Letters We Don’t Open
**Draco**
The letter sat on his desk like a curse.
Unopened. Untouched. Mocking him.
The Malfoy seal was still intact — silver wax, pressed with the snake. His mother’s handwriting curled across the front in delicate script. Draco Lucius Malfoy. No warmth. No son. Just formality. Distance.
He hadn’t touched it in three days.
He told himself it didn’t matter. He wasn’t curious. He didn’t care.
But every time he sat at his desk, he saw it. Every time he looked away, he felt it staring back.
He didn’t notice Harry until the door clicked shut behind him.
**Harry**
Draco didn’t flinch. Didn’t turn. Just stared at the envelope like it might explode.
Harry crossed the room slowly. He didn’t say anything at first — just followed Draco’s gaze.
“What’s that?” he asked quietly.
Draco tensed. “None of your business.”
Harry ignored that. “From your mum?”
A pause.
Then a clipped, “Yes.”
He could hear the bitterness behind the word. Thick, heavy, and old.
Harry reached for the letter, fingers brushing the edge. “You haven’t opened it.”
“No.” Draco’s voice was tight. “Because I know what it says.”
Harry looked at him. “You don’t. Not until you read it.”
Draco finally turned, his eyes cold. “And what if I don’t want to hear whatever version of forgiveness she’s selling this week?”
Harry stayed quiet for a long beat. Then he said softly, “Then I’ll sit here while you don’t read it.”
Draco blinked. “What?”
“I’m not asking you to open it. I’m just saying… you don’t have to be alone with it.”
Something in Draco’s chest cracked open, just a little.
He didn’t say thank you. But he didn’t tell Harry to leave, either.
**An Hour Later**
They sat in silence.
Harry on Draco’s bed, flipping through a Quidditch magazine. Draco at the desk, pretending to read a book he hadn’t turned a page of.
The letter still sat between them.
Eventually, Draco reached for it.
His fingers hovered, then fell back to his lap.
Harry looked up. “You don’t have to—”
“I know,” Draco snapped.
Harry held his gaze. Calm. Unshaken. “Then maybe you just want to.”
Draco said nothing.
Then, slowly — like he was peeling off old skin — he broke the wax seal.
**Draco (Reading)**
My dearest Draco,
I know you may never read this. I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t.
But if you do… I want you to know that I am sorry.
Draco’s breath caught.
Not for the war. Not for the name we carry. But for not protecting you better. For letting you grow up in a house full of fear.
You were just a boy. And I should have said it more often: I’m proud of the man you’re becoming.
His hand shook. Harry watched from the bed, unmoving.
Draco swallowed hard, then whispered, “She… she says she’s proud of me.”
Harry stood and crossed the room slowly.
“She should be,” he said.
Draco blinked fast. His voice was barely audible. “Why?”
Harry reached out, gently brushing his fingers against Draco’s wrist. “Because you’re still here.”
Draco looked up at him. And for the first time, he didn’t wear a mask.
No sarcasm. No snark. Just… quiet, trembling honesty.
And Harry — without thinking — brushed a thumb across the back of Draco’s hand.
Draco didn’t pull away.
**That Night**
Draco fell asleep with the letter under his pillow.
Harry didn’t sleep at all.
Not because of nightmares. But because he kept replaying the way Draco had looked at him — like Harry had pulled him out of something dark and terrifying.
And Harry knew, somehow, he wanted to do it again.