Chapter 7
The town smelled of rain, salt, and something old—something ancient and unshaken, settled too deep into the bones of the earth to ever be washed away. The air was thick with it, humming with a quiet kind of magic, the kind that had seeped into the land long before wands were carved or spells were spoken.
Harry walked slowly, boots scuffing against the damp cobblestones. Dorset was quiet this time of year, the kind of place that felt suspended between moments, caught between history and the ever-churning present. He had come here for work, to trace the remnants of forgotten magic, to map out spells woven so tightly into the landscape that only someone like him could feel their pull.
But now, all of that seemed impossibly distant.
Because when he turned the corner, he saw him.
Malfoy.
Of all the places in the world, Harry had never expected to see him here. He’d imagined it before—maybe a fleeting glance in Diagon Alley, a brief, awkward encounter at the Ministry. But not here. Not in the middle of nowhere, far from everything they had left behind.
Not during one of his adventures.
Harry stopped walking.
The world stilled.
Malfoy stood just beyond a low stone wall, the last traces of evening light catching in his pale hair, turning it almost silver. He was half-turned away, adjusting the lens of a camera with slow, careful fingers. It was such a familiar sight—so impossibly, achingly familiar—that for a moment, Harry thought he must be imagining it. A trick of memory, a ghost of something long lost.
But then Malfoy looked up.
Their eyes met.
And Harry felt it—the weight of five years, of silence, of everything unsaid pressing down on him all at once.
His breath caught, sharp and sudden. His hands curled into fists before he even realised they were shaking.
"I'm sorry."
The words scraped out of him, rough and uneven, dragged up from somewhere deep.
Malfoy didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But something in his expression shifted—just for a second, just enough for Harry to see it. The crack in the armour, the flicker of something raw beneath it.
Then, slowly, Malfoy exhaled.
"Alright, Potter." Malfoy’s voice was quiet, unreadable.
So casual. As if five years hadn’t stretched between them, thick with silence and things left unsaid. As if this was nothing more than a passing encounter, the kind that faded as quickly as it happened.
But Harry knew better. He could feel it—the weight of time pressing in, the unspoken years coiled tight between them.
This wasn’t nothing.
And he wasn’t going to let it be.
"What are you doing here?" Malfoy asked again.
Harry tried to focus. He had come for work, hadn’t he? Tracing old magic, unpicking the threads of ancient spells woven deep into Dorset’s landscape. But that felt distant now, hazy, like a memory slipping through his fingers.
"Work," he said at last, his voice rougher than he intended. "You?"
Malfoy hesitated, his fingers curling deeper into his coat pockets. "Just my hobby."
Harry studied him for a moment, searching his face for something—he wasn’t even sure what. Then, before the silence could stretch too far, he grabbed the chance to make things right.
"Do you want to grab a coffee?"
Malfoy’s lips curled—not quite a smirk, not quite a smile. Something smaller. Something careful.
"Funny," he murmured. "Someone already asked me for a coffee this evening."
Harry's stomach twisted.
"Oh," he said, forcing his voice steady. "Sorry, then—"
Malfoy let out a quiet breath of laughter.
"You should join me," he said. "They’d love to meet you."
Harry blinked. Malfoy was looking at him, gaze steady, waiting.
For what, Harry wasn’t sure.
But after five years, after everything, Harry wasn’t about to walk away.
"Alright," he said, voice quiet.
And he followed Malfoy into the night.
—
The streets of Dorset were quiet as they walked. The scent of rain lingered in the air, mixing with the briny breath of the sea. Harry kept stealing glances at Malfoy, half-expecting him to disappear, to fade into some half-forgotten dream.
But Malfoy was there. Real. Solid. The glow of the streetlamps caught the sharp edges of his face, the slight furrow in his brow. His hands were tucked into his coat pockets, his camera hanging from a strap across his chest.
"How long have you been here?" Harry asked. His voice felt strange, too loud in the stillness.
"A few weeks," Malfoy said without looking at him. "Needed a change of scenery."
Harry hummed. He didn't know what to say to that. He had spent years searching old magic, tracing the bones of history across maps and landscapes. And now Malfoy was here, tucked away in a seaside town, with a camera and a mystery Harry hadn’t even begun to understand.
They turned a corner, and Malfoy slowed.
"Here," he said, nodding toward a small, dimly lit shop. The windows were cluttered with old trinkets, brass instruments, and stacks of books worn with age. Above the entrance, a wooden sign creaked in the wind: Finch’s Curiosities.
Malfoy pushed the door open, the bell above it jingling softly.
Inside, the shop smelled of dust and time, of parchment and something faintly sweet—maybe tea, maybe something older. The shelves were packed, every surface filled with oddities: enchanted clocks, delicate glass vials, moving portraits trapped in tiny frames. It was the kind of place that held secrets, that whispered forgotten stories to those who cared to listen.
Behind the counter, an old woman sat, reading a newspaper. Her silver hair was pulled into a neat bun, her thin spectacles perched on the edge of her nose. She looked up as they entered, and her face broke into a smile.
"There you are, dear," she said brightly, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she looked at Malfoy. Then, with a keen flicker of curiosity, her gaze landed on Harry. "And you've brought a friend."
Malfoy slipped his hands from his pockets, leaning lazily against the counter. "Something like that."
She arched a brow, her lips twitching in amusement as she set down her teacup. "Well then, love, would you be needing a room for the night?" she asked, casual as anything, as if offering lodging to strangers was just part of the evening routine.
Harry barely had time to process the question before Malfoy cut in smoothly, "He's here for coffee, Matilda." His voice was light but clipped, though something about it felt almost… familiar.
Matilda peered at him over the rim of her spectacles, unimpressed. "Is that so?" she mused before turning back to Harry. "Still, we've got rooms upstairs. Draco’s been here a while now—seems to like the place."
Harry blinked, his mind catching on the words. Rooms?
He turned to Malfoy, who merely tilted his head, watching him with that same unreadable expression.
"You're staying here?" Harry asked, and he wasn’t sure why that piece of information sent an odd twist through his chest.
Malfoy shrugged, the picture of indifference. "It's convenient."
Harry glanced around—the cosy shop, the warm glow of lantern light flickering against the walls, the scent of old books and something herbal in the air. He wouldn’t have imagined Malfoy in a place like this. And yet, somehow, it fit. In a strange, unexpected way, it fit.
Matilda, meanwhile, was watching him with an expression far too knowing for Harry’s liking. "Well, if you need a room, dear, I’ve got one ready. Cosy little spot, perfect for a quiet night."
Harry hesitated for only a second before nodding. This is my chance. If he wanted to set things right with Malfoy, really say what needed to be said, this was it.
"Yeah," he said, clearing his throat. "I think I’d like that."
He'd have to cancel the hotel he'd already booked, but that hardly mattered now.
Malfoy let out a soft exhale, something dangerously close to a laugh, shaking his head. Harry shot him a look, but Matilda only chuckled. "I’ll get you sorted in a bit, love. But first—coffee."
Malfoy huffed, folding his arms. "Finally."
Matilda swatted at him with a tea towel, grinning. "Oh, hush, you. Go sit down before you start pouting."
Harry smirked as Malfoy rolled his eyes.
Matilda led them to a small, cozy seating area near the back of the shop. It was cluttered with books, old maps, and strange trinkets that seemed to hum with quiet magic. A low-burning lantern cast a golden glow over the space, and the soft murmur of the storm outside only made it feel more intimate.
Malfoy dropped into a chair with a sigh, stretching his legs out like he owned the place. Harry, on the other hand, hesitated for a moment before lowering himself onto the worn-out armchair opposite him.
Matilda bustled behind the counter, muttering to herself as she prepared their drinks. “You two are like a pair of half-drowned kittens,” she said, shaking her head. “All this brooding and sighing—honestly, it’s exhausting just looking at you.”
Malfoy rolled his eyes. “We’re sitting, Matilda. It’s not that dramatic.”
“Maybe not for you,” she shot back, pouring steaming liquid into mismatched mugs. “But your friend there looks like he’s either about to bolt or burst into tears. Haven’t decided which.”
Harry blinked. “I—what?”
Matilda turned, hands on her hips. “Oh, don’t you start.” She handed them their drinks and plopped into a chair of her own. “I know tension when I see it. Merlin’s beard, the air between you two is thicker than the fog outside.”
Harry tightened his grip around his mug, staring into the dark liquid. He was not about to let an old shopkeeper read him like a book.
Malfoy, of course, looked entirely unfazed. “Matilda, you do realize we came here for coffee, not relationship counseling?”
Matilda sipped her drink, unbothered. “Oh, darling, I’m just an old woman with too much time and excellent observational skills. It’s hardly my fault if you two look like you’ve been locked in a dramatic, slow-burn tragedy for the past five years.”
Harry nearly choked on his drink. “Slow-burn tragedy?”
Matilda shrugged. “That’s what the kids call it these days, isn’t it? All that pining.”
Malfoy groaned. “I am not having this conversation.”
Harry, flustered beyond belief, focused on his drink. “Thank you for the—erm—hot chocolate.”
Matilda smirked, clearly enjoying herself. “Anytime, love. Now, tell me, what exactly brings you here? And don’t you dare say ‘work’ in that dull, evasive way. I hate boring answers.”
Malfoy exhaled slowly. “This is why I don’t introduce you to people.”
Harry clearing his throat. “I—well, I track old magic, forgotten enchantments, that sort of thing. Places where magic has settled into the land.” He paused, glancing at Malfoy, who was watching him with a neutral expression. “It’s…a lot of walking. A lot of research. Sometimes I find something interesting, sometimes I don’t.”
Matilda squinted at him over her mug. “So you dig around in old spells for a living?”
“Essentially.”
“Well, dear, you look like you could use some proper rest. No offense, but you’ve got that ‘man-who-hasn’t-slept-properly-in-years’ look about you.
Harry ran a hand through his hair, sighing. “Yeah. Can you show me the room?”
Matilda had led him up the narrow staircase and shown him to his room, Harry stood on the small balcony, looking out at the quiet backstreet below. The houses across the way were dark, windows shuttered against the creeping storm. There were trees lining the street, their leaves swaying gently in the wind, and the distant sound of an owl hooting somewhere in the night.
His room was next to Malfoy's. Small but comfortable, with wooden beams lining the ceiling and the scent of old books lingering in the air. It felt… safe. Settled. Like a place that had existed long before him and would go on existing long after.
A sliding door creaked, and Harry turned his head.
Malfoy stood on his own balcony, arms crossed as he leaned against the railing. The divider between them was low, barely a barrier at all, close enough that Harry could see the tension in Malfoy's shoulders, the way his fingers tapped idly against the metal rail.
Should he bring up the past now?
No. Not yet.
Malfoy glanced at him, brow arching. "You always make a habit of following people into their hiding places?"
Harry exhaled a quiet laugh. "Only the ones who look like they need company."
It was strange, talking to Malfoy like this. Without the weight of rivalry. Without the crutch of the potion. He was trying to just be himself. Whoever that was now.
Malfoy huffed but didn’t argue. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, watching Harry like he was trying to puzzle something out. "Matilda scared you, didn’t she?"
Harry groaned.
Malfoy smirked. "She enjoys making people uncomfortable. It’s one of her few pleasures in life."
"Fantastic," Harry muttered.
He turned his gaze back to the street, watching the wind stir the leaves in restless spirals. After a moment, he said, "You didn’t tell me you were staying here."
Malfoy shrugged. "Didn’t think it mattered."
A quiet moment stretched between them, filled only by the distant rustling of trees and the occasional creak of the old building settling around them.
Then Malfoy smirked. "Well, Potter. Try not to lose sleep staring at my balcony all night."
Harry rolled his eyes. "Please. If I lose sleep, it’ll be because of Matilda."
Malfoy let out a low chuckle, soft and almost warm. "Fair enough."
And then, without another word, he stepped back inside, sliding the door shut behind him.
Harry stayed out a little longer, listening to the wind, staring at the space where Malfoy had just been.