Chapter 3
The next four days were brilliant. For the first time in what felt like years, Harry felt light—as if the crushing weight of the war had finally slipped from his shoulders. The nightmares didn’t come, the guilt quietened, and for once, breathing didn’t feel like a chore.
Of course, there were moments—small, creeping moments—when reality clawed its way back in. Hermione’s tired eyes, Ron’s strained laughter. Guilt prickled at the edges of Harry’s mind. He wished he could slip them some of the potion too, just enough to let them breathe the way he could. But he didn’t. Malfoy would kill him. And frankly, Harry wasn’t ready to die just yet.
And then there was Malfoy.
To Harry’s utter surprise, Malfoy was—dare he even think it?—fun. Not in the way normal people were, but in that uniquely Malfoy way—sharp, dry, maddeningly composed. Their new, unspoken secret was an endless source of entertainment. The war was over—why not amuse yourself with your former nemesis, who was now your secret supplier?
Each morning in the Great Hall, Harry would catch Malfoy’s eye and flash him a slow, surreptitious smile, just to see what he’d do. Nothing. Not a twitch, not a blink—just that infuriatingly indifferent stare.
Harry, undeterred, upped his game. During their shared classes, he pulled faces across the room whenever Malfoy so much as glanced in his direction—wiggling his eyebrows, widening his eyes in exaggerated shock, mouthing nonsense just to provoke a reaction.
Still—nothing.
But one morning, just for the briefest of seconds, Harry swore he saw it—the tiniest twitch at the corner of Malfoy’s mouth.
Victory.
—
By the sixth day, something felt off. It wasn’t obvious at first—just a slight shift, a faint unease under his skin—but Harry ignored it, pushing through the day as if nothing had changed.
But by the seventh, he knew.
The warmth, the lightness—it was slipping away, draining from him like water through cupped hands. His thoughts felt heavier, his limbs sluggish, and with every passing hour, he could feel it—the potion, leaving him. The world wasn’t soft anymore. It wasn’t warm. It was sharp and cold and pressing in too close.
Panic curled in his stomach, coiling tight. He needed it. Now.
The moment he spotted Malfoy alone in the corridor, he didn’t hesitate. He grabbed him by the sleeve and yanked him into the nearest alcove, out of sight.
"It’s not working anymore," Harry hissed, his voice low, urgent.
Malfoy barely reacted, simply sighing as if he’d been expecting this. "Keep your voice down, you prat," he muttered, glancing around before lowering his own voice.
"Wait until tonight. Astronomy Tower. Same time as before."
Harry shook his head, his hands curling into fists. "No. I need it now."
Malfoy’s expression hardened. "You don’t get to demand it whenever you feel like it, Potter," he bit out, his voice sharp, controlled.
"If you want to keep your head, if you want control, then you do as I say. Understand?"
Harry clenched his jaw, his whole body taut with frustration. He hated this—hated the way Malfoy held the power, hated how much he needed this stupid potion. But he couldn’t risk losing it.
So, through gritted teeth, he forced himself to nod. "Fine."
But as he stalked away, something bitter curled in his chest. He wasn’t sure whether it was anger. Or fear.
_____
Harry was there before Malfoy. He paced restlessly, the chill of the night doing little to settle the unease clawing at his chest. When Malfoy finally emerged from the shadows, Harry had to fight the ridiculous urge to run to him, to demand what he needed.
Malfoy, as always, was composed. He moved with a slow, deliberate ease, settling onto the opposite windowsill like he had all the time in the world.
"Potter."
"Malfoy."
And then—silence. Malfoy simply breathed in the night air, his gaze fixed on the sky, expression unreadable. Harry frowned.
"Malfoy?"
"Can’t you wait, Potter?" Malfoy drawled, still not looking at him. His voice was as steady as ever, but there was something distant in it, something almost fragile.
Harry sighed, letting the quiet stretch between them. He should wait. But the question that had been gnawing at him for days finally forced itself to the surface.
"Did you pick this place on purpose?" he asked, his voice quieter now, more thoughtful.
Malfoy turned to him, surprised. "Yeah."
"Why?"
Malfoy’s eyes flickered back to the sky, the stars reflected in the grey of his irises. "So I know it’s working," he said simply.
And Harry understood.
To stand here—to be here—without drowning in the ghosts of the past, without feeling the weight of what had happened right here… That must have been its own kind of freedom.
Malfoy reached into his robes and pulled out the vial. He held it out, and Harry, despite every instinct screaming at him to snatch it, forced himself to take it slowly, his fingers brushing against Malfoy’s. He tipped the vial, let two drops hit his tongue, and—finally—breathed.
The weight lifted, the fog cleared, and warmth bloomed through him. A laugh—soft, light—escaped before he could stop it.
He blinked, startled. "Sorry," he muttered, half-embarrassed.
But when he looked at Malfoy, the usual sharpness was gone. Instead, there was something soft in his expression, something Harry couldn’t quite name.
And then, to Harry’s utter astonishment, Malfoy tipped back two drops of the potion—and laughed.
Laughed.
Harry stared. What the— "Malfoy?"
Malfoy turned to him, a slow, lazy grin spreading across his face, the usual tension in his posture utterly gone.
"What, Potter?"
"You… look happy." Harry frowned, his brows knitting together. "It wasn’t like this last time."
Malfoy hummed, tilting his head as if the thought had only just occurred to him. "Is that so, Potter? Hmm."
And then—silence.
But, it wasn’t the heavy, suffocating kind. Malfoy’s gaze drifted back to the stars, his expression softer, almost... content. The faintest smile lingered at the corners of his lips.
Had Malfoy’s desire changed? Had the potion given him something different this time? Something more?
Harry watched him for a long moment, then followed his gaze, tipping his head back to look at the sky.
—
The next week was a blur of mischief. Each day brought something new, something exciting. Because this time, when Harry wiggled his eyebrows at Malfoy, Malfoy wiggled his right back.
It was ridiculous, really—childish, even—but in those moments, it felt like the rest of the world melted away. Like it was just the two of them, wrapped up in a secret no one else could touch.
And Harry was certain now—Malfoy’s desire had changed. But why? Why, all of a sudden, was Malfoy seeking happiness? It was strange, unsettling even.
But, if he was honest with himself… he liked this Malfoy more.
"Harry?"
Hermione’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. He blinked, turning to her.
"Hmm?"
"Can we do something special for Christmas?" she asked, her voice hopeful, tentative. "You know, to brighten up The Burrow?"
The Burrow. Christmas. Right—he was supposed to go to The Burrow for the holidays. That had been the plan all along. But now… now, he wasn’t sure.
Because now, there was the potion.
Would Malfoy go back to the Manor for Christmas? If he did, then what would Harry do? What if the potion wore off and Malfoy wasn’t there—or worse, he wasn’t there? The thought alone made his stomach churn.
"Harry?" Hermione’s brows knitted together.
"Uh, yeah, yeah—sounds great," he muttered, grabbing his pumpkin juice and gulping it down like it might drown the growing panic inside him.
At dinner, Harry barely ate. He spent most of the meal staring at Malfoy, trying to convey meet me with his eyes.
Did it work? He had no idea. But when he left the hall early, abandoning his friends at the table, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. A moment later, soft footsteps echoed behind him.
This time, Malfoy was the one who pulled him into an alcove.
Malfoy smirked, leaning against the stone wall, arms folded. "What the hell was that in there, Potter?" His tone was light, almost teasing.
Harry exhaled in relief. "Thank Merlin. Do you—do you go home for the holidays?"
Malfoy’s smirk faded slightly. He tilted his head, considering Harry for a moment before answering.
"No."
Harry didn’t know what to say to that. So instead, he made a decision.
"Then I won’t either," he said, the words slipping out before he could think better of them.
Malfoy’s brows twitched in surprise. "What, you’re going to stay here just to keep drinking my potion?"
Harry didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. Because they both knew the truth.
And for once, Malfoy didn’t call him on it.
____
"You’re sure you’re not coming?" Ron asked, stuffing another jumper into his already overstuffed bag.
Harry swallowed the guilt rising in his throat and nodded, watching his best mate pack.
Hermione didn’t say anything. She just watched him, her eyes sharp, knowing. Harry squirmed under her gaze. It felt like she was peeling back his skin, seeing something he didn’t want her to see.
Then, with one last hug, the two of them disappeared through the doors, off to spend Christmas at The Burrow.
It seemed like hardly anyone wanted to stay at Hogwarts for the holidays. The castle felt cavernous, hollow, the usual warmth of the season missing entirely. Only eight students remained, including Harry and Malfoy. The others kept to themselves, vanishing into the corners of the castle like ghosts.
It was quiet. Too quiet.
The next morning at breakfast, Harry walked straight up to Malfoy and sat beside him.
Malfoy froze mid-bite, staring at him like he’d just lost his damn mind. "Potter?"
Harry shrugged, loading his plate. "It’s just the six juniors now, and importantly—the war’s over, Malfoy. Thought you might’ve noticed."
Malfoy gave him a long, unimpressed look before sighing and returning to his food. He didn’t move away, though, and that was something.
Harry was nearly finished eating when an owl swooped down, dropping a small parcel by Malfoy’s plate.
Harry glanced at him, catching the flicker of irritation on his face—like he didn’t want Harry there when it arrived. Which, of course, only made Harry want to see what it was.
"Go on, then," Harry said, grinning. "Open it, Malfoy."
Malfoy rolled his eyes but untied the string, pulling out a letter and a stack of photographs. Harry meant to look away, to mind his own business, but he caught sight of one before he could stop himself.
A rose garden.
Soft morning light bled through the petals, turning them golden at the edges, the leaves dusted with frost.
Harry exhaled. "That’s lovely."
Malfoy stilled, glancing at him before looking back down. And then—to Harry’s surprise—he smiled.
"It is," Malfoy murmured, almost to himself.
And then, just like that, he showed him the rest.
Harry blinked, caught off guard by the openness of it. He leaned in as Malfoy shuffled through the stack, watching more images flick past—a snowy pathway lined with ivy, the winding corridors of what must have been Malfoy Manor, a cup of tea beside an open book, steam curling into the air.
Then—one last photo.
Harry sucked in a breath.
It was Narcissa Malfoy.
She was standing in the middle of the rose garden, her hair loose, her cheeks pink from the cold. She looked soft, her face tilted toward the sky, a rare, genuine smile tugging at her lips.
Nothing like the woman Harry remembered—the woman who had lied to Voldemort, her expression carefully blank, her voice unreadable.
This was different. This was… fragile. Happy.
Harry looked up and found Malfoy staring at the photo, something unbearably fond in his expression.
And for the first time, Harry realised—Malfoy didn’t look like his father at all.
He looked like her.
____
The fifth time they met at the Astronomy Tower, Harry realised something—he liked being here.
Not for the potion. Not for the rush of euphoria that came with it.
Just… this. The quiet. The company.
Malfoy was already sitting on the ledge, his face tipped toward the stars, when Harry leaned against the railing beside him. He exhaled, breath curling in the winter air.
"Those pictures were lovely," he murmured.
Malfoy didn’t look at him, but Harry caught the ghost of a smile.
They sat in silence for a long moment, the wind threading through their hair. And then Malfoy spoke, his voice softer than Harry had ever heard it.
"One day, after the war, she came to me with a camera in her hands," he said, like he was remembering it in real-time. "She looked me right in the eyes and said, Let’s live, Draco. And then she started taking pictures."
Harry turned his head, watching the way Malfoy’s fingers tapped idly against his knee, like there was more he wanted to say.
"I wasn’t interested, at first," Malfoy admitted. "Didn’t get the point of it. But I followed her anyway. Sat beside her while she took pictures of whatever she wanted. And then, after I came back to Hogwarts, she started sending me some every weekend. Little things—sunrises, fresh snow on the hedges, her hands covered in soil from the garden. It was… nice."
Harry swallowed. Malfoy was talking—really talking. Not just sharp, clipped remarks, not just guarded words laced with sarcasm.
This was different. This was unguarded.
"And now?" Harry asked.
Malfoy let out a breath, running a hand through his hair. "Now I get it. I want to take some too. I want to send her something back. Should’ve brought a camera with me."
Harry sat there, feeling oddly struck by it all. He hadn’t expected this. Hadn’t expected Malfoy to trust him with something so... honest.
"Ask your mother to send one," Harry said, nudging his shoulder lightly. "Or… we could go and buy one."
Malfoy turned to him, something unreadable in his expression—something that looked a little like surprise, a little like warmth.
"You’d do that?"
Harry just shrugged, grinning. "Why not?"