Chapter 6
Draco was the perfect wife.
Harry never thought he’d use that term—never thought he’d even *think* of Draco that way. But there was no other way to describe it.
Draco took care of their home effortlessly, always ensuring everything was in order. Despite being pregnant, he still insisted on making sure Harry had a warm meal when he returned from work. He kept the house immaculate, arranged their schedules, and even handled the social expectations that came with being married into the Malfoy name.
And he did it all so *gracefully*.
Every time Harry came home after a long day, Draco was waiting for him, his expression calm and welcoming. He would take Harry’s coat, press a soft kiss to his cheek, and ask how his day had been.
It was so different from what Harry had ever expected from marriage. So different from what he had with Ginny—who had been passionate, fiery, and determined to carve her own path. Draco, on the other hand, seemed perfectly content to devote himself to Harry, to their home, to their growing family.
And Harry had never been happier.
One evening, as they sat together in the dimly lit parlor, Draco curled up against him, Harry found himself murmuring, “You’re perfect, you know that?”
Draco chuckled softly, resting his head on Harry’s shoulder. “I try.”
Harry turned, pressing a kiss to his temple. “You’re the perfect wife.”
Draco stilled for just a moment before a pleased hum escaped him. “I suppose I am.”
And that was that. No teasing, no argument—just quiet acceptance.
Harry tightened his arms around Draco, feeling something deep inside him settle.
He had everything he ever wanted.