Chapter 3
Draco tried to keep the family together.
He smiled when Harry kissed him in the morning, made his tea just the way he liked it, and kissed their children before they went to bed. He pretended, day after day, that everything was fine. That his world hadn’t cracked apart the moment he saw Harry with her.
But the cracks were getting deeper.
It started with small things.
Draco forgot to pick up their eldest, Scorpius, from his tutoring session. Harry had to rush from work to get him, and though he wasn’t angry, the concern in his eyes stung more than any reprimand.
"Are you alright, love?" Harry had asked, cupping Draco’s face gently. "You’ve been tired lately. Maybe I should take a day off, help with the kids?"
Draco shook his head too quickly. "No, I’m fine," he insisted, forcing a smile. "Just a little forgetful, that’s all."
Harry frowned but didn’t push. He never pushed. He trusted Draco.
It was that trust that was breaking Draco the most.
He couldn’t eat properly anymore. The food he made, the meals they shared—everything tasted like ashes in his mouth. He was always exhausted, yet he couldn't sleep. His dreams were haunted by the image of Harry kissing her, playing house with that child. The child that shouldn’t exist.
Some nights, Draco would get up after Harry had fallen asleep and sit by the nursery, staring at their youngest, Orion. He would brush his soft hair, press a kiss to his forehead, and whisper, I won’t let this fall apart.
Because as much as it hurt, Draco couldn’t let go.
He had given Harry everything. His love, his devotion, his pride. He had spent years building this life, shaping himself into the perfect husband, the perfect father. If he left now, if he confronted Harry and shattered the illusion, what would he have left?
But his body was betraying him.
The weight loss was noticeable. His bones ached. His hands trembled when he reached for his teacup, when he tucked the children into bed. He started making mistakes—burning dinner, forgetting appointments, misplacing things.
And Harry noticed.
One evening, when Draco dropped a plate and just stared at the broken pieces instead of cleaning them up, Harry knelt in front of him, his warm hands wrapping around Draco’s.
"Draco," he murmured, voice laced with worry. "Talk to me."
Draco opened his mouth, but no words came out.
How could he talk when the truth would tear them apart?
So instead, he did the only thing he knew how to do.
He leaned forward and kissed Harry, desperate and needy, as if kissing him hard enough would erase everything. As if Harry’s warmth could push away the image of her, of that child, from his mind.
Harry sighed into the kiss, deepening it, his hands moving to Draco’s waist. "Draco—"
"Take me to bed," Draco whispered, cutting him off. His fingers dug into Harry’s shirt. "Please."
Harry hesitated. "Love, are you sure you’re okay—"
"Please," Draco begged. He needed to feel like he still belonged to Harry, that he was still the only one Harry wanted.
So Harry took him to bed, whispered sweet things in his ear, held him like Draco was his entire world. And for a little while, Draco let himself believe it.
But when he woke up in the middle of the night and found himself reaching for Harry, only to realize that his hands were trembling—again—he knew.
He couldn’t keep this up forever.
He was falling apart.
And sooner or later, Harry was going to notice.