a small voice protested, “Okay, but I don’t wanna bathe!”

Harry shrugged. He didn’t mind if Teddy skipped a bath—one night without one wasn’t the end of the world. But Draco, ever the perfectionist, had other ideas.

“Why don’t you want to take a bath, you little imp?” Draco demanded, stooping to catch up with the darting boy. He rubbed his temple, already feeling the beginnings of a headache.

Teddy skidded to a stop just long enough to throw his hands up dramatically. “Because the water is wet! Ewwww!”

Draco blinked, his expression a blend of exasperation and amusement. “The water is wet?” he repeated slowly, as if pondering the revelation. “Oh, I never realized! Are we raising the next Merlin?”

Unbothered, Teddy took off running again, his giggles trailing behind him like tinkling bells.

From the doorway, Harry groaned, surveying the chaos with tired amusement. His patience was wearing thin, but a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Draco, please. It’s three in the morning,” he chided, glancing at his new pocket watch—a gift that had already proven its worth in these moments.

Draco didn’t even glance at him. “No, Harry. I’m taking a moment to admire his genius.”

Sensing another opportunity to display his wit, Teddy twisted in Draco’s grasp. “The water is soooo wet,” he insisted, his tone dripping with mock seriousness.

Draco nodded solemnly, his lips twitching as he fought back a laugh. “Incredible observation. Should we submit this to the Department of Mysteries?”

Harry sighed, unable to hide his smile. “Alright, that’s enough,” he said, stepping forward and scooping Teddy into his arms. The little rebel huffed in defeat but quickly snuggled into Harry’s chest as his energy finally began to wane.

“That reminds me… no chocolate cake for you, Ted,” Harry chided lightly.

Teddy’s eyes widened in mock betrayal. “What? Why?”

“We had a deal,” Harry replied, raising an eyebrow. “I promised you chocolate cake if you didn’t tell anyone what you saw. But you told everyone.”

At the mention of the promise, Draco stiffened. The memory of Teddy bursting into them, wide-eyed and shouting about what he’d seen, made his stomach twist. He forced a calm expression.

“I didn’t tell!” Teddy insisted, his face the very picture of innocence.

“You absolutely did.”

“No, I didn’t tell. I showed,” the boy countered, his voice brimming with earnest defiance.

A beat of silence passed before Draco groaned and dropped his head into his hands. Finally, he looked up at Harry with a slow, narrow-eyed smirk. “Touché. Perhaps I really am raising the next Merlin.”

Caught between exasperation and laughter, Harry chuckled as the frustration of the late hour melted away, replaced by a warmth that spread through his chest. In that small, chaotic family moment—despite the exhaustion, the disheveled hair, and the fact that it was nearly four in the morning—Harry realized something:

This was perfect.

He wished, more than anything, that moments like this could last forever.

….

Christmas morning should have been peaceful—warm, filled with quiet joy. The soft glow of the fireplace, Teddy snuggled close, and Draco’s steady, unreadable gaze should have been enough to quiet the world. Yet Harry’s chest felt weighted with a lingering grief he could neither fully acknowledge nor simply banish.

He had woken from a nightmare he couldn’t quite shake—a dream that wasn’t the worst, but one that set the day’s tone with its bitter residue. The war, with all its horror and loss, had no place on Christmas morning. Still, its echo gnawed at him relentlessly. He couldn’t be sad about it; that vulnerability was a luxury he felt he couldn’t afford. Instead, his sorrow turned inward, manifesting as hot, directionless anger—a simmering fury aimed squarely at himself. His body ached, his head pounded, and his mood was already ruined by the weight of memories he couldn’t escape.

Last night, everyone had ended up in the living room almost by accident. Draco had stretched out on the worn couch with Teddy casually sprawled over him, the little boy’s tiny hand tucked in Draco’s sweater. Harry, exhausted and detached, had collapsed onto the floor. He was always the first to wake, but today was an exception. 

Draco was awake, though his eyes were fixed on Teddy—carefully combing through the boy’s sunny yellow curls with absent-minded fingers. In that moment, Harry couldn’t help but envy the innocence in Teddy’s sleep, a dream he suspected was sweet and undisturbed. At least one of them deserved a good dream.

Slowly, Harry sat up and ran a hand through his perpetually disheveled hair. Teddy still clutched his new toy—a stuffed ferret gifted by Ron—an item that, clearly had an intention to provoke Draco, had become the child’s favorite. Just the night before, Teddy had declared it “the bestest gift ever,” even as he eyed the mountain of presents waiting to be opened.

Harry remembered the faint smile that had tugged at his lips, a fleeting moment of happiness he now despised for its impermanence. He hated that he couldn’t simply be happy, that the war still haunted him like a persistent ghost. But, above all, he hated himself.

“You’re thinking too loud,” Draco murmured from somewhere nearby, careful not to disturb Teddy’s sleep.

Harry couldn’t bring himself to answer. Instead, he curled up on the rug, clutching a pillow as if it could absorb some of his inner turmoil. He resented how easily Draco seemed to read him now—how much he needed that understanding, even if it stung.

Harry couldn’t answer. Instead, he curled up on the rug, clutching a pillow as if it might absorb some of his inner turmoil. He hated how easily Draco seemed to read him now—how much he needed that unspoken understanding, even if it only deepened his self-loathing.

A memory surfaced in the quiet moments that followed—a conversation from the night before. Harry recalled how he and Draco had agreed, with Teddy, to visit Lily and James’s grave later that day and also to pay respects at Tonks and Remus’s resting places. The prospect of confronting these sacred sites, of facing the tangible remnants of their loss, only deepened Harry’s inner heaviness. It was a reminder that even amidst the fragile comfort of family and celebration, the pain was still very real.

Draco’s voice was soft, yet edged with concern. “Bad day?”

Harry offered a dismissive shrug, picking at a loose thread in the worn fabric beneath him. “I’m fine,” he lied.

“You’re not,” Draco replied simply, crossing the room in two strides. Before Harry could muster a retort, Draco pressed the back of his hand against Harry’s forehead—clinical, almost routine. The cool touch was both familiar and jarring.

“No fever. Just your usual martyr complex, I suppose,” the blond teased.

“Piss off,” Harry muttered, his voice hollow. There was no real venom there, just resignation.

Draco had lived with Harry long enough to realize that even the mighty Harry Potter wasn’t immune to bad days. He began to think that Potter, in particular, should be allowed to have bad days. If PTSD were a person, Draco mused bitterly, it would have green eyes and messy black hair. So he confronted Harry when it occurred, not with a rude attack, but by acknowledging it out loud, much more than Harry ever did; he usually just ignored it and pretended nothing was happening until it passed.

Harry finally gathered his forces to get up. “Should we wake Ted? It’s almost noon.”

“You know how he gets cranky if we disturb him,” Draco replied, his tone more matter-of-fact than mocking.

Draco rose with a measured effort, gently leaving Teddy asleep on the couch before heading upstairs to his morning rituals. Nothing, absolutely nothing, could come before a proper brush and a minty-fresh start. Meanwhile, Harry wandered to the kitchen, driven by an unrelenting hunger and a desperate need for normalcy.

The kitchen was a haven of rich, comforting aromas—golden toast piled haphazardly on a plate, scrambled eggs glistening from the pan, bacon curled at the edges, and plump sausages browned to perfection. A pot of tea steamed serenely in the center, and a towering stack of golden pancakes drizzled with syrup stood proudly among the clutter. It was the classic British breakfast, and though Harry knew it wouldn’t erase his demons, for a moment, it felt like a promise of peace.

Draco returned later than usual. When he reappeared, his damp hair framed a face that was both tired and unexpectedly elegant in fresh clothes—a simple sweatshirt and black trousers that spoke of effortless style. Harry couldn’t help but notice the contrast: Draco’s appearance was meticulously composed, even as Harry’s own was disheveled—a T-shirt with a hole near the hem and worn, baggy pants that once belonged to Ron.

Great, now Harry was starting to get self-aware of his appearance. As if his day couldn’t get worse. He had come to terms with his low self-esteem years ago, just ignored it like any other problem he had.

Draco settled a folded newspaper down beside Harry’s plate as he took his seat. He didn’t say anything; didn’t have to. A second later, Harry slid a mug of tea across the table toward him, just as wordlessly. Draco picked it up without looking, taking a slow sip while scanning the breakfast spread. A silent exchange they did every day. 

“Daddy?” Teddy's soft, unexpected voice was heard.

The room fell silent. Draco froze, his teacup suspended halfway to his lips, his eyes widening in tender surprise. Harry’s breath caught as he watched Draco’s features soften with a mix of tenderness and astonishment. It had only been yesterday that Teddy had called Draco “Daddy” for the first time—a memory as delicate and precious as the first snowfall.

Draco set his teacup down carefully, his hands trembling just a touch. He looked down at Teddy, whose wide, expectant eyes shone with innocent delight, completely unaware of the moment’s weight.

“Happy Christmas,” Teddy mumbled, his voice drowsy and sweet.

Draco’s reply came softly, uncharacteristically gentle. “Good morning, little monster. And Merry Christmas.”

Harry’s heart tightened as he watched them. Teddy reached out with a small hand, tugging at Harry’s sleeve. “Hawwy! It’s Christmas!” he insisted, his pronunciation adorably off.

“Merry Christmas, Ted,” Harry replied, his smile tinged with melancholy. He leaned back, trying to lose himself in the mundane details—a crumpled page of The Quibbler, the familiar clink of cutlery—anything to distract him from the memories that clawed at his mind.

Teddy sat down and began to eat, while Draco hummed a wizard song and sipped his tea. That was life. Harry loved the present. And told himself this could surface all the pain. He tried to focus on the newspaper, scanning it disinterestedly, until—

“Are you and Luna cousins?” he asked, eyes still fixed on the paper.

“Merlin,” the blond muttered, irritation thick in his tone. “What bullshit are they writing now?”

“Language,” Harry replied automatically, nodding toward Teddy.

Draco exhaled sharply, glaring at him before glancing down at Teddy, who was too lost in his sleepy breakfast trance to notice. With a heavy sigh, Draco leaned back in his chair, arms folded.

“Who said it?”

Harry hummed, glancing back at the article. “Luna wrote you are cousins.”

“Of course she did,” Draco muttered. “And what exactly did she say?”

Harry skimmed a few more lines before reading aloud, “‘Draco reminds me of a Thestral. Thestrals are feared by many because they can only be seen by those who have witnessed death, and their skeletal forms seem haunting. But they are loyal, gentle, and misunderstood creatures. They carry us through the darkness, even when we cannot see their beauty at first.’”

“Great. So now I’m a misunderstood Thestral—as if I didn’t have enough to worry about.”

Harry snorted. “Could be worse.”

“Could it?”

“If it were up to me, I’d write you as a Crup. All bark and no bite.”

Draco shot him a flat look. “Remind me again why I tolerate you?”

Harry smirked, stealing a slice of toast from Draco’s plate. “Because I make excellent tea.”

Draco rolled his eyes but made no further protest.

Harry returned to the article and continued, “‘Draco is a survivor marked by the weight of what he’s seen, yet capable of carrying far more than anyone realizes. The boy who did the wrong choices for the right reasons.’”

A long silence settled between them. Teddy, oblivious, mumbled something incoherent and nuzzled closer into Draco’s side.

Draco swallowed. “She’s always had a flair for dramatics.”

Harry looked at him—really looked—before replying, “She’s not wrong.”

Teddy suddenly sat up, blinking blearily. “I ate breakfast,” he announced as if that were the final hurdle. Last night, the adults promised that he could open presents after breakfast. Glancing between them expectantly, he added, “Pwesents?”

Draco sighed, dramatically. “I told you we shouldn’t have let him open one last night. Now he thinks Christmas morning is purely transactional.”

The dark-haired one grinned. “Oh, like you’re any better?”

“Unlike you, I appreciate a well-thought-out gift.”

“I appreciate them just fine,” Harry countered, sipping his tea. “Especially the ones that don’t come with snarky inscriptions.”

Draco smirked, recalling the note he put on Harry’s watch that read, ‘Try not to be late or insufferable.’ “It was more of an advice, really.”

Teddy, unimpressed with their banter, flopped onto his back with an exaggerated sigh. “Pwesents,” he whined dramatically.

Harry laughed and set him down, watching as Teddy sprinted toward the Christmas tree, his tiny socks sliding on the floor. “Alright, let’s see what you’ve got.”

Teddy dug through the pile of gifts with an excitement so pure it made something in Harry’s chest ache. The little boy giggled as he tore into the wrapping paper. When sleek wizarding robes were revealed, he held them up, rubbing the fabric between his fingers. “It’s so soft!”

Draco scoffed. “Only the best for my Teddy.”

Teddy uncovered the rest—a child-sized Nimbus broomstick. For a split second, he froze; then his hair flashed to a brilliant electric blue.

A delighted squeal burst from him. “A bwoom! A bwoom! Hawwy, look!”

“You’ll have to be careful. And always with an adult,” Harry explained, though he hadn’t agreed on the broom.

Teddy barely registered the warning before diving back into his presents. He reached for a bright red package adorned with hand-drawn spiders and gasped, “Spideyman!”

Harry grinned as Teddy ripped into the package like it owed him money, revealing a Spider-Man action figure, a T-shirt with the web-slinger’s emblem, and a tiny web-shooter.

Without delay, Teddy put the shirt on over his pajamas. “I’m Spider-Man!” he declared proudly.

Draco groaned. “Fantastic. Encouraging reckless behavior. Just what we need.”

“Come on, you saw this coming—” Harry began, but Teddy had already strapped the web-shooter onto his wrist and pressed its button. A string of fake webbing shot out, directly at Draco, clinging stubbornly to his sleeve.

A long silence followed.

Draco slowly turned his head toward Harry. “You bought him a weapon.”

Harry, entirely unbothered, grinned. “You gave him a broom. I’d say we’re even.”

Teddy was already back on the couch, jumping up and down, his hair flashing between blue and red like a miniature superhero's.

Draco buried his face in his hands. “I regret everything.”

“There is MORE?!” Teddy exclaimed, his excitement contagious.

Draco smiled, a mix of exasperation and amusement. Most of the rest of the gifts were his, and honestly, he didn’t regret it one bit.

Yet, beneath the playful chaos, Harry’s inner struggle was palpable. The war still haunted his dreams, its guilt gnawing at his chest, its anger keeping him from vulnerability. It was a burden he carried alone, a secret he wasn’t sure he could ever share.

As Teddy darted around the room, his laughter echoing with pure, unfiltered joy, Harry allowed himself a quiet, internal admission. For the first time in a long while, Harry realized that while the war might never be entirely banished from his dreams, it didn’t have to define every moment of his waking life. He had Teddy’s innocent laughter, Draco’s steady, if complicated, presence, and a fragile hope that tomorrow might bring a little more peace.

It wasn’t perfect. Not even close. Yet, in that morning, as he sat among familiar faces and clinking teacups, Harry felt—just for a moment—that maybe, just maybe, he could breathe again. And for now, that was enough.

…

St. Mungo’s was nearly silent on Christmas morning. The usual bustle of healers and visitors was dulled to a hush, as though even the walls understood that today of all days should be softer.

Draco walked down the corridor, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, his usual sharp stride weighted by something heavier. Either way, his thoughts were tangled enough that he almost missed the figure standing by one of the doors.

Neville Longbottom.

Draco stopped. He wasn’t sure why it surprised him. He knew the story. Everyone did. Frank and Alice Longbottom, tortured beyond repair, left as mere fragments of who they once were. He had read about it in textbooks, heard it murmured in hallways, and yet seeing Longbottom standing there—shoulders slightly hunched, a small potted plant in his hands, staring at the door like he wasn’t sure whether to knock—was different.

Neville looked up at the movement and straightened slightly. “Malfoy.” His voice was polite, but cautious. He glanced past Draco, as if expecting someone else, then back. “Didn’t think I’d run into you here.”

Draco could have ignored him. Could have brushed past with a sharp obviously and left it at that.

Instead, to his own surprise, he stopped. “Merry Christmas,” he said, his voice even.

Neville blinked, caught off guard, then nodded, fingers fidgeting slightly against the ceramic rim of the pot. “Yeah, uh—Merry Christmas.” He smiled, hesitated, then, because he was too inherently kind to let a conversation die just because it was uncomfortable, added, “I heard your mother is improving.”

“She is… better.”

Draco wasn’t sure why he said what he did next. Maybe it was the season. Maybe it was the rare, shared understanding of waiting for someone who might never fully return.

“Have you ever tried Muggle medicine?”

Neville blinked, thrown by the question. “What?”

“It’s not the same,” he admitted, voice measured. “And I’m not saying it’ll work.” He exhaled sharply, as if forcing himself not to care whether Longbottom dismissed him outright. “I’m just saying you could try.”

Neville stared at him, expression unreadable, then looked away, nodding slightly. “I—I wouldn’t even know where to start,” he admitted, voice quiet. “She’s been like this my whole life. It’s not—” He stopped himself, shaking his head, before forcing a small smile. “But… thanks, I guess. I mean, really.” 

Draco hummed in acknowledgment, glancing down the hall. He hadn’t meant to say anything at all, but there it was. “Omar Abasi. He’s a healer and also a Muggle healer.” 

“A doctor?” Neville frowned, almost offended that Draco thought he didn’t know the word. 

“Yes, whatever, he’s been helping my mother.” A pause, then, as if the words were being forced out against his better judgment: “I could introduce you.”

Neville stared at him. This was unexpected. His grip on the plant shifted, fingers curling slightly around the rim of the pot. “I—yeah.” He hesitated, searching Draco’s expression. “Why do you care?” Not accusatory, just genuine curiosity.

Draco’s expression shuttered instantly, his voice turning defensive. “I don’t—” He cut himself off, startled to realize it was a lie. His lips pressed together, then quirked into something wry and self-deprecating. “Maybe even I have a slightest bit of humanity in me.”

Neville’s fingers tapped absently against the pot as he considered that. Draco was being honest. So Neville decided to return the favor.

“Blaise told me you visited him.”

Draco stiffened, though only slightly. Just enough that someone observant might notice. Neville did.

“I wasn’t sure if you knew that I knew,” Neville added, watching him carefully.

Draco didn’t answer, but his silence was confirmation enough.

Neville nodded to himself. Then, as if he were discussing something as mundane as the weather, he said, “If you let me know beforehand, I can arrange for you to get past the Aurors unnoticed.”

Draco turned sharply, eyes narrowing. “Why would you do that?”

Neville shrugged. “It’d be good for Blaise to have someone who cares about him around.”

Draco’s response came quietly, but without hesitation. “It seems he already has.”

The weight of the conversation settled between them, unspoken but understood. You.

Neville stilled, his lips parting slightly in surprise, like the thought hadn’t fully occurred to him before. He looked down, as if considering it, and when he looked back up, his smile was small—uncertain, but real.

…

The sky stretched dull and gray over Godric’s Hollow, a quiet sort of stillness settling over the graveyard. A thin veil of frost clinging to the grass that crunched softly beneath their steps. The crisp air carried the scent of damp earth and weathered stone as Harry, Draco, and Teddy passed the worn tombstones, a hush settling over the place that made every breath feel heavier.

Harry led the way, Teddy’s small mittened hand wrapped in his, while Draco followed a step behind, his gaze flicking between them with quiet concern. The child’s bright blue hair, a vivid contrast against the muted backdrop, hinted at emotions he couldn’t yet name. He wasn’t sad—at least, not in a way he understood—but his silence was unusual.

They paused before a familiar pair of gravestones. Harry’s grip tightened instinctively as his eyes fell on the inscription he had read countless times:

   The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.

“Teddy,” Harry murmured, swallowing hard as he fixed his gaze on the stone. “These are my mum and dad. They… they went away a long time ago.”

Teddy’s brow furrowed, his bright hair seeming to lose some of its luster as he processed the words. “Why’d they go away?” he asked, his voice filled with the innocent confusion of a child who couldn’t fully grasp the concept of loss.

Harry knelt, his knees sinking into the soft layer of snow, and placed a gentle hand on Teddy’s shoulder. “They didn’t want to go, Ted. They loved me very much—just as your mum and dad loved you. Sometimes… people have to go away, even when they don’t want to.”

Teddy frowned, clearly still confused, shifting from one foot to the other. “Oh. Can we go now?”

Those simple words struck Harry like a curse. He stiffened, heat flaring behind his eyes, his stomach twisting in protest. He knew Teddy was only two, unable to carry the weight of these truths, yet something inside him shattered—raw and aching.

“Teddy,” Harry said, his tone harsher than he intended, “this isn’t just some errand! They matter. You should—” He stopped, biting back the rest of his words, but the damage was done.

Teddy shrank back, his small face contorting in surprise.

Without missing a beat, Draco crouched beside the boy, his touch firm yet tender as he smoothed a hand over Teddy’s unruly curls. “Mon chaton,” he murmured evenly, “Harry’s not angry with you.”

Guilt crashed over Harry like a tidal wave, his breath catching as shame twisted in his gut. What was wrong with him?

He knelt again, reaching for Teddy but hesitated before touching him. His hands trembled and his chest felt unbearably tight.

I’m no better than them.

The thought cut through him, cold and bitter—the Dursleys, snapping at him for things he couldn’t understand, punishing him simply for existing. And now he was standing over Teddy as if he had the right to wield such harsh words.

“I’m sorry, Teddy,” he rasped, his voice hoarse with regret. “That wasn’t fair. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Teddy, still wide-eyed, studied Harry for a long moment before, as if by instinct, reaching up and patting his cheek with a mittened hand. “It’s okay, Daddy.”

Harry stopped breathing.

In that heartbeat, the world tilted. Teddy had called him “Daddy” for the first time—a word he should have corrected, a word that meant so much. But his mouth failed him; instead, he clung to the sound, desperate to savor it, if only for a moment.

Draco’s gaze was steady, sharp, and knowing. But he didn’t tease. Didn’t smirk. Instead, he reached out, gripping Harry’s wrist, grounding him. “It’s alright,” he said, low and sure, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re allowed to have a bad day, Potter.”

Harry let out a shaky breath. He was having one.

He exhaled and forced out a weak, “You’re going to get confused if you call both of us that.”

Teddy blinked up at him, utterly unbothered. “Why?”

Draco added. “Because then we won’t know which one of us you’re yelling for when you’re being a menace.”

Teddy giggled, and just like that, the tension broke. But Draco didn’t look away as they stood and made their way toward the next cemetery—toward Remus, Tonks, and Andromeda Black.

They traveled by Floo, the journey stretching on even as Harry’s mind remained a jumble of regret and unresolved anguish. His hands still trembled, but Draco, ever watchful, made sure Teddy remained unaware of Harry’s inner turmoil, entertaining him with quiet stories and gentle laughter.

At the new graveyard, the markers were simpler, yet no less significant. Draco laid fresh flowers at the graves of Remus, Tonks, and, beside them, Andromeda.

Harry read the inscriptions softly as Teddy listened, his small brows knitting together in concentration. When Teddy pointed at Andromeda’s name, he whispered, “Grandma?”

“Yes,” Harry replied, his voice barely audible.

For the first time, Teddy’s little face crumpled in a way that spoke of true loss—the disappearance of someone he once knew, someone who had held him close. Harry longed to reach out, to comfort him, but the sting of his earlier outburst held him back, shame and self-loathing too raw to overcome.

“I miss her too, mon chaton,” Draco murmured, pulling Teddy into a warm embrace.

Teddy clung to Draco, his face pressed against the familiar fabric of his coat. After a moment, in a small, trembling voice, he asked, “Why aren’t they here? Are you gonna go away too?”

The question stole the air from Harry’s lungs. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, helpless.

Draco didn’t hesitate. He crouched beside Teddy, his voice firm yet tender. “No, Ted. We’re right here. And we’re not going anywhere.”

Teddy looked up at Harry, then asked, “You promise, Hawwy?”

Harry’s voice emerged rough but resolute. “I promise.”

Draco’s fingers ghosted over Harry’s wrist—a silent reassurance. Harry let himself lean into it.

After a long, thoughtful hum, Teddy shuffled closer and wedged himself between them. They sat together in silence, the chill forgotten in the warmth of their shared sorrow and unspoken understanding.

As they turned to leave, Draco reached for Harry’s hand, a brief, grounding touch. He didn’t say anything, didn’t need to. Just squeezed once, firm and reassuring. It was a reminder, the same one he’d been giving all week, spoken or not.

You’re allowed to have bad days, too.

Harry exhaled, long and slow, and squeezed back. 

… 

There were bad days. But there were good days, too. And they were coming. Better days were coming.

Harry told himself this like an incantation, a quiet spell meant to will it into existence.

Maybe it worked because when he woke the next morning, he felt lighter. No nightmares. No lingering weight in his chest. Just the soft hush of the house around him.

It was the first moment of peace he’d had all day, and even that felt delicate, like a soap bubble waiting to pop. The quiet stretched around him, settling in the dim glow of the setting sun, its golden light casting long, shifting shadows across the wooden floor.

Teddy, for once, was content, stacking blocks with quiet concentration. Harry had just started to breathe, to let himself sink into the fragile calm, when a knock at the door shattered it.

Ron and Hermione had arrived.

He tried to act casual as he led them to the kitchen table, seating them as far as possible from Teddy, who was too engrossed in his stacking game to notice.

“You sounded urgent in your letter,” Hermione said, giving him a curious look as she sat down, smoothing the folds of her skirt. “Is everything alright?”

Harry exhaled sharply, running a hand through his already messy hair. “Draco just left.”

Hermione leaned forward slightly, waiting. “And?”

Harry swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “I need to tell you something. Well… you already know. I just—I need to say it out loud.”

“Go on, then.” Ron folded his arms, bracing himself.

“I like him.” The words felt heavy and terrifying, even as he forced them out. He squeezed his eyes shut. “I really like him. And I have no idea what to do about it.”

Silence. Then—

“Finally.”

“Oh, no.”

Hermione and Ron spoke at the same time, with entirely different reactions.

Harry’s eyes snapped open. “You knew?”

Hermione grinned. “Harry, Teddy kissed Victoire yesterday to show what you and Draco did.”

Harry groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Don’t remind me.”

“Oh, I will remind you,” Ron said. “You made me lose 10 galleons to Ginny.”

“Always happy to entertain bets,” Harry said dryly.

Hermione added, “And, if that weren’t enough, Teddy also implied you both sleep together.”

Harry dragged his hands down his face. “I already explained this. We literally just fell asleep in the same bed.”

“You know, most people don’t feel the need to clarify that.”

Harry groaned again, flopping back against the couch. “This is a disaster.”

“No, what’s a disaster is that you haven’t done anything about it yet.” Hermione patted his knee, amused. 

Harry sat up, looking almost frantic. “Hermione, it’s Draco.”

Hermione blinked. “Yes, I’m aware.”

“You don’t get it. What if I tell him and he laughs? Or hexes me? Or worse—what if he doesn’t believe me?” His voice dropped, almost pained. “What if he thinks I’m just messing with him?”

Hermione’s teasing expression softened. “Harry…”

“I could die!”

“He does have a point, Mione,” Ron agreed.

Teddy, who had been happily stacking his blocks, turned his head and scrunched his nose. “Dye?” His hair flashed an alarming shade of green.

“Not that kind of die, Teddy.”

Hermione sighed. “For Merlin’s sake, Harry, just ask him out already!”

“This is a nightmare.” Harry groaned again.

“You survived Voldemort, but Draco Malfoy is where you draw the line?”

“Voldemort didn’t make me feel like this.”

Hermione raised a brow. “And how exactly does Draco make you feel?”

Harry opened his mouth. Then closed it. Then groaned for what felt like the hundredth time.

Teddy, clearly done with being ignored, picked up a block and chucked it at Harry’s foot.

“I’m going to regret this.” Harry sighed. 

Hermione patted his shoulder. “No, you’re going to thank me.”

“Probably will. In my wedding or something,” Harry muttered, knowing exactly how delusional he sounded.

Ron, who had been half-listening until now, suddenly froze. The mug wobbled in his grip, dangerously close to spilling. His eyes widened in absolute horror. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

Harry, deadpan, took a slow sip of his own drink. “I'm not saying I'll marry him now. Just saying that we kissed and—”

Ron slammed his mug down with a thud. “That is too much information, mate.” He shook his head as if trying to physically dispel the mental image. “And I still think this is a very big and very elaborate joke.”

Hermione sighed. “Ronald, why would Harry dedicate months to an elaborate joke? He can barely keep a secret for a week.”

“Hey!” Harry protested, offended.

“It’s true,” said Hermione with a knowing smirk.

Ron ignored them both, still deep in his own personal crisis. “But—you never—” He waved his hand vaguely between himself and Harry, his brows furrowed.

"What?”

Ron hesitated. “You never looked at me that way?”

“You’re like my brother. That would be weird.” Harry said, now confused about what his friend wanted to get from this.

“Not even once?”

“Nope.”

“But you’ve thought about Malfoy?” Ron leaned back in his seat, exhaling loudly.

Harry shifted, suddenly very aware of how warm the fireplace felt. “Recently, yeah.”

“I’m gonna need an essay on what Malfoy has that I don’t.” Ron scoffed, crossing his arms.

Harry groaned, rubbing his temples. “It’s not like that.” He turned to Hermione, desperate for backup. “Hermione, help me out here.”

Hermione looked too amused for Harry’s liking. “Well, it’s clearly not about hair, since you used to like Ginny.”

Ron made an indignant noise. “My hair is nice.”

“Maybe it’s about posture? Malfoy does have a certain way of carrying himself—”

“Like a git?” Ron suggested.

“Like someone who knows his angles,” Hermione corrected. “He’s poised.”

Ron scoffed. “I’m taller than he is, Harry, and let’s be honest, he’s a bit skinny. I have more bulk, you know? More—what’s the word? Presence.”

Across the table, Harry let out a long groan, forehead pressed against the wood. “I’m done with you lot.” With that, he pushed himself up and stood.

Ron turned to Hermione. “Wait, where’s he going? I’m a bloody catch, come back!”

Hermione, barely holding back laughter, patted Ron’s arm. “There, there, Ronald. I’m sure you are.”

Still, Ron shook his head, frowning. “Honestly, I don’t get what you see in him.”

“I don’t know how to explain it,” Harry said, embarrassed. He could think of plenty of reasons but didn’t wanna say them.

“He is not even nice to you.”

“I sort of like it when he’s mean to me.” That was probably the type of thing he shouldn’t be saying.

“Sounds like a psychological disturbance.” Hermione raised a skeptical brow.

“Hopefully. It’s better than a weird fetish,” Ron shot back.

Chapter Text

After admitting his feelings to Ron and Hermione, Harry felt a profound sense of relief. It hadn’t been easy—there had been a lot of internal wrestling, a lot of words left unspoken—but now that the confession was out in the open, it felt like a weight had been lifted from his chest. The air felt a little lighter, the world a little less suffocating, even if he wasn’t planning on acting on those feelings just yet. It was enough to have them acknowledged, at least in the safe circle of his friends.

The sound of the door creaking interrupted his thoughts. Draco had returned, and his presence was undeniable, sharp, and unmistakable. As soon as Draco’s eyes landed on Ron and Hermione, his posture stiffened. His movements became careful, almost instinctual, as he took a step back, his gaze darting briefly toward the stairs. Flour dusted his clothes, streaking across his shirt and smudging the edges of his hair, which made Harry smile because he already knew the source.

Without a word, he started to retreat, not intending to stay or engage, as if it were an automatic response to the presence of others.

“Draco, wait!” Hermione’s voice called after him, a combination of warmth and firmness in her tone. “We just wanted to say hi.”

Draco paused halfway up the stairs, his back still turned, but his stance slightly relaxed. He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes flicking over each of them briefly. 

“Hi,” Draco said, his voice almost neutral, but there was a subtle edge to it, as if he were still measuring the situation.

Hermione smiled softly, her eyes betraying a warmth that Draco wasn’t quite ready to embrace. Ron nodded curtly, his posture relaxed but watchful. Harry, determined to ease the tension, leaned casually against the doorframe, his voice light and teasing, hoping to break the ice.

“The kitchen survive you?”

Draco glanced at him, and for the briefest moment, Harry saw the softening in his eyes. A fleeting look—like a crack in the armor—before Draco quickly masked it, slipping back into his usual guarded demeanor.

“Yeah, it doesn't annoy me like some people,” Draco replied, giving him a sidelong glance. “Is Teddy asleep?”

“Yeah,” Harry replied, his voice warm. “Probably will sleep all afternoon. New sweater?”

Draco glanced down at the dark sweater, then back at Harry, his lips curling in a ghost of a smile. “Yes. Morgana gave it to me for Christmas.” He paused, his gaze flicking back to Harry for a moment longer than necessary. “You always notice things.”

A playful glint danced in Harry’s eyes as he shrugged. “Well, it’s my job. I’m an Auror.”

“Funny. You’ve been missing the fact that the roof needs fixing for ages.” Draco raised an eyebrow, a quiet challenge in his tone. 

Harry looked up, distracted for a moment as his gaze traced the ceiling. But before he could respond, his hand moved instinctively toward Draco. A streak of flour had smeared along the collar of his sweater, and Harry’s fingers brushed against it, smoothing it away. The touch lingered a second longer than necessary. He could feel Draco’s muscles tense, could see the momentary flash of hesitation, but Draco didn’t pull away. It was as if the small, almost intimate gesture went unnoticed in the larger scheme of things, even though they both felt it, tension crackling like static between them. In that charged moment, it was as if both had forgotten the watchful eyes of their friends.

“I’ll fix it this weekend,” Harry murmured, his thumb grazing along the line of Draco’s jaw, the contact gentle and lingering.

Draco’s voice dropped to almost a whisper, the words barely audible over the distance between them. “You’ll fall.”

Harry’s lips curled up at the corners, a mischievous smile playing on his face. “You’ll patch me up.”

For a split second, Draco’s gaze flickered down to Harry’s lips. It was subtle—a moment so brief it could’ve been mistaken for a trick of the light—but it was enough to send a surge of heat to Harry’s chest. The silent exchange, unspoken but understood, seemed to hang in the air between them, thick and heavy with everything they hadn’t said.

Then, with a soft sigh and a hint of reluctance, Draco stepped back and turned toward the stairs. “Don’t expect sympathy when you crack your skull open,” he said, teasing, but there was something deeper, something that lingered in his words—a thread of warmth, of care, hidden beneath the surface of his sarcasm.

Ron and Hermione exchanged a knowing look from across the room, their eyes narrowing slightly in silent understanding. They didn’t need to say anything—everything was already clear to them. Harry and Draco were dancing around something big, something that neither of them was ready to confront, yet it was so painfully obvious to anyone who watched closely enough.

“Do you think they know?” Hermione asked quietly, her voice amused but tinged with disbelief.

Ron raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips as he leaned against the couch, his eyes still tracking Draco’s retreating form. “It’s like watching two Hippogriffs circling a teacup.”

Hermione shot him a sideways glance, lips curling into a teasing smile. “Says the guy who needed a war to realize I liked him.”

Ron flushed pink, but his grin was unrepentant. “Oi, that’s different!”

Hermione softened, leaning into him, the warmth between them an unspoken bond that felt solid and comforting. “They’ll get there. Even if it takes a decade.”

Ron snorted, his eyes glinting with amusement as he looked toward the stairs, Harry still looking up. “At this rate, Teddy will be giving them ‘the talk.’”

…

The snow crunched beneath their boots as they strolled through the nearly deserted park, their breath curling in the frigid air. Most had sought refuge indoors from the bitter cold, leaving only the stubborn and the unsuspecting to brave the frost. Teddy was one of the latter. Bundled in layers of wool and enchanted warming charms, he remained blissfully unfazed, his laughter ringing through the crisp morning as he dashed across the snow, chasing the two children of a familiar woman.

She was always here—seated on the same worn bench, ever watchful. Draco had noticed her long ago. A few weeks back, her sharp voice had cut through the playground chatter as she warned them when Teddy was cornered by older kids. He hadn’t thanked her then, but he had remembered.

Now, something was wrong.

Draco’s sharp eyes caught the unnatural sway in her movements, the way her grip on the armrest tightened as if the world beneath her had tilted. Her breaths came shallow and rapid, and just as realization struck him, her legs buckled. She collapsed onto the bench, her fingers clutching at her chest in a desperate, trembling grip.

Draco moved before Harry could even register the collapse. His long strides carried him to her side in seconds, the biting wind stinging his face as he crouched beside her. Up close, he could hear it—the faint, wheezing rasp, the awful, gasping struggle for breath.

“Potter, her bag,” he snapped, his voice edged with urgency.

To his surprise, Potter obeyed without protest. Harry dug through the snow until he unearthed a battered leather handbag, which he handed over swiftly. Draco rifled through its contents—past lipstick tubes and crumpled receipts—until his fingers closed on a small plastic inhaler. The woman’s hands trembled too violently to grasp it on their own.

“Breathe out first,” he ordered, guiding her wrist with a brusqueness that belied a deeper memory. In that brief touch, he recalled the countless nights spent at Malfoy Manor after the war, when his mother would succumb to panic attacks. He remembered her trembling hands spilling Calming Draught. “One… two… now.”

With steady hands, Draco pressed the inhaler as she inhaled. A weak cough wracked her frame, followed by a slow, desperate breath. The wheezing didn’t vanish entirely, but it eased—as if the worst of the storm had passed.

He watched her closely. “Better?”

She nodded weakly, eyes watering either from the cold or the fading panic of the moment. “Thank… you…” she rasped.

Draco gave a brief nod. “You warned us about Teddy. Consider it settled.”

He didn’t acknowledge Harry’s questioning stare. He felt its weight—silent, probing—and for a split second, he was transported back to those nights of quiet terror, when every shallow breath of his mother had been a reminder of his helplessness. In the distance, Teddy’s laughter carried through the park, blissfully unaware of the echoes of past battles that stirred within Draco.

Draco’s gloved fingers twitched. He could still smell the antiseptic tang of St. Mungo’s, the Healers’ hushed voices as they debated his mother’s case. “Chronic anxiety… Azkaban’s shadow, perhaps…” As if the Dark Lord’s presence in their home hadn’t been prison enough.

They left the park as the evening settled in, the cold creeping through Draco’s cloak. Teddy, exhausted from his adventures, rested his head against Harry’s shoulder, small fingers curled into his godfather’s sleeve. The warmth of the moment contrasted starkly with the memories still lingering in Draco’s mind.

He could still feel Narcissa’s hands—clammy, shaking, so unlike the mother he once knew. The Healers had spoken in hushed tones, treating her panic like an unfortunate but expected aftermath. ‘She’ll adjust,’ they had said. But Narcissa Malfoy had never been one to adjust; she endured, tolerated, survived. And yet, some part of her had been lost in the process.

At home, Harry flicked his wand to unlock the door, adjusting his hold on Teddy as they stepped inside. The warmth of their living room greeted them, chamomile and parchment lingering in the air.

Teddy stirred sleepily, his hair shifting from blue to an uncertain gray before brightening again. “Draco was a hero today,” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

Draco snorted, shedding his cloak. “Don’t sound so surprised, imp. Once a Slytherin, always a Slytherin.”

Harry smirked, settling Teddy onto the couch. “Meaning you only helped because it benefited you?”

Draco arched a brow. “Obviously. My reputation as a decent human being was at stake.”

Harry leaned against the armrest, eyes glinting. “Since when do you know how to work a Muggle inhaler?”

“They’re not complicated, Potter. Even a troll could manage one.” Draco’s tone was crisp, but Harry wasn’t fooled. He knew Draco spent hours poring over medical texts and Muggle treatises.

Harry hummed, unconvinced, but didn’t push. Instead, he ran a hand through Teddy’s hair, watching as the boy dozed off, curled into the cushions.

Draco hesitated before sitting beside them, his gaze lingering on the child. He thought of Narcissa again—how she flinched at sudden sounds, how her voice faded when she thought no one was listening. The weight of responsibility settled over him like a second skin. Would he ever feel prepared? Would there come a day when he didn’t fear failing those who depended on him?

“I think about it too,” Harry murmured, voice low. He wasn’t looking at Draco but at Teddy, fingers tracing absent patterns on the boy’s arm. “How much of what we’ve been through... changes the way we love them.”

Draco swallowed. “You’re afraid you’ll turn into them,” he guessed, watching the way Harry’s jaw tightened. He didn’t need to specify who ‘them’ was.

Harry exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah.”

Draco studied him for a long moment before speaking. “You won’t.”

Harry met his gaze, searching for something. Whatever he found must have been enough, because he nodded slightly, and some of the weight in his posture seemed to lift.

Draco leaned back, stretching his legs out. “You might, however, turn into an unbearable idiot if you keep looking at me like that.”

Harry let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “I think I can live with that.”

Sometimes, Harry worried his voice might one day carry the harsh tones of his past—a past too reminiscent of the Dursleys. On sleepless nights, the fear that he’d never do any of this right haunted him. 

He’d spent years bracing for disaster—for the shadow of war to claw its way back, for nightmares to outlive Voldemort, for old voices to poison his own. But here, now, the only shadows were those cast by the twinkling Christmas lights, and the only voice that truly mattered was Teddy’s giggling. 

Because Teddy would look up with eyes that shone as if he’d hung the moon, and Draco would lean casually against the counter, silently anchoring him in the present. And in those moments, Harry reminded himself: next year. Better days were coming. They had time.

A promise as delicate and resilient as a whispered spell.

Harry was learning to trust this peace, to let it seep into him. And Draco, for once, allowed himself to do the same.

Eventually, he sank into the couch beside Harry, Teddy sprawled across their laps with tiny fingers gripping Harry’s jumper. The fire crackled softly, and for a brief, blissful moment, all that mattered was the quiet—the warmth of Draco’s shoulder pressed against Harry’s, the comforting weight of Teddy, and the unspoken ‘we’ that threaded through every glance.

A home where, no matter how heavy the past, they would always find warmth in each other.

…

Draco stood rigid by the door, his fingers still curled around the cold brass knob. The air hung thick with the scent of aged wood and dust, a stagnant heaviness that made every breath feel laborious. When Ginny’s cheerful voice had pierced the silence moments ago—her red hair a jarring splash of color against the muted tones of the entryway—he’d slammed the door so hard the walls shuddered. The echo lingered, sharp and final, like a gunshot.

Harry’s reproachful glare followed, his green eyes narrowing behind smudged glasses as he reopened the door. “Really, Draco?” he muttered, ushering Ginny inside. She brushed past Draco, her shoulder deliberately bumping his, her smile now a taut line.

Draco watched Ginny perch on the frayed arm of the sofa, her posture relaxed yet purposeful. Harry sat across from her, elbows on knees, his unruly hair catching the amber glow of the fireplace. Then, he retreated silently into the kitchen. The room was a chaotic contrast to the rest of the house: copper pots hung haphazardly, herbs dangled from the ceiling, and the counter was littered with flour-dusted bowls and half-chopped vegetables. He gripped the edge of the marble countertop, its coldness seeping into his palms as muffled voices drifted from the living room.

Draco continued, pretending to be preoccupied with slicing vegetables. He wasn’t eavesdropping—he told himself that much. But the sound of Ginny’s laughter grated on his nerves, sharp and intrusive. It wasn’t just that she was Harry’s ex. It was how easy she made everything seem—how she could waltz into Harry’s life, into their home, and be accepted without question. No sideways glances, no past sins to atone for. Just belonging.

Ginny smirked. "So, should I tell Ron to pay up or not?"

Draco had no idea what that was about, but Harry seemed to get it. He rolled his eyes before answering. "You placed more bets?"

"Of course we did. We’re nosy and shameless."

Draco clenched his jaw as he turned to fetch a plate, focusing on the tap of the knife against the cutting board. Morgana, leaning against the counter, tilted her head slightly. "You know, for someone who claims not to care, you do seem awfully tense."

Draco gave an exaggerated sigh. "I simply don’t appreciate uninvited guests."

"Right." Morgana hummed. "Nothing to do with how close she sits to Harry, then?" Her honey-brown eyes flicked to the lemon tart Harry had made earlier with Ted. Without hesitation, she plunged a spoon into its center.

“Potter will hex you for that,” Draco warned, though a smirk tugged his lips.

“Worth it,” she said, offering him a bite. “The middle’s the best part.”

He accepted, the tart’s sweetness sharp on his tongue, and for a moment, the tension eased. Morgana nudged him, nodding at the mangled tomato. “Let’s try again. Chop, don’t murder it.”

A later moment, when the cooking was almost ready, the kitchen door swung open again, and Harry re-entered with Ginny. Despite his earlier reproach, Harry’s smile was genuine, though Draco noted with irritation Harry’s habitual tardiness.

“Are you making enough dinner? Ginny’s staying with us too,” Harry announced, prompting Ginny to shoot him a look of both surprise and annoyance.

“There isn’t enough food for her,” Draco interjected bluntly. It was half true. His intent was clear: he wasn’t in the mood to mask his petulance, hoping perhaps to force Ginny into reconsidering her invitation.

“Draco—” Harry began, his tone shifting to serious anger, but Ginny interrupted with a scathing retort.

“Do you hate me or something, Malfoy?” she snapped, her eyes flashing.

Draco’s response was a mocking smile and a simple, “No, I'm quite fond of children,” his tone dripping with indifference, earning an exasperated eye-roll from Ginny.

“Ginny, why don’t you go wake up Teddy?” Harry suggested, trying to defuse the tension.

Draco opened his mouth to object, but Morgana’s stern look—one that said “Don’t”—silenced him. Though he wasn’t entirely sure what she expected, he knew better than to argue; Teddy, after all, despised being disturbed from his sleep. Harry knew it too, but he probably didn’t think of anything better to get Ginny out.

As soon as Ginny left the kitchen, Harry exhaled deeply and rubbed his face. “Ginny came to invite us to spend New Year’s at the Burrow, but as I promised, I’m not going to take Teddy or force you to go. I’ve decided to stay too.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “And?”  Morgana nudged him lightly.

“And now we’re being polite and letting her stay for dinner,” Harry said, voice firm but weary.

“Draco’s just sulking. Don’t let it get to you,” Morgana said breezily.

Harry’s gaze hardened. “I think this conversation should just be between the two of us.”

“Don’t be like that,” Morgana countered. “I know you don’t like me, but if you want Draco to put up with someone he doesn’t like, you should do the same.”

Yeah, Harry could see it now—a Ravenclaw.

A heavy silence settled between them, tension thickening the air. It was broken when Ginny reappeared, her expression oddly perplexed.

“Is Teddy a werewolf?” she blurted.

Harry and Draco exchanged a glance, neither looking particularly concerned.

“Not as far as we know,” Harry said easily.

Ginny hesitated. “I went to wake him up, and he growled at me.”

“Oh, he does that sometimes,” Harry replied, clearly unconcerned.

Draco smirked. “You should let him sleep.”

Harry, throwing Draco a knowing look, added, “Draco does the same thing when I wake him up too early.”

“You are a saint, Harry. I’d rather chew glass than watch Draco growl.”

“And yet, here you are,” Draco shot back. “Should I alert the Prophet? ‘Weasley Obsessively Haunts Ex’s Home’—they’d pay handsomely for that headline.”

“I’m here for Teddy,” Ginny said airily, inspecting her nails. “Someone has to make sure he’s not picking up your manners.”

“Teddy’s manners are impeccable,” Draco returned coolly. “He already knows not to barge into houses uninvited.”

Morgana, stirring a pot of soup, kept her back to them, but the tense set of her shoulders betrayed her unease. When Ginny opened her mouth for another retort, Morgana spun suddenly, her voice too bright.

“Ginny, how was your date last night? Luna mentioned she wanted to take you to a—er, florist?” Her cheeks flushed at the stumble. “For… flowers. Romantic, right?”

Draco’s knife stilled. “Luna?” His gaze sharpened. “You never mentioned knowing her.”

More importantly, Luna had told him she didn’t know any Morgana.

Morgana froze, spoon mid-air. “I— Well, everyone knows Luna. She’s… memorable.”

Lies.

A beat of silence. Ginny’s smirk faded as she glanced between them, sensing the shift in atmosphere. Morgana’s knuckles whitened around the spoon.

“And I thought Harry was bad at lying,” Draco murmured.

Morgana avoided his gaze, eyes locked on the soup. “Drop it, Draco.”

“Or what?” 

She met his eyes then, something sharp and warning flashing in her own. “Or you’ll ruin the dinner.”

After a long, charged silence, Morgana stepped away from the counter and addressed Ginny with a warm smile. “Guess we’re not quite ready for these interactions. Ginny, you should have dinner at my restaurant. Let’s get going, darling.”

Ginny’s smile widened in reluctant agreement as she gathered her things, leaving Harry and Draco in the quiet aftermath. Teddy, still nestled contentedly on the couch, stirred but remained fast asleep, his soft breathing a steady counterpoint to the lingering tension.

Harry glanced down at his watch. Its digital countdown flickered cheekily—“5:00”— With a wry smile, he added, “Yeah, you should get going. The watch says we’ve got five minutes until the next round.”

Draco merely rolled his eyes, exchanging a look with Harry—a silent acknowledgment that, for now, some space might help soothe their raw edges. In that gentle pause, with Teddy’s peaceful presence anchoring the room, even the echoes of conflict hinted at the possibility of understanding.

…

…

Teddy had been obsessed with the toy broom Draco had given him for Christmas. The second he unwrapped it, he gasped, his hair flashing silver in excitement before turning a deep shade of blue. He had immediately tried to take off—inside the living room—before either of them could react. Since then, he had taken every opportunity to hop on and zip around, though with… mixed results.

"We need a proper space for this," Harry had pointed out after the third time Teddy had almost taken down a lamp.

Which was how they ended up in the now-enchanted living room. They had removed all the furniture, expanded the space slightly, and charmed the floor to be as soft as a bed in case of falls.

Draco, standing with his arms crossed, surveyed their work. "This should do."

Harry huffed, still gripping his wand. "I don’t know. It still feels dangerous."

Draco gave him a look. "Harry. It’s a training broom. It barely hovers a foot off the ground. And Teddy is part Black and part Lupin—this level of recklessness is in his blood."

"He’s two," Harry argued.

"Which is precisely when I started learning," Draco pointed out.

"That explains so much about you," Harry muttered under his breath.

Draco ignored him. He crouched down to Teddy’s level, adjusting the boy’s tiny hands on the broom handle. "Alright, little monster. Back straight, feet on either side, light hands."

Teddy’s face scrunched in concentration. 

Draco beamed. "That’s right. Now, just push off the ground—gently."

Teddy nodded. He wiggled in place, then pushed off. The broom lifted him about a foot in the air, wobbling slightly.

Draco smirked, looking at Harry smugly. "See? Natural."

And then Teddy tipped sideways and tumbled straight down.

Harry lunged forward instinctively, but Teddy had barely hit the soft floor before scrambling back up, giggling. "Again!"

Draco blinked.

Harry crossed his arms. "Natural, huh?"

Draco scowled. "He just needs practice." He helped Teddy back on, brushing imaginary dust off his little jumper. "You need to adjust your balance, imp. Keep your weight even."

Teddy nodded eagerly. "‘kay!"

And so the lesson continued.

Teddy did enjoy himself, that much was clear. He wobbled, tipped, and fell—repeatedly. Harry, predictably, flinched every time, resisting the urge to reach out and catch him. Draco, despite his earlier confidence, was starting to hover, his hands twitching slightly every time Teddy lost control.

"You sure you’re not worried?" Harry teased.

Draco scoffed. "Of course not."

At that moment, Teddy tumbled off again, landing with a soft poof against the enchanted floor.

Draco’s hand shot out instinctively. "Merlin, are you alright?"

Teddy sat up, laughing. "Again!"

Draco exhaled, visibly restraining himself. "Alright. Maybe we should—"

Harry snorted. "Now you’re worried."

Draco turned to glare at him. "I am not worried. I am simply being cautious. There’s a difference."

"Sure," Harry smirked. "You want to wrap him in cushioning charms, don’t you?"

Draco hesitated. "...No."

Harry raised an eyebrow.

Draco scowled. "Fine. Maybe a little."

They turned back to Teddy, who was now bouncing impatiently on his feet. "Again! Again!"

Harry exhaled, shaking his head. “Merlin help us.”

Draco, looking down at Teddy’s excited little face, just smirked. “Well. At least he’s got the right spirit.”

Harry chuckled, stepping beside them. “Yeah. He really does.”

And as Teddy soared—well, wobbled— laughing wildly, Harry and Draco stood side by side, watching. Snow fell softly around them, and despite everything, the world felt perfectly at peace.

…

It was the last day of the year, and Draco was in a rare good mood when he stepped through the restaurant's door. 

His mother had spoken to him today—not just murmured acknowledgments or the absent-minded responses he had grown used to, but actual conversation. She had looked at him, seen him, as if the fog that had kept her distant for so long was finally beginning to lift. It wasn’t everything. It wasn’t a miracle. But it was more than he had dared to hope for.

For the first time in a long while, he had felt light. Not free of the weight he carried—he doubted he ever truly would be—but lighter. It was unfamiliar, but not unwelcome.

Without thinking too much about it, he found himself walking toward the restaurant. Toward Morgana.

She would understand, wouldn’t she? She had seen him at his worst, had been there through the long, grueling months of his attempt at something like normalcy. She was his—not in any possessive sense, but she belonged to the small, carefully chosen handful of people he allowed into his life. The ones who saw him, not the shadow of his past.

But as soon as he stepped inside, something in the air stopped him.

The restaurant was nearly empty, the last few patrons long gone, chairs stacked atop tables in preparation for closing. The scent of warm spices and charred wood still lingered, but the usual comfort it brought him felt distant, eclipsed by the low murmur of voices.

One was Morgana’s. The other—

Luna?

Draco’s brows knitted together. He hadn’t expected to see Luna here, and his first instinct was to greet her, but something in the cadence of their conversation made him hesitate. He lingered in the doorway, half-hidden in the dim light. Shadows danced across the wooden beams, and the soft crackle of the hearth did little to thaw the chill that was settling over him.

“It wasn’t my choice,” Morgana was saying, her voice tight and clipped in a way he’d never heard before.

There was a pause. Then Luna’s calm, measured reply: “But you agreed to it.”

A heavy silence fell, weighted and oppressive. Finally, Morgana exhaled—a long, resigned breath. “They didn’t exactly give me an alternative.”

Draco’s frown deepened. Who were “they”? His gut twisted with a deep, instinctual warning. Then, as if sensing his inner turmoil, Morgana continued in a rush of forced explanation.

“You know my family’s history,” she began, her tone low, almost pleading. “After the war… after everything, the Ministry granted me a certain freedom—a freedom that came at a price. They made it clear that I had to cooperate, that I had to be on their side, earn that freedom.”

“How long will they hold you accountable for the first war?” Luna asked, her voice thoughtful rather than judgmental.

“As long as they can, I think.”

“You should tell him,” Luna said gently. “Maybe he will understand. He knows how it feels to be pressured by his family’s past.”

Morgana’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I’m just reporting what he’s doing to the Ministry, making sure they know he’s taking care of the kid. It’s not bad.”

“It is if you’re pretending to be his friend while deceiving him, Rose.” Luna said, stirring her tea, the spoon clinking like a judge’s gavel. 

Draco’s world tilted.

His mind latched onto the words, turned them over, examined them, refused to believe them.

His breath caught in his throat; the warmth he had carried with him from earlier now replaced with something cold, something sharp-edged and brutal.

She had been sent to watch him.

At that moment, his world tilted. His mind seized upon her words and turned them over relentlessly. He could scarcely believe them: all this time, she had been sent to watch him. Had she been working with the Ministry from the start? Had she sat with him, listened to him, cared for Teddy—while all along, she was reporting everything back? Had she been nothing more than a spy, a convenient puppet dancing on their strings?

His hands clenched into fists at his sides as a sudden shift—a small movement, a step back—made his foot scrape against the floor. The sound, insignificant as it was, punctuated the heavy silence.

Silence.

A heartbeat.

Then—

“Draco.”

Morgana’s voice was now unreadable, and he forced himself to lift his gaze to meet hers. Luna turned toward him, her head tilting ever so slightly in that familiar, otherworldly manner. For a split second, Draco considered feigning ignorance—pretending he’d only just arrived, that nothing had changed. But then Morgana’s expression shifted: guarded, carefully composed. Not guilty, not regretful—just watching. As if she had always been watching.

Luna turned toward him, her head tilting slightly in that way she did when she was seeing something others didn’t.

For a split second, Draco considered feigning ignorance. He imagined that he had just arrived, that he hadn’t just felt his entire trust in Morgana shatter. But then, Morgana’s expression shifted—guarded, carefully composed. Not guilty, not regretful, just—watching.

Like she had always been watching.

Draco forced himself to relax, smoothing out his expression, schooling his features into something passably neutral as he stepped forward. His voice, when he spoke, was light. Almost amused. “Didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”

It wasn’t convincing.

Morgana’s eyes narrowed just slightly, just enough for him to catch the flicker of something behind them.

Draco turned to Luna instead, redirecting, as if the last few moments hadn’t just changed everything.

“You said you didn’t know any Morgana,” he said casually, though his voice lacked its usual smoothness.

Luna blinked, then glanced at Morgana—Rose?—before smiling softly. “Oh, right. Aunt Rose. You changed your name. I always forget it’s Morgana now.”

The words hit him like a second blow, almost more disorienting than the first.

Draco’s gaze snapped back to Morgana, and this time, he didn’t bother hiding the sharpness in his eyes.

Rose.

How much of her had been real?

Had she ever truly cared about him, about Teddy? Or had it all been a carefully constructed illusion, a way to get closer, to gain his trust?

His throat felt tight, his pulse drumming in his ears.

“Right,” he murmured. His voice was different now. Flat. Cool. “Funny, that.”

Morgana didn’t look away, but she didn’t speak either.

And Draco—Draco felt something bitter and hollow settle in his chest.

Because all this time, he had trusted her. Let her in.

“I should get going,” Luna said, her voice soft but firm. She knew when she wasn’t meant to meddle.

Draco barely heard her leave. His attention remained on Morgana, on the way she stood there, fingers drumming against the wooden table in a quiet, absent rhythm. Not surprised. Not scrambling for excuses. Just waiting.

“Tell me it’s not true,” he said finally. His voice was quiet but edged with something dangerous.

Morgana sighed, the sound weary. “Which part?”

Draco clenched his jaw. “Don’t do that. Don’t pretend this is nothing. The Ministry sent you. This whole time, you were their failsafe. If I stepped out of line, if I so much as breathed the wrong way, you would’ve been the first to report it. And I—” He exhaled sharply, forcing steadiness into his tone. “I trusted you.”

She closed her eyes briefly. When she opened them, there was something like regret there. But no denial. “Draco, let me explain.”

Draco stood frozen, his breath shallow as Morgana's words echoed in the space between them. The weight of her betrayal pressed against his ribs, suffocating, unbearable. He had trusted her. He had let her in. And now, the truth twisted like a blade in his gut.

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “Did you take notes while I poured out my soul? ‘Subject shows remorse—recommend probation,’ perhaps?” His laugh was cold and hollow. “It’s hard to pretend that reporting every detail was a choice you made, isn’t it?”

Her eyes showed regret and desperation. “You think this was easy? Every report I wrote felt like...”

“Like what?” Draco interrupted, his voice dripping venom. “Like a knife in my back?”

She whispered, “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” Draco’s tone was scathing. “Yes, that fixes everything." He exhaled sharply, struggling to keep control. “I trusted you.”

Draco’s voice wavered, each word heavy with betrayal, as Morgana stepped forward. Her hand rose as if to reach him, but she hesitated, then raked a hand through her hair. “I never wanted to lie to you. I never wanted it to be like this.”

A bitter laugh escaped him. “You never wanted it to be like this? You’ve been lying to me since the day we met. How exactly did you expect it to be? Did you think I’d never find out? That I’d remain blissfully ignorant while you played Ministry informant behind my back?”

Her voice trembled. “I didn’t have a choice, Draco. The Ministry—they held my freedom in exchange for my cooperation. My brother’s past, our family’s sins... I was forced to comply. I’m only reporting what they demanded, ensuring they know you’re taking care of Teddy. It wasn’t a decision I made freely.”

Draco’s eyes blazed with scorn. “Oh, spare me. You always had a choice. You could have said no. You could have told me the truth from the start. But you didn’t. You sat with me, listened to me, cared for Teddy—as if you genuinely cared. And all the while, you were feeding them every detail.” His voice dropped to a harsh whisper, laden with bitterness. “I trusted you.”

For a long, agonizing moment, silence reigned. Then, unable to bear it any longer, Draco turned on his heel and strode toward the door. Each step felt like a dagger, the weight of her deception crushing him. Outside, the cold afternoon light hit him like a slap, and as he left the restaurant—and the trust he once placed in her—he was lost in a bitter darkness he could no longer bear.

The door chimed softly behind him, and the winter light was too bright, too cruel. His shadow stretched long and fractured across the pavement.

Luna drifted beside him, holding out a small sprig of dried mint. “Nargles thrive on lies,” she said in a tone almost whimsical. “But mint muddles their senses.”

Draco stared at the herb for a long moment, then at her. For the first time, her odd, gentle quip felt like a lifeline. “Keep it,” she said, disappearing into the stream of shoppers. “The afternoon’s quieter when you’re cross with it.”

Alone, Draco crushed the mint between his fingers—sharp, medicinal—and walked into the unresolved glare of the dying day, every step echoing the betrayal that would haunt him for far too long.

Chapter Text

Tonight was meant to be a fresh start—a new beginning. Earlier that day, his mother had actually spoken to him, looked him in the eye as if the fog that had long kept her distant was finally lifting. It wasn’t everything, and it wasn’t a miracle, but it was more than he’d ever dared to hope for. For the first time in ages, he felt lighter. Not unburdened—he doubted that would ever be—but lighter, even if just for a fleeting moment.

Yet now, as he entered his home in silence, the warmth and soft hum of New Year’s Day celebrations felt painfully ironic against the storm raging inside him.

Draco didn’t stop to announce his arrival. He headed straight for his room. In the dining area, Teddy and Harry exchanged a glance. Teddy’s little brow furrowed, his instincts telling him something was off, while Harry simply sighed, his eyes conveying both concern and understanding. Harry had learned long ago not to force Draco to speak. Tonight, he would offer space instead.

They’d planned an early dinner—Teddy’s sleep schedule had finally steadied after the chaos of Christmas, and with work waiting for Harry the next morning, a late night wasn’t an option. Yet an hour passed, and Draco still hadn’t come down.

At first, Harry told himself Draco must need time. He recalled the stiff, silent way Draco had passed by earlier, as if barely keeping himself together. Respecting that, Harry continued finishing dinner with Teddy, though his mind lingered on the uneasy absence.

Finally, unable to shake the concern, Harry stood and softly said to Teddy, “I’ll be right back,” and headed upstairs.

He knocked gently on Draco’s door. “Draco, dinner’s ready,” he called, waiting patiently. When there was no response, Harry tried the handle—unlocked. Slowly, he pushed the door open.

Draco was seated on the edge of his bed, his back to the door. He had changed into his loungewear, but his styled hair and the rigid set of his shoulders betrayed that he hadn’t managed to wash away the day’s turmoil. His hands were clasped tightly in his lap, and as Harry looked closer, he saw the faint puffiness around his eyes, the deliberate blinking—clear signs that Draco had been crying.

A pang tightened in Harry’s chest, but he didn’t press for answers. Instead, he spoke quietly, “You alright?”

Draco exhaled sharply, as if irritated by the question, and stood, moving toward his dresser as though searching for something to anchor him. “I’m fine,” he muttered. “I just lost track of time.”

Harry folded his arms, though his tone remained gentle. “You went to see your mother today, didn’t you?” he ventured, more as an observation than an accusation. It had to be about Narcissa—what else could have unsettled Draco so?

Draco finally glanced over his shoulder, something dark flickering in his expression. But he said nothing, simply pressed his lips together and turned back to the dresser.

Harry studied him, debating. Pushing wasn’t the answer, not with Draco. So, instead, he tried something else. “You want me to bring you something up here?” 

That got Draco’s attention. He hesitated, his fingers tightening against the wood of the dresser. Finally, he shook his head. “No. I’ll come down.” 

Harry nodded and stepped aside, letting Draco decide when to follow.

By the time Draco reached the dining table, Teddy was already in his seat, swinging his legs under his chair, his plate half-finished. He brightened instantly. “You took forever! I'm hungry.”  

Draco managed a small, forced smile. “Oh no, we can't afford to have a hungry monster!" 

Teddy giggled, but Harry’s gaze lingered on Draco, reading the tension in his still form. Draco sat too still, hands folded neatly in his lap, his gaze drifting beyond the table as Teddy launched into his latest cheerful story about books, dreams, and pet shop adventures. Draco nodded and hummed at appropriate moments, but his plate remained untouched. 

Finally, Harry set his fork down. “Not hungry?” he asked softly, careful not to sound accusatory. 

Draco blinked, as if just realizing he hadn’t eaten. He glanced at his untouched plate and gave a dismissive shrug. “I had something earlier,” he replied, but his tone was flat. 

Harry didn’t believe it. But knew better than to press Malfoy. 

Teddy’s uncertain eyes flicked between them. “Don’t like it?” he asked. 

Instantly, Draco’s expression shifted. With a sweet smile he reserved only for the kid, he ruffled Teddy’s hair. “Don’t be ridiculous. Harry's food is always great,” he said, his voice attempting lightness.

Teddy’s smile returned, and he went back to his meal. Harry, however, quietly observed Draco—the rigidity in his posture, the distant look in his eyes—and silently vowed that when Teddy was asleep, he’d gently try to help Draco unload whatever he was carrying. But for now, on this New Year’s Day, Harry respected Draco’s space. He had learned that sometimes, silence was the kindest comfort one could offer.

The dinner went on with Teddy chattering cheerfully, the soft clink of cutlery and murmurs of conversation filling the room. Outside, the day was new and hopeful, yet inside, the quiet tension between them spoke of secrets and shattered trust. And while Harry’s gentle presence hinted at care and understanding, Draco’s storm of emotions remained hidden behind carefully constructed composure—a New Year’s promise unfulfilled, waiting for the moment when words might finally break the silence.

It was almost 11:00 PM, and the house had finally quieted down. After dinner, Draco took charge of putting Teddy to bed while Harry cleaned up the kitchen with a steady rhythm that belied his inner concern and made some early preparations for the next day's meals. Outside, the cold of New Year’s Day deepened into the night, and inside, the soft glow of lamps and the fading hum of the day created a fragile cocoon of warmth.

Harry, not wanting Draco to be alone with his turbulent thoughts, gathered Draco’s favorite tea and a small plate of biscuits—Morgana had bought them when Draco was visiting his mother. He moved upstairs with quiet determination, each step measured and careful, until he reached Draco’s closed bedroom door.

He knocked softly. “Draco?” His voice was gentle, tentative.

A pause, then a faint rustle from within. The door opened just a crack, and Harry caught a glimpse of Draco’s profile in the soft light—a face that was still guarded, still marred by unshed tears, yet not entirely impervious. Harry offered a small, reassuring smile as he held out the tea and biscuits.

“Come have a bite with me,” Harry said softly. “It’s New Year’s. Let’s try to welcome the new day together.”

Draco stood in the doorway. His eyes flickered with conflicting emotions—pain, anger, and something fragile that hinted at longing. Finally, with a slow exhale, he stepped aside, and the door opened wider. In the ensuing silence, the teacup's gentle clink and the city's distant echo mingled with the quiet rustle of their breaths.

They sat together on the edge of the bed. Harry left enough space so as not to intrude, but remained close, offering a silent presence. For a while, they simply sat, the tea growing cool in its cup, the biscuits untouched as the weight of unspoken words filled the space.

At length, Draco broke the silence. His voice was low, careful—each word measured as if it had to pass through a filter of both anger and sorrow. “You knew about Morgana, didn’t you?” he asked, his tone not immediately raised, but laced with a simmering tension.

Harry’s eyes softened with quiet concern. “What do you mean?” he replied gently.

Draco’s gaze dropped, and his fingers unconsciously tightened against the fabric of the bedspread. “She was a spy for the Ministry.” His voice was initially quiet, but each syllable carried a growing edge of betrayal.

A heavy pause followed before Harry asked, “Why would they—?”

The blond ignored the question. If anyone should answer that, it was Harry himself. He was part of the mess they called a government. “You knew?” he asked impaciantly.

Harry’s tone suddenly shifted, his eyes flashing with fierce anger as he said, “I didn’t,” he said fiercely. “But if I had, I would’ve burned the Ministry down before letting them hurt you.”

For a heartbeat, Draco froze. A part of him recoiled at the raw fury in Harry’s words—a fury so intense that it terrified him, even as he tried desperately to convince himself that Harry was merely putting on a show. 

What else were you supposed to do when Harry Potter says this?

Unable to contain it any longer, Draco abruptly pushed himself to his feet. His movements were jerky and raw, his voice cracking as he spat, “Yet, you’re just standing there. It’s easy to talk.” His words trembled with bitterness, as if he were daring Harry to reveal some anger—to hate him as fiercely as he hated himself.

He felt pathetic to have trusted Morgana, and look where that got him. He should know better. He did know better.

Draco’s anger surged, his mind a maelstrom of hurt and betrayal. He felt a wave of bitter paranoia: What if trusting someone meant opening the door to more betrayal?

He couldn’t bear that risk again. Torn by conflicting impulses, he felt compelled to push Harry away, to force a reaction—a sign of anger, perhaps hatred—that might justify his own rage.

So he did the only thing he could, the only thing he knew—he tried to make Harry leave.

Hatred for himself, for letting this happen.

Hatred for Morgana, for making him believe, for proving him right.

And hatred for Harry, for not leaving.

Draco’s fingers twitched at his sides. “You think you can fix this? You think you can fix me?”

Draco hated it. Hated him for it.

His fists curled. “Fucking say something.”

And then, as if drawn by some unspoken compulsion, Harry stepped forward and wrapped his arms around him. It wasn’t tentative or hesitant—it was an unreserved, firm embrace that spoke of unconditional care.

Draco froze. His body locked up, every muscle coiled in painful tension. He felt Harry’s warm hands in the fabric of his shirt, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against his shoulder. In that moment, tears threatened to spill, a sharp, splintering sound clawing up his throat—a blend of a gasp and a quiet sob. His hands trembled, hovering for a heartbeat before instinctively clinging to the back of Harry’s shirt, as if anchoring himself to that gentle certainty.

He didn’t want this. He couldn’t bear the vulnerability. And yet, he needed it. In that fragile instant, Draco allowed himself to be held, even as his mind screamed that trusting again was a mistake.

Harry shifted, his fingers twitching at his sides, before softly asking, “Can I sleep here?”

Draco didn’t respond immediately; he only flicked his guarded gaze toward Harry before giving a short, hesitant nod.

For a long while, they sat there in wordless vigil, studying each other. Each searched for discomfort or hesitation, for any sign that this fragile intimacy was not okay. It never came.

Then, as if the implications of his request finally settled in, Harry cleared his throat. “I didn’t mean—I mean, just sleep. I just… want to be here. Nothing more.”

Draco turned his head slowly, his eyes half-lidded and unreadable. Then, barely above a whisper, he asked, “What if I want more?”

Harry’s breath caught in his throat; his lips parted slightly as he searched Draco’s face for any sign of jest, but found only raw vulnerability. “You’re having a breakdown,” Harry finally managed.

Draco hummed in amusement, or maybe sheer exhaustion. “What if I wasn’t?” 

“But you are.”

Draco let his head fall back against the pillow, closing his eyes as if to shut out the painful storm inside him. “It’s strange,” he admitted quietly.

“What is?” 

“I feel like I shouldn’t trust anyone. Not after this.” His voice faded into a murmur. “But I have this idiotic desire to trust you.”

Harry’s breath hitched again. He didn’t respond immediately, his gaze fixed on Draco’s profile as the moonlight streamed through the window, casting soft shadows across his face and highlighting the faint sheen of dried tears. Finally, in a quiet, resolute tone, Harry said, “You can. Trust me, I mean.”

They fell silent, the weight of every unspoken word filling the space between them. In the quiet, Harry’s eyes drifted to the small plate of biscuits he’d brought—a spare that Morgana, in an ironic twist of fate, had once baked. He almost smiled at the absurdity, but the smile faded quickly, replaced by a solemn resignation as he set the biscuit aside, letting the silence speak its language.

Outside, the night erupted in the sound of fireworks—explosions of crimson, gold, and silver scattering across the sky. Their boisterous celebration echoed off distant buildings and filled the street with the clamor of Muggles reveling in the New Year. The contrast was stark: while the world outside celebrated loudly, inside the room, every sound was hushed, every breath measured, as if the universe was holding its breath.

Draco’s gaze remained fixed on the shifting patterns of light dancing across the window. Slowly, his eyelids grew heavy; the soft glows and fleeting bursts of color reflected off his troubled features. Gradually, he leaned forward until his hand found Harry’s. Their fingers entwined in a silent plea for comfort, a desperate connection in the midst of inner torment. Draco’s head drooped against the pillow within moments, his breath evening out as sleep claimed him—a fragile surrender after hours of battling the tempest within.

Harry stayed awake a while longer, his own heart burdened with unsaid thoughts. In the quiet, he allowed the raw anger to simmer within him—anger at Morgana for her betrayal, anger at himself for ever having trusted, anger at a system that forced deceit and shattered hope. Thoughts of confronting Kingsley flared briefly in his mind—visions of righteous fury—but then he paused, questioning what difference it would truly make. After all, if the Ministry could send another spy, what did it matter if he vented his anger? At the same time, how could he carry on as if nothing in his home—his family—had been tainted by such treachery?

For a brief, fragile moment, they shared a silent acknowledgment of how strange it was that Draco had slipped from enemy to stranger, and somehow, to family—and somewhere in between, Harry had found himself falling in love.

But for now, all that mattered was this quiet intimacy, the bittersweet hope of healing amidst betrayal. They sat in that fragile silence as the fireworks continued to burst outside, each explosion a reminder that even the darkest nights can give way to the light of a new day.

…

Harry woke slowly, the remnants of sleep fading as he became aware of the quiet intimacy around him. As his eyes adjusted to the soft light, he found himself appreciating the vulnerable, fragile curve of Draco’s sleeping face—a face that had been hardened by anger and betrayal just hours before, and yet now lay relaxed and almost peaceful in sleep. Harry’s heart softened as he remembered the tumultuous night: the raw fury, the desperate need to trust despite the sting of Morgana’s betrayal, and the overwhelming comfort he had found in holding Draco, even as his own anger threatened to boil over.

In that silent moment, Harry let the bitterness of the previous night dissolve into something gentler. It was a stark contrast to the raucous, chaotic New Year celebrations he remembered from the Weasleys’ home—a clamor of laughter, shouting, and exuberant noise. Here, in this quiet sanctuary, the only sound was the soft tick of the clock and the steady, even breathing of the man he was beginning to love. The peace that had taken hold was fragile yet profound, filling Harry with a cautious hope.

Before long, the silence was broken by the excited thump of little feet and the creak of a door swinging open. Teddy burst into the room, his eyes alight with energy despite a night of restless sleep. “Dwaco, I want pancake!” he exclaimed, his voice a burst of joyful urgency.

Draco let out a half-choked noise as Teddy scrambled between them, grinning down at them both with wild, bed-tousled hair.

"You’re both still sleeping?" Teddy gasped in exaggerated disbelief. His hair flickered from blue to a bright, golden yellow—his default color for happiness. "It’s morning! Dwaco promised pancakes!"

Harry rubbed his eyes, barely processing what was happening before Teddy pressed his tiny hands against Draco’s shoulder and started shaking him insistently.

"Draco! Pancakes!"

Draco groaned, burying his face into the pillow as if he could will himself back to sleep. "Go bother Harry, imp," he muttered, voice still hoarse with sleep.

Harry opened his mouth to protest but decided against it when Draco gave a smug, half-awake smirk.

That was when Teddy seemed to fully take in how they were both lying in the same bed. His eyes widened with sudden realization. "Wait—why are you here? Hawwy have a nightmare?"

Draco’s cheeks flushed pink. Harry coughed, scrambling upright. “Er—no. Just… talking. Late.”

The moment hung heavy until Teddy’s enthusiasm broke through once more. “So, pancakes? You promised pancakes!” Teddy demanded, his earlier confusion forgotten in his excitement.

Draco sighed, exasperation mingling with reluctant amusement as he swung his legs off the bed and slowly stood. “Fine,” he said curtly. “I suppose I can make some pancakes.”

“And I suppose I have to go too, and make sure you don’t hex a pan. Again,” Harry added with a teasing glint.

Outside, the distant sounds of morning traffic and voices of passersby underscored the promise of a new day—a day that was calm and full of tentative hope. As Draco reluctantly rolled up his sleeves and set about making the promised pancakes, Teddy’s excited chatter filled the room, and Harry worked quietly by his side, both Draco and Harry found themselves caught between the bitter residue of the past and the fragile possibility of healing—a strange, painful, and unexpectedly tender new beginning.

The Weasley family’s New Year mornings were a symphony of chaos—firewhisky toasts, George’s leftover pranks, and Molly’s boisterous voice cutting through the noise. But here, in this kitchen, the quiet felt almost sacred. Draco mixed the batter with a small frown, a sign of someone who wasn't sure about what they were doing, while Harry leaned against the counter, nursing a cup of black coffee as if it were a lifeline. Teddy sat atop the table, legs swinging, happily recounting Draco’s “epic” bedtime story from the night before.

“And then the dragon—” Teddy declared, waving a syrup-coated spoon, “—breathed sparkles instead of fire, and the knight hiccuped rainbows!”

“Sparkles?” Harry raised an eyebrow at Draco, who only muttered, “I was tired. Sparkles are… festive.”

“Festive. Right,” Harry snorted.

Teddy giggled and kicked his heels. “Draco does voices! The knight sounded just like Uncle Ron—‘Blimey, that’s a lot of glitter!’”

Draco’s retort was lost to the moment, as he was locked in combat with a rebellious pancake. With great determination and poor technique, he attempted to flip it—each move more clumsy than the last. Harry leaned against the opposite counter, arms crossed, sipping his coffee and watching the spectacle with amusement and detachment.

For all his efforts, Draco still sucked at cooking. He’d been improving, but breakfast food clearly wasn’t his forte.

“I don’t understand,” Draco muttered, frowning at the pan. “I followed the instructions.”

“You burned it.”

Draco sighed dramatically. “Yes, thank you, Potter. I never would have noticed.”

Teddy peered over, wide-eyed. “It looks like a monster!”

Draco shot him a glare. “Only the taste matters.”

Harry smirked. “Last time, you hexed a pan; today, only the pancake is sacrificed. That’s progress.”

Draco tossed his hair dramatically. “I don’t need to know how to cook if I’m this stunning.”

“Of course, you’ll survive on beauty alone,” Harry snorted.

“Well, at least you didn’t deny I’m stunning.”

“You are good-looking,” Harry shrugged.

Draco paused. “Oh. Well. Obviously, but I wasn’t expecting you to admit it so easily.”

Teddy, completely oblivious to their flirting, poked Draco’s arm. “Burning!”

“Merlin!” Draco scrambled to flip the pancake, but it was too late—the pan smoked and the pancake, if it could even be called that, looked like a mummified relic.

Harry sighed, setting his tea down and nudging Draco aside. “Alright, move.”

Draco, ever the dramatist, took a seat and crossed his legs, adopting the air of an esteemed food critic—certainly not someone who needed step-by-step instructions to boil pasta. He sipped his tea and sighed. “That’s why being attractive is so inconvenient. How am I supposed to learn anything when I’m constantly surrounded by admirers?”

Harry flipped a perfectly formed pancake onto a plate. “Open your mouth. Your personality will drive them away.”

Teddy cackled.

Draco gaped. “Excuse me?”

“Mean!” Teddy gasped through giggles.

“It’s not mean, it’s true,” Harry said innocently.

Draco swatted Harry with a tea towel, and Teddy laughed. Still giggling, he reached for the mixing bowl and, in his enthusiasm, knocked a bag of flour off the counter. The bag hit the floor with a soft ‘poof’ before exploding into a cloud of white dust.

The room went silent.

Teddy’s hair turned bright pink in his panic. “Uh-oh.”

Draco hissed as flour rained down on his perfectly tailored robe. “Potter!”

Harry sighed and shook his head, surveying the kitchen disaster. “Yep. Should’ve seen that coming. Totally my fault.”

Draco never blamed Teddy, no matter what happened. It was always Harry’s fault.

… 

The faint scent of flowers Neville had brought that afternoon filled St. Mungo’s hospital room. He explained that flowers shift color based on the feelings of people around them, like when Blaise glared at them for being “obnoxiously cheerful.” Now, in the dim evening light, they glowed soft indigo, casting shadows over Blaise’s bandaged torso as he leaned back against the pillows, teacup in hand. 

Neville leaned against the wall near the foot of the bed, arms crossed, listening as Blaise recounted another Slytherin common room debacle.

“—and Pansy changed the password and only the girls knew. We stood there for an hour, Draco hexing the wall like a madman, while the first-years cried about missing curfew. Brilliant, but god, she was insufferable about it.”

Neville chuckled, stirring a spoonful of honey into his tea. “Gryffindor tried something like that once. Seamus charmed the portrait hole to sing insults if you didn’t know the password. Lasted a day before McGonagall made him undo it.”

“Typical Gryffindor. No subtlety.” Blaise’s eyes flickered to Neville’s hands—calloused, dirt still under the nails from hours in the greenhouse. “Pansy’s pranks were art. She’d convince first-years the Giant Squid was allergic to pumpkin juice, then watch them dump the entire Halloween feast into the lake.”

“Sounds like you were the only sane one.”

“Sane?” Blaise snorted. “I was cleaning up their messes. Pansy’s advice was trouble. ‘Just Confundus this prefect, Blaise, it’ll be fun!’ Next thing I know, Draco’s in Dumbledore’s office explaining why a first-year is dancing to Celestina Warbeck.”

A genuine laugh from Neville softened Blaise’s smirk into something dangerously close to a smile. The flowers on the sill brightened to gold. As Neville moved to adjust the herbs, he almost brushed Blaise’s ankle—but caught himself before his touch lingered. Instead, a quiet pause fell between them.

“The Healers said you can leave soon.” He tried again. Last time, the conversation hadn't gone well, but Blaise seemed more receptive now.

“I heard.”

“I’m not offering out of obligation,” Neville interrupted, gentle but firm. “The cottage has space. No stairs. No Aurors. And it’s… quiet.”

Blaise’s jaw tensed, pride warring with pragmatism. Before he could retort, the ivy framing the door shivered—a silent alarm. Neville straightened, wand slipping into his palm. Draco slipped inside, soundless as a shadow. 

“You’re late,” Blaise said, but the bite in his voice faltered.

“I had to detour through the whole hospital,” Draco snapped, though his eyes betrayed relief. He nodded to Neville. “The Doxy nest in the east wing worked. Aurors are occupied.”

Neville smirked. “Told you they’d swarm for honeywater.”

Without preamble, Draco strode into the room, tossed his cloak over a chair, and hooked an arm around Blaise’s shoulders, pulling him into a brief but firm embrace. It was barely three seconds, but the way his fingers curled slightly, gripping the fabric of Blaise’s shirt before letting go, said more than words could.

Blaise stiffened at first, fingers tightening on the bedsheet, but then exhaled, just slightly.

“Still alive, then?” Draco said, his voice steady, but his gaze flickered over Blaise’s face, searching for something.

“Unfortunately,” Blaise muttered with a small smile.

Neville stared. This was the same man who’d turned bone-white when a Healer grazed his wrist days prior.

Blaise stiffened as Draco’s fingers brushed the edge of his bandages, peeling them back with precision. Neville lingered near the door, watching silently as Draco tutted at the half-healed gashes, his touch firm, unapologetic. Years of shared dormitories, patching each other up after curses went wrong or midnight duels, had carved a familiarity that bypassed Blaise’s usual recoil. Draco’s touch was matter-of-fact, transactional, and safe.

“Still using that awful cologne, I see,” Blaise muttered, his voice tighter than he’d like.

“Still criticizing it, I see,” Draco replied, unwinding the gauze. His fingers brushed Blaise’s ribs, and Blaise’s breath hitched—a split-second fracture in his composure. Draco paused. “Breathe, Zabini. Or I’ll hex you into a coma and do this properly.”

Blaise smirked, sharp and hollow. “You’d miss my commentary.”

Draco ignored him, continuing to change the bandages. The wounds, laced with dark magic, resisted full healing, so they had to rely on basic spells and Muggle treatments—something Draco had become frustratingly adept at.

“The scarring’s minimal,” Draco said finally, smoothing the bandage. “You’ll live.”

“Disappointed?”

“Ecstatic. Now I don’t have to endure Pansy’s eulogy.” Draco straightened, wiping his hands on a handkerchief. “She’s drafting it in French, by the way. To ‘honor your pretentiousness.’”

Blaise snorted, some of the tension leaving his frame. “Tell her I want peacocks at the funeral. And old whiskey.”

“She’ll hex me if I suggest anything less.”

Draco stayed a little longer, the conversation shifting into murmured updates about Pansy’s latest tantrum, his failed pancakes in the morning, and how Teddy was doing. Gave him some snacks. Nothing too personal, as both were aware of Neville in the room — who offered to step outside.

But the minutes slipped by too quickly, and Draco’s gaze kept flickering toward the door, wary.

Eventually, he exhaled, frustration lining his features. “I should go. If the Aurors track me here, they’ll make this a spectacle.”

Blaise’s smirk turned wry. “Coward.”

Draco huffed. “See if I bring you contraband again.” He nudged a small, wrapped parcel onto the nightstand—something unmistakably expensive and undoubtedly smuggled.

Then, with a final squeeze to Blaise’s shoulder, brief but grounding, Draco was gone.

Later, when Draco had gone, Blaise picked at his bandages, his voice deceptively casual. “Say what you want, Longbottom.”

“You let him touch you.” Not an accusation, more like observation and curiosity.

Blaise’s laugh was a blade. “He’s Draco. He doesn’t touch people. He… announces himself. Like a portkey with bad manners.”

“But you allow it.”

Silence. The enchanted chrysanthemums on the sill bled from gold to stormy gray.

“He doesn’t care,” Blaise said at last, quiet, venomous. “He never tiptoe or whisper. Never treat me like glass.” His nails gouged half-moons into his palm. “So I let him.”

Neville understood then. Draco’s hugs weren’t comfort—they were defiance. A middle finger to the past that demanded Blaise flinch.

…

Back at Grimmauld Place, Harry kept a careful eye on his enchanted pocket watch—a little device that now ticked down the minutes until Draco’s expected return. Normally, Harry never knew exactly what he was fighting about, but today, he knew. He would start this fight on purpose.

At 5 pm, the watch showed 3:00:00.
Draco had lingered in the doorway, his silver cufflink catching the light as he mumbled, “Visiting Mother.” 

Harry, ever casual despite the tension, had replied, “Right. Tell her Teddy drew her a peacock. Or something.”

Draco’s smirk had been distant. “She’ll frame it beside the family tapestry. Touching.”

At 6 pm, it showed 2:00:00.
Harry had stood in St. Mungo’s sterile lobby, the receptionist’s smile sharpening as she repeated, “No one by that name visited today.” 

The lie curdled in his gut. He’d nearly stormed off to Blaise’s room—almost—but with Teddy happily clinging to him, he couldn’t bear for the little one to see such anger. So, he waited a little longer, then returned home to make dinner.

Now:
The watch burned “0:00” into Harry’s palm just as the front door groaned open. There, silhouetted against the pouring rain, stood Draco—his collar damp, his presence unmistakably heavy.

“How was your mother?” Harry asked.

Draco froze for a heartbeat; one glove lay half-off, and with a twitch of his fingers, any trace of a hidden wrapper vanished. “Alive. Thrilled by Teddy’s art. And you?”

For a moment, Harry feigned absorption in his plate while Teddy munched happily. Then, with measured intent, Harry prodded, “So I’m just asking—you went to see Zabini?”

Draco’s cool reply came swiftly: "I don’t know what you mean. Blaise and I are estranged, per Ministry.”

Harry’s gaze hardened as Teddy repeated the word ‘stranged’ giggling as he said it sounded funny—neither of the adults stopped the kid. Leaning forward, Potter cut in, “They’re reopening Zabini’s case.”

“How thrilling. Send my regards to Blaise.” The blond didn’t look up from his plate. 

Harry’s jaw tightened. “I closed it once. I can do it again.”

Draco’s hand stilled. He finally met Harry’s gaze, eyes turning icy. In a low, venomous tone, he added, “The Savior’s generosity.”

Before the argument could escalate further, Harry cleared his throat. “Teddy, if you’re finished, go to your room. The adults need to talk.”

Teddy’s small face twisted in a mix of uncertainty and stubborn defiance. He hesitated, eyes flitting between Harry and Draco. Draco gently signaled him to stay. “We have nothing to talk about. You can stay, Ted,” he murmured, his tone softening as he ruffled the boy’s hair.

“Go, Teddy,” Harry insisted firmly.

“Stay,” Draco countered, his tone equally insistent.

Teddy, caught in the middle of their conflicting commands, looked around in bewilderment. His bright eyes were wide with confusion as he struggled to decide what to do. “I wanna be estranged too!” the little one declared with delighted mischief.

“Ask your dad,” Harry muttered dryly. “He’s an expert.”

Draco flicked his wand, transfiguring the spilled sugar cubes into a procession of miniature peacocks that paraded across the table. “Estranged means… avoiding someone very boring, Imp.”

“Like broccoli?” Teddy asked, his earnest tone drawing a brief, amused pause.

“Exactly,” Draco replied with a brittle smirk.

The discussion could have finished there, but Harry didn’t let it. His voice rose, edged with mounting exasperation. “You look too proud of this reckless act, Draco.”

Draco tilted his head, his smirk deepening into a cold laugh. “Ah, yes. Harry Potter—the boy whose brilliant ideas include ‘Let’s ride a dragon to invade Gringotts’ and ‘Sure, let’s duel the Dark Lord at seventeen’—is calling me reckless.”

“This isn’t a joke,” Harry hissed, leaning forward. “If the Aurors had caught you—”

"They didn't," Draco cut in, his tone dismissive.

“Uncle Ron says Hawwy is ‘reck-less’ too!” Teddy announced, his small voice full of innocent mirth.

“Teddy,” they snapped in unison, the admonition more amused than severe. 

Harry exhaled slowly. “We’re not 17 anymore. We have a child.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed.” Draco stood abruptly, his eyes flashing with a mix of exasperation and dry humor. “Next time I plan a felony, I’ll owl you.”

“I would be grateful!” Harry shot back.

And he meant it. He knew why Draco had gone—because he cared. Because he couldn’t sit by while Blaise suffered. Harry would have done the same if it were Ron. But Harry had expected more. Not permission, not approval, just trust. He had thought Draco would at least let him know, let him cover for him, let him help.

Harry’s voice dropped, quieter now, steadier. “I wouldn’t have stopped you, Draco. I just—hell, I probably would’ve helped. But you didn’t even let me try.”

Draco stilled. Just for a moment.

“I don’t need your help, Potter.” His voice was clipped, but Harry caught the hesitation beneath it.

“I thought we were in this together, Draco. We are family.”

“‘Amily” Teddy said, sounding like he understood everything about this. 

Something flickered across Draco’s face—something too raw to name. “I don’t need you betraying your precious duty as an Auror to cover for me.”

Because this wasn’t just about avoiding Aurors or sneaking past Ministry regulations.

Draco hadn’t told him because he hadn’t wanted to put Harry in the position of choosing—his duty or Draco. And worse, because Draco hadn’t wanted to see what Harry would choose.

Harry leaned back, fingers tapping once against the table before he said, calm and deliberate, “So I’m going to quit.”

Draco blinked. “What?” He had heard him. He just needed to be sure.

“If your problem with trusting me comes from my job, I can quit.”

Draco’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not.”

Draco exhaled sharply, running a hand through his damp hair. “You—you can’t just say things like that, Potter.”

“Why not? You think I wouldn’t choose you?” Harry’s voice softened. “Draco…”

But Draco was already heading for the stairs.

Harry sighed and sat back down. Teddy, syrup smeared across his cheek, tugged at his sleeve.

“Dwaco’s sad,” he said solemnly.

Harry ruffled his hair, letting out a tired chuckle. “He’s stubborn.”

Teddy grinned. “Hawwy too.”

Harry glanced at his watch, still frozen at 00:00. A silent reminder that this wasn’t over. Not really.

But at least Draco knew now—he would have chosen him.

…

Harry barely slept. His mind had been a whirlwind all night, thoughts spinning in endless loops until he finally gave in—quill in hand, parchment spread before him, determined to put his turmoil into words. The candle on his desk had long since burned down to a stub, a small pool of wax hardened at its base. His notes from the night lay scattered across the table—half-finished sentences, scratched-out lines, all circling the same idea.

Quitting.

He dropped into the chair, picked up his quill, and frowned at the parchment in front of him. He had spent the night trying to map out what leaving would look like—how long it would take to clear his cases, what he'd say to Kingsley, to Robards, to everyone . 

He wasn’t even sure if the words would hold weight once spoken aloud. He had spent his whole life stepping into roles others expected of him, and the Auror Corps had been no different. Becoming an Auror had been the natural next step, the path laid out for him. But it wasn't his passion, quitting it wouldn't be a sacrifice, and now that he was truly considering it, he realized he should have done it before. 

Effective immediately—

No. Too abrupt.

Due to personal reasons—

Too vague. They’d ask questions.

Harry sighed, tapping the quill against his knuckles. The truth was simple: I don’t want to do this anymore.

And yet, putting it into words felt impossible.

He was still staring at the parchment, lost in thought, when the sharp tap of an owl at the window shattered the quiet. His stomach clenched before he even turned. 

Rising quickly, he crossed the room and unlatched the window. A crisp letter, the Ministry’s seal glinting in the low light, was tied to the owl’s leg. His fingers moved automatically, breaking the wax, and unfolding the paper.

His eyes skimmed over the words, and just like that, everything fell apart.

Hastings. Attack ongoing. Casualties unclear. Aurors needed immediately.

The sun was just beginning to rise, casting a faint golden glow over the room. Harry folded the letter and shoved it into his pocket. It wasn’t the first time an attack had interrupted his life—it wouldn’t be the last. But after last night, after telling Draco he was ready to leave, the timing felt cruel.

Still, there was no hesitation. He moved swiftly up the stairs and pushed open Draco’s door without ceremony.

Draco groaned, rolling onto his side. "Potter, if you're waking me up for tea, I will hex you."

"I have to go," Harry said simply.

That got Draco’s attention. He sat up, blinking, then frowned. "What? Why?"

"There was an attack. I don’t know much."

Draco scoffed. “How wonderfully transparent of you.”

There was something unreadable in his tone. Not disbelief, not quite disappointment—just a resigned understanding. Last night, Harry had said he was serious about quitting. Draco hadn't doubted his honesty, but he also hadn't expected it to be easy for him. And now, here was proof.  

Draco’s expression was a mask, but Harry saw the flicker beneath it: the ghost of I told you so.

Harry hesitated in the doorway. "I’ll be back as soon as I can."

Draco sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

"You wound me. I’m known for my decision-making."

Draco gave him a flat look.

For a second, neither of them moved. The morning air felt thick, like something unsaid was pressing against it. Draco glanced toward the doorway, then back at Harry, lips parting slightly—like he might say something else. But he didn’t.

“Take care of Teddy,” Harry said, turning to leave. “And no felonies while I’m gone.”

“I’ll save the next one for you,” Draco drawled, but the edge had softened. A promise, not a joke. Next time, I’ll trust you.

A thread of trust, barely there but tangible in the space between them.

Neither of them said anything else. They didn’t need to.

Harry turned and left.

Outside, the world was waking up. And somewhere, someone was already burning it down.

Chapter Text

Draco was back at Hogwarts.

He knew it wasn’t real.

Just another dream, another memory haunted by the war. Yet when Pansy’s voice rose in protest, when Crabbe’s trembling hands and Blaise’s narrowed, scrutinizing eyes emerged, every detail was vivid enough to threaten drowning him in despair.

“Pansy, you’re not going,” he said, his tone firm yet laced with sorrow.

“Why not?!” she snapped, springing to her feet as if the very idea could shatter the fragile illusion.

They’d divided roles already—some would search for the diadem, while the others would lead the younger Slytherins to safety. There was no time for debate—and yet, bickering still filled the air.

Blaise, slouched against the worn arm of the couch, finally broke his silence. “They were chosen by No-Nose. They didn’t volunteer,” he said, his voice calm but weighted with reluctant truth. “If they could, they’d hide.”

Greg snorted—a hollow laugh against the echo of impending disaster.

Draco’s gaze shifted to Blaise. “Would you come with me if I asked?”

Blaise raised an eyebrow. “No. Unlike you, I actually like breathing.”

“Coward,” Draco muttered. The word was more resigned than venomous—a reflection of his fear.

“I prefer being strategically prudent,” Blaise countered, his tone edged with defiance.

Pansy’s voice was tinged with uncertainty. “I—I’m not great at Divination, but every vision I had was the same.” Her eyes darkened with the memory. “I saw… death.”

Draco exhaled sharply. “Yeah, Divination’s prodigy, there’s always death in a war,” he scoffed, dismissing her words as if they were mere background static. Perhaps he wished to believe it wasn’t serious, to shield himself from that crushing truth.

But Pansy’s eyes pleaded for him to understand. “You don’t get it. I saw our future—just ours—ended in death.”

“You sleep through every Divination class—you’re bound to be wrong.” Draco countered, his tone more defensive than compassionate. “Blaise, make sure she leaves with the others.”

Blaise gave a reluctant nod.

Then, for the first time that night, Crabbe’s quiet voice broke the stillness. “I don’t want to die.”

Draco clenched his jaw and swallowed hard. “Then don’t die,” he said, as though the command could defy fate, even as the words carried the unbearable weight of inevitable loss

Everything was a blur. Draco stood frozen in the Slytherin common room, the emerald light from the lake casting jagged shadows across his housemates' faces. Pansy's shrill voice cut through the murmurs—"Let's hand him over!"—but her hands were shaking. Crabbe kept cracking his knuckles. Goyle stared at the floor like it might swallow him whole.

And Blaise? Blaise just looked at Draco.

And then, as if a switch had been thrown, the dream shifted. The roar of fire replaced every murmur.

In an instant, the Room of Requirement was ablaze. Draco was running, pursued by nightmares incarnate. Greg clung desperately to Weasley’s broom, blood staining his hands, while Potter’s shouts blurred into a chaotic symphony. His lungs burned under the oppressive heat of Fiendfyre—a wild, consuming, unstoppable force.

Draco remembered it too well, how he had stepped out of the Room of Requirement, engulfed in flames. He’d survived, thanks to the nobility of Saint Harry Potter—but he hadn’t spared a glance for Vincent Crabbe. His anger blazed hotter than any spell: Crabbe’s desperate bid to please Voldemort, the reckless spell that had set the room alight.

Draco would forever remember how Crabbe had begged and how he had dismissed him. He would remember Pansy’s warning, the one he had stubbornly refused to heed. Crabbe was gone.

He had fled from the Golden Trio without looking back, leaving nothing but regret. Greg had run beside him until he abruptly stopped.

“Pansy,” Greg had gasped.

“Right. She and Blaise are still out there, being idiots,” Draco had replied sharply.

He’d forgotten—a fleeting moment before entering the Room of Requirement, they spot Pansy and Blaise outside.

Later, Draco would learn that Blaise had promised to wait for Crabbe, to protect him once he left the room, and that Pansy, shaken by her dire vision, had needed to do something—anything—to stop it.

In that nightmare, Draco knew only uncertainty: were they still out there, or had they vanished into the chaos? With Crabbe lost in such a senseless way, both he and Greg felt a futile duty to search the war-torn corridors for friends who might already be gone.

Even if it wasn’t that long, Draco didn’t remember much about the war, and honestly, he was better off not remembering it. The few flashes and scenes he had already tormented him a lot.

A Death Eater tried to curse Draco. Potter saved him (again). Weasley cursed at him (again). Draco didn’t thank them (again).

He blinked and Blaise was there, alive, whole. Draco raised his wand to carve a “B” into his palm when, suddenly—

For the briefest of moments, it was as if a crushing weight settled on him, pulling him to the ground. His breath hitched, his lungs burning, and his legs buckled, sending him crashing to his knees. The world seemed to tilt, his vision swimming, as if the very air itself had turned thick and suffocating.

Draco gasped, trying to force air into his lungs, but it felt like the walls were closing in on him. It wasn’t just exhaustion, or the smoke from the fire—no, it was something far worse. The weight was too much, too immediate, pressing down on him from all sides.

In that instant, he understood.

His vision went black, and when he recovered, he was outside Snape’s office. Pansy appeared, her makeup a smeared mask streaked with tears. She hesitated, then threw herself into Draco’s arms—just as she always did—and this time, he didn’t push her away.

She glanced down the long, rubble-strewn corridor. Draco followed her gaze. They couldn’t see much, but they both knew: Greg was beneath the wreckage.

Draco told Pansy to leave, but she wasn’t listening. Her world was shattering too quickly; in her mind, she replayed the moment Greg cast that protective spell—saw his body crushed beside her untouched one.
“No, no. Greg is dead. And he told me Vince was dead. You are next. I saw it. I couldn’t stop any of it. I did everything wrong—”

Draco felt a surge of anguish—he wanted to scream, to cry, to lash out at a world that had failed them. But if anyone had failed, it was he. Instead, he only embraced silence.

He pulled Pansy into a tight embrace. As she slowly relaxed, he gently covered his mouth. Blaise’s eyes widened in shock as he realized too late what was happening.

“Confundus Duo,” Draco murmured the incantation.

Pansy’s cries dwindled to uncertain blinks. Blaise staggered, his face a mask of disbelief.

“You’re upset because I won’t go out with you tonight,” Draco said quietly, his tone almost tender. “It’s a silly reason to cry, isn’t it?”

After a moment, she nodded, looking both foolish and lost. Draco smiled—a rare, warm smile—and gently wiped away her tears. Blaise, still speechless, couldn’t reconcile this tenderness with the hard man he’d known.

“Go to the pub with Blaise. Find Nott. Get out. Don’t listen to the sounds. Don’t look back. Just go.” For a fleeting moment, Draco considered Obliviating her memory—erasing the pain—but he couldn’t. He wanted her to choose, to remember, if ever she wished.

"Now what? You’ll Imperius me?" Blaise shot back.

"If I have to."

For a second, they just glared.

Draco’s gaze hardened as he took in the carnage of the night. In that moment, he felt the cold truth settle over him: he was going to die today anyway, and nothing mattered if it meant saving a few shattered souls. With a bitter shrug, he accepted the inevitability of his fate. 

“If I’m doomed, then I’ll face it on my own terms,” he murmured, stepping away as Blaise’s unsatisfied glare followed him.

Then Blaise grabbed Pansy’s wrist. "Come on, love. Let’s get a drink."

With that, Blaise grabbed Pansy’s wrist and dashed into the darkness.

And Pansy ran, pulled by Blaise. 

….

Draco’s eyes snapped open with a sharp, disorienting jolt. His body was drenched in cold sweat, and for a moment, the world around him felt unfamiliar, distorted. His heart was still racing, the phantom weight of loss pressing down on him, even though he was no longer on his knees, no longer trapped beneath the rubble of his own grief.

The nightmare had felt too real, too suffocating. For a second, he could almost still feel it: the crushing weight of Greg’s death, the air thick and heavy, the loss so sharp it felt like his own heart was being crushed.

But now, the room was dark and still. The only sound was the soft, rhythmic breathing of Teddy, who had somehow found his way into Draco’s bed. The little boy’s small form was curled against Draco’s side, his hair a bright, soft blue even in sleep.

Draco's chest tightened at the sight, the ache in his heart not completely gone, but the presence of Teddy—warm, alive, so full of life—was the anchor he desperately needed. Without thinking, he pulled the boy closer, burying his face in Teddy’s soft hair. His arms wrapped tightly around him as if he could protect him from all the things Draco couldn’t save himself from.

The steady rise and fall of Teddy’s chest was a gentle reminder that, despite the weight of the past, there was something worth holding onto, something worth fighting for.

“It's okay,” Draco whispered, though it was more to himself than to the child. “It’s okay.”

For a moment, he allowed himself to be comforted, the remnants of the nightmare fading with each breath he took. Teddy shifted slightly in his arms, mumbling something unintelligible in his sleep, and Draco let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The world outside, with all its chaos and loss, seemed far away for just a moment.

As he held the boy close, Draco closed his eyes again, the weight of his nightmare still lingering but a little less unbearable. He had to keep moving forward—for Teddy, for himself, for everything he hadn’t lost yet.

The dream that had gripped him just now felt like a bad omen. The weight on his chest, the sudden collapse, the suffocating breathlessness—it wasn’t just about Crabbe, about Greg. It was everything he had been too afraid to admit: the danger was real, and it was closing in on them all. He couldn’t shake the thought that Harry might not come back safe this time.

The warmth of Teddy against him did little to ease the gnawing anxiety in his gut. Draco didn’t want to admit how much it had shaken him, how close he had come to losing control completely.

He shifted, carefully wrapping his arms tighter around Teddy, but the sense of foreboding lingered, heavy in the air around him. He’d barely said goodbye to Harry, but the words that had slipped from his lips still haunted him: I’m going to fight.

Draco’s heart raced again at the thought, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that this fight was different. It wasn’t just about them anymore. It was about everything they had built, everything they were trying to protect. And with every passing second, it felt like the ground beneath him was slipping away, the darkness closing in.

…..

Upstairs, away from the low hum of the restaurant and the chaotic world outside, Morgana’s small flat felt both intimate and oppressive. The air carried the familiar scent of old parchment and well-loved books, mingled with the lingering aroma of her last meal. Tonight, it was more than just a quiet refuge—it was a stage for difficult truths.

Draco had never intended to set foot in this place again—not after everything. Not after realizing that the one person he’d once trusted so implicitly had been keeping secrets of her own. Yet here he was, drawn back by Teddy’s insistence. Earlier that evening, the little boy had tugged at Draco’s sleeve, clutching a set of bowls and dishes Morgana had left behind—remnants of a time before everything shattered.

“Dwaco, I miss Morgana.”

How could he explain betrayal to a child who still struggled to pronounce “apple”? Teddy’s world was simple: love was given freely, trust was unearned, and Morgana was the woman who sang silly songs while feeding him mashed peas.

Draco had tried to dismiss the request at first, ignoring the hopeful gleam in Teddy’s eyes. But the boy’s pleading was relentless, and eventually, Draco had agreed—not out of desire, but because explaining to a two-year-old why Morgana was no longer their friend was simply not an option.

Now, standing in Morgana’s flat once again, Draco felt his stomach twist. Earlier, the moment they’d arrived, Teddy had bolted straight to her with open arms, hugging her like nothing had changed, smiling innocently—just as Draco himself had once done when everything seemed simpler. That innocent display, so full of trust and hope, now cut him to the core.

He stood by the window, arms crossed, his mind churning with conflicted thoughts. Every muscle in his body screamed at him to leave—to take Teddy and get as far from Morgana as possible. Yet his feet felt like lead, unwilling to move, trapped by the weight of unspoken words. 

Morgana, oblivious to the storm raging inside him, greeted Teddy with a soft laugh as she knelt to ruffle his hair. “You took care of my bowls?” she asked gently.

“Uh-huh!” Teddy beamed, clearly pleased with himself.

At those words, Draco stiffened. His jaw clenched with a mix of anger and sorrow. Liar. He wanted to scream at her, to demand the truth, but something held him back. He couldn't. Not here. Not with Teddy so close. His protective instincts flared, a fierce desire to shield the boy from whatever darkness Morgana had brought into their lives.

Morgana’s voice broke through his thoughts, and he felt a tremor of annoyance rise in his chest. “You’ve been taking good care of him,” she said, her tone light, as if nothing had changed.

Draco’s hands tightened into fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms. He wanted to lash out—demand answers, tell her exactly how much she had betrayed them—but the tightness in his chest told him he couldn’t. Not while Teddy was so close. He couldn't lose control. Not again.

Instead, he forced his voice to remain calm, though it cracked with the weight of his restraint. “Teddy, I made that tart you like.”

Morgana smiled, her eyes flicking to the stairs as if sensing what was coming next. She was already trying to redirect Teddy away from him, away from the tension in the air.

“Tart?” Teddy’s eyes lit up, his focus shifting entirely. “Dwaco,” he murmured, reaching up with his small hands to grasp Draco’s sleeve.

Draco hesitated, then looked at Morgana. “Don’t take long.”

Teddy, without another word, skipped down the stairs, his little feet pattering across the floor. For a fleeting moment, Draco almost followed him, but he held himself back. It felt like a lie, this false normalcy. He couldn’t let it go on like this, not without knowing just how deep the betrayal ran.

“You told them everything, didn’t you?”

Morgana met his gaze, her expression steady but cautious.

“Not everything.”

Draco’s tone was sharp, measured—a veneer over the hurt within him.

“Just enough to make it impossible to trust you.”

Morgana tensed. “You think I wanted this? To report every time Harry snapped at you, or you flinched at a loud noise? They didn’t care about Teddy—they wanted you. Proof you hadn’t changed.”

Draco’s wand hand twitched. “And you gave it to them.”

“No. I gave what I saw.” She met his glare, unflinching. “I wrote that you take good care of him and how he likes you. When you cursed Potter for letting Teddy eat mud, I wrote ‘expressed concern for child’s health.’”

His jaw tightened. He wanted desperately to believe she had kept him and Teddy out of it—to believe she wasn’t betraying them. But the doubt lingered, gnawing at him.

Between them on the worn-out couch, Teddy fidgeted with his warm teacup. His wide eyes moved between them, sensing the tension but not fully understanding.

Morgana sighed and rose, moving to a small cabinet by the bookshelf. She pulled out a worn leather folder, her fingers brushing over its edges.

“Copies of everything I sent,” she said.

Morgana finally handed him the folder, her fingers brushing over it one last time before stepping back, as if giving him space to read. But Draco’s attention remained on her face, searching for the flicker of guilt or the truth she was hiding.

Morgana shook her head, stepping away. “I’ll get some tea.”

The woman went the same way as Teddy. Draco continued to analyze the letter, which seemed impersonal by the formal language, but still had details, such as his life, which was real. 

Draco’s eyes scanned the pages of the folder, the impersonal, sterile language of the documents doing nothing to ease the unease that gnawed at him.

There has been no change in Malfoy’s behavior toward the child, though it is noted that the subject is highly protective. Teddy Lupin has been allowed to mix with Muggle children, though necessary precautions are taken to ensure their safety. Malfoy’s reluctance to embrace Muggle society is changing.  

His behavior toward Morgana has become more open, though no signs of emotional attachment beyond basic respect for her presence have been observed. Malfoy has expressed concerns regarding the child’s well-being, which remains following Ministry expectations. Noteworthy: Shows tenderness towards the child.

Her words tried to balance the impossible—protecting Draco’s fragile trust in her while still ensuring that nothing too personal slipped through. She lied. Draco knew he had opened up to her, and he considered her a friend.

But she was careful not to make it seem like they were emotionally invested, even though, deep down, Draco knew that wasn’t the truth. He had felt it, in the moments they had shared, in the small acts of kindness. 

Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy continue to share a household and maintain a working relationship regarding the care of Teddy Lupin. While there are frequent disagreements, the two have demonstrated an ability to compromise and share responsibility for the child’s well-being. No evidence of physical confrontation has been observed. The dynamic between the two is complex but appears stable, despite occasional tensions.

Reading those words, Draco could almost hear the carefully controlled neutrality in Morgana’s voice. She hadn’t said much, but there was something in the phrasing that seemed deliberate. She hadn’t said how Harry had gone to Muggle London to get a remedy when Teddy was sick, or how Draco had, on more than one occasion, caught Harry’s eyes across the room, a silent understanding passing between them. Morgana didn’t write about the small moments, the unspoken trust between them, or how, despite their differences, they had started to work together as a team. 

No. She had only written down what was safe, what wouldn’t betray the delicate balance she was walking. On one hand, she had to follow the Ministry’s orders—this was what they wanted to hear. But on the other hand, Morgana had done her best to balance the weight of the truth, to protect what she could without giving too much away.

It was almost as if she were trying to convince herself that all of it—the daily routine, the reports, the careful detachment—was worth it. As if the Ministry’s demands, the constant surveillance, weren’t just a weight on her conscience. But in the end, Draco saw the cracks. He saw how she had tried to argue that Teddy was fine, that he was being well cared for, and that everything was in its place. But there was no denying that the care Teddy received was real. It wasn’t just another impersonal line in a report. Morgana had, in her own way, shielded them, even as she followed orders.

But Draco couldn’t ignore the implications of what these reports meant. They were more than just notes—they were a constant reminder that someone had been watching, that someone had been judging, and, worst of all, that someone had been feeding the Ministry exactly what they wanted to hear. Morgana had kept the truth hidden, wrapped in bureaucracy, and never let herself slip. She had tried to protect him and Teddy, but she had also bound herself to a system that required her to report, to observe, to betray.

Yet as Draco closed the folder, a heavy realization settled over him. These reports were not merely observations—they were constant reminders that someone had been watching, judging, and recording every detail of their lives

Before he could dwell further, he heard soft footsteps behind him. Morgana appeared beside him, her tone unexpectedly light. “Guess your friends are worried.”

Draco didn’t even glance up from the folder. “What friends?” he asked, confusion lacing his tone.

Morgana paused. “Two young men and a gentle lady, they always come here. I figured you met them here.”

Draco didn't talk to anyone there besides Morgana, and his only guy friend was in the hospital. In an instant, he was on his feet, urgency replacing his calm veneer.

When they reached the stairs, the restaurant was eerily silent. The space where Teddy had been just moments ago was empty.

Teddy was gone.

Morgana’s eyes widened, and she reached out, voice trembling, “He was right here… I saw him talking to someone.”

In that charged silence, Draco’s thoughts churned—about having to confront Morgana again, to demand answers, to hear her recount every detail to justify her actions. It was a confrontation he dreaded, yet one he felt compelled to face. The memory of Teddy’s innocent hug burned in his mind, a painful reminder of what was at stake.

Draco’s stomach twisted as he stalked through the restaurant, his sharp eyes scanning every corner, every shadow. The tables, the chairs, the scent of roasted lamb still lingering in the air—it all felt wrong now, tainted. The place where Teddy had been, where he had laughed just hours ago, was now a crime scene. And Draco couldn’t shake the feeling that Morgana wasn’t just a bystander in this.

“You were the only one here,” Draco said, his voice ice-cold. He turned slowly to face her, his wand still clenched in his hand. “The only one close enough to let them in.”

Morgana’s eyes flashed. “You think I—?”

“I think I don’t trust you,” Draco cut in. “Not anymore.”

Morgana took a step forward, but Draco didn’t back down. If anything, he felt the weight of his suspicion settle deeper in his bones.

“They took him from here,” Draco pressed, voice tight. “From your restaurant. Either you let them in, or you weren’t paying attention. And I don’t know which one is worse.”

Morgana’s expression wavered, guilt flickering there for half a second before she masked it with something defensive. “I didn’t know, Draco. I swear.”

His hands curled into fists. “If I find out you had anything to do with this—”

“I didn’t,” she snapped, her voice shaking.

Draco didn’t believe her. Not completely. Not anymore.

Draco’s gaze hardened. “Friends,” he repeated bitterly, the word laced with acid. He leveled his glare at her. “What did they look like?”

Morgana’s mind raced, her voice faltering. “The woman had brown hair, I think… I—I wasn’t paying close attention. I was just passing by—”

Draco cut her off, whirling around, eyes blazing with anger. “Save it. You didn’t even look. You just let them—”

“I thought they were Aurors!” Morgana’s voice cracked. “Ministry’s people!”

“Harry’s people don’t snatch children!” Draco hissed.

“Draco, let’s be rational. Maybe it was Harry’s friends, maybe is a bad prank.” Morgana said, trying to sound calm, although she was obviously on the verge of going crazy.

“No, no. Harry is out of town—” Draco stopped, realizing it was on purpose. “I need to warn him.”

“I’ll send a Patronus,” Morgana said quickly, latching onto the task like a lifeline. She turned, already focusing, her wand raised with shaking hands.

Draco tried a tracking spell.

Blocked.

Another.

Blocked again.

He cast a third—more violently this time—but it sparked uselessly and died in the air.

Whoever took Teddy had thought of everything.

Each second stretched impossibly long. Each heartbeat was a hammer blow in his chest. His breath grew shallower, sharper, as panic swelled inside him, threatening to consume everything else.

How long had it been?

Minutes?

Too many.

Too many moments Teddy had been without him. Scared. Alone. Maybe hurt.

And Draco hadn’t been there.

His knees nearly buckled.

This wasn’t just fear. It was agony—pure, unrelenting. A clawing, screaming thing inside him that wouldn’t be soothed until he had Teddy back in his arms. Safe.

The room spun slightly. He reached for the edge of the counter to steady himself, chest heaving.

He had failed.

Again.

“ Teddy… ” Draco whispered, voice breaking as the silence pressed in.

Morgana’s Patronus flickered and vanished. She turned, pale, lips trembling. “There’s… one thing,” she said, barely above a whisper.

Draco didn’t answer. His fingers twitched toward his wand—useless, useless—before curling into fists.

Morgana stepped closer, her usual poise fractured. “Draco.”

He rounded on her, fury and fear sharpening his voice to a whip-crack. “Unless your next words are ‘I know where he is,’ save your breath.”

She flinched but held her ground. “I have dark magic books upstairs,” she whispered. “I don’t use them since… But I couldn’t destroy them.” A beat. “There might be a tracking spell.”

The word dark coiled in the air between them, venomous. Draco’s stomach turned. Of course. The universe wouldn’t let him outrun this. Not ever.

Of all things, why would she have kept them? 

What else could she have been involved in? 

He had sworn off that kind of magic long ago. The idea of delving into it again, especially in the presence of someone who was already under suspicion, made his skin crawl.

But in the silence that followed, the weight of his desperation bore down on him. He looked around the empty restaurant, remembering the space where Teddy had been, the absence too sharp to ignore. And just like that, the rational part of his mind quieted. His thoughts flashed to the tracking spells he’d already tried. Each had failed. And now, Morgana was offering something else, something that could lead them to Teddy.

His mind screamed not to trust her. But…

Without a word, Draco nodded sharply, the decision already made. “Show me.”

Chapter Text

At the top of the stairs, they entered a small, sparsely furnished room. The walls were lined with shelves holding ancient, leather-bound tomes that Draco would have normally avoided. Its aura was unsettling.

“I never wanted to use these,” Morgana said softly, almost defensively. “But I couldn’t destroy them. They’re too valuable… in case something like this ever happened.” Her voice trembled with regret and resignation.

Draco’s heart pounded, and his voice wavered as he replied, “I’m not here to debate morality. I just need to find Teddy.” His eyes narrowed, and he forced himself to lean in despite every instinct screaming that this was dangerous territory.

With careful hesitation, Morgana retrieved a book from a small chest beneath the table. Her hands trembled as she opened it, revealing pages filled with intricate, ancient symbols. Draco’s distrust simmered beneath his desperate need—he couldn’t afford to question her now. He took another book from the chest and, side by side with her, scanned the dark incantations that pulsed with a sinister energy. Teddy’s absence hung like a shroud over them, every second stretching into an unbearable eternity.

Minutes felt like hours, but finally, her finger stopped on a page, and she looked up at Draco with a hesitant, almost fearful expression.

The book lay buried beneath the floorboards in Morgana’s flat, its leather cover cracked and stained. Draco recoiled as she slammed it onto the table, its pages reeking of iron and rot.

The words slithered through the paper, hissing. Sanguinem et Ossa. Blood and bone.

Morgana gripped the edge of the table, knuckles blanching. “Draco, listen, you know how Dark Magic works, but this is Ancient, even more dangerous. Honestly, I don’t know what it’s going to do with you.”        

He laughed, a brittle, shattered sound. “For once, I won’t be a coward.”

Morgana hesitated, her eyes flickering nervously to the ancient tome. “A token of the lost. It needs something of his. A hair. Saliva, maybe the fork he was eating before.”

Draco’s breath quickened as he moved to get it downstairs. Morgana stood there, eyes fixed on the book. On the other hand, he didn’t care about the details, the specifics. All that mattered was finding Teddy. Now. 

“Got it,” he snapped, his voice harsh when he returned with the fork. “What else?”

“Parents’ blood,” she said, her voice tight. “Yours will work, maybe. You are relatives.”

“Distant relatives,” Draco retorted bitterly. “Bloody hell, it’s the only thing we have, so it has to work.”

Morgana’s gaze dropped, the uncertainty clear in her eyes.  “And… a memory. A happy one.”

“About him?” Draco snarled, the word like bile in his mouth. It had been only months since he’d allowed himself to even think of happiness, let alone feel it. 

There was no room for happiness in this chaos, not while Teddy was missing, not while his entire world hung by a thread. He got the book in his hands and tried to read, but his mind was a chaos and he could only see words but not make sense of them. 

‘A good memory should be sacrificed to keep sanity.’

Morgana’s face hardened, her urgency thickening the air between them. “It doesn’t specify it here, but probably not. The spell needs light to balance the dark,” she explained quickly, her voice low, almost pleading. “Or it’ll consume you. It feeds on the darkness.”

“You have a lot of uncertainty about this,” Draco growled, a fire igniting.

“Well, is not something I do casually. And as I said before, I never used it.”

Draco didn’t answer, he got the fork and put it on the book. Then, he slashed his palm open with his wand, a thin line of blood welling up immediately. The moment the blood touched the paper, the pages writhed violently, as if alive, and with each drop, the blood seemed to evaporate, dissolving into the parchment like it had never existed. The book, ancient and dark, seemed to drink it in, its pages curling, almost alive, and the shadows in the room flickered as if they were breathing.

He tried to focus, to summon the memory the spell demanded. Something happy. Something that still glowed.

“Just think of Teddy,” the blond told himself.

But the thought twisted in his gut. He couldn't do it. Not now. Teddy was gone—ripped away—and the thought of him only brought a sick, clawing ache. He couldn’t help but blame himself; as the adult responsible, he should have been there; he shouldn’t even have come to this damn restaurant. Every memory he reached for was laced with fear and panic. He couldn’t find the light in them, not anymore.

And in the hollow space that despair left behind, another thought crept in.

Harry would know what to do.

It came unbidden, so clear and sharp it hurt. He would have handled this better. Would never hesitate. He’d say the right thing like he always did. Draco had spent so long resenting Harry for his unwavering sense of direction, his impulsive side, and now all he could think was that he wanted him here. Wanted his voice in the room, solid and grounding. Wanted his stubborn optimism. His stupid Gryffindor courage. His—

Comfort.

A fragile breath escaped him, almost a laugh, bitter at the edges. What did that say about him? That in the darkest moment, the person he wanted was Harry.

A flash from the first time he ever saw Harry came without asking permission. 

It had been in Madam Malkin’s before Hogwarts started. Draco had been standing on a small stool, half-measured, fidgeting under the witch’s pins. He’d been bored, restless, already irritable from the heat

Then the bell jingled, and the boy walked in—small for his age, messy hair sticking up in all directions. He didn’t even know who the boy was back then. But he saw those eyes. Too green. There had been something electric in that instant, something curious and hungry in Draco’s chest that he hadn’t known what to do with. He still didn’t. 

He’d tried to impress him with things he thought mattered: bloodlines, Quidditch, the right kind of people. But the boy hadn’t smiled. He hadn’t looked impressed. He’d looked at Draco like he saw straight through him. It wasn’t anything, not really. And yet—it was. 

Draco had found himself thinking back to moments like this—not because they were joyful but because they were pure. It wasn’t happiness exactly. It was comfort. It was before 

Before he was a coward. Before Harry was a hero. Before the world demanded anything of them. Just two boys in a shop, not knowing a damn thing about the war that would come between them.

The memory glowed in his mind, untouched by the war, by pride, by bitterness. Just light. 

And perhaps what made it matter now, years later, was the truth Draco could only admit in silence: He hadn’t loved Harry at first sight. Not even at second. But from the very beginning, he felt a slow ache of knowing that on some level, this boy would matter in ways he couldn’t fathom yet. That he would be important.

And that Draco would love him someday, whether he meant to or not.

That would serve.

He pressed the tip of his wand to his temple and drew out that fragile thread, a ribbon of golden warmth. He extended it toward the book. The blonde staggered as the memory left him. Not just forgotten, but erased. He felt its absence like a pulled tooth, a hollow space where something precious had been.

What had he just given?

He couldn’t remember. Maybe Teddy’s first broom ride?

He watched, captivated and horrified, as the words on the page seemed to glow, to bleed into one another, the ink twisting into something unrecognizable. His palm throbbed with the force of the spell, but he didn’t flinch. Not now. Not when Teddy was still out there.

“Sanguinem et Ossa,” Draco whispered, his voice raw, as he focused on the book.

The magic surged, and with it, the pain from his bleeding cut intensified. And then—

A flare of fire lanced up his arm.

Draco hissed through clenched teeth, stumbling back a half-step as his sleeve shifted, and he saw it—the Dark Mark.

Since the war, it had been nothing but a shadow, a scar so faint most days he could pretend it wasn't there. But now… now it pulsed. The ink-black serpent writhed faintly under his skin, its eye glinting like it remembered.

No , Draco thought, panic threading through the pain. No, he's gone. He’s dead.

But the Mark didn’t care. The magic didn’t care.

This wasn’t Voldemort’s power, it was ancient, primal, and dark enough to wake what had long been dormant. The spell reached down through the roots of him, dragging old oaths back into the light. Magic knew blood. Magic remembered.

The serpent curled tighter.

Harry entered the room without knocking, too worried to wait for permission. He’d just received the Patronus—Morgana’s silver raven darting into his office, voice urgent: “Come to the restaurant. Teddy’s missing.”

He’d abandoned everything. He’d ignored protocol, ignored his boss's demands to wait for backup. He told himself it was probably a misunderstanding. Maybe Teddy had hidden himself too well during a game, or maybe this was just a terrible joke.

He went upstairs and found a ladder in the middle of the room that gave way to an attic, he could hear someone talking there. However, when he entered the room and found Draco collapsed on the floor, his breath ragged, his blood-streaked hand.

Morgana was kneeling beside him, wrapping a strip of white fabric tightly around his wrist. It turned red almost instantly, blooming with blood as she muttered something under her breath—words Harry didn’t have time to understand and couldn’t wait to process.

“ What the— ” Harry crossed the room in three strides and shoved her aside. “Draco, please, look at me,” he dropped to his knees, fingers hovering over Draco’s shoulder. He wanted to shake him, to scream.

Draco didn’t. His face was pale, slick with sweat, his eyes flickering open and closed like he couldn’t hold onto consciousness. His chest heaved as he struggled to breathe, and his left hand—the one that had touched the book—was mottled with shadows, the veins bulging like the magic had poisoned them, and an open cut that resisted Morgana’s healing magic. The Dark Mark burned through his skin, not faded anymore but alive, thrumming with power that had no right to return.

Harry’s breath caught when he saw that the Mark was glowing, twisting with a darkness that hadn't pulsed since the end of the war.

“What did you do?” Harry demanded, looking at Morgana, voice cracking, fear already shifting into fury.

“Draco was trying a spell to find Teddy.”

“That’s Dark Magic!” Harry’s voice rose, full of disbelief. “How could you let him use it?”

Morgana hovered in the shadows, her hands clasped as if in prayer. “I warned him—”

“You keep cursed shit like this lying around and call it a warning?”

Before she could offer more, Draco interrupted in a hoarse whisper, “I know where he is.”

Harry froze. For a breathless second, nothing else mattered. He turned back to Draco, but the sight of him—his clenched jaw, the tremor in his hand, the grey in his skin—made Harry’s stomach twist.

“Don’t talk.” Harry’s voice broke as he cupped Draco’s face. “You’re going to be okay. I’ve got you. Let’s go to the Hospital and—”

Draco pushed himself upright, barely steady, his fist curling despite the pain. His eyes, though red-rimmed and too bright, were steady.

“To the Pier at Whitby,” he said, voice low, determined. “Are you coming or not?”

“You’re in no state to Apparate.”

Draco flexed his wrist, still wrapped in the white, now red, fabric. “I don’t understand why the cut doesn’t heal. The spell finished.”

“Maybe it's waiting for you to find Teddy. But I guess it will cure after.” Morgana guessed.

“Damn right it better,” Harry snapped, voice raw and eyes fixed on the woman. “Because if anything happens to him—”

Draco gave a dark smirk. “Spare the dramatics. I’ll survive.”

Morgana tried to interject, “I can—”

But Harry cut her off sharply. “You did enough.”

For a heartbeat, Draco’s mask slipped, revealing raw exhaustion, grief, and fear like an open wound. Then, with a surge of desperate strength, he shoved past Harry, his shoulder colliding with Harry’s chest. “Teddy. Pier. Now.”

Harry’s heart hammered as he grabbed his wand, the weight of their decision heavy in his chest. “We apparate on three.”

Draco didn’t wait for more words, his face set in grim determination as he held his ground. Morgana watched the two of them, silent, the crackling tension between them as sharp as the edge of a blade.

Harry’s voice broke through the quiet. “One.”

Draco’s jaw clenched.

“Two.”

The space around them seemed to close in, as if the very air had thickened with the weight of what they were about to do.

“Three.”

In an instant, the world collapsed into nothingness. They vanished, leaving behind only the faint, lingering crackle of dark magic echoing in the empty room.

The lighthouse rose before them like a broken shadow at the edge of the world.

Waves crashed violently against the rocks below, and the wind cut like a blade, whipping Draco’s cloak against his legs. He stumbled forward, refusing to stop, even when his knees buckled for a moment, and Harry caught him by the elbow.

“Draco, wait,” Harry caught his arm. “Maybe you should wait here.”

“No way,” Draco gritted, yanking free. “This is the place. I saw it, the stairwell. It’s here.”

They crouched behind the last rocky outcrop before the clearing. The lighthouse loomed ahead, its black silhouette jagged against the bruised sky. No lights. No sounds but the sea.

Harry checked the front door, locked with heavy chains. He paused, wand raised, and whispered a detection charm— Homenum Revelio .

Shapes lit up faintly inside. Half a dozen. Not moving much.

They went upstairs, trying to not make a sound or hit any magic alarm, in the middle of their way they found a window and tried to spy something.  What they found inside was almost anticlimactic: a group of nervous, hooded youths, looking more like children playing at dark wizards than any real threat.

“You had no right to do this!” a woman’s voice snapped, brimming with frustration.

“I did what had to be done!” a man shot back, his voice hoarse and impatient.

“This wasn’t part of the plan. Or maybe there is no plan, just the delusions of a thug!”

“Shut up, Daphne!” another voice cut in, young, shaky, and tense. “You shouldn’t even be here!”

Draco and Harry exchanged glances and continued their way up the stairs until they reached the top and the side entrance of the lighthouse. Harry carefully disarmed the alarm spell and made sure no one was there before opening the door as quietly as possible.  

The inside was a cramped mezzanine—an open gallery halfway up the lighthouse’s interior. Below them, the main floor spread out in a ring of stone pillars and spiraling staircases. A half-circle of flickering lanterns cast long, wavering shadows.

From their vantage point on the mezzanine, they could see everything without being seen.

From there they could hear voices, still fighting, seemed like not much agreed. Draco was trying to find Teddy, but he didn’t see the boy anywhere, although he could feel the magic alerting him that he was close.

“We should’ve sent the ransom note to Malfoy first,” Harry recognized him, Marcus Flint, the ex-captain of the Slytherin team.  “Now the Aurors are swarming Hastings.”

Harry, standing beside Draco, was already scanning the room. His eyes flicked from face to face, slotting names and incident reports together like puzzle pieces: the attack in Hastings that morning, the ambush on Blaise Zabini. The pattern was clear. They had a plan—chaotic, but still a plan.

“We need to do something,” a man gestured wildly at the orb glowing on the table. Minister Fudge’s nephew “Greengrass’ spell’s failing. Who knows how long she can keep the kid there?”

Percival Fudge was leaning against the wall like an observer, signet ring gleaming on one hand. As incompetent as his uncle.

Daphne Greengrass was a big surprise for Draco, Astoria’s sister, with a clean family and no involvement with Death Eaters. Arms crossed tightly, face composed, but her eyes kept darting away from the orb at the center of the room. She didn’t belong here. And she knew it.

Around them, four hooded youths with trembling wands. Recruits. Fresh out of Hogwarts, if that. Lost between ideology and desperation. Harry recognized one; he’d comforted the boy’s mother once, after she'd come seeking word of her husband in Azkaban. This was about anger. About hopelessness. About belonging anywhere, to anyone.

Draco froze. That face. That was the real surprise.

“...Shit, Crabbe,” was all he managed.

Vincent Crabbe was sprawled on a worn-out sofa like he owned the place. Broader now, less adolescent—but the same vacant gaze. A bored face like he couldn’t care less about all this, as if nothing was wrong with being in the middle of a kidnapping. The scar on his face that wasn’t there in Hogwarts, a burn scar. Harry guessed it was from the Requirement Room.

Draco’s hand closed around Harry’s wrist, cold and urgent. “They’re scared. Split them up. I’ll take Flint and Crabbe.”

“Like hell.” Harry’s grip tightened on his wand. “You can barely stand.”

One of the youngers were going upstairs, Harry knew they couldn’t be there forever and seeing how Teddy wasn’t there they should confront them, but he also didn’t want Draco to engage.

Harry heard the woman getting close and couldn’t wait more so he slipped to the edge of the mezzanine and fired a silencing charm at the stairwell, muffling footsteps. Then, with barely a pause, he Apparated down beside the young wizard rounding the corner.

A quick Stupefy later, the youth collapsed in a heap—unconscious, safe enough—and Harry’s wand was already sweeping the landing, ready for the next.

“Was that Harry Fucking Potter?” Someone shouted.

Daphne Greengrass snorted. “Astounding deduction.”

Flint took a step forward, visibly uneasy. “This is getting out of hand. We should fall back, think things through—”

“Fall back?” Crabbe turned sharply. “There are seven of us. Come on.” 

“Six,” Draco corrected, stepping out from the shadows, wand pressed hard into the neck of the unconscious woman Harry had just stunned. “She’s out.”

Harry turned sharply, surprised. That wasn’t how an Auror would handle it. But Draco wasn’t an Auror. He was a father.

Crabbe’s head snapped up. “Well, well,” he rasped, rising slowly. “Look who’s early.”

“You’re supposed to be dead,” Draco said at last, each word clipped, as if it cost him something to say them.

Crabbe spread his arms. “Surprise.”

“Flint, you’ve always been practical,” Draco said coolly. “How much are they paying you? I’ll double it.” He paused, then smirked. “Well, Potter will.”

“I don’t need money.”

“Potter’s vault could buy your family’s entire bloodline. But I imagine the thrill of kidnapping children is priceless.” Draco forced the wand into the woman’s neck.

“You don’t get to act like a hero while threatening us.”

“At least I didn’t kidnap a kid.” Draco shot back.

“No, you ran ,” Crabbe snapped, suddenly upright. “I begged not to go, I screamed, and you left me there to burn.”

Harry felt the air tighten, the way Draco got tense. He needed a second to recompose, fake a smirk.

“You couldn’t handle your spell. Don’t blame me.” He tilted his head with feigned amusement. “Where is my kid?”

Daphne answered. “In the crystal.” She gestured toward the sphere on the table. “It’s old family magic. He’s alive… but if you try to break it or open it by force, he dies.”

“This… this has gone too far,” another boy whispered, voice shaking. “We’ve got to accept the truth, there’s no way we’re going to win. I mean, that’s Harry Potter,” he said, like nobody knew. 

“We can negotiate a surrender.” Harry proposed seeing that they had a chance to end it peacefully, not that he thought it had the slightest possibility of them winning, but maybe one or two could run, or maybe attack Draco.

The man opened his mouth, looking ready to accept. 

“Shut up!” Crabbe roared, and his wand erupted in red light.

Harry spun, raising his wand. Ok, he didn’t want to do it the hard way, but he could take advantage.

Crabbe’s curse smashed into the wall behind the girl with a thunderous crack, sending dust and stone splinters flying. She screamed and shrank back. That sound was the spark.

Harry fired an Expelliarmus at Crabbe. Crabbe barely managed a shield charm, the two spells colliding like lightning. Harry’s won and Crabbe lost his wand that flew close to Draco. 

“Watch out!” Draco shouted, ducking as a blast whistled overhead.

Flint lunged forward with a Stupefy aimed at Harry, but the Auror spun aside, his wand weaving a flurry of defensive spells. The tower reverberated as magic battered its walls. The hooded youths backed away in panic; two of them had already dropped their wands.

In the blink of an eye, Harry was already at the center of the room, casting spells with surgical precision — Expelliarmus, Stupefy, Incarcerous. The recruits fell one by one, too hesitant, too slow. He made it look effortless.

Draco moved on impulse, positioning himself between the orb and the others. He had his wand in his right hand and Crabbe in his left hand, but not enough magic to fight. Fudge tried to block his line of sight with a Diffindo, but Draco sidestepped it — the spell shattered a table in half behind him.

In the background, Daphne was running. “No—”

But it was too late.

Draco reached out to catch the orb before it could fall, his fingers brushing it a split second before Daphne's. He felt the world yank him backward, as if an ancient, invisible force had grabbed hold of him.

And then Draco vanished.

Harry ran forward — but the shockwave flung him back.

And then everything stopped.

The orb, now glowing from within, trembled slightly in Daphne’s hands. Inside it, two figures: one small and frightened, the other kneeling, arms outstretched. Draco was holding Teddy, wide-eyed.

A single beat of silence.

Everybody was on the ground. Not only defeated by Potter but by the wave from the orb.

Then Harry rose, wand clenched tightly, eyes locked on Daphne with a fury as cold as ice.

“What did you do?”

“Nothing,” she said, breathless. “I don’t know how, the orb should take just one person—”

Then the Aurors stormed in, swift and practiced, ready to fight, but they didn’t need to subdue anyone — Harry already had. All around them, the recruits groaned or lay unconscious, ropes still tight around limbs, wands scattered. A few were bleeding. One was crying.

Crabbe was the only one who was unharmed, but he didn’t get to run.

“Bloody Malfoy giving me more paperwork,” Ron snapped. He was handcuffing Crabbe already when he realized Malfoy’s disappearance. 

Harry didn’t look at any of them. His eyes were on the orb. It pulsed faintly on the table. Pale light flickered inside, like candlelight under water. He could almost make out shapes—movement—Draco’s silhouette, Teddy's tiny form cradled against his chest.

“No,” Harry whispered. He stepped forward. “No, no—”

Daphne flinched as he approached, but didn’t move. Her wand was on the ground. Her hands were shaking.

Harry ignored her, reaching for the orb. His fingers brushed the warm surface when he pressed his palm to it.

Nothing happened. The magic didn’t react.

“Come on,” he said, voice cracking. “Do something!”

“To be honest, I already tried to get Teddy out, but I couldn't,” Daphne said, barely above a whisper.

“Great, it's not like I wanted to get home today,” Ron shouted from behind.

On the other side of the glass, Teddy stirred awake, curled in Draco’s arms. He clung not only out of relief, but because he was terrified of that strange, distant monster drawing ever closer, bringing with it a cold.

At first, the figure looked human, tall, draped in a long black cloak from head to toe. But when its face emerged from the shadows, there was no mistaking it for a person: two empty eye sockets stared out, and a macabre void gaped where its mouth should have been.

Draco shivered with fear, but forced himself to think clearly. They could run, the chamber around them was vast, its limits lost in gloom, but he saw no exit. He had no idea where the Dementor had come from, or whether there were more.

Most importantly, Draco had never managed a Patronus, whether for lack of a happy memory or skill, he didn’t know.

The blond glanced sideways, feeling eyes on him. He turned slightly, instinctively searching for Harry’s gaze. Could he see them through the glass? Hear them? Understand how close they were to death?

In that selfish moment, Draco quietly wished Harry were upset.

He didn’t know, but “upset” was far too weak a word for what Harry felt right then.

Outside the crystal, Harry was shouting at everyone in the room, threatening Daphne more times than anyone could count. She stood stiffly, swallowing hard, trying to not show how afraid she was.

“The Dementor’s been here the whole time,” she insisted as Harry’s phoenix-feather wand pressed against her throat. “It’s not my fault Malfoy’s thoughts summoned it.”

“I don’t fucking care. You do something to help.” Harry demanded.

“I can’t —what do you want me to do? Talk to him? That’s all I’ve got!” Daphne replied honestly, desperate for Potter to stop his relentless demands

Harry noted the room was empty save for him, Daphne, and Ron. His eyes went back to the crystal, he couldn’t hear but knew it was a Patronus. However, all Draco produced was a formless mist that stalled the Dementor for a few seconds, slowing it, but not repelling it.

“I need them, both of them,” Harry said in a shaky voice. “If you can bring them back, I’ll help you out. Anything. Just, please, give my family back.”

Ron muttered something in disagreement, but Harry didn’t listen.

Nothing mattered except getting Draco and Teddy back. The pain in his eyes and the way his lips pressed together to hold back tears was too much for Daphne, who, at the very last second, remembered something.

“I can’t get them out,” she whispered, “but I can give them a voice.”

Her wand moved. “ Audiri. ”

Immediately, Draco’s voice, followed by Teddy’s soft giggle, echoed through the chamber.

“History, history,” Teddy said, clapping hands. The way Draco held him made the boy unable to see the Dementor. 

“How to kill a No‑Face, Part One, by Draco Malfoy,” Draco declared in a dry, theatrical voice. “You don’t kill it, you die. End of story.” He leaned back against the wall. There was nowhere to run.

“Draco, we can hear you now,” Harry’s voice boomed strangely, causing Draco to start.

Even the Dementor froze for an instant, as if seeking the source of that sound.

“You need a Patronus,” Harry said.

“Really? I hadn’t thought of that. Oh, wait—I had.”

“Draco, for Teddy’s sake.” Potter tried to ignore Draco’s sarcasm. 

The blond rolled his eyes for a moment, then closed them and drew a deep breath.

“Happy memories, right?” he asked, already dreading the answer.

He tried to think of one. His first broom ride. Hogwarts. The moment he saw Harry at eleven years old at Hogwarts—

No. Draco was sure they had met before Hogwarts, but couldn’t remember. His mind stuttered, empty where the memory should have been. He frowned, confused, like reaching for something on the tip of your tongue and finding nothing.

“I can’t do it,” he muttered, closing his eyes. “I’ve never been able to—”

“Try,” Harry’s voice echoed from beyond the glass. Steady. Sure. “You don’t need the past. Just look at the present, at him.”

He glanced down at Teddy, who had curled into his arms, hair shifting slowly from frightened grey to uncertain teal. The child was looking at him with such fierce trust.

That trust anchored Draco more than any memory ever had.

“It’s okay, Daddy.” Teddy smiled, oblivious to the whole situation. Everything was fine for him, cause they were together.

Teddy's small fingers clutched his shirt. Draco exhaled shakily.

“I won’t let it touch you,” he whispered to the boy.

The Dementor loomed closer, the temperature plummeting, frost crackling across the unseen floor. Teddy whimpered, realizing there was a monster there. Draco straightened.

He raised his wand.

“Expecto Patronum!”

At first, there was only a tremor of light, thin, pale, and quivering. It flickered like a dying candle. Draco’s face contorted with frustration and fear.

Then Teddy, shivering, whispered something that sounded like Dwaco.

And that did it.

The light burst forth, suddenly sharp, spectral and eerie. A creature erupted from the tip of Draco’s wand, gliding forward with long, elegant limbs and sweeping tail feathers. It shimmered silver-blue, bones glinting through translucent plumage like moonlight through stained glass. A peacock — but not quite. Its form curled at the edges like smoke, and its eyes burned faintly, intelligently, like something ancient and protective. Its head was too sleek, and the bore ridges were almost draconic.

Harry, outside the sphere, staggered back at the sight of it.

“Bloody hell,” Ron muttered beside him. “That’s his?”

Draco stared, wide-eyed, at the creature he’d conjured, like he didn’t know where it had come from. The skeletal peacock spread its wings wide, releasing a pulse of warmth that shoved the Dementor back. The beast hissed, retreating into the gloom.

Teddy’s hair shifted to a soft lavender.

Draco knelt, clutching the child to his chest.

“I’m telling Hermione,” Ron announced suddenly, breaking the silence with a wide, wicked grin. “And my whole family. They’re going to laugh so much.”

Harry let out a soft laugh too, not to mock, not even to respond. He just smiled. He smiled with everything he had left: relief, joy, and something like heartbreak.

A crack split through the orb like lightning.

Draco looked up, blinking. The dome was breaking — not from magic, not from Daphne’s intervention, but because the fear was gone. The orb couldn’t hold them anymore.

The spell wasn’t designed to contain so much power or love.

With a final, ringing crack, the crystal sphere shattered into a rain of glowing fragments.

And Draco, still clutching Teddy, fell forward — into the arms of a waiting Harry.

The force of the return knocked all three of them to the floor, breathless and tangled together. Teddy immediately reached for Harry with one hand, but refused to let go of Draco with the other.

“Are you—?” Harry started, but Draco cut him off.

“It’s okay. We’re okay.”

“Hawwy saw it?” Teddy asked excitedly as Harry touched his face, the adult nodded with a smile, trying not to worry the kid.

Harry’s hand was already on Draco’s face, checking for injury, brushing through his hair. His expression was unreadable, somewhere between devastation and relief. 

“You’re welcome,” Daphne said sarcastically.

Harry’s expression hardened as he remembered exactly who was left standing. He turned toward the woman. “Nott isn't one of you, is he? What did you gain by framing Theodore Nott?”

Daphne stiffened, arms tightening. Her voice wavered. “He… he wouldn’t leave my sister alone. I thought this would make Tori finally end things with him.”

“I’m not Theo’s biggest fan,” Draco cut in, “but dragging him into a criminal conspiracy just to end a relationship feels a little extreme, don’t you think? And your niece needs a father, or you want me to assume?”

“What niece?” she sounded confused.

“You didn’t know she was pregnant?” Draco asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Why would you assume?” Harry cut in sharply, turning to Draco like he was somehow responsible.

Draco raised his hands in mock surrender. “No idea. It's Nott’s kid.”

For a moment, no one spoke, so Ron took the opportunity. “Right. Touching. Now—” He jerked his chin at Daphne, still bound in anti-Apparition cuffs. “Let’s get her to the Ministry. My girlfriend is waiting for me.”

Chapter Text

The Auror Chief’s office was an island of silence in the storm of the Department. Outside, there were ripped cloaks, aurors limping in, yelling. Someone else was crying.

Draco barely blinked. His wrist finally healed now that he reunited with Teddy, but dried blood tinged his white sleeve. The said kid was clinging to Draco’s hand, half sleeping.

Harry’s wand was firm in his hand, he looked tired but alert to any movements.

The door slammed shut behind them with a thud that echoed through the cramped office. It also made Teddy stir and Draco glare at the person responsible for the noise. Robards sat behind his desk, his thick fingers steepled, surveying Harry and Draco with the same look he usually reserved for cursed objects. 

Chief Robards sat behind his desk, thick fingers steepled, eyes narrowed like he was sizing up a cursed object.

“I know it’s been a day,” he said. “Merlin knows how many broken protocols. And we still have to interrogate them.”

“Interrogations can wait, sir,” Harry cut in, gesturing towards Draco and Teddy beside him. “They need a hospital.”

Robards had suggested earlier that Draco and Teddy go first so he could speak to Harry alone, but neither had moved an inch. Separation wasn’t an option. Not now.

The old man sighed, voice ragged. “I’ll be direct: do you two honestly think you can raise a child?”

Harry’s jaw tightened. "We’ve been raising him for months."

“And where did it take us?” Robards snapped. “This kid could have died today.”

Draco’s grip on Teddy’s hand turned white-knuckled. “Because you underestimated the threat. You shut down the investigation about the New Death Eaters.”

Robards turned a searing glare on Harry. “You told Malfoy about classified information?”

“I told him today, ” Harry said, voice calm but sharp. “He has every right to know after  being directly affected by them.”

“And he needed to know I paused the investigation?”

“Yes.” Harry held his gaze without flinching.

The Chief could argue how pathetic each of these kids seemed and that they didn’t look like a danger, but he knew in the end that he should have followed Harry’s plan and continued to investigate them more. 

Robards leaned back with a tired huff, then zeroed in again. “One former Death Eater and an Auror who treats protocol like a suggestion. And you’re telling me this—” he gestured vaguely at their trio, “— this is a fit family?”

Draco didn’t answer. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he didn’t trust his voice not to crack. Not to scare Teddy, who seemed afraid, given that he even decided to get on the floor and hide behind the adults.

Harry stayed quiet too, but for another reason. He was trying really hard not to lose his temper. He wanted to respect his boss, but the man made it nearly impossible.

"Two kids who barely finish Hogwarts playing house."

Teddy tugged softly at Draco’s sleeve, eyes wide and confused. “Dwaco?” he whispered. “Why’s he mean?”

Robards paused, unprepared for the boy’s question. He cleared his throat and tried again, calmer. “I can sound harsh, but I’m just thinking of the best for this kid. What if he got a real family?”

“He has a real family.” Harry shot back.

“I can place him in a safer one.”

“Over my dead body,” Harry said, low and dangerous.

Magic sparked in the air around him, invisible but electric, making the lamps flicker and Teddy’s hair stand on end. Draco held his arm gently, trying to make him remember that Teddy was there; he didn’t need to see more fights today, or ever. 

Robards wasn’t afraid of Harry, though maybe he should have been. He turned his attention back to Teddy and knelt slightly, trying a gentler tone. “Tell me, do they ever make you sad or angry?”

Teddy nodded. “Yeah.”

Draco and Harry held their breath.

“And when’s that?”

“When Hawwy makes me eat yucky stuff.”

Draco chimed in, deadpan: “Vegetables.”

“And when Dwaco won’t let me see TV,” Teddy added.

“It’s a Muggle device,” Harry explained before the man could ask. “Sometimes he tries to stay up late watching it.”

Robards blinked. Then blinked again. He rubbed a hand down his face and let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh. “So I’m supposed to believe you’re… normal parents that make their kid eat vegetables and go to bed early?”

“What did you expect?” Harry sounded more confused than offended.

“I don’t know.” Robards looked at Teddy again. “What do you think, kid? What if you had a different family?”

Teddy’s eyes went wide, like he understood everything now, and then stomped his foot. His hair darkened to a stormy grey, fury flashing in his eyes.

“You can’t take my dads! They are mine!”

The words hung in the air like a spell. Simple. Powerful. Even Robards looked shaken by the certainty in Teddy’s tiny voice.

Teddy wrapped his arms around both men’s legs, burying his face in the space between them. His hair shimmered, then turned a warm, brilliant gold.

Robards let out a long breath through his nose. He looked between them, a Gryffindor who broke every rule for the people he loved, a Slytherin who’d clawed his way out of darkness for a second chance, and a small boy clinging to them like they were his entire world.

“Merlin help me,” he muttered, sinking back into his chair with a grunt. “I swear to Godric, one more incident—”

“Save the threats,” Harry snapped, already steering Draco and Teddy toward the door. “We’re done here.”

Robards waved a hand dismissively but didn’t look up again.

At the threshold, Draco turned. His face was unreadable, pale and composed, but his eyes were sharp as glass.

The door shut with a softer click this time. In the hallway, Harry let out a long and tired breath. He reached over and ruffled Teddy’s golden hair, voice low and warm.

“You okay, Teddy?”

Teddy beamed up at them both, clearly exhausted but proud. “Told him.”

Harry nodded. “You sure did.”

Draco scoffed, gently swinging Teddy up into his arms. “Remind me to bribe you with sweets later.”

Teddy giggled. “Chocolate!”

Harry and Draco exchanged a look, one full of relief and weariness and something else. 

“Harry, I know the protocol, but can we just go home?” Draco said, tired and sweet.

There was something about the way he said the word home that tugged at Harry’s chest. It felt like he could’ve melted Antarctica. Honestly, how could Harry deny anything to that face? 

Harry gave a small, crooked smile. “You sure?”

Draco nodded.

“Alright,” Harry said, exhaling again, this time lighter. “Let’s go home.”

                                      ……………………………………..

Back at Grimmauld Place, Teddy was fine, or as fine as a child could be after being kidnapped. He hadn’t cried, hadn’t asked many questions. But he held their hands a little tighter than usual, and both men knew what that meant.

Neither Draco nor Harry said it aloud, but they both knew they wouldn't be sleeping in separate rooms tonight. Not after this. There was no conversation, no negotiation—just a quiet agreement, the kind made with eyes instead of words.

They took turns in the shower. By the time Harry came out, warm, clean, and achingly tired, Draco had already changed into an old jumper and soft pants that clearly weren’t his, somehow looked better on him. Teddy, curled between the pillows, was fast asleep, his limbs loose and hair golden from exhaustion.

Standard protocol demanded a full scan at St. Mungo’s after exposure to unknown magic, but they decided they could do it themselves.

Or tried to.

Draco looked exhausted as he leaned heavily against the dresser. “I can’t cast it,” he muttered, voice thin with strain. “You’ll have to.”

Harry blinked. “I’ve seen it done a thousand times. Doesn’t mean I’m good at it.”

“Not the time to be modest, Potter,” Draco rolled his eyes, thinking Harry was just exaggerating. “Just do it. We’ll sleep better.”

Turns out that there is something the great Harry Potter can’t do. And it is a rather simple spell. 

It took Harry three tries, two mispronunciations, and a very confused Teddy waking up and trying to copy the wand movements, but eventually the spell shimmered over the child in a soft, clean glow. No dark traces. No lingering curses. Just a tired little boy with golden hair.

Draco had claimed the armchair beside the bed, close enough to hold Teddy’s small hand. His head rested against the mattress, body curled like he’d collapsed into that position and couldn’t bear to move. Harry was sitting on the bed, close to them, but looking at the dim light through the window.

Harry exhaled, some of the pressure lifting from his chest, but there was still one more thing.

“I should check you, we don’t know what that spell did,” Harry suggested, trying not to sound demanding, knowing Draco would deny just for the sake of it.

“No need, I feel fine, and it stopped bleeding.” Draco dismissed, waving his wound, without anything covering his palm now.

Even though it wasn’t bleeding, there was still a lingering wound. Even after Draco spilled some heal potion on it. 

“And the Mark? I didn’t say it before, but I felt something strange in my scar.”

Their eyes moved, almost involuntarily, to Draco’s arm. The Mark was always there, hidden beneath long sleeves neither of them ever mentioned. But now it was bare.

“It stopped itching,” Draco whispered, like he feared the Mark would hear. “I think the ancient magic was just too close.”

A beat of silence passed.

“Can I touch it?” Harry asked before he could stop himself.

Even Harry was surprised when his words got out, so he didn’t blame Draco for looking at him like he was crazy. The blond took some seconds to recompose, but he nodded and extended his arm towards Potter. 

Harry moved closer, careful and deliberate. His fingers brushed over the skin, carefully and gently.

The Dark Mark had once terrified him. It still should have, maybe. But now, up close, it just looked like ink—black and fading, carved into skin that was no longer part of that world. The skin underneath bore thin, healed slashes—horizontal marks that ran through the tattoo.

“It wasn’t a suicide attempt,” Draco said quietly, already anticipating the question. “It was a foolish thing I tried. I thought I could cut it.”

Harry caught his wrist again, not tightly, just enough to say don’t pull away .

“We were kids,” he said, voice lower now. “None of it was your fault.”

“I know,” Draco replied, but it came out more like habit than belief.

Harry’s fingers brushed over the old scars, not curious, but reverent. “You don’t have to fight so hard anymore,” he added, quieter still. “You’re not alone in this.”

Something in Draco’s expression shifted. Not softened—just dropped. Like he’d stopped holding it all so tightly for a second.

Then, because he couldn’t stand the quiet anymore, and didn’t trust himself being this close, he let go of Draco, but smiled. “We should do this more often. Like a sleepover.”

Draco didn’t lift his head. “This is separation anxiety, Potter. Not a sleepover.”

Harry let out a soft, tired laugh.

And then, barely louder than a breath: “My favorite dessert is tarte tatin.”

Draco turned his head, frowning at him. “What?”

Harry shrugged, leaning back on his hands. “If we’re having a sleepover, we should share things. Say stuff we never said before.”

He had always been impossible to ignore—even back at Hogwarts, when Draco pretended not to notice him.  Even without meaning to, his eyes always found Harry. It had always been like that—back at Hogwarts, long before either of them knew what to make of it. He’d seen Harry laughing at one of Weasley’s ridiculous jokes, rolling his eyes as Granger scolded him to study, and the way his whole face lit up whenever they had tarte tatin for dessert in the Great Hall.

“I already knew you liked it.”

Potter frowned. “I never told you before.” 

“No need. You’d light up whenever it was served in the Great Hall. Like someone had handed you Galleons.” Draco’s voice was low, almost reluctant.

Harry blinked. “You noticed that?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, I noticed everything.”

“I’m guessing yours is French chocolate,” Harry said, stretching a little on the couch. “You always had some delivered at Hogwarts.” I looked at you

“I like chocolate in general, my mother just brought the most expensive.”

Harry snorted. “Of course she did,” he hesitated before asking. “How is she? I wanted to visit last time but…”

He trailed off, the memory slipping in uninvited—how he’d turned up at the hospital only to learn Draco had lied about being there. How he’d found out Draco had been secretly meeting Blaise, walking straight into danger.

Draco didn’t flinch, but his voice was quieter when he replied, “It’s not like you and my mother would have much to talk about.”

“I could thank her.”

Draco assumed he was talking about when she saved his life. “You already did, that’s what kept her free from Azkaban.”

“Not for saving me, for saving you,” Harry answered, but immediately got embarrassed. “I mean, her love for you… Now we are living together and raising Teddy— I just— I feel happy for Teddy to have you—”

“Do you think she loves me?” Draco said, interrupting Harry’s panic.

“You don’t?” He sounded genuinely surprised.

Draco hesitated. “One year ago, I was sure the closest person to love me was Andromeda. She was the only adult who didn’t look at me like I was a cautionary tale. She let me help with Teddy. Trusted me, even when she barely knew me.”

He glanced toward the hallway, like the grief might still be hovering there, waiting for him. “Mother stopped speaking when I sent the news. Just laid down. Didn’t get up for days. Weeks. I kept telling myself it was temporary. That she’d come back.”

Harry’s expression softened. “You were grieving. So was she.”

“But she didn’t come back,” Draco said, voice flat. “And I thought maybe it was my fault. I kept thinking I could’ve said something that would have made her stay. Recognize me. Want to come back. That maybe I should suffer… I don’t know.”

Harry completed. “You feel like you survived something just to be punished for it.”

Draco’s eyes lifted in surprise, then softened with recognition. Of course, Harry would understand that.

“Isn’t that ridiculous narcissistic of me? Thinking I could fix something like that. That maybe if she loved me more or if I loved her more, it would have made a difference.”

Harry sat up a little, bracing his elbows on his knees. “You’re allowed to be sad and to have a bad day. You told me that at Christmas, remember?”

Draco gave a humorless smile. “I’ve had bad years, Potter. If I let myself feel too much, I’ll run and I won’t look back.”

“What about Teddy?” Harry asked, although he truly wanted to ask: What about me?

Draco swallowed. “Most people think he’s better off without me.”

“Most people are idiots.”

Draco stared at the wall. “Sometimes… I don’t even blame the Minister. I look at myself and think: how could someone like me raise a child? With everything I’ve been through? The way I was raised?”

“You forget,” Harry said gently, “I survived the Dursleys. They made me think love was chores and a cupboard until Hagrid blew down the door. But I know I’m better than they’ll ever be. We are great parents.”

We

“I’m terrified,” Draco whispered. “Of failing him. Of making him feel the way I did.”

Harry leaned forward. “How did you feel?”

Draco’s breath hitched. He gave a sad smile before saying, “Hungry.”

Harry frowned but kept quiet, waiting for the blonde to elaborate. 

“Hungry for attention. For affection. But I didn’t know how to ask or what exactly I wanted. It felt shameful, somehow, to ask for more.”

He rubbed his palms over his knees again, restless. “And besides, I had everything, didn’t I? Toys, clothes, a manor with enough rooms to get lost in. I used to think, if I were perfect, I wouldn’t need to ask. Some day I’d be satisfied, I’d feel complete. And I didn’t. So I told myself the problem was me. That I wasn’t enough.”

Harry’s gaze didn’t waver.

“You are enough,” he said simply. “You always were. And you deserve to be loved. Just as you are.”

Loved. Draco froze, realizing that was the word he was running after. He wanted to feel truly, unconditionally loved. Not the kind wrapped in expectations, not a prize handed out for obedience or performance. Not the obligatory kind.

Draco looked down, then back at Teddy’s small, sleeping form. When he spoke again, his voice was steadier. “I just don’t want him to think he has to earn my love. He should know that he’ll always be loved. But… I’ve never said it. Not once. Not out loud.”

The blonde realized just now, it wasn’t a word in his daily routine, so he never thought about it.

“He knows it, and you’ll show even more. How much he’s loved.”

Draco looked down, not mocking, just… exhausted.

“But if I was never truly loved, am I capable of giving love?”

“You are loved,” Harry said, and there was something fierce behind it, something that caught in his throat and wouldn’t let go. 

The armchair wasn’t meant for two, but Harry knelt beside Draco first, hesitating only a moment before lowering himself into the narrow space between Draco and the armrest.

Draco shifted slightly, enough to make room. Their shoulders brushed.

He didn’t pull away.

The silence stretched — not empty, but full of everything they couldn’t say yet. Teddy’s soft breathing was the only sound between them.

He stayed.

Draco’s voice, when it came, was raw. “Don’t say things you don’t mean.”

“I don’t,” Harry said, turning to him. “I mean every word.”

For a second, Draco looked like he might argue. But the fight went out of him. Instead, he leaned his head against Harry’s shoulder, just for a moment. Just long enough to steady himself.

And in the hush that followed, it was enough.

                                              ……………………………

Ron entered the room looking exhausted, shoulders slumped, hunger gnawing at him. He hadn’t seen Hermione since the day before, and four hours of sleep had done nothing to improve his mood.

From the other side of the enchanted glass, Harry watched in silence. He had been removed from the interrogation on the grounds of “personal involvement with the victim.” It was protocol, given that Teddy was practically his son — but it felt like punishment. All he could do now was observe, clenched jaw and fists tight in his pockets.

Percival Fudge sat with an air of calm that felt almost smug, as though this were a formal debate rather than an interrogation. Arms crossed, posture relaxed, he met Ron’s gaze without a flicker of guilt.

Ron dropped the file onto the table with a dull thud, breaking the silence.

"Let’s make this easy, Fudge. Who's your leader?"

Fudge gave a slight, practiced smile, like someone who thought he was in control of the room.

"Who?"

"Oh, come on." Ron scoffed. "You just woke up yesterday and thought, ‘Today’s a perfect day to kidnap a child’?"

"The kidnapping wasn’t my idea, all right?" Fudge replied, voice light, as though the whole thing were mildly inconvenient. "I didn’t even know about it until those idiots showed up with the kid."

"But you don’t deny the attacks in Hastings. That was your leader’s doing. So who is it?"

Fudge leaned back in the chair, the smile gone now, replaced by something colder.

"It’s not about who . It’s about what . Order. Hierarchy. Wizards in their rightful place."

Outside, Harry’s brow furrowed. That wasn’t just rhetoric. It was a belief, twisted and deeply rooted.

Ron didn’t flinch.

"You really think your so-called leader cares about your ideology? They’re using you. And will drop you the second things go sideways."

Fudge slammed his cuffed hands against the table, face flushed with sudden heat.

"He believes in me! In us !"

Harry’s lips curled into a quiet, knowing smile.

There it is. Not a what .
A who . And Fudge — despite his smug exterior — was desperate to be seen. Desperate to matter.

Marcus Flint offered nothing but a warped sense of loyalty, his eyes gleaming with the kind of pride only blind followers knew. He sat there like a soldier too thick to question orders, unshaken and disturbingly calm — a man devoted to a cause he clearly didn’t fully understand. Not useful. Not yet.

Crabbe was worse — if that was possible. He barely acknowledged the larger picture, consumed instead by his need for revenge against Malfoy. No ideology, no strategy. Just a festering grudge, left to rot and twist into something dangerous.

Daphne Greengrass was different. She looked pale, worn down, her eyes darting constantly, already calculating how to minimize her losses. There was guilt clinging to her like smoke, and she seemed willing to cooperate, or at least pretending to. She didn’t know much more than the others, but she confirmed what Percival had only alluded to: there was a leader. A powerful figure operating in the shadows. Someone none of them had seen, someone whose name they didn’t dare speak.

She mentioned overhearing meetings between Percival and others. Words like Minister and overthrow came up often, but that wasn’t particularly helpful. There was no shortage of names on the list of people who wanted Shacklebolt gone.

Still, it made a kind of sense. Whoever was pulling the strings wasn’t just trying to replicate Voldemort’s failed reign. This wasn't about blood purity alone — it was about power. Influence. Control.

Harry leaned back, the thought forming with weight:

What would someone like that gain from a group of renegade misfits?

And more importantly:

What were they being used to distract from?

The only real lead came from a boy fresh out of Hogwarts. Nervous. Inexperienced. And, thankfully, loose-tongued.

He let it slip — just once — that his parents knew the leader. Personally.

He quickly backtracked, but it was enough. A thread to pull.

The boy was a Carrow. Not from the main line, but close enough. And if his family had ties to this mysterious figure, then maybe — just maybe — it was someone from the old inner circle. Someone with enough power and charm to convince a new generation of idealists and cowards to light the match again.

Harry looked at the time when his stomach groaned and realized he had lost lunchtime, he felt guilty for breaking his promise of having lunch with Teddy, he felt guilty imagining he and Draco eating by themselves, but was doing his best to ensure they stayed safe. 

Ron and Harry spent the whole afternoon trying to find every Death Eater's whereabouts, but their efforts were fruitless. In between, Harry had his own interrogations to do from Hastings, and a lot of paperwork. 

He finished his last one when he saw Ron in the hall. 

“Your last interrogation?” Harry asked, and the redhead just nodded.  

Rose Travers.  

Harry stared at the name on the paper, a clip holding a small faded photo of the woman he knew as Morgana Bones.

Bones had been familiar, even respectable. But this changed things.

Harry looked back through the file.  Changed her name after the war. Never convicted of anything more than “passive collaboration.” But there were notes scribbled in the margins — mentions of her being tracked quietly by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement ever since the First War ended. Minor assistance. Family involvement. Passive sympathies. Never joined. The crazy thing was: she married Edgar Bones.

The Auror who had his family whipped by Voldemort. When Harry first heard about it, he assumed Edgar’s wife was murdered with him, but that’s probably what she wanted everybody to think. 

It seemed that at the time she was already cutting ties with her family, but she never gave any information to help the Order, or even warned her husband. Only watched like an observer.

“You should go home, mate,” Ron advised. 

Harry shook his head. “After this one. I want to hear what she has to say.”

Ron exhaled, gave Harry a look that said you’re being stubborn , but said nothing more as he pushed open the interrogation room door.

The air was thick with things left unsaid. Morgana (Rose?) sat with her back straight, composed but clearly exhausted. Harry had a good vision, just like from Percival’s interrogation.

“I didn’t help kidnap Teddy,” she said, before the man had even taken a seat.

“You should wait until I ask a question,” Ron replied, unfazed. “Thought you’d be used to interrogations by now.”

He dropped into the chair across from her and opened the file — a page of photographs of the Death Eaters caught the night before.

“Mrs. Travers, can you tell us if you recognize any of these people?”

She flinched at the name. “I changed it legally, Mr. Weasley. I’d appreciate if you used it.”

Ron didn’t blink. “It’s the name in your file. Can’t bear the reminder?”

Ron was doing extra hours since yesterday and didn’t get enough sleep or food, so Harry wasn’t one to lecture him about being a hot-head. 

“I never, not even for a second, forget what I did. I spent the last 20 years blaming myself for my husband's death. There's nothing you could say to me that I haven't screamed at myself in a mirror.”

She held Ron’s gaze without wavering. There was a hint of something beneath her exterior, maybe guilt, maybe sorrow, or maybe both. “You want me to be guilty because of my name,” she said. “I understand that. But you’re wrong. I’m not who I was.”

“Don’t give me that,” Ron muttered, rubbing his eyes. “Teddy was taken from your place, and by people who were seen in your restaurant more than once. You can’t deny it’s too convenient.”

“I know how it looks. But I swear to you, I would never hurt a child.”

Harry watched, arms crossed. Part of him almost believed her. She’d built a quiet life, a small business, a routine. Why would she throw that away for a pack of Death Eater brats playing revolution?

But then again, she had lied. She had made Draco suffer. That wasn’t a person he could trust.

“It’s hard to believe coming from a person who keeps Dark Magic books at home,” Harry retorted without thinking. The wall actually didn’t block the sound, so he was heard perfectly.

“What books?” Ron turned his head, although he couldn’t see his friend.

“My books are very old, barely legal, but technically not forbidden,” Morgana answered calmly, like she expected Harry to be hearing everything.

Ron scoffed. “You gave a known former Death Eater access to obscure dark magic?”

Her eyes sharpened. “He was desperate. And I warned him there would be a cost.”

“What cost?” Harry asked, confused, Draco didn’t say anything about it. At this point, he pressed the button to make the wall disappear. There was no point in pretending he wasn’t participating in the interrogation.

The woman glanced between the two of them. “That spell requires a sacrifice. A pure memory. He won’t remember which one, but… it would have to be important.”

Harry looked away. His stomach churned, but he pushed it down. “And no one else knows about it?”

“No,” Rose said. 

A beat. Then Harry gave a single nod.

Ron straightened. “Hold on. You’re not going to report it?”

“No,” Harry said firmly.

Ron stepped forward. “That’s not your call to make. You’re an Auror. You’re supposed to uphold the law, not bend it for… favorites.”

Harry’s voice was low. “Would you be impartial if it were Hermione?”

“She would never do something like this.”

“That’s not what I asked.” Harry shot back.

“Why even compare Hermione to Malfoy? You and Malfoy—” Ron stopped himself, his mouth open in shock. 

“If Draco did anything wrong, it was to try to save Teddy. That doesn’t make him a criminal.”

“If you think he did nothing wrong, there’s no problem reporting it,” Ron snapped. 

“Yes, ‘cause the Minister treats ex-Death Eaters so fairly.” Harry openly gestured towards Morgana, who tried not to be offended.

Morgana, watching, finally broke it with a dry voice. “If it helps, I’d rather keep my books than see either of you thrown out of your jobs. So, officially? He never used it. I never saw it.”

Ron looked furious, but Harry agreed.

“You’ll do the paperwork,” Ron muttered after they left the room. 

“Thank you,” Harry said.

………..

Draco tossed a pinch of Floo powder into the fireplace and muttered, “Pansy Parkinson.” His fingers tightened slightly around the small calming potion in his hand, still warm, half-finished.

The green flames whooshed upward, casting flickering light on the quiet room. After a moment, Pansy’s face appeared in the hearth, framed by perfectly done waves and a silk dressing gown that looked both expensive and completely unbothered by the hour.

“This better be important, Malfoy. I was in the middle of a foot soak and—” She stopped. “You look like shit.”

“Nice to see you too,” Draco said sarcastically. “I needed to tell you before the Prophet does.”

Her posture shifted immediately. “Tell me what?”

He swallowed, throat tight. “Teddy was kidnapped.”

“What?” Her voice cut like a whip.

“He’s safe now, just sleeping in the next room.” Draco ran a hand through his hair. “But he was taken. And it gets worse.”

“What could be worse than Teddy being kidnaped?” 

“Crabbe is alive.”

“That’s not—

“He did it. Somehow, he found the vanishing cabinet. And now… he’s joined some idiotic imitation of a Death Eater club with other pure-blood fanatics who think they’re clever because they speak in riddles and plot like children.”

“Why would he—?”

“Revenge,” Draco cut in. “Against me. For abandoning him, forcing him to go there. I mean,  I remember I wasn’t sweet about it. But it was war. What did he expect? And he used Teddy to do it.”

Pansy stared at him, horrified. “Merlin. Are you okay?”

“No,” Draco said plainly, staring at the calm blue swirl of the potion in the vial. “But I’m functioning. For Teddy.”

“That piece of shit. Never liked him.” Pansy growled. There was a pause, then she cleared her throat. “I brought you something, by the way. Late Christmas present. I hope it makes you feel… less shit.”

“What is it?” immediately curious. Pansy was good at giving presents.

“It’s an imported potion ingredient I can’t even pronounce. Rare. Stupidly expensive. Your favorite kind of thing.”

He blinked. “How the hell did you afford that?”

“I got a job,” she said, like it was both shocking and beneath her. “Daycare.”

He raised his eyebrows. “With children? Human ones?”

“I know. Shocking. But I’m good at it. Don’t ask me why. I’ll owl the gift to you in the morning.”

“I’m terrified and touched.”

“You should be,” she said, but then her tone softened. “And… what about Potter? Is he around?”

Draco sighed and leaned his head back against the armchair. “He’s working. As always.”

She studied him through the flames. “Has Potter already broken your heart?”

Draco looked down at the potion in his hands. His thumb brushed the rim of the vial. “A million times.”

She didn’t flinch. “How long can the same person break your heart?”

He gave a soft, bitter smile. “As long as you love them, I suppose.”

For a moment, there was only the sound of fire crackling between them.

“That’s poetic,” Pansy said finally. “Disgusting, but poetic.”

Draco huffed quietly. “Remind me to stop telling you things.”

“You won’t,” she said confidently. “You never do.”

Before he could answer, a small shuffle came from behind him. He turned seeing Teddy stood in the hallway, one hand rubbing his eye, the other holding a stuffed ferret by the tail. His hair was a sleepy, soft blue, but it flickered briefly lilac as his eyes met Draco’s.

“Did I wake you up?” Draco asked gently, already reaching out to him.

Teddy shook his head and let himself be lifted, settling into Draco’s lap with the kind of trust that always made Draco’s chest tighten.

“Hi, Aunt Pansy.”

Pansy smiled, raising a hand in greeting. Teddy had only seen her briefly during calls like this, but already adored her — much to Draco’s ongoing despair.

“Well, you’re sleepy one,” she said with fondness.

Teddy grinned, then pointed to the vial still clutched in Draco’s hand. “What’s that?”

Draco hesitated. “Um… a potion to make me healthy.”

“Dwaco’s sick?” Teddy’s small hand went to Draco’s cheek, his brows furrowed.

“No, silly boy.” Draco smiled, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “I never get sick.”

From the fireplace, Pansy watched the two of them quietly.

“You really do love him,” she said at last — no sarcasm, no edge, just truth.

Draco didn’t look away from Teddy. His hand moved instinctively to cradle the back of the boy’s head.

“More than I ever thought I could.”

Chapter Text

Draco had taken a few days off work as he wasn’t in any shape to be helping anyone else. So when Harry arrived home late that evening, the blonde was already there, waiting.

It was a strangely domestic scene. Harry stepped through the door, shaking off his cloak. Teddy came running to greet him, arms open, face alight with joy. Draco, standing behind him, looked quietly relieved—grateful for the extra hand, and maybe just a little too fond of having Harry back.

They had dinner together. It wasn’t half bad, although Harry would never admit out loud that Morgana’s recipe had helped. Instead, he gave Draco a raised eyebrow and said, “Your cooking’s improved.”

Draco responded with a self-assured, “I can do even better.”

It was a regular night—at least, they were trying to make it one. Trying to slip back into the flow of life after something that had shaken them deeply. Harry stayed behind to clean the kitchen, as usual. Draco took Teddy upstairs and got him ready for bed, also as usual.

But unlike the other nights, Draco didn’t return to the living room to sit with Harry. Nor did he go to his own room, as Harry discovered when he checked. That left only one possibility.

Harry eased open the door to Teddy’s room.

The soft creak was swallowed by the hush of the dim space. Inside, Draco sat cross-legged on the rug beside the toddler’s bed, low to the ground, charmed to be safe in case Teddy rolled off. The child was curled in a tangle of blankets, breathing slowly and evenly.

Draco was murmuring spells under his breath, the kind meant to fortify protective enchantments. They’d already been placed earlier that day, but he was layering them again—repeating the same charms like a mantra. It wasn’t necessary, but Harry understood the need. After what had happened, no precaution felt like enough.

The only light in the room came from the soft glow of the night-lantern by the window, casting long shadows. Harry took a careful step forward and caught the edge of the rug.

He stumbled, lunging toward what he thought was the dresser. It was farther away than he’d judged, and he landed hard on the floor with a muffled thud and a pained grunt.

Teddy stirred but didn’t wake. Harry froze, face against the floor, willing himself not to groan aloud.

“…What was that?”

“My shirt fell,” Harry muttered, deadpan.

“That’s loud for a shirt,” Draco said, frowning toward the sound.

“I was wearing it.”

Draco, predictably, didn’t move to help. But after a brief pause, he raised his wand and whispered ‘lumos’, making a soft, golden light bloom at the tip, just enough to let Harry get his bearings.

He sat up and crossed the room more carefully this time, lowering himself beside Draco in silence. The glow touched Draco’s face gently, outlining the tension in his jaw, the shadowed crescents beneath his eyes. His focus remained on Teddy.

“He’s fine,” Harry said quietly. “The house is protected by Fidelius.”

“I know.”

The words came flat, tired. Draco’s gaze didn’t waver from the sleeping child. Something in the stillness of his posture—too still—told Harry he hadn’t really rested.

“You want me to keep watch?” Harry asked, just for the sake of asking. He already knew the answer. “Is something wrong?”

“No. Just… making sure.” Draco’s voice caught slightly. “That he’s safe.”

Harry nodded, letting the silence stretch. He knew what that kind of watching meant. Not magical. Not practical. Just a helpless, human urge to keep something precious from slipping away again.

“Well,” he said softly, “now that you know he’s alright, maybe you can try to get some rest too.”

Draco gave a small shake of the head. “I’m not tired.”

Harry nearly said what he always did—that Draco needed to sleep, that tomorrow would be harder without it. But the words dried in his throat. They both knew it wouldn’t help.

So instead, Harry shifted closer, and without giving himself time to second-guess, he wrapped his arms around Draco’s body.

Draco froze. “Why are you hugging me?” he whispered, equal parts confusion and protest.

“It’s not a hug,” Harry said, pressing his cheek lightly against Draco’s shoulder. “I’m warding off Wrackspurts.”

“What?”

“Magical creatures,” Harry murmured. “Float into your ears. Scramble your thoughts. Luna told me about them.”

Draco didn’t move. His body was still stiff with tension, and Harry could feel the resistance coiled just beneath the surface. But slowly, inch by inch, that resistance ebbed. Draco let him stay. Didn’t pull away. Didn’t lean in either—but the mere lack of recoil felt like something significant.

“I remember she telling me something about it,” Draco murmured eventually, his voice low but not sharp. “I suppose if they exist, we should make sure Teddy’s safe from them too.”

“Exactly,” Harry said, smiling faintly into the fabric of Draco’s shirt. The silence that followed felt softer, closer somehow. The kind that settled not between strangers, but between two people who had seen each other at their worst.

Harry enjoyed the moment and fell silent. The bedroom was filled with just the quiet rhythm of Teddy’s breath and the warmth between them, two frightened not-quite-fathers doing the best they could. Together.

Harry matched his breathing to Teddy’s soft, even rhythm. He even made a conscious effort to breathe more quietly, irrationally afraid that if he exhaled too loudly, Draco would snap out of whatever fragile state had allowed this moment to happen.

Eventually, it did break.

Draco shifted slightly, and Harry felt the subtle weight of his head lean into his own shoulder, just for a moment. A single second of unconscious closeness. But as soon as Draco noticed it, he pulled back. He sat up straighter, clearing his throat as if reassembling whatever walls had cracked.

“You want to sleep,” he said abruptly. “Go ahead. I’m fine.”

His voice was clipped. Final.

Harry didn’t argue. He wanted to. But the way Draco was sitting now—rigid, arms tight around his knees—told him that whatever door had opened just a sliver had already been shut again.

So he stood.

“Alright,” he said, gently. “Goodnight.”

Draco didn’t respond. He was staring at Teddy again, eyes unreadable in the low light. Harry left quietly, the echo of that moment still wrapped around him like a second skin.

Ironically, he didn’t sleep a second that night.

He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking of the boy who used to mock him in corridors, now sitting alone in a dark room, surrounded by layered spells and silence.

And Harry wondered—not for the first time—if Draco would ever let anyone in, or if he’d stay behind those wards forever.

Harry had his first nightmare in weeks, a logical consequence of all the recent stress. These things usually destroyed his mood and made basic things in his day be a pain. Yet, a strange optimism clung to him; he barely remembered it, unlike the deep-seated terrors that had plagued him before. The frequency of his nightmares had dwindled to almost nothing since he and Draco began living together, and today’s faded memory was a testament to that. 

Besides, dawn was already breaking, painting the sky with the promise of a new day. It was almost morning, and the sun was already peeking through his window, which had no curtains. That meant he'd gotten plenty of sleep. Harry loved spending hours just looking out the mansion window at the quiet street and the little park further down.

Trying to lift his mood, Harry turned on the radio. Jordan's loud voice filled the room—it was the "Potter Watch," now a daily, legal program. Harry had even signed papers allowing them to use his surname. But since it was a news show, Harry switched to "Enchantment Hour," a station that played all kinds of music. The host was Glenda Chittock, a pop singer Draco seemed to really like. Whenever Draco turned on the radio, he'd change the station if she was hosting. 

A small, pajama-clad figure padded into the kitchen. 

“Good morning, Teddy," Harry smiled, seeing the sleepy eyes.

" 'Morning," Ted mumbled back, barely audible.

The boy climbed into his chair automatically, waiting patiently—almost asleep again—for breakfast. Draco was still in bed, which made sense considering how late he'd probably fallen asleep.

Harry turned, placing a yogurt and sliced apple in front of Teddy, when a question caught him off guard.

“Why’s Dwaco drink this?” Teddy asked, pointing at the trash bin.

Harry turned. Five empty potion bottles rattled inside the garbage—clear, narrow-necked flasks that shimmered faintly even when empty. Draco must’ve forgotten to take the trash out yesterday.

But Harry didn’t have time to be annoyed; Teddy was still waiting for an answer.

“Well,” Harry began, crouching to Teddy’s height, “Draco’s taking potions to help him feel better.”

“Daddy’s sick?”

“Not his body. Sometimes people get hurt in ways we can’t see.”

Teddy nodded solemnly. “Draco said he got a boo-boo in his heart.”

Harry's heart ached. He couldn’t imagine why Draco would tell Teddy this, but he understood it wasn’t a joke.

"Yes, kid. But he’ll be fine, so don’t worry."

"But... Auntie Pansy said he gave you his heart, and you broke it," Ted continued, his voice innocent but firm. "Can't you just fix it? So he won't need the potions anymore."

Harry felt the blood drain from his face. He felt his cheeks grow pale. He wanted to explain, to tell Ted it wasn't so simple, but the words caught in his throat. This little boy, so observant and direct, had just touched on a truth Harry wasn't ready to face, especially not with a child.

Ted reached out, placing his small hand on Harry's suddenly pale cheek. "Daddy’s okay?”

"Draco will be fine—"

"Not Dwaco. You have a boo-boo too?" Ted put his tiny hand on Harry's cheek, his eyebrows pulled down in concern. It was almost funny how expressive the little boy was.

"Oh," was all Harry could manage. Ted was calling him "Daddy."  He was "Daddy" too. It wasn't the first time, but Harry had always turned Ted down before, feeling like he wasn't fit to be a daddy. He still wasn't sure, but he couldn't control his smile. The comfort those words gave him, he wanted it, even if he didn't deserve it.

"I love you, Teddy," Harry whispered, pulling the boy into a tight hug.

After pressing Crabbe to confess he was the one who attacked Blaise, Harry had finally convinced Robards that Draco was innocent and got him to approve visits for Blaise. The Head Auror was still cautious, wary of another ambush or trap, but with Crabbe and several of the newer Death Eaters already behind bars, security had relaxed slightly. It wasn’t trust, but it was a start.

Draco had seemed genuinely pleased by the news. So pleased, in fact, that he immediately said Teddy should come along—"Blaise’s never met him, has he?"—and even added, half-joking, that maybe Narcissa could use a toddler’s chaos to shake her out of her haze. 

It was a big step, considering Draco never let Teddy follow him, no matter how many times the boy asked. And when Harry suggested tagging along too, Draco had only sighed and muttered “fine,” clearly reluctant but not refusing. Progress came in strange shapes.

"Remember, Ted," Harry explained to the kid in his arms, "Grandma Narcissa is still a bit tired. She might not talk much, but she'll be happy to see you." Ted nodded, his blue hair vibrant.

They paused in front of Narcissa’s door, neither of them reached for the handle. The hallway was quiet, as it was a distant and more intimate ward. Harry turned to Draco, who mirrored the movement, and for a second, they just stood there, sharing small, uncertain smiles that tried to disguise the tension between hope and fear.

Suddenly, the charged silence was broken by a voice, cheerful and completely oblivious:

"Hello, Harry. Malfoy!" Neville greeted, nodding cheerily. He was carrying a medium-sized box that looked heavy, but his strong build made it seem effortless.

"Oh, Longbottom," Draco acknowledged, a flicker of surprise crossing Harry's face. He'd expected Draco to ignore him or launch a barbed insult.

"Visiting Mrs. Malfoy?" Neville asked, his brow furrowed with genuine concern.

Harry closed his eyes for a brief moment. Surely, now came the sarcastic remark.

"Yes. Have you seen Blaise today?" Draco asked, his tone surprisingly even.

"Just left his room, actually. Heading to see my parents now," Neville replied. "I spoke with Omar earlier; we're starting a new treatment for them."

"Don't get your hopes up," Draco cautioned, his voice flat. It could be interpreted in a bad way, so Harry had this impulse to explain it was out of concern, but the other men's smile didn’t falter.

"I know." Neville sounded grateful for Draco’s care.

Potter frowned, wondering when these two had become friends. They certainly seemed to get along.

"Right, well, I'm going in, alright?" Draco said, rolling his eyes as if the conversation were an intolerable chore. He turned his back on them and pushed open Narcissa's door.

"We’ll follow in a minute," Harry said, “Don’t miss us.”

"Impossible," Draco said back with a genuine smile, then slipped inside, waving to Ted. The boy's face fell a little at Draco's sudden absence.

"How long have you... you two... been together?" Neville asked, his usual timid stammer returning, his gaze flitting nervously between Harry and the closed door. 

Spending most of his time in the Hogwarts greenhouse kept him out of the loop, though he figured news of Harry Potter dating would be widespread enough for even him to hear about. And he'd expect his friend to say something. However, seeing Harry now, smiling softly at Malfoy as if they were a old-married couple, made him wonder if this was their way of announcing something.

"Hm?" Harry didn't quite understand, thinking Neville was referring to how long they’d been living together. He shrugged, still smiling. "About four months, I think."

"I almost got adopted by surprise!" Ted piped up, clearly wanting to join the conversation. 

"What?" Neville asked, genuinely confused. He'd understood Ted's slightly jumbled words, but not their meaning.

"He means he was kidnapped," Harry clarified, wincing slightly.

"Oh, right. Wait— what ?!" Neville's eyes widened dramatically as Harry scratched the back of his neck, trying to figure out how to quickly summarize that particular story.

“I can share more details once the information is public. But don’t worry, we caught the people who did it.”

“That’s... a relief,” Neville said, clearly too stunned to ask further.

“I should get going,” Harry added, eager to end the awkwardness.

“Right. Me too.”

Neville waved quickly and didn’t press for more, as expected from such an easy-going guy. He left just as distracted as he’d arrived, still looking over his shoulder as if trying to process what he’d heard.

Harry entered the room quietly, his arms wrapped around Teddy. But before his eyes sought Narcissa, they sought Draco.

His shoulders were tense, his gaze fixed on the bed—on her. He didn’t say anything, just gave Harry a small nod, barely more than a tilt of his chin. That was the signal.

Harry stepped fully into the room.

Draco always went in first not only to run from Neville, but to make sure she was present—calm enough for company. While it wasn’t rare for healers with unfamiliar faces to pass through her room, Narcissa never received a visit besides Draco. 

There had been times—worse days—when the healers had to restrain her to the bed after a nightmare, screaming for her son and trying to break whatever her thin arms could reach. Those memories sat heavy on him, reminders that no day here could truly be called good. But there were better days. Days when she smiled, called him by his name and not Lucius, and even sipped tea with him while recounting tales from her childhood—stories she had never shared before.

Today, at least, seemed like one of those better ones.

Harry stepped forward, quiet but present. He didn’t want to intrude, but he knew Draco needed him. He reached out and let his hand rest gently on Draco’s back, steadying him. The contact made Draco exhale—just a little, but it softened the tight line of his shoulders, gave him courage to look his mother in the eyes for the first time since he got there.

“The last time we talked about Teddy,” Draco said softly, “I brought him too.”

At the mention of the child, Narcissa’s eyes shifted subtly and something in them changed. Ted, sensing it in the quiet way only children can, slid down from Harry’s arms and took a cautious step forward.

"Grandma Cissa?" he said, his voice small and sweet. He held out a crumpled, brightly colored drawing he'd made that morning – a stick figure family with wildly colorful hair.

Teddy had seen Narcisa too little to form a bond, as when Andromeda got close to her sister again, she was already starting to sink, but he kid was pretty interested in the mystic Grandma that was Draco’s mother and Grandma Andy’s sister. The woman Draco always visited, but never took him. 

He stood still, watching her with wide eyes, as if trying to decide whether she was real.

Slowly, Narcissa turned her head, her gaze now distant and unfocused as she looked at Teddy. Then down at the crumpled drawing in his little hands.

“Edward,” she said, her voice thin and papery.

Draco gasped, his hand flying to his mouth.

The boy frowned. “I’m Teddy.”

Harry reminded, “Your full name.”

“Oh! Edward Remus Lupin.” Teddy’s face lit with understanding. “I’m Edward.”

Narcissa’s eyes didn’t widen, nor did she smile—but there was a shift. Barely perceptible. Her gaze steadied on the boy as if anchored to something real. 

“Edward,” she repeated, almost to herself. The name seemed to reverberate in the air, as if it had reached a memory not yet fully gone.

Draco remained frozen beside her, his hand still over his mouth, eyes glistening. He looked at Harry as if to ask, Did you hear that? Did that really happen?

Teddy stepped forward with a kind of unthinking courage only children possessed. He held up the crumpled drawing, mostly in blue crayon, with uneven stick figures that might’ve been Draco, Harry, and himself, standing in what appeared to be a very wobbly kitchen.

“I made this,” he said proudly. He pointed to a floating figure in the top corner, surrounded by some figures. “Peacops!”

Draco let out a surprised laugh and covered it quickly. “Peacocks, mon chéri.”

“That’s what I said,” Teddy said with a frown. “Peacops, Dwaco says you like it.”

Harry laughed through his nose, the sound cracked and too loud in the quiet room.

Narcissa looked at the drawing for a long moment. Then, slowly, her hand lifted from her lap. It trembled like a leaf in the wind. Her fingers, pale and fine-boned, brushed the edge of the paper.

“I don’t,” she murmured. “Draco likes them, so I say it.”

Teddy gave a solemn nod. “Hawwy says he likes Spidew-Man. He don’t.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me, I do like Spider-Man.”

Teddy gave him a deeply skeptical look. “But you go ‘ugh’ when I put on da song.”

“Because you play it seventeen times in a row,” Harry muttered.

“I like it so much ,” Teddy replied with all the gravity of a world leader.

Narcissa’s lips twitched. Just slightly. Almost a smile, but not quite.

Harry blinked, surprised, when Draco leaned into him—barely, just enough for his head to graze Harry’s shoulder. He didn’t seem to notice he’d done it. Harry’s hand was still resting lightly against the small of his back, steady and warm, and Draco lingered in that touch like someone anchoring himself before stepping forward into deep water.

His fingers curled for a moment, brushing against the fabric of Harry’s coat, then fell still again.

He drew in a shallow breath.

“Mum… do you remember Harry?”

For a long beat, Narcissa didn’t answer. Then, without looking away from the drawing, she said, “Of course, you always talk about him.”

Draco's ears instantly tinged red and his cheeks felt warm. Harry leaned in and stage-whispered, “Do you?”

He elbowed him, whispering back, “Don’t flatter yourself, it’s only bad things.”

Teddy climbed carefully into her lap. “You can keep it,” he said, offering the paper.

Draco looked panicked for a moment, about to intervene—but Narcissa made no move to resist. Her arms, tentative and slow, wrapped around the small boy with surprising delicacy, as if afraid he might vanish.

“I will,” she said softly. “Thank you.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, she closed her eyes—not to retreat, but to hold something close.

When they reached Blaise’s room, Draco didn’t knock. He never did.

Blaise was propped against a stack of pillows, a half-read book open on his lap, and a teacup on the side table beside him. His bandages peeked out from beneath a loose cotton shirt, and his head turned as the door swung open.

“Dray,” Blaise greeted, his smile appearing and vanishing just as fast as his eyes landed on the other men. “I didn’t realize visiting hours now included family day.”

Harry bit back a sigh. “Nice to see you too.”

“You know Harry,” Draco said, breezing past the remark. “And I told you about Edward. He goes by Teddy.”

At the sound of his name, the child perked up.

“I suppose the brat can stay,” Blaise allowed, his tone neutral, but the corner of his mouth twitched—almost a smile.

Teddy tilted his head. “You are Dwaco’s friend?”

“Something like it.” Blaise shrugged. The word was a big understatement, but he didn’t care for words, but actions.

Draco set the bottle of Firewhisky down on the bedside table without comment. “What did they tell you?”

Blaise didn’t need clarification. “Just the basics,” he said, voice flat. “That Crabbe was part of some post-war cult, cosplaying Death Eater, and attacked me because it was fun.”

Harry stepped forward, but not too close. He remained slightly behind Draco, purposely silent. He wasn’t here for Blaise, and it was no secret that the other man didn’t like him. Zabini wasn’t shy about sharing his opinions and had made that very clear from the beginning. But Harry wanted to be there to ensure Draco was okay, even if it meant staying out of the way.

“They’re in custody,” Harry explained, tone even. “No bribes or loopholes involved, and they will be prosecuted according to the new provisions.”

“Good,” Blaise said simply. “Then I won’t have to finish it myself.” His voice was calm. Neither angry nor vindictive. Just final.

Draco nodded like it was expected, then sat at last. “You knew it would be someone we knew.”

“I hoped it wouldn’t,” Blaise said. “But hope never really suited me. Though Crabbe coming back from the dead was a surprise.”

“He should’ve stayed dead.” Draco commented with anger. “But I understand why he came after me. I forced him into the Room of Requirement, even when he begged me not to go.”

“You weren’t the one giving the orders,” Blaise cut in. “Voldemort was.”

“I’m just saying, I get why he hated me. But why come after you ?”

Blaise was quiet for a long time, considering to tell or not.

“I made a promise,” he said at last. “When he panicked about the battle, I told him I’d wait. That I’d be there when it ended.”

He looked down at the blanket.

“But then the floor collapsed. Pansy and I got separated. And by the time I found you…” his voice thinned slightly, almost imperceptible, “I thought he was dead. So I ran—” Blaise stopped mid-sentence as Teddy scooted down from Draco’s lap and wandered closer to the bed, eyeing the half-empty teacup like it was a toy.

“He’s not touching it,” Draco said calmly, as Teddy peered up at Blaise with cautious curiosity.

“You’re tall,” Teddy declared, eyes bright and hazel.

Blaise blinked. “…Thanks?”

Teddy glanced at the book. “Is it boring?”

Blaise looked genuinely thrown. “Yes.”

Harry bit back a laugh and caught Draco’s eye instead. There was something unspoken in the glance—relief, maybe. 

Teddy didn’t seem to notice the tension. He padded a little closer and, after a moment’s thought, plopped himself down near the edge of the bed with all the trust of a child who had never been taught to fear strangers. 

Blaise looked horrified. “Is he always like this?” 

“Yes,” Harry and Draco said at the same time.

Draco leaned back, watching the two of them. “He’s deciding if you’re worth talking to.”

“Well, I’m not,” Blaise muttered, but didn’t push Teddy away.

Teddy, apparently satisfied, patted the blanket near Blaise’s knee. “You got a boo boo?”

Blaise hesitated. “Something like that.”

“I did too!” Teddy declared proudly, tugging up his sleeve to reveal a faint scrape on his elbow. “Dwaco kissed it.”

Harry blinked. Blaise blinked. Draco looked like he was about to evaporate out of sheer mortification.

“He did, huh?” Blaise said slowly, throwing a glance at Draco, who was now staring at a spot on the wall with murderous focus.

Teddy beamed at Blaise. “Want me to kiss yours better?”

The silence was so sharp it could’ve cut glass. Then, shockingly, Blaise laughed. A real one. Low, reluctant, but undeniably real. Relief washed over Draco as he witnessed his friend's laughter, the first true smile he'd seen since the attack.

“I’ll survive,” he said, voice rasping from disuse. “But thanks.”

Harry stared. “Did you just smile?”

“Don’t ruin it,” Blaise snapped, but the edge was gone.

“After you get discharged, is better not to be alone. Should we hire a healer to be with you?” Draco asked, genuinely worried, but also trying to change the subject.

“No need, I’m going to Hogwarts.” Blaise adjusted the blanket.

“What?” Draco stood abruptly. “You can’t just decide it by yourself—”

“Didn’t know I needed your permission.”

Harry straightened, tension crawling up his spine. He saw it—the sharp set of Draco’s jaw, the way Blaise braced, just slightly, like this wasn’t a conversation, but a confrontation. And it was escalating fast.

He opened his mouth, trying to break the momentum. “Maybe we should—”

But the words stalled, useless. Neither of them was listening to him.

Then the door creaked open, and Pansy stepped in like she owned the room. “Merlin, it smells like unresolved trauma in here. So good to be back in the old days.”

Great , Harry thought.

Draco turned to greet her, however, his expression didn’t soften. If anything, it tensed further.

“Oh, Eddie, so good to finally see you,” she cooed, reaching for the boy without hesitation.

Teddy blinked up at her, uncertain for a second, then smiled, recognizing her voice. He’d seen her before in the flames of the Floo, calling Draco by name.

He let her hug him.

“He goes by Teddy,” Harry said, a little too sharply.

“It’s our inside joke,” Pansy said, blinking one eye. Teddy giggled, apparently satisfied with the explanation.

And in that small breath of distraction, Harry made his decision.

He stepped forward, lifted Teddy gently from her arms.

“I saw an ice cream place down the street,” he said, tone casual. “We could wait for Draco there.”

Teddy lit up. “Chocolate?”

Harry smiled. “Sure.”

Draco glanced over, tension still wound through his shoulders—but he gave a short nod. Thank you.

Harry returned the look, then gave Pansy and Blaise one last glance before stepping out of the room with Teddy in his arms. The door clicked shut behind Harry, leaving behind the faint echo of Teddy’s giggle and a strange, almost sacred quiet. However, Pansy didn’t let it last.

“Ok, so when are we going to talk about Draco’s emotional support Gryffindor?”

Draco groaned. “Oh, for Merlin’s sake—”

“Do you still like him?” Blaise cut in.

“I’m not the topic here,” Draco deflated the question. “Blaise wants to go to Hogwarts.” This made Pansy’s smile disappear.

“Who the hell even thinks this is a good idea?” Pansy said louder than necessary.

“Neville. He said I could help the new intake feel less terrified of Slytherins.”

“Terrify them yourself, you mean,” Draco murmured.

Blaise smirked faintly. “Maybe both.”

Pansy rolled her eyes. “And you have nothing better to do than follow your emotional support Gryffindor around.”

“It’s not like I have somewhere else to go.” Blaise retorted, making Pansy flinch. 

“Vivianne is worried about you,” Draco tried.

“Don’t you even start,” Blaise snapped, his voice sharp but not loud. “I’m not going to Zabini Manor.”

The name alone was enough to cool the room.

Pansy shifted uncomfortably, her earlier bravado fading. “We’re not saying you have to—”

“I know,” Blaise interrupted. “But don’t bring her up like she suddenly counts.”

Draco opened his mouth, thought better of it, and closed it again. Pansy sighed and threw herself back into the armchair like she couldn’t bear to stand in emotional sincerity any longer.

“Well, if you must run off to Hogwarts for a fresh batch of trauma bonding, at least make sure to answer all my letters.”

Blaise huffed a laugh, tension slipping just a fraction from his shoulders. “So that’s a yes to the plan?”

“No,” Pansy said, already conjuring mental outfit swatches. “It’s a reluctant ‘fine, I won’t sabotage you.’ Slight difference.”

Draco finally spoke, softer this time. “You really think it’ll help? Going back to Hogwarts?”

Blaise turned to him, meeting his eyes. “I think being needed helps. Purpose is better than rotting in my flat alone.”

“You could always come to my house,” Pansy offered, half-knowing he wouldn’t.

“I’d rather kiss Umbridge.”

“Now that is trauma,” Draco muttered, and they all grimaced.

Blaise and Pansy had been best friends for years—emphasis on friends , not roommates. They couldn’t survive more than an hour in close quarters without plotting each other’s downfall. 

Blaise’s flat looked like a catalog spread—minimalist, immaculate, every surface wiped twice, even the ones no one touched. Pansy’s philosophy was more... "creative clutter." She lived in organized chaos, which really meant everything lived where it landed. To Blaise, it was a personal attack. To Pansy, it was Tuesday.

He followed meal prep routines and color-coded lists. She woke up on Saturdays, declared the weather “tragic for staying in,” and hopped on a train to a windswept village chosen purely because the name sounded “romantically cursed.”

For another, she now lived in a tiny flat in the Muggle world, with a temperamental heating system and a shower that made noises like a dying Puffskein. And while Blaise could endure many things, cold floors and irregular plumbing were not among them.

“I could ask Harry—” Draco started.

“No,” Blaise interrupted. “You already have one kid to take care of.”

“We’ll be here,” she said. “Even if you disappear into some castle full of hormonal teenagers.”

Blaise gave her a look. “Hold me back.”

Draco sighed. “Just… answer my calls.”

It was the closest thing to approval Draco could give. And Blaise heard it.

Just squeezed Pansy’s hand and held Draco’s gaze until something unsaid passed between them—something old, and quiet, and true.

Then he said, “So. Back to your Gryffindor...”

Draco groaned again, louder this time. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Sure, just two bros casually raising a child, kissing and visiting friends, and looking to each other with sparkling eyes.” Pansy mocked.

“So what? Want me to believe that Harry Bloody Potter wants something to do with me?”

"Low self-esteem doesn't suit you, Draco," Blaise added, his voice firm.

"I know, but... there's no way not to feel like this is some kind of trap, that he's just confused. I feel like one day he's going to wake up and realize he deserves someone better, and decide he doesn't even want to look at my face anymore."

It was a relief to finally say it. He'd been holding it in for so long. His shoulders slumped, and he lowered his head, suddenly tired of the conversation. A dark hand gently lifted his chin, forcing him to meet Blaise's understanding gaze. Blaise gave him a knowing, mischievous smile, and seeing Pansy leaning her head on Blaise's tanned shoulder, Draco knew they were going to make him laugh.

"Oh, he'd be mad," Blaise said with a dramatic sigh. "Who wouldn't want to look at you?" As he finished, Draco couldn't help but let out a weak laugh. 

Blaise truly had a charm about him.

"I missed this. Please don't disappear again," Pansy said, rising and pulling Blaise by the hand. They both stood, leaning in to embrace Draco, taking advantage of his rare moment of genuine affection.

"He needs you to inflate his ego, I can't do it all myself," Pansy commented with a soft laugh.

"Don't worry, everything's fine now," Blaise assured them, smiling at Draco's sudden, rare display of tenderness. 

And for a moment, Draco believed it.

After two months of sterile walls and quiet corridors, of Aurors with clipped words and colder eyes, and Harry, who came, asked questions, and left without expression—it was good to feel the warmth of friendship again.

It was good to feel, period.

It had been a week since Teddy’s kidnapping, and time hadn’t smoothed the edges of his panic. If anything, they’d only grown sharper. Harry had insisted that he should take time off. He did—for a few days. But rest had only made it worse. Every idle moment was another doorway to fear, another spiral, another night of tracing old scars and counting the locks.

Going back to work hadn’t helped either. Everything felt loud. Too bright. Too many questions. Too many stares.

He wasn’t calming. He was unraveling, just quietly.

Harry, on the other hand, had started breathing again. That was the strange part. He wasn’t okay, not exactly—but there was a steadiness to him now. He was still working ridiculous hours, still handling mountains of paperwork and damage reports from half the bloody country—but the worst was over. Harry often said he was “ok,” in that way that meant "not broken", however, nowadays he was getting used to say “ok” when he meant it.

Especially now, since he’d finally told Robards he was quitting. 

Three more months, he’d said. Just enough time to pass the torch and clean up the mess.

Today, Harry even arrived home earlier than usual, the rare gift of a quiet evening settling softly over the house. In the living room, Teddy was in a whirlwind of delight, chasing the glowing stag Patronus that leapt with effortless grace through the air. The child’s laughter rang like chimes, pure and echoing. 

Draco had only just stepped through the door when he saw it.

It stood at the end of the corridor like it had been waiting for him—its luminous frame glowing softly in the low light, the silver of its antlers brushing the ceiling. For a second, Draco froze, the air thick with the hum of fading magic.

The blonde never saw it so close up, but he immediately recognized Harry’s Patronus.

“Teddy!” Draco’s voice cracked the calm, sharp, and urgent. He stormed into the room, wand raised, eyes scanning like a man expecting war. For a second, he looked not like a man in his own home, but someone thrown back into the battlefield.

Startled by the sudden shift in energy, Teddy froze—then darted to Harry, small hands gripping tightly to the fabric of his trousers.

“It’s okay,” Harry said quickly, scooping Teddy into his arms. “I was just showing him the magic.”

He stepped forward, slow, measured. Carefully, he reached out and wrapped his fingers around Draco’s wrist, easing the wand down. Draco didn’t resist, but his breathing was ragged, and his eyes were still wild.

“No Dementors,” Harry added gently. “No danger.”

Draco blinked once. Then again. Slowly, the information registered. His shoulders dropped slightly.

“Right,” he murmured, half to himself. “Right. Just—just your Patronus.”

He turned to Teddy, as if needing visual confirmation that the boy was unharmed. The wand lowered fully. His voice, when it came, was softer. Still strained.

“You alright, Teddy?”

“All good!” Teddy beamed, still in Harry’s arms. “Harry made a puff! And it came out super fast!” The boy fit easily against his chest, already babbling more nonsense, completely unbothered now that Draco wasn’t yelling.

“He liked the spell,” Harry said. “Maybe you could show him yours sometime. I hear it’s good for calming nerves.”

Draco didn’t answer. He was watching the Patronus, which hadn’t vanished like it normally did—it hovered near the ceiling, its glow gentler now, almost warm. Then, as if of its own accord, it circled Draco once, slow and deliberate. Something passed over his face: not fear, not embarrassment. Wonder. 

It walked toward him, one slow step at a time, like it understood the quietness he needed. Draco didn’t move, didn’t breathe, until it stood inches from him. Its nose dipped once, respectfully, before pressing gently against his chest, and Draco’s eyes fluttered closed. He breathed in—one long, steadying breath—and Harry watched as the tension in his jaw eased.

The warmth wasn’t physical. Not really.

But it reached through him anyway.

For a heartbeat, the tension in his spine relented. His shoulders dropped. His fists loosened.

He let his eyes close. And then, just like that, the Patronus dissolved—smoke curling against his collarbone, disappearing into the shadows.

Draco stayed there, eyes closed, for a few seconds longer than necessary. Then he exhaled. Behind him, he could hear Harry padding softly down the hallway, Teddy’s gentle babbling trailing behind.

“Rough day?” Harry asked, his voice quiet.

Draco hadn’t turned around yet. “They all are.”

“Next time,” he said, “I’ll warn you about the Patronus.”

“Next time?”

Harry’s voice lowered. “It calmed you.”

Draco hesitated, then nodded.

“Then there’ll be a next time.”

Draco didn’t answer. Not with words. But he leaned, just slightly, into the space Harry offered beside him. It was enough.

Chapter Text

Harry stepped into the kitchen, his gaze taking in the immediate chaos. It was a disaster, but a wave of relief washed over him when he realized it was Draco’s fault. That alone was a surprise, as Draco rarely woke up before noon on weekends. The stove was left on, a pot lay overturned on the floor, its contents — some kind of sauce — splattered across the tiles. Ted, meanwhile, sat gleefully in the sink, soaking his pajamas again as he giggled and toggled the faucet on and off. The kettle on the counter shrieked, signaling it had boiled, yet Draco stood frozen, wand pointed at it as if the innocent appliance had a history of randomly casting spells in kitchen utensils.

"This bloody thing is threatening me. How do I turn it off?" Draco demanded, his eyes wide and fixed on the kettle, only now acknowledging Harry's presence.

"Seriously? Aren't you worried the kettle will get offended if you turn it off?" Harry's voice was a blend of dry sarcasm and suppressed frustration.

"I know... it seems the situation got out of control," Draco admitted, finally meeting Harry's green eyes, his expression softening as he registered Harry's reaction. He calmly lowered his wand, though he still eyed the kettle with deep suspicion as he stepped away.

"But...?" Harry prompted, waiting for the inevitable follow-up.

"That's it." Draco offered a helpless shrug. Then he remembered there was still a child splashing in the sink, and his eyes widened. He rushed over to pull Ted out.

"Draco, have I ever told you that you're good at cooking?" Harry asked, walking calmly to the whistling kettle. With the practiced ease of someone performing a thousand mundane chores, he flicked off the hob. He then picked up his own red mug, emblazoned with a lion.

"No, actually, you always say I'm awful," Draco retorted, a soaked Teddy in his hands.

"Exactly," Harry said, a sarcastic grin playing on his lips, his green eyes glinting mischievously as they met Draco's grey ones.

"You know, I like your sarcasm. It's very Slytherin," Draco muttered, sounding genuinely put out, though with Draco, it was always hard to tell if it was true annoyance or just his usual dramatics.

"Anyway, it's five in the morning. What are you doing awake?"

Draco waved his wand, and instantly Ted's soaking pajamas were dry. Harry made a mental note to try and memorize the movements later; he could never recall the drying charm when he needed it.

"Teddy woke me up saying I was the best and kissing me, and then asked for—" Draco interrupted himself, giving Ted a playful glare. "Little monster! You just wanted pancakes."

“Dwaco’s best!” Teddy smiled.

It was always a great weekend, even at five in the morning when they were already loud and energetic. As if the noise still wasn't enough, Draco turned on the radio as usual. It was still too early, and the music wasn't to his liking. "The Weird Sisters." It wasn't Harry's favorite band, but the band that played at the Yule Ball had a certain nostalgia. Plus, their songs had a lively rhythm and catchy, repetitive lyrics that stuck in your head like gum.

"Merlin, I hate this song," Draco grumbled, rolling his eyes.

"They were pretty famous when we were younger," Harry explained to Ted, who was smiling and changing his hair colors to the rhythm of the music. He seemed to like it.

"Don't talk like we're old," Draco said, giving him a playful shove. As the chorus repeated for the third time, he rolled his eyes. "By Salazar, the lyrics don't even make sense."

"But you have to admit it's catchy," Harry commented, animated.

"The plague was catchy, that doesn't make it good."

Harry let out a laugh, adding sugar to his tea. He hummed along with the radio, feeling Draco's judging gaze, he wasn’t sure if it was for the song or the sugar; maybe both.

"I want tea too!" Ted demanded, seeing he was the only one drinking milk.

The adults exchanged a look of shared understanding before nodding their agreement. The song ended while Draco blew on Ted's tea, trying to cool it down. Then, as if hearing Draco's complaints, Glenda's voice, his favorite singer, resonated through the radio, and he smiled.

"You like Glenda, don't you?" Harry asked, his voice a little softer than before.

Draco rolled his eyes, a familiar exasperation on his face. "You know I'm gay."

Harry took a step back, blinking. "I'm not sure what my question has to do with it."

"Oh, so you don't know." Draco sounded genuinely surprised, tilting his head slightly. "It's pretty common knowledge that gay wizards like her.”

"Mrs. Weasley likes her," Harry countered, his brow furrowed.

"Well, not only gay wizards like her," Draco conceded with a shrug. "Glenda's a good singer."

Harry took a few quick, nervous sips of his tea, the ceramic warm against his clammy hands. He debated whether to speak, his mind racing. But the sudden quiet, broken only by Glenda's soothing melody, felt like a spotlight, making this the only possible moment.

"I like it," he declared, the words pushing past a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. His hands, still clutching the red mug, felt strangely sweaty. He quickly set it down on the table, afraid his grip might fail.

Draco paused, his brows furrowed in a slight frown. "Hm?" He seemed genuinely unsure if he'd misheard or if the abrupt, vague statement had simply caught him off guard.

"Glenda," Harry clarified, his gaze fixed on Draco. "I like her music."

"Good for you," Draco said, turning his face away with a dismissive shrug, as if Harry had merely commented on the weather. He resumed blowing on Ted's tea. "I'm not changing the station."

Harry frowned. He wasn't sure if Draco hadn't paid attention to the declaration, or if he'd simply dismissed it as a casual comment without understanding the deeper meaning. Harry said nothing else for the rest of breakfast, which didn't spoil the pleasant mood at all, with Ted arguing about how he should be allowed to eat more chocolate – he was starting to sound very convincing – and Draco pretending to listen while quietly humming along to the song.

It was past midnight when Harry heard the footsteps again.

Same as every night. That same quiet ritual Draco repeated every night: the check of locks, the murmur of spells, the pacing in the corridor like he could walk the fear out of his bones. There was a rhythm to it now, as familiar as Teddy’s breathing.

Harry sat up, awake, but didn’t follow. Tonight, he’d try a different approach, so he rose quietly, took his wand from the nightstand, and summoned the Patronus.

This time, Harry hadn’t even needed to concentrate. The memory had come on its own: Draco, quiet at the kitchen table that morning, reading the paper upside down while Teddy sang to his toast. A faint smirk, one bare foot resting on Harry’s. Domestic. Real.

The stag burst quietly into the darkness, radiant and composed, its light soft as breath. Without needing direction, it padded into the corridor.  The Patronus didn’t need orders. It knew . It wanted what Harry wanted. To protect. To comfort. To stay.

There was a pause—then the familiar creak of floorboards near Draco’s door, followed by a soft sigh.

He knew Draco didn’t want him there during these moments of silence and fragility, but maybe this could be accepted. Maybe the Patronus could speak for him in a way he couldn’t.

Draco was standing in the hallway, wand in hand, jaw tense, as if waiting for something to go wrong. He’d been looping the corridor again, trying to outpace the weight in his chest, as if exhaustion could be tricked by movement. When the glow reached him, he stopped mid-step, blinking as the stag slowed and approached.

“Oh, what now?” he muttered, dry and automatic. “Come to drag me to bed, have you?” The corner of his mouth twitched, a tired ghost of his usual smirk.

The Patronus didn’t answer. Of course it didn’t. But it moved forward, quiet and steady, like it understood . It stepped forward, deliberate and calm, and bowed its head. 

“The Patronus has better manners than he,” he mumbled.

He stayed still as the stag pressed its silvery nose gently against his chest. And just like that—like the flick of a switch—the tightness in his spine loosened. His breathing slowed. Like some constant noise in his mind suddenly stopped.

He looked toward the door of his bedroom, then back to the Patronus, which stood watching him, unmoving but somehow expectant.

“Well,” he muttered, voice lower now, “I suppose I should take the hint.”

He turned and stepped back into the bedroom, barefoot, shoulders a little lower. The stag followed him in and stood near the bed, casting its soft, silver light across the floorboards and up the walls. Draco sat on the edge of the mattress for a moment, wand resting in his lap. 

Draco sat in his bed and looked at the uninvited animal. He studied the creature—this impossible thing made of memory and intention and light. It stood in the doorway like a guard, soft and silent. Its soft glow spilled over the sheets, over the walls, over Draco’s face as he sat on the edge of the mattress, hands slack in his lap.

He didn't know what he'd expected. Of course, he could sense Harry’s mind working fiercely, trying to solve this problem like every other. He tried to guess what it would be, a lecture, maybe. A confrontation. A misguided attempt at fixing him with action or words. That was Harry’s usual way—impulsive, loud, present . Not this. Not something that offered protection without pressure. That asked nothing. That simply stayed.

Draco exhaled, then added, quieter still, “I’m tired.”

The glow pulsed gently in reply, as if it understood.

Draco eased under the covers. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep.

The Patronus didn’t leave. It stood sentinel just inside the doorway, casting gentle silver light across the room, just enough to keep the shadows from creeping in. . But with the Patronus there—silent, steady, unmoving—he finally let himself close his eyes. Draco had curled toward it in sleep, his features more peaceful than they had been in days. No twitch of panic in his brow. No tension in his hands. Just breathing, slow and deep.

That night, for the first time in weeks, Draco slept through until morning. Not lightly. Not in fits and starts.

Truly slept.

Harry had just woken up when he heard the footsteps and frowned, concerned. The noise sounded too light to be an adult footstep, but it was too early for Teddy to wake up. He wasn’t surprised when a soft tap sounded on the door, revealing a little boy with blue hair and yellow pajamas.

"You're awake!" Ted exclaimed, surprised.

"That's my line," Harry chuckled softly.

"Don't tell Dwaco, please, don't tell," Ted rushed out.

Harry's gaze dropped to the wet blanket Ted dragged and his dripping pajamas. Ted’s face finally showed his worry, and Harry understood. The room was bright with the rising sun, and Harry tried to stay calm, not wanting to upset Ted further.

“Hey,” he said gently, “it’s alright, kid. Did Draco yell at you, or… did he get mad about it?”

"No," Ted stated, frowning as if the idea was absurd. His voice was still tearful. "He makes sad face and says he's sorry. I don't want Daddy sad."

Harry was speechless. Ted was right; neither of them wanted to make Draco sad. But it wasn't fair for Ted to carry that burden, to pretend everything was fine. Harry considered hiding it from Draco, but he knew Ted's anxiety stemmed from Draco's reactions. 

The sun was rising behind the curtains, casting the room in soft gold, and Harry tried not to let the weight of it all show. It wasn’t just about wet pajamas. It was about Draco’s unraveling. About how a two-year-old was already learning to tiptoe around someone else’s sadness.

It wasn’t fair.

Lying to Ted wouldn't work; the boy was too perceptive. Harry was proud of Ted's maturity, so much like Remus, but sometimes he wished Ted could just be a carefree child.

"I wonder if it's good that you're so smart," Harry murmured, pulling the boy into a hug, needing to hide his own sad expression now.

"Being smart is good, Auntie 'Mione told me," Ted said with unwavering conviction, as if Hermione's word was law – which, in a way, it soon would be.

"You're right."

Harry cast a cleaning charm, but realizing he didn't know a drying spell, he led Ted to his bathroom to take a bath. And the kid didn’t argue to wearing trousers for the first time. The cold London winter made him want dry trousers too, despite his warming charm on the house.

As Harry tucked him into a blanket on the sofa a few minutes later, warm and dry, with toast crumbs already forming a constellation on his jumper, Harry glanced toward the hallway.

Draco was still asleep. Probably.

But even in sleep, his grip on the world had started to slip. And Harry could feel the quiet cost of it now— here , sitting next to him. In Teddy, already adapting.

He ruffled the boy’s hair, fingers lingering just a moment longer. It was getting harder to pretend he could do it alone.

“What are you two doing awake?” Draco asked as he stepped into the house.

The lights in the living room were still on. He’d come home earlier than usual—but still far too late for Teddy to be up. Harry offered a sheepish smile, only now realizing he’d completely lost track of time watching television. He didn’t even notice Teddy hadn’t gone to bed.

Draco sighed, visibly irritated, and shot Harry a disapproving look. Harry glanced at the blue-haired boy beside him, who was happily painting—with his hands, mostly. His tiny palms were stained with color, and so was the floor, his clothes, and even his cheeks. But the real damage was on the wall. Red, blue, yellow—and the questionable blends of all three—decorated the wallpaper in a chaotic pattern of smeared handprints and abstract smudges.

Draco walked calmly over to a cupboard beside the bookshelf, pulled out a potion vial, and took a long sip before speaking again.

“Harry, why are there tiny handprints on the wall?”

Harry leaned down toward the boy and whispered, “Why are there tiny handprints on the wall?”

“Because I have tiny hands,” Teddy answered simply, never looking up from his masterpiece.

Harry nodded thoughtfully, then turned back to Draco. “He has tiny hands.”

“You’d better clean this,” Draco said flatly, clearly unimpressed. Harry opened his mouth to retort he already would, but was interrupted by Teddy’s proud voice.

“I finished my drawing!” the boy declared, holding up the paper for inspection.

Both adults looked over. It was a bold attempt at an underwater scene—blue all over, with fish-like blobs and possibly an octopus in the middle. There were even some seaweed-like strokes—green, or something vaguely greenish. It was a mess, but a vibrant, joyful one.

“Is that supposed to be an octopus?” Draco asked, squinting as he crouched down beside it.

“Jellyfish,” Harry corrected.

“You drew that?” Draco didn’t try to hide his surprise.

“Maybe,” Harry said, avoiding eye contact. “You must be starving,” quickly, using the moment to send Teddy a meaningful look—a reminder of their earlier deal.

Right on cue, Teddy straightened up. “I’ll get Draco’s dinner! And he has to eat all of it,” he announced with great importance, already dashing toward the kitchen. The bowl had been strategically left on the table earlier.

Draco sighed, catching on to the conspiracy. He knew his appetite had been fading since the kidnapping, but he didn’t want it becoming a subject of discussion.

“I told you, I’m fine.”

“Does the potion make you lose your appetite?” Harry asked, ignoring the deflection.

“A little.”

“And you’re going to keep taking it?”

“Yes. It’s not killing me. Unfortunately,” Draco added with a short, dry laugh.

But Harry—like Blaise before him—didn’t seem to appreciate the joke. Draco raised an eyebrow at their mutual lack of taste.

“What is it with you two and your allergy to dark humor?” he muttered under his breath.

He took another sip from the nearly empty vial and wiped his mouth casually. Harry, who had been watching with quiet attention, noticed the red smear on Draco’s sleeve. Something about the color struck him immediately.

“What’s that on your coat?”

“Oh. Just blood,” Draco said offhandedly, only now seeming to notice the dried stain.

“ Just blood?”

“Relax. It’s not mine.”

Draco grabbed the fork and started twirling the noodles in the bowl. Thanks to a charm, the food was still warm, and he appreciated that small mercy. He seemed entirely unconcerned by Harry’s growing alarm.

“ What do you mean it’s not yours?!” Harry cried, running a hand through his messy black hair.

“It means it belongs to someone else,” Draco replied blandly, making a face at Harry’s tone.

“What did you do ?” Harry pressed, eyebrows raised in alarm. “I’m going to have to confirm your alibi, you know. Just tell me what to say.”

“You think I killed someone?”

“You didn’t?” Harry blinked.

“I’m a Healer, Potter,” Draco said, sounding genuinely insulted. “Blood isn’t exactly shocking. And when I do kill someone, I won’t be leaving blood on my clothes like an amateur.”

Before Harry could reply, Teddy appeared in front of Draco with the bowl in hand, his face glowing with pride.

“Here it is! Are you gonna eat it?”

“Of course,” Draco said with a sigh, forcing a smile. He downed the rest of the potion, wiped his mouth again—completely unfazed about smearing whatever Harry was convinced was lipstick—and took the bowl with one hand while ruffling Teddy’s hair with the other.

Harry, still watching, noticed the faint redness around Draco’s lips again. The kind of red that didn’t look like a flush. He stared, fascinated. Draco always looked like that—sharp, collected, annoying—but also infuriatingly composed. Even now, in visibly worn robes, hair tousled and half-falling into his eyes, he looked better put together than Harry did in his own house.

“I’m still stuck on the when and not if ,” Harry muttered, not even sure if he meant it as a joke.

Draco just smirked, like he was proud of that reaction.

The healer’s outfit—deep green under robes with the hospital emblem—hung neatly despite the long day, and the way Draco leaned casually against the wall made Harry suddenly self-conscious of his own old jumper and sweatpants.

Still, Draco watched him too. Watched the way Harry was watching him.

“What?” Draco asked, tilting his head slightly. “Something on my face?”

“No,” Harry said, voice lower now. “Can’t I just look at you?”

A beat passed. Then Draco gave a soft, wicked smile.

“Well,” he said, eyes gleaming, “beautiful things are meant to be looked at.”

Harry rolled his eyes—but he was smiling too.

It had been a week since Blaise returned to Hogwarts.

He never thought he’d set foot in the castle again, yet here he was. Officially, he was only meant to recover and lie low while waiting for the trial. But by the second day—restless and thoroughly bored—he started shadowing Neville, helping with the basic tasks of professor-slash-gardener life.

Saturdays were usually quiet in the castle, with most students gone to Hogsmeade. But Neville’s quarters weren’t silent—not because of children, but because of one woman.

Pansy Parkinson had come to visit.

When she was directed to the room, she found only Neville there. Blaise had gone up to the Owlery to send a letter—likely to Draco, since he knew Pansy would be visiting.

Neville, trying to appear unfazed, kept himself busy preparing Blaise’s daily potion. Technically, Blaise no longer needed it, but Neville insisted. “A little extra healing never hurts,” he always said. Blaise claimed he was fine, but Neville knew better.

Pansy sat on the arm of a nearby chair, silently observing. Neville could feel her eyes on him—sharp, curious—and he couldn’t deny that part of him was still a little afraid of her. He found himself glancing at the door more than once, willing Blaise to come back.

“You worried about the potion?” Neville asked, trying to break the silence.

“I don’t know anything about that,” she replied, tone cool but watchful. “But I trust whatever you’re doing. I don’t think you’ve got the spine to poison anyone.”

“I don’t,” Neville said calmly. “And honestly, with the effort it takes to get him to take it, a hex would be easier.”

Pansy’s mouth curved into a smile, faint but genuine. “Fair point.”

She sipped the drink Neville had poured her earlier, and he hoped—for one blissful second—that the conversation was over. But then she spoke again, quieter now, and with something like fondness in her voice.

“You know he’s not like this with anyone else, right?”

Neville glanced up.

“I mean it,” Pansy went on, her eyes still fixed on her glass. “You think this is him being difficult, but trust me—this is tame. He doesn’t open up to people. He doesn’t stay with people.”

Neville frowned, confused. “I’m giving him space, I mean, he has his own room.”

“Yes, but he’s spending an awful amount of time with you, right?” Pansy asked, already guessing the truth.  “Moreover, he’s not using magic yet, so that means he’s not locking his room.” 

Neville was unsure what to do with that information. He and Blaise had only started talking a few months ago, back when Blaise was still in the hospital. Most of their conversations were surface-level—about potions, treatment schedules, old Hogwarts gossip. He liked Blaise and considered him a friend, but he was certain it wasn’t reciprocated.

“Look,” Pansy said. “I’m not trying to make anything weird. I just think you should know that the things Blaise does now—the ones that seem small to you? They aren’t.”

“I wasn’t taking it for granted.”

“No, I know,” she said quickly, surprising him. “You’ve been... careful with him. I can see that. But it’s easy to overlook how hard this actually is for him. You think it’s annoying that he’s being difficult about taking your potions, but you probably don’t know he’s never drunk anything unless it was made by Draco.”

Neville said nothing, the words landing heavier than he expected.

“I’ve known him forever,” Pansy said. “It took him two years to even acknowledge me. He doesn’t trust people or let anyone care for him. He used to sleep with his wand under the pillow and lock every door twice. If he felt someone was getting too close, he’d disappear for weeks. Draco and I are all he has.”

Neville swallowed. He remembered the hospital. How Blaise had flinched from the lightest touch, how he’d snarled at kindness like it was a trap. But still let Neville help him dress. Still took the potions Neville made—even if reluctantly. Still moved into his rooms when he had nowhere else to go.

“But you think…” Neville began slowly. “You think he’s letting me in.”

“I think,” she said, eyes meeting his, “it scares the hell out of him.”

He thought of the way Blaise never quite met his eyes when he was vulnerable, the way his fingers trembled before he picked up the cup each night. How he let himself be seen, if only just.

“I didn’t know,” he said honestly. “I didn’t realize—any of that.”

“That’s why I’m saying it,” Pansy replied. “Because he won’t. And I don’t expect him to be okay with me telling you any of this. But I’d rather he be mad at me than watch him push someone else away when he’s finally got someone who’s safe.”

He was still sorting through what to say when Blaise finally walked in.

He had an uncanny talent for reading a room. One glance was all it took to position himself directly between Neville and Pansy. From Neville’s side, all he could see was Blaise’s back—but he could hear the irritation in his voice.

“What did you tell him, Parkinson?”

Pansy didn’t even blink. She sipped from her glass like this was just another Slytherin common room spat. “So little faith in your dear friend,” she said airily. “I don’t bully people… anymore .”

Blaise let out a quiet breath, sharp enough to be a sigh but not quite defeated. He turned to Neville then, not close enough to crowd him, never too close , but close enough to read him. His gaze flicked over Neville’s face, then down to his hands, as if checking for damage he couldn’t name.

“Whatever she said,” Blaise muttered, “ignore it.”

“She only told me about how you were back at Hogwarts.” It wasn’t a lie, not exactly. It just left out the part where Neville finally started to understand him.

Blaise’s eyes narrowed, skeptical. “I could’ve told you that myself.”

Pansy smirked faintly. “I guess I’m just better at gossip.”

That pulled a huff of breath from Blaise—too sharp to be a laugh, too fond to be annoyance. But he didn’t argue. He sat down slowly, with a kind of grace people often mistook for arrogance. 

“Parkinson, you are the worst guest.”

“And you’re the worst host,” she chirped back sweetly, lifting her now-empty glass. “Where’s the wine?”

Maybe Pansy had gotten a little too excited with the wine, because half an hour later she was draped across the leather armchair like royalty in exile, bottle long gone and posture decidedly less refined.

“Anyway,” she declared suddenly, gesturing grandly with her glass, “I’m just saying, if they can put one man on the moon, why not all of them?”

Blaise gave her a look. “I think you should start carrying a plant with you.”

“…What does that have to do with anything I said?”

“Nothing,” Blaise replied dryly. “Just figured someone should replenish the oxygen you burn by existing.”

Neville looked slightly alarmed at the comment. It was clearly aggressive, despite the smile that accompanied it. Pansy smiled back, and it was hard to tell whether the two were still friends or full-blown enemies. Either way, Neville’s mouth opened without permission, as if driven by a teacher’s instinct to correct misinformation—or maybe just a desire to ease the tension.

“Actually, while plants do produce oxygen, they also consume it. So technically, a small plant wouldn’t replenish your oxygen. Only a large tree produces enough for two people.”

“That is so nerdy and a total buzzkill, but somehow exactly what I expected you to say,” Pansy replied, nodding to herself as she reached for the bottle to refill her glass.

“You should be grateful his dozen plants are replenishing your oxygen.” Blaise retorted.

“You two are great friends,” Neville remarked, a mix of amusement and disbelief in his voice as he watched their interaction.

“I’m not so sure,” Blaise muttered, frowning in Pansy’s direction.

“You love me,” she said matter-of-factly. “We even made a pact. If we’re still single by thirty—”

She paused to take another sip, and Neville, somewhat amused, finished for her, “You’d marry each other?”

She nearly choked on her drink. “Merlin, no. If we’re single by thirty, we duel to the death. And whoever wins offs themselves in solidarity. Romance is dead.”

Neville opened his mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again. He looked like a man trying to solve a riddle that had turned into a moral dilemma.

“But… thirty’s not that old,” he offered at last. “Plenty of people are still single.”

“Exactly!” Pansy exclaimed. “That’s the point. To die young and beautiful. But Blaise is trying to chicken out of our glorious, tragic ending.”

It was well known—and worth repeating—that Pansy lost what little filter she had when she drank. And she had clearly passed that threshold.

“Pansy, it’s time to go home,” Blaise said, rising and reaching for her glass.

She twisted away, clutching it like a holy relic. “Blas, I’m helping . Don’t go after the Gryffindork’s poor heart just ‘cause you want to run away from our duel.”

She pointed directly at Neville, who was now watching her with growing concern. She wasn’t just tipsy—her posture had shifted, her tone unfamiliar. Loose, exaggerated. Like a costume of herself.

“Pansy,” Blaise warned, his patience thinning.

“Just one more sip,” she insisted, retreating toward the bookshelf—barely catching herself with a hand on the edge.

Neville stood quickly. “This stuff is strong. I wouldn’t have given it to you if I knew…”

“Let me finish and I’ll go,” she promised.

Then she downed it. All of it. And smiled at Blaise—soft, lopsided—before her hand let go of the glass, and her body followed.

Neville had seen it coming. He stepped forward just in time to catch her before she hit the floor.

“Sorry about the glass,” Blaise said.

“It’s not a problem.”

Carefully, he bent down, sliding one arm under her knees and the other behind her back. He lifted her with surprising ease and carried her to the nearest bed, laying her down gently. He wondered where he’d sleep now, but that didn’t matter. He couldn’t send her home like this.

Neville hesitated. He thought about saying something—about the drinking, the recklessness—but the words felt heavy in his throat. Would Blaise take it as judgment?

He didn’t know where he’d sleep now that Pansy was there, well… There was an extra bed, but now it was Blaise, and he wouldn’t invite himself over. Plus, he could spend one night on the couch. It didn’t matter. He couldn’t send her home like this.

“I didn’t tell Neville everything,” Pansy murmured. Her voice was slurred but steady enough. She hadn’t realized Neville was still in the room.

“You can tell me now,” he said softly. “Tell me what you know about Blaise.”

She turned her face into the pillow. “I know he hates sweets. Likes flowers. Hasn’t been back to Zabini Manor since he was fourteen…”

Neville held his breath. He didn’t know that. He didn’t think he had the right to be told that. He’d sensed something—when he mentioned Blaise’s mother, the way Blaise went cold—but not this.

Her voice lowered to a near-whisper.

“I know he lets Draco touch his wounds, and lets you sit beside him while he sleeps. And I know that means something. But I don’t know why it means something.”

Neville stared at the potion still in his hand. “I didn’t think he’d ever let me help. But he did. Eventually.”

“Yeah,” Pansy said faintly. “Eventually is kind of how it goes with him.”

The door creaked.

“I did the dishes,” Blaise said from behind them. His voice was quiet. “I’ll take care of her.”

Pansy looked still. Sleeping. But at the sound of his voice, her hand reached out, blindly searching toward the sound.

“Blas,” she mumbled.

Blaise’s face softened. He stepped closer, offering a sad smile that he quickly tried to make look more casual before glancing back at Neville.

“Yes, Pans,” Blaise said, softer than Neville had ever heard, especially with Pansy. 

Neville couldn’t even be annoyed. This was Blaise, after all. He had trusted Neville with his life—but handing over Pansy, drunk and unconscious, wasn’t something that came easily. Despite how open Blaise could seem, the distance between them was still there. That invisible line Blaise always kept just out of reach. The more Neville tried to cross it, the more Blaise seemed to retreat.

Blaise stayed in the room for some time, making sure Pansy was sleeping after he stepped back to the small living room/kitchen/dinner room. Neville had cleaned everything up and fixed the glass. 

“Where do you pretend to sleep now, Mr. Gentlemen?” Blaise asks him, almost mocking. 

“You’re best friends, aren’t you?” Neville sounded uncertain. “If you two sleep together in the bed, then I could take the other one.”

Blaise frowned, caught off guard. “What?”

“Just a suggestion.”

Blaise didn’t look at him. “I’m not good at sleeping with people around,” he said after a beat. “In the same space, I mean. In the bed. I just… don’t.”

“Oh,” Neville said, the air soft between them. “Okay.”

He didn’t ask why. He didn’t press. He simply nodded and returned to the couch, adjusting the cushions and reaching for one of the spare blankets. Technically, they had plenty, so transfiguring the armrest into one had been unnecessary—but it gave his hands something to do.

Neville exhaled through his nose as he lay down in the coach. “I’ve transfigured worse.”

“I’ll take the couch,” Blaise said, already starting to move.

“No,” Neville said quickly. “You’re still healing. I’m fine.”

Blaise gave him a pointed look. “And I’m fine enough to argue.”

Neville didn’t budge. “You’re not sleeping on the couch. You’re the one with bandages. Take the bed.”

For a moment, they both sat in silence—Neville arranging his makeshift bedding, Blaise watching him from beneath half-lowered lashes.

“Thanks,” Blaise said suddenly.

Neville glanced up. “For what?”

“You never ask more.”

Neville nodded once. “You’ll tell me when it matters.”

“Eventually,” he murmured, as if answering something unspoken between them.

Neville gave him a small smile.

“Eventually is fine.”

Chapter Text

Harry was fine, and despite being exhausted, he would survive. He managed to stay functional and present, as expected of the Chosen One.

Teddy was safe, sleeping with his fists clenched and his feet sticking out from under the blanket, just as he always did.

Narcissa was able to hold conversations, she was making tea on her own and slowly coming back to herself.

Things were stable. Good, even.

So why, of all people, was it Draco who was breaking?

Draco was frustrated with himself because he couldn't understand why his mind wasn't updating its repertoire; nightmares about Teddy being kidnapped again were becoming predictable.

Teddy crying, with invisible hands dragging him away, and Draco running but unable to reach him.

The mark on his arm aching again.

The house too silent.

The feeling of always being a second too late, always failing.

They were so predictable that Draco already knew which one was coming just by the color of the sky in the dream. Even so, he would wake up trembling. His wand in his hand. His heart pounding.

He tried to rationalize: Teddy is safe. Harry is here. The house has protective spells on every wall. You are not alone.

But his mind didn't seem to comprehend. It was as if he were living in a cursed portrait from weeks ago, trapped in the moment of the kidnapping, the panic, the guilt.

Draco and Harry were sitting in the living room at night, as they always did when the blond wasn't working. Sometimes, they would chat casually about their days; one time, they discussed Quidditch and how Viktor Krum was such a disappointment that season. Most of the time, they just sat in silence, doing their own things, just with each other's company, which was the case this day.

But today's silence wasn't the usual kind; it wasn't light and habitual. Draco ran a hand through the back of his neck, his shoulders tense, his breathing heavy. Harry, who was sitting on the sofa, noticed but kept looking at a Ministry report. Just waiting.

"How do you do it?" Draco asked, out of the blue.

Harry looked up, confused. "Huh?"

"Pretend everything is okay, even when it isn't."

"I don't pretend," he replied. And, seeing Draco's skeptical look, he corrected himself with a tired smile: "Okay, maybe sometimes I try harder than I should. But not because everything is okay. It's because... Teddy wants pancakes, and you're going to set the kitchen on fire if I don't get up soon."

The blond looked at him for a moment longer, as if he were waiting for more, but Harry had nothing else to say. He didn't understand how either, but somehow he could survive anything if he knew he had Teddy and Draco by his side.

"I know things are good. And yet... I keep waking up in the middle of the night, thinking something's going to happen."

Harry nodded slowly. "You know, I always thought the nightmares would go away with Voldemort. But they continued. And they got worse, in a way, because there was no one else to blame anymore. It was just... me."

Draco nodded harder than he needed to, just because that was exactly how he felt, because he was relieved to know that Harry had also felt this way, that someone understood him and didn't judge him, even when he judged himself.

"I tried therapy, you know? Hermione convinced me." Harry smiled, remembering his friend's insistence. "I went once."

"Did it work?"

The brunette shook his head. "I was embarrassed. There were people there who had lost everything. I just... couldn't sleep."

Draco crossed his arms, preparing something sarcastic. "Just failing to fulfill a basic bodily need. Almost childish."

Harry tilted his head, realizing it. When Draco put it that way, it certainly sounded crazy, but at the time, Harry was sure his complaints were unimportant.

"They told me something that stuck with me: sometimes, when everything finally becomes calm, that's when your brain collapses. Because before, it was too busy trying to keep you alive."

Draco went quiet. Then, in a whisper: "What if I never get better?"

"You will," Harry assured him. "I can't promise it'll be quick or easy, but I know it will get better."

Draco let out a small laugh, only because he couldn't help it when he saw Harry smiling. Draco didn't know how to react to that, to someone who put so much faith in him, who saw his best version even in his current broken shell.

"It's hard to believe that right now," Draco confessed.

"I'll repeat it until you do."

Harry was there, so certain, so steady, saying they would face this together as if it were obvious—as if Draco deserved it. As if, even with everything that had been broken, there was still something valuable in him.

It was hard to accept. But even harder was how much he wanted to believe it.

Draco swallowed hard, his eyes fixed on Harry, as if looking for a flaw in it all. A sign that it was a lie. He found nothing.

And then, before he could think too much, he murmured:

"It's late, I'm going to bed." He said it in a hurry, already turning away, but he stopped for a second. "Send the Patronus."

Harry smiled. Even though he had been sending the Stag every night without fail, Draco had never asked for anything. He hadn't complained, so the brunette had continued, but he wasn't sure if it was truly appreciated or if the other man just didn't care enough to ask him to stop.

So now, Harry nodded carefully—like someone who recognized this was important.

"Okay." He stood up slowly, stepping back a little, and took a deep breath. "Then I'll do it right."

Draco was still on the stairs when he heard Harry casting the spell. When he'd told him to do it, he hadn't meant it immediatally, but as always, he had overestimated Harry's intelligence to understand basic things.

He saw the Patronus illuminating the semi-dark house. The comforting feeling filled him without permission. He turned without thinking, his hand already reaching out toward the figure, and he waited for the figure to move and come toward him. When he noticed it didn't look like a stag, and as it approached and slowed, he could make it out.

He looked at Harry, expecting an explanation, but the brunette seemed as surprised as he was.

A peacock.

Not just any peacock, but a magical, spectral, and skeletal peacock, with features that vaguely resembled something draconic. Yet, it was still majestic, beautiful in its strangeness, as if it were born to haunt and enchant at the same time.

The low light, provided only by the window that showed the night sky, made it hard to tell what expression the brunette was wearing.

"What was that?" he finally asked, slowly descending the stairs, each step marking the floor with a light creak.

Harry didn't move.

Draco expected anything—a joke, a denial, an awkward attempt to change the subject. But no, none of that came.

"You know what it was." Harry's voice broke the silence, firm, secure. His green eyes finally lifted, full of a calm that sounded like conviction. "Or are you going to say you didn't notice?"

Draco hesitated, a laugh escaping on reflex, as if his body needed to relieve the sudden pressure in his chest.

"I... I thought I was going crazy," he confessed softly. "Good to know it's not just me."

Every time Harry did or said something that made his heart beat faster, Draco would force himself to rationalize, to convince himself: it's just kindness, just concern. It couldn't be what he wanted. Not with him.

But that—that Patronus—left no room for doubt.

The distance between them vanished in silence until they stood face to face, surrounded by shadow and silver.

Faintly but effectively lit by the moon, the two stood facing each other, staring. Harry had taken a long time to define the color of those eyes; sometimes they seemed completely gray, and other times as blue as the sky. In that moment, they were a perfect balance of the two colors, and he understood what they represented: a stormy ocean. The blue of the water in contrast with a hurricane and a cloudy sky. They conveyed the same feeling, too.

"Are you saying I'm the one going crazy?" Harry tilted his head, a little curious. Draco had never seen him so bold.

"If it's not that, how could you like me? You're either crazy or mistaken."

"Do I have the option of being completely sane and just having bad taste?" Harry joked, a bit sarcastically, as he brought a hand to the pale face and stroked his cheek.

Without reacting to the joke, the blond pulled back, with no expression on his face.

"No one is crazy enough to like a lost cause. I'm... what's left of a real person." He said it like someone repeating a memorized sentence. "I'm broken, and no one wants broken things."

"...shut up," Harry interrupted, his voice low, trying not to sound irritated.

He held Draco's hand and caressed it, seeing that he didn't pull away from the touch. He approached again, but despite that, Draco continued to shake his head.

"You're confused, we've spent too much time together and—"

"Shut up," Harry said, even more softly.

This time, he held the blonde's face with both hands and, without hesitation, sealed his lips with a quick kiss. It was more impulse than a rehearsed gesture. Draco blinked and was silent after that.

"Cast the spell on me," Harry said, his eyes fixed on his.

'What?"

"If I allow it, you can get in. Use Legilimency. I want you to see."

Draco didn't deny or affirm, and Harry took his hand, placing it on his temple. He wasn't thinking straight and blindly spoke the spell, being immersed in the brunette's mind.

The first impression was the light, gentle and soft, but at the same time powerful. A whirlwind of emotions hit him, as if an entire crowd were screaming, the heart were accelerating, and everything were so euphoric, like the fresh wind on his face that made his hair sway. The butterflies in his stomach from flying through an unknown place and performing dangerous maneuvers on a broom in the air.

But in a blink, everything changed. The sound quieted and filled with peace.

Like lying on fresh grass before dawn, watching the sky slowly brighten—the smell of damp pines, the still-weak warmth of the sun. The certainty that there was shelter behind him; he could even feel a lit fireplace.

A place where one could exist without fear.

"That's how you make me feel." Harry’s voice resonated, more gentle than Draco had ever heard. "I love you."

The phrase hit him unexpectedly, and Draco broke the spell with a sudden gasp. He took a step back, like someone trying to escape their own body. His hands trembled, and for a moment, he couldn't face Harry.

Harry felt his heart ache seeing Draco flee, but he couldn't force him to accept his feelings.

However, seeing Harry with shining eyes and undisguised tears falling was what finally broke Draco's last defense. In a second, Draco's arms wrapped around him tightly, almost desperately, as if he wanted to become one, as if he couldn't bear the distance of a single breath.

"You can't just say that," Draco murmured, his voice muffled against Harry's shoulder, trembling. "What am I supposed to do?"

He didn't wait for an answer, seeming quickly decided, and he pulled back just enough to look into Harry's eyes and then kissed him.

It was an urgent, imperfect kiss, without asking for permission. But it was also sincere, loaded with everything Draco couldn't say out loud. A kiss that said 'forgive me,' 'understand me,' 'don't leave.' And Harry responded without hesitation, his fingers sliding through the back of Draco's neck, pulling him closer.

Neither of them tried to say anything else.

The words had been said. What mattered was already there, sealed in the look, in the touch, in the way they breathed together, as if the world around them had disappeared and all that was left was the warmth of one in the other.

And that night, there were no promises or repeated declarations or requests for certainty.

Only the silent comfort of someone who, after getting lost, was finally found.

They fell asleep like that, together, in the middle of the mess, with their faces still wet with tears, their bodies intertwined as if sleep were also a kind of confession.

And deep down, without saying it, both knew: tomorrow didn't matter.

They had that moment.

And that, for the first time, was enough.

The sunbeams invaded the room, its windows bare of curtains. Being woken up that way was almost offensive to Malfoy, but then noticing who was beside him—and remembering that last night hadn’t been a dream—made it worthwhile.

At least this time, he hadn’t been shoved away for lying next to Harry. He was a little warm, his button-down shirt partly undone, his stomach half exposed, but the brunette’s arms didn’t allow much skin to show, nor his head resting on Draco’s chest.

Completely trapped in Harry’s embrace, it was hard to move, but with all that brightness, sleeping was impossible anyway.

Harry lifted his head slowly, and his green eyes—still swollen from sleep and from the tears of the night before—met his. Draco should have guessed he was already awake. They were just… delaying the end of the moment.

“Good morning,” Harry said with a silly smile, as if there were no rush in the world.

Draco averted his gaze to the ceiling. He threw his free arm over his eyes, both to block the light and to hide the sudden flush on his face.

“I wanted to sleep more, damn it… Why aren’t there curtains here?” His voice came out husky, which made Harry’s heart beat faster. 

Even complaining, Draco looked absurdly beautiful—sharp jawline, messy hair, the faintest blush on his cheeks.

Definitely… if you find someone sexy even when they’re whining about nonsense, it can only be love, Harry thought, smiling to himself.

“I like waking up with the sun. Great way not to lose track of time,” he replied, trying to sound logical, but couldn’t resist adding, with a glint in his eyes: “And I get a pretty great view. Windows are amazing.”

Draco frowned, uncovering his eyes just enough to glance at Harry, trying to decipher the comment.

“Don’t Muggles have windows?”

“They do. Just not under the cupboard beneath the stairs.” Harry’s eyes drifted to the window. From there, you could only see the sky, pale and cut by winter clouds. “At least not a big window with such a nice view.”

Draco studied him silently for a second. “You lived in a cupboard under the stairs?”

Harry let out a low chuckle, unashamed. He seemed almost… satisfied with the question. “I like how quickly you catch on,” he said with an admiring smile. 

As if that—that memory, that conversation—didn’t hurt anymore. As if Draco’s presence alone was enough to make it bearable. And maybe it was.

“I’m going to kill your uncles,” Draco said abruptly, sitting up.

He already knew some things: that they’d forced Harry to cook, that they’d hidden the fact he was a wizard, that they never liked him. But every new detail always seemed worse than the last.

“You don’t have to, but I’d be happy if you made lunch today.”

“Harry, I’d die for you, but please, don’t ask me to cook,” Draco said more seriously than necessary.

Harry leaned closer to kiss him—shy about the morning light and the full awareness of what he was doing—but stopped halfway. “I have to go to work.”

“But it’s Saturday,” Draco grumbled, stretching out his arms to reach Harry in vain as he got out of bed.

“I try to avoid working weekends, but it’s hard. I’ll be quick, back by lunch.”

“Wear the black uniform. I like that one better.”

Draco smiled, his eyes gleaming as he settled back against the headboard. Harry’s green eyes flicked to the clock on the dresser, and only then did he remember he really had to go.

Harry opened his small wardrobe—there wasn’t much to keep inside it anyway—and pulled out the black uniform set. A long coat that worked as a cloak, bearing the large M of the Ministry of Magic, along with a shirt with gold details and matching trousers. He didn’t see anything special in the uniform, but could guess Draco liked it because it was form-fitting and black suited him well.

“Draco Malfoy with an Auror uniform fetish?” Harry teased.

“No. I have a fetish for you in uniform,” Draco replied lazily, running his fingers through his hair with a deliberately mischievous expression.

Too shy to accept a cheerful good morning smile, but bold enough to say things like that without batting an eye. Draco Malfoy was still a mystery to Harry Potter.

“You’re good at this flirting thing.”

After a moment’s internal debate, Harry pulled off his pajama shirt, deciding he didn’t have the time to waste on shyness. Then he rushed into his en-suite bathroom in an attempt to hide there.

“Yes. Which is why you need to get better at it—I can’t do all the work.”

“I’m not bad. You’re just hard to flirt with,” Harry called out, louder, unsure if Draco could still hear.

“What’s hard is flirting with you , since you never get it.”

Harry cracked the door open and poked his head out, toothbrush in his mouth, foam around his lips, but not caring how he looked—he just wanted to see Draco’s face. And despite the accusatory words, Draco’s cheeks were completely red. The moment he realized he’d been caught, he threw a pillow over his face, and Harry tried not to burst out laughing.

They froze for a second when hesitant knocks sounded on the bedroom door. Both knew it could only be Teddy. Draco reacted dramatically, as expected: he jumped up, nearly tripping over the rug, dashed to the bathroom, and shoved Harry inside as though trying to salvage his own reputation.

“Why are you acting like I’m your lover and your wife just came home?” Harry asked, laughing.

“Because you know Teddy repeats absolutely everything he sees,” Draco shot back, pulling the bathroom door half shut. “And I’m not in the mood to be the subject at the next Weasley family lunch. Again.”

Harry sighed, but admitted he had a point, and went to open the door.

The little boy on the other side was so lost in his own problem that, as soon as the door opened, he kept his head down. He clutched his blanket to his chest, his feet bare, his hair a pale gray, tousled from sleep.

“Said I wouldn’t… but I wet the bed again… don’ tell Duaco.”

Draco hadn’t heard Teddy jumble his words like that in a while—but the tears explained the garbled speech.

“It’s alright.” Harry scooped him up, trying to soothe him. He murmured a spell, and everything was instantly clean again. “See? All better.”

From the bathroom, Draco—who had been determined not to get involved—stepped closer but lingered at the doorway. The only reason Teddy couldn’t see him as Harry held him facing away from the blond.
Harry just shot him a look that said: come here, you know you need to.
Draco hesitated, as if waging an internal duel. Part of him screamed stay hidden , but another part reminded him Teddy probably needed him.

“Why can’t I know?” he asked finally, deciding to drop the disguise for a greater good.

Teddy turned toward the voice. When he saw Draco there, his eyes widened and his hair shifted from gray to pink in seconds, embarrassed at being caught.
The boy followed the familiar voice and only then realized Draco was in the room. “Duaco?”

“Well?” Draco raised a brow as Teddy shrank against Harry’s chest.

“Don’ wanna make you sad…” he whispered. And that destroyed Draco’s composure.

“I don’t—” Draco cut himself off, glancing at Harry, who was now watching him with a soft, welcoming expression.

He knew then what he had to do. Without another word, he embraced the little boy.

“You can always tell me, Teddy. You don’t need to hide it. We’ll fix it together, alright?”
Teddy squeezed him tighter, his little arms trembling with all the strength he had.

“Sorry…”

“I’m sorry too. I worried you. But now it’s all fine.”

Draco smiled, feeling how much simpler everything became once the problem was solved. The moment he spoke, the boy pulled back from the hug and gave him a curious look, already smiling as if ready with his next question.

“Did Hawwy give your heart back?”

“Hm?” Draco frowned, confused, searching for the brunette—who scratched his neck, clearly debating whether to explain.

“I think Teddy overheard one of your conversations with Pansy… apparently, I took your heart.”

“Oh, you eavesdrop too much, little monster.” Draco ruffled his now-blue hair, then cast Harry a mischievous look. “But to answer your question… I decided to just take Harry’s heart in return.”

Harry laughed, shaking his head in denial, his cheeks slightly red, before disappearing into the bathroom, towel hanging over his arm.

Chapter Text

Harry was visibly nervous, something Ron chalked up to the interview scheduled for later that morning—not that it was the first time Harry had appeared in the Daily Prophet. Still, he had arrived already on edge, and as the morning went on, his energy only seemed to spike.

What Ron couldn’t quite figure out was why anyone would be that wound up while working on a Saturday morning.

Being nosy by nature, Ron tried to ask, but Harry only looked at him in confusion, as if he hadn’t even noticed how different he seemed. In truth, the answer was fairly obvious. There was only one thing that made Harry act like this these days, and unlike back at Hogwarts, it wasn’t Quidditch.

“Maybe I’ll regret asking this, but… are you and Draco together?”

The question came so suddenly that Harry just stared at him. He hadn’t yet thought about how to tell his friends—not that it was a secret. He’d already admitted he liked Draco, and he knew they only wanted the best for him. That didn’t mean Ron would be thrilled to hear more updates.

Besides, was there even anything to tell?

Sure, he’d said he liked Draco, but… were they dating? If it were up to Harry, they would be married. But it was a two-way street, and Harry didn't want to presume anything about Draco's feelings. Then again, maybe it was so obvious that Draco would just laugh if asked if they were "official."

 While Harry spiraled in thought, Ron kept talking:

“I mean, it’s kind of ridiculous. You live together, you like each other… unfortunately. You know, I still cling to the hope that you’ll one day tell me this is all some elaborate prank.”

“Me pretending to like him for like a year?”

“A really elaborate prank,” Ron emphasized. 

“We sleep together,” Harry cut in, perfectly aware of the double meaning.

He really had meant sleep—literally—but he knew that wasn’t how Ron would take it.

“Already regret asking.”

Harry chuckled. “Also, I told him I loved him.”

Ron dragged a hand down his face, as if trying to scrape his own brain out. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

Harry opened his mouth to explain how it had happened—though he was fairly sure Ron would prefer to be spared the details—when the door swung open to reveal Robards, the Head Auror.

“The reporters are ready, Potter.”

Ron gave Harry’s shoulder a supportive squeeze as he walked past. Harry tried not to dwell on it, but he knew it would be stressful to speak about the Neo-Death Eaters. Of course, he’d been chosen to be the face of the operation—he was Harry Potter, after all—so he would have to give the interview. At least his boss would be there to back him up.

He entered the room full of journalists and narrowed his eyes at the sight of Skeeter. She quickly looked away; she knew perfectly well she wasn’t welcome.

Harry drew a deep breath as he sat down, forcing himself into a professional expression.

“Good morning. One week after the Hastings attacks, the Aurors are coming forward to assure the public that we are taking all necessary measures to ensure the community’s safety.”

He could feel dozens of eyes on him. There was no room to falter. His voice stayed steady as he went on:

“The attacks were made by a group called Neo-Death Eaters, but they are nowhere near the size or power of the original group. The situation is under the Ministry’s control.”

He was trying to reassure the public—just as he had been instructed.

“But is it true they carried out other attacks beyond Hastings?” a reporter in the third row asked. “This morning, politician Ernesto Burckle claimed his home was broken into three months ago. And yesterday, Vivianne Zabini spoke about the attack on her son, Blaise Zabini.”

Harry shot a glance at Robards. The attacks had been investigated, yes, but there was no definitive evidence yet; moreover, they wanted to keep it secret for as long as possible. Still, contradicting an influential public figure or a well-known family would only stir more trouble.

“That’s correct,” he said after a brief pause. “They were responsible for those two attacks, as well as a kidnapping, in addition to Hastings. But most of the perpetrators are already in custody awaiting trial.”

Quills scratched frantically across parchment. Then another hand shot up, the Quibbler’s insignia gleaming on the reporter’s vest.

“Will the Aurors be releasing a list of the criminals?”

“It will be made public on the trial date next month,” Harry replied, relieved to finally answer a straightforward question.

Another hand rose, this time from a paper Harry didn’t recognize.

“Mr. Potter, is it true the Neo-Death Eaters were behind the abduction of Edward Lupin, your godson? Would you consider this a direct attack on you personally?”

Harry nodded, jaw tight.

“Yes. On the same day as the Hastings attack, they took advantage of my absence from the field. Their exact motivations are still under investigation.”

He avoided saying the real reason—vengeance against Draco. That would likely surface during the trial, but he wasn’t about to put Draco in the media’s crosshairs now.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t so lucky. The next question came from Rita Skeeter, of course:

“Would you say the kidnapping was only possible because the other guardian, Mr. Malfoy, failed to take proper care?”

Harry exhaled sharply through his nose before answering.

“It was a premeditated attack by a criminal group. Blaming Draco would be like faulting a victim for being attacked, and despite your narrow perspective, I believe you understand how absurd it is to hold parents responsible for such crimes.”

Her brows arched, smug, as if she’d caught exactly what she wanted. “Such an interesting choice of words, Potter. Are you saying Malfoy is one of Edward’s parents… and you’re the other?”

“I don’t see how that’s relevant,” Harry answered, his tone clipped and icy.

“But the readers certainly think so. Many already wonder if Malfoy’s mere presence might be, shall we say… a danger to the child.”

“That’s not—” Harry began, but she cut him off mercilessly.

“Of course you don’t think so. After all, you’ve been seen out with Malfoy and your godson. And the rumors that you’ve been living together have been circulating for months…”

The murmur that spread through the reporters was immediate, crackling like wildfire. Harry felt heat rise to his face—not from embarrassment, but from fury. He could already picture tomorrow’s headline.

“My life, and Draco’s, are none of the Daily Prophet’s concern—or anyone else’s. If you think turning the care of a child into a cheap spectacle is acceptable, think again.”

Harry’s voice thundered in the room. “And Skeeter…” He locked eyes with her until her smile faltered. “You do not want to find out how far I’ll go when it comes to my family.”

Silence fell instantly. Quills froze midair. Some journalists exchanged uneasy glances; others barely concealed their thrill at the scoop. Rita, for her part, swallowed hard. She knew exactly how dangerous Harry could be when riled—and she remembered all too well the last time Hermione Granger had taken matters into her own hands.

Taking a steadying breath, Harry returned to his official tone, though tension still crackled in his voice:

“Does anyone here have questions about the case?”

Saturday had been peaceful. After a stressful interview, Harry forgot all about it when he got home and saw Teddy laughing as he flew on his toy broom behind Draco’s patronus.

The day went on just like that: simple, good, with no drama. And when Teddy fell asleep, Harry ended up following Draco to the bedroom. There was no clear intention, just small talk, a banal conversation about Quidditch and work. But one thing led to another—and Draco, on an impulse that seemed silly even to himself, leaned in for a quick kiss, almost like a “congratulations on surviving the day.”

Only he forgot that you should never underestimate the Gryffindor spirit.

The first kiss was soft and joyful, like swimming in the open sea on a beautiful sunny day, and then you realize you’ve drifted far from the shore and your feet can no longer feel the sand at the bottom, yet you can’t catch your breath to get back, but you can’t stop either. And everything becomes desperate, the need to reach a safe place beginning to take over. Still, lust was the strongest feeling. Just as it was great to feel the cold water refreshing your body on a hot day, the risk of drowning only made everything more interesting.

The cold wind blew, and Draco noticed the window was open, but he couldn't speak, as his mouth was occupied. The cool skin quickly burned with Harry's touches as his hand moved up under the black shirt. When he needed air, it was Draco who broke the kiss, this time placing a hand on the other's chest, preventing him from starting another kiss.

“What’s wrong?” Harry asked, his green eyes still dazed, blinking twice as he tried to regulate his breathing.

“Ted’s in the next room,” Draco whispered, and even he was surprised at how breathless he was just to say that in a low voice.

Harry arched an eyebrow, a mischievous smile lighting up his face. “Good. If he were here, I’d be embarrassed.”

His green eyes were bright and playful. Draco, in turn, just closed his eyes for a moment, trying to ignore the warm knot forming in his stomach. It was easy to give in to the kiss. The hard part was admitting how lost he already was.

When Potter tried to pull away, flustered by the quickness with which his body had reacted, Draco just tilted his head, appraising him with that smile that always left Harry vulnerable.

“Did you get hard from just a few kisses?” he asked in a low, almost playful tone, but too full of intent to sound light.

The blond looked down, and not even Harry had noticed—or at least he pretended not to—but now it was undeniable, as his erection was rubbing against Malfoy's body.

“Don’t laugh at me, I’m young, it’s normal to have pent-up lust,” he knew he was being foolish, but he tried to justify himself anyway.

“I’m the same age as you,” Draco retorted with an arched eyebrow. It had been a bad argument.

The room was lit only by the window that showed the night sky. Only the shadow of the blond's malicious, double-entendre-filled features could be seen. The brunette swallowed hard when the blond stood in front of him, and sat down, taking in the view, reaching out his pale hand for the erection. But he was stopped when Potter put his hands in front, his face so flushed it was visible even in the poor light.

“What… what are you going to do?”

The answer came as a whisper, too close to his ear: “Solve your problem. If you ask.”

The word hung between them. Harry swallowed, unable to meet those unblinking gray eyes. His mouth moved before his mind could censor it.

“Please.”

He didn’t want to have said those words, but Harry’s mouth reacted without authorization, almost as if hypnotized. The plea came out as a low but desperate thread of a voice. Draco smiled in approval of the act.

“Your wish is my command.”

Draco explored him with a cruelly precise calm, as if he had all the time in the world to memorize every reaction, every tremor. The shame dissolved too quickly under the weight of pleasure, replaced by an almost desperate surrender.

The kisses, now slower, traveled down his sweaty chest, marking the path like embers. Harry arched under every touch, every calculated movement, as if his entire skin had become a single exposed nerve.

He felt the tips of his ears get hot and the blood concentrate in just one area. His toes curled, and at times he moved his legs, trying to release the overwhelming pleasure. Especially when, to his surprise, Malfoy’s mouth enveloped him. At that moment, he had to bite his lip to stifle a groan that was too loud.

It was warm and soft, the slow movement gradually picking up speed. He felt the slender fingers tracing his body and setting him on fire with every touch.

“Wait, I’m gonna— wait!” In an irrational act, Harry pulled upward on the blond hair with more force than necessary. Draco winced in pain.

“Do you have a thing for hair?”

“Sorry, I…” Harry broke off, his panting breath and sweaty body making it difficult to complete a single sentence. He let out a groan when Draco stubbornly continued with his hands, his head now held firmly in place.

“It’s okay, darling. Just come.” There was a strange mix of comfort and provocation in his words, as well as in his gentle and seductive voice.

However, Potter couldn’t respond. His hand instinctively pulled a little harder on the blond hair, and his entire body arched. A shock wave ran through him as his cum was released onto his own belly and all over Draco’s hands. Powerless, he just let his body collapse back onto the bed he was sitting on, staring at the ceiling and still feeling the spasms.

“Too intense?” Draco seemed genuinely serious and concerned, and even though his lips were a little swollen from what he’d been doing, there wasn’t a hint of embarrassment on his face.