Chapter 2
Bill wasn’t entirely sure why he had come back so early.
The Healers had reassured him the night before that Draco would be fine, that the curse had stabilized, that there was no immediate danger. There had been no need for him to stay.
And yet, here he was—walking down the sterile white corridors of St. Mungo’s at the crack of dawn.
It wasn’t just obligation, he told himself. It was duty.
Or maybe it was guilt.
He had spent the night dwelling—going over what Kingsley had said, over how the Ministry wasn’t just worried about the curse itself, but about what the ring might turn Malfoy into. Over how Draco had stepped in front of him without hesitation, knowing full well what might happen.
That was what kept bothering him.
Draco Malfoy had no reason to risk himself for Bill Weasley.
And yet, he had.
Bill shook his head as he pushed open the door to Draco’s hospital room. He wasn’t sure what he had expected—maybe a restless patient, someone awake and pacing, someone throwing sarcastic barbs his way the second he stepped inside.
Instead, he found Draco fast asleep.
And for some reason, Bill… hesitated.
Bill exhaled slowly, stepping inside, his boots barely making a sound on the tiled floor.
Draco’s breathing was even, his face turned slightly towards the window where the early morning sunlight cast soft golden hues across his pale skin. The usually sharp edges of his face—the aristocratic cheekbones, the defined jaw—looked softer in sleep.
His lashes were long, resting lightly against his cheekbones, and his lips—soft, slightly parted—
Bill stopped that thought immediately.
Shaking his head at himself, he sat down on the stool beside the bed, elbows resting on his knees, fingers threading through his own hair.
This wasn’t him.
Sure, he had always known he was attracted to both men and women—he had spent years loving Fleur, almost married her—but never had he expected himself to study Draco Malfoy’s face so closely.
Or to find him—Merlin help him—pretty.
Not handsome, not striking. Pretty.
His beauty was androgynous, delicate yet unmistakably male—a strange contradiction of soft angles and sharp edges. Everything about him looked unreal, ethereal—like something out of a painting.
Bill frowned, forcing himself to look away, irritated at himself.
Draco was recovering from a curse, and here he was, sitting beside his bed, thinking about how unfairly attractive the bastard was.
---
The wind from the slightly cracked window shifted the strands of Draco’s hair, making a fringe of platinum blonde fall across his face.
Before Bill even realized what he was doing, he reached out.
His fingers brushed against the silken strands, tucking them back behind Draco’s ear, but as he did, his knuckles skimmed against the soft skin of Draco’s cheek.
Warm.
The touch lingered a second too long, the pad of his fingers resting against Draco’s cheekbone before his brain caught up with his actions.
Shit.
Before he could move away, Draco stirred.
A slow intake of breath. A shift beneath the sheets. A faint crease of his brows before sleep-heavy gray eyes fluttered open.
Bill yanked his hand back so fast it might as well have been burned.
He forced himself to lean back casually, as if he hadn’t just been touching Draco’s face.
Draco blinked sleepily, clearly still dazed, but then his hand slowly came up to his cheek, touching the exact spot where Bill’s fingers had just been.
Bill watched.
Watched as Draco’s fingers hesitated, as realization flickered across his face, followed by something else.
Color bloomed faintly across his cheeks—a blush, soft and barely there, but unmistakable.
Bill bit down on the inside of his cheek. Hard.
He had the sudden, ridiculous urge to smile.
Instead, he coughed lightly, forcing himself to focus.
Draco finally sat up, still blinking slowly, adjusting to his surroundings. He turned to Bill, brows furrowing slightly.
“You’re here early.” His voice was still hoarse from sleep, softer than usual.
Bill shrugged. “Came to check up on you.”
Draco blinked at him again, eyes slightly narrowed. Then, barely above a murmur—
“…Didn’t expect you to come back.”
Bill didn’t respond to that.
Instead, he simply reached over to the bedside table, picking up the bowl of porridge the Healers had left behind.
“Eat,” he said, pushing it toward Draco.
Draco eyed it warily for a moment before sighing, taking the bowl from him. He didn’t complain.
That, in itself, was strange.
Bill watched him as he ate, noting how he didn’t look like he had much of an appetite. He was too thin, his face slightly more gaunt than it had been during Hogwarts.
Bill glanced down at Draco’s right hand, the one clutching the spoon.
The ring gleamed in the low light.
The reminder of why he was really here settled back in.
Bill let out a quiet breath, leaning forward slightly.
“We need to talk.”
Draco paused, spoon hovering mid-air before he slowly set it back into the bowl.
“About what?”
Bill exhaled through his nose, carefully choosing his words.
“I’ve been thinking about the ring. About how it reacts when you try to take it off.”
Draco tensed slightly, fingers clenching around the bowl.
Bill continued.
“We don’t know what it does yet. Or what it wants. Until I figure out how to separate it from you, I need to be around you.”
Draco’s eyes flickered up, sharp and wary. “Around me?”
Bill nodded. “Close enough that if something happens, I can control it. The Ministry also things that this is the right thing to do.”
There was a long pause.
Draco set the half-finished bowl of porridge aside and sighed.
“You mean I have to stay with you.”
Bill nodded again.
Draco closed his eyes briefly, as if weighing his options, before he exhaled through his nose and opened them again.
“Brilliant,” he muttered, tone flat, unimpressed.
Despite himself, Bill huffed a quiet laugh.
Draco didn’t argue.
Didn’t refuse or throw some biting remark about how ridiculous it was that a Weasley was watching over a Malfoy.
Instead, he just looked tired.
Bill noticed the way his shoulders slumped slightly, how his fingers tightened around the fabric of his blanket.
He was worried about something.
“What are you thinking about?” Bill couldn’t help himself as he finally asked
“My.... mother”
“…Your mum?” Bill asks slowly almost careful.
Draco swallowed. “She’s alone in the Manor.”
There was a quiet heaviness in his voice.
Bill exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “You can write to her. Visit her when we have things under control.”
Draco nodded slowly, not entirely convinced, but accepting it.
It was probably the best they could do for now.
Bill stood, stretching slightly.
“We leave in an hour.”
Draco sighed again. “Perfect,” he muttered dryly.
Bill smirked, just a little.
Draco noticed. And for the first time since waking up, he looked less guarded.
Bill wasn’t sure if that was a good thing.
Or something far more dangerous.
---
The first thing Bill noticed about Malfoy Manor was how utterly lifeless it felt.
He had heard stories about this place—first from his father, who had always spoken of the Malfoys with a tinge of resentment, then later from Harry, Ron, and Hermione.
Bill remembered the way Ron had looked when he first told them about what had happened here—pale, uneasy, his hands clenched into fists.
He remembered Hermione’s voice, calm but hollow, as she explained how Bellatrix Lestrange had tortured her within these very walls.
Even now, standing outside the massive iron gates, Bill could feel it.
The magic in the air was old—twisted, heavy with something sinister.
A place like this—a house that had witnessed horrors and cruelty for generations—did not forget.
Bill already disliked it.
And yet, beside him, Draco stood completely still, his expression blank as he stared up at the towering mansion.
If he felt anything—nostalgia, dread, hesitation—he didn’t show it.
---
The front doors opened to a vast, eerily quiet hall.
Everything about the place was grand and cold—white marble floors, towering ceilings, and ancient chandeliers that should have gleamed with light but instead cast long, sharp shadows.
It felt empty, despite its size.
A house too big for so few people.
And then—movement.
Bill’s attention snapped to the far end of the hall, where Narcissa Malfoy appeared.
She was pacing, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her normally pristine composure fractured with visible distress.
The moment she saw Draco, everything else fell away.
“Draco.”
She was in front of them in seconds, her hands grasping Draco’s face, checking, searching—
“My darling, are you alright? Did they hurt you? Did the curse worsened?”
Draco barely had time to react before she wrapped her arms around him, holding him close, as if he might disappear if she let go.
Bill stood off to the side, watching the exchange with a strange tightness in his chest.
Narcissa Malfoy had always acted like the elegant figurehead of high society, but now?
Now, she was a mother clinging to her only son, frantic, terrified.
“I’m fine, Mother,” Draco muttered, his voice softer than usual.
Narcissa pulled back slightly, cupping his face as she searched his features, as if trying to convince herself he was telling the truth.
“You should have come home last night,” she chided, though her voice lacked any real reprimand. “I waited for news—I couldn’t sleep. Why didn’t you—”
She stopped, her eyes flickering past Draco, landing on Bill.
And just like that, her expression shifted.
The relief dampened, replaced by something colder, warier.
She straightened, regaining a measure of her usual poise, but Bill caught it—the slight downturn of her lips, the stiffness in her posture.
A Weasley standing in her home. She wasn’t pleased.
But then her gaze flickered back to Draco, and whatever irritation she felt toward Bill was pushed aside in favor of her son.
“I need to pack,” Draco said simply, stepping back from her hold. “I won’t be staying here.”
Narcissa’s expression twisted with hesitation, pain—
“…Where are you going?”
Draco glanced at Bill briefly. “With him.”
Something flickered across her face—uncertainty, disapproval, but most of all, worry.
She hesitated before finally nodding, but she was clearly reluctant.
Draco squeezed her hand once, briefly, before turning and heading upstairs.
That left Bill alone with Narcissa Malfoy.
---
The large drawing room was elegant, filled with high-backed chairs, velvet-lined sofas, and portraits of Malfoy ancestors staring down at Bill with poorly concealed disdain.
He had no idea what to do with himself, standing awkwardly near the fireplace as Narcissa took a seat.
She regarded him for a moment before gesturing toward a chair across from her.
“Sit.”
It wasn’t really a request.
Bill hesitated for half a second, then lowered himself onto the sofa.
There was a long, uncomfortable silence before she finally spoke.
“Would you like something to drink?”
It was a simple offer. A polite one.
And yet, Bill could hear the forced civility in her tone.
The Malfoys and the Weasleys had spent generations on opposite sides of the same war. That wasn’t going to disappear just because they were sharing a room.
Bill shook his head. “No, thank you.”
Narcissa’s lips pressed into a thin line. Clearly, she had expected as much.
Another silence.
Then, finally—
“I need to ask something of you, Mr. Weasley.”
Bill exhaled slowly.
Here it was.
Her voice was even, controlled, but there was something else underneath—a quiet, desperate edge.
It wasn’t a demand.
It wasn’t arrogance.
It was a mother’s last resort.
“Whatever this curse is,” she said, eyes piercing into his, “free him from it.”
Bill held her gaze, unmoving.
“I will.”
Her shoulders loosened slightly, but she wasn’t done.
“Draco is all I have,” she said, voice lower, quieter now. “He is my son—he is my only son. I cannot—I will not—lose him to this.”
Bill remained silent.
But what truly caught his attention was the way she inhaled sharply, her next words barely above a whisper—
“He has already suffered enough… if it was ever any less in the past.”
It was so quiet, so soft, that Bill almost didn’t catch it.
But the manor was too silent, and those words—those damning, heartbreaking words—hung between them like a ghost.
Bill’s chest tightened.
Because he recognized that tone.
He had heard it in his own mother’s voice.
When Percy left home.
When George lost his ear.
When Bill had been mauled by Greyback.
When Fred had died.
He knew that unspoken grief, that desperate, helpless fear of watching a child, a sibling, a son walk a path toward something dark and irreversible.
And despite everything he thought about the Malfoys, despite the history, the war, the rivalry—
This was just a mother, terrified for her child.
For the first time, Bill saw Narcissa Malfoy not as a Malfoy, but as someone like his own mother.
He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair before nodding once, firmly.
“I promise Mrs. Malfoy,” he said quietly. “I will find a way.”
Her eyes searched his face, as if measuring the weight of his promise.
And then, finally—she nodded.
Neither of them spoke again.
But the silence between them was no longer cold.
It was something else entirely.
Something fragile, quiet, and—just maybe—hopeful.
---
The moment they Apparated in front of Shell Cottage, Bill felt a deep, familiar sense of relief.
He had always loved this place.
It was nothing like Malfoy Manor—nothing like the grand, cold, lifeless halls filled with oppressive silence.
Shell Cottage was small, nestled by the rugged coastline, surrounded by golden sand dunes and wild grass that swayed in the salty breeze. The waves crashed against the shore, rhythmic and steady, filling the air with a constant lull of sound.
The house itself was quaint, warm, alive—a far cry from the sterile elegance of where Draco had grown up.
As Bill shifted Draco’s luggage to one arm, he glanced at the younger man, who stood frozen, staring up at the cottage with an unreadable expression.
There was something in his eyes—something close to amazement, maybe even surprise.
Bill smirked. “What? Never seen a house this small before?”
Draco blinked, his face flushing slightly as he shot him a glare. “That’s not—” He cleared his throat. “That’s not it.”
Bill chuckled, shaking his head as he hoisted Draco’s luggage over his shoulder. “Sure it isn’t. Now, come on. I’ll show you to your room.”
Draco, still looking slightly embarrassed, followed behind.
---
As they stepped inside, the coziness of the place immediately surrounded them.
The walls were lined with bookshelves, filled with old tomes and trinkets from Bill’s travels. The living room had a large fireplace, a well-worn couch covered in soft blankets, and wooden furniture that gave the place a lived-in feel.
Unlike the silent, hollow halls of Malfoy Manor, this house felt alive.
Draco’s eyes wandered, taking in everything, as if trying to understand how a place could feel so warm.
Bill watched him out of the corner of his eye, catching the slight crease of his brows—like Draco was trying to solve a puzzle.
Bill raised an eyebrow, he was having a little too much fun teasing him. “Too small for his highness liking?”
Draco’s gaze snapped to him, his face turning even redder than before. “I—I wasn’t thinking that!”
Bill snorted. “Right.”
---
Bill led Draco through the small hallway, pushing open the guest bedroom door.
It was simple but comfortable—a large window overlooking the sea, a sturdy wooden bed, a desk, and a wardrobe. The walls were painted in muted tones, the sunlight filtering through the sheer curtains.
Bill dumped Draco’s luggage onto the floor with a dramatic sigh.
“For someone who grew up in a mansion, you sure pack like you’re moving an entire house.”
Draco rolled his eyes. “It’s just essentials.”
Bill raised a brow. “You call three trunks essentials?”
Draco ignored him, stepping inside, but Bill noticed something—
His eyes were searching the room.
Not for furniture. Not for the view.
For something else.
Before Bill could ask, Draco turned to him.
“Where’s your wife?”
The question caught Bill off guard
Bill stared at him.
For a second, his brain didn’t quite register the words.
“…Wife?”
Draco nodded, arms crossed. “Yes. Wife. Didn’t you marry that French Veela girl?”
Bill blinked. Then—
He burst into hysterical laughter.
Draco visibly flinched, looking both confused and mildly offended as Bill leaned against the doorway, struggling to breathe.
“…What—” Draco frowned. “What is so funny?”
Bill wiped at his eyes, still chuckling. “Merlin, Malfoy—you really do believe everything the Daily Prophet says, don’t you?”
Draco looked even more confused. “What are you talking about?”
Bill finally calmed down, shaking his head. “Fleur wasn’t my wife. We were engaged, yeah. But we never got married.”
Draco blinked. “You didn’t?”
“Nope.” Bill sighed, running a hand through his hair. “We had our wedding planned, but Death Eaters crashed the damn thing. After the war, we lived together for a while, tried to pick up the pieces… but we realized we were too different. It wouldn’t have worked out.”
Draco processed that quietly.
Bill shrugged. “She left for France. We’re still friends, though.”
Draco nodded slowly, taking it in. Then, after a moment, he muttered—
“Well… you can’t blame me. The Daily Prophet said the oldest Weasley was getting married before the war, so I assumed you already did.”
His voice was quieter now, and there was a slight pout on his lips as he looked away, arms crossed over his chest.
Bill paused.
Something about the sight of Draco standing there, slightly embarrassed, pouting like a petulant child—
It was… adorable.
His eyes briefly drifted to Draco’s lips.
Soft. Pink. Just slightly pursed.
Bill clenched his jaw, suddenly very aware of himself.
He needed to get a grip.
Quickly straightening, he forced his tone back to neutral.
“Well,” Bill said, stepping back toward the door. “Unpack. Get some rest. If you need anything, I’ll be in the living room.”
Draco, startled by the sudden shift in demeanor, nodded. “Right. Okay.”
Bill left the room before he could do anything else reckless.