Chapter 8
The morning air was crisp, the scent of rain still lingering from the night before. When Harry stepped onto the balcony, the town was barely waking. A few birds fluttered between the trees in the back street, and somewhere below, the faint clatter of Matilda moving about the shop could be heard.
He hadn’t slept much. Not with Malfoy so close. Not with the quiet press of old magic whispering at the edges of his mind, calling him beyond the cliffs.
So he dressed quickly, shrugging on his coat, and left without bothering with breakfast. The sooner he reached the site, the better.
The cliffs loomed ahead, jagged and ancient, standing against the restless sea. Beyond them lay the reason he was here—a stretch of land marked only by time and forgotten magic. A ruin, buried deep beneath the earth, its traces barely visible to those who didn’t know how to look. But Harry did. He had spent years training his magic to feel these things, to sense the echoes of what had been left behind.
As he walked, the wind picked up, tugging at his clothes, carrying the scent of salt and something else—something old. The pull of magic grew stronger with every step.
And then—
The sound of footsteps.
Harry stilled.
He turned just in time to see a familiar figure making his way down the same path, blond hair catching in the morning light, camera slung over his shoulder.
Malfoy.
Of course.
Harry exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair. “You’re joking.”
Malfoy smirked. “Good morning to you too, Potter.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Taking pictures.” Malfoy gestured vaguely toward the cliffs. “The light’s decent. Thought I’d capture the view.”
Harry narrowed his eyes. “Right. And it has nothing to do with the fact that I’m here?”
Malfoy’s smirk didn’t falter. “Potter, if I followed you everywhere you went, I’d have a far more interesting life.”
Harry sighed. “Well,” Harry muttered, turning back toward the cliffs. “Try not to get in my way.”
Because how was he supposed to focus now? How was he supposed to do his work with the weight of unspoken words clawing at the back of his mind? He needed to say it. Apologise. Thank him. But not here. Not yet.
Malfoy fell into step beside him, hands tucked into his coat pockets. “No promises.”
Harry then walked with purpose, the pull of magic growing stronger the closer he got to the site. His wand was in his pocket, but he didn’t need it yet—the air itself was thick with old spells, woven into the earth, humming against his skin.
Malfoy, on the other hand, moved at his own pace. He wasn’t just taking pictures—he was studying things, framing the shots carefully, his fingers adjusting the lens with precise, practiced movements. The camera clicked softly, a steady rhythm against the wind.
Harry tried to ignore it.
He crouched near the edge of the cliff, brushing his fingers against the ground, feeling the faint traces of magic pulse beneath his touch. Ancient wards, perhaps. A protection spell long worn down by time.
Another click.
Harry sighed, glancing over his shoulder.
“You’re not just taking pictures,” he said, watching as Malfoy lifted the camera again, the lens trained not on the horizon, but on something else—small details, the way the grass bent in the wind, the jagged edge of a broken stone.
Malfoy hummed, lowering the camera slightly. “You make it sound like a crime.”
“It’s just—” Harry hesitated, then shook his head. “Never mind.”
He turned back to the ground, but something pulled his gaze back again. The way Malfoy held the camera, the way he studied the world through it—it was familiar in a way that sent a sharp pang through Harry’s chest.
Memories surfaced, unbidden.
The Astronomy Tower.
Cold stone against their backs, stars stretching endlessly above them.
Harry could still feel it—the weight of Malfoy’s shoulder against his, the way their arms had brushed as they passed the camera between them. They had taken stupidest pictures, trading the camera back and forth, catching shots of their own grins, the distant moon, Malfoy laughing into his scarf.
Malfoy had laughed those day—a real, unguarded laugh—and it had felt good. Easy. Natural.
Malfoy snapped another picture, and Harry dragged himself back to the present, exhaling slowly.
“You still do that,” Harry murmured, watching him.
Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “Do what?”
“Take pictures like it’s more than a hobby.”
Malfoy was silent for a beat, his fingers tracing absent patterns against the camera. Then, quietly, “Maybe it is.”
Harry didn’t know what to say to that.
Instead, he turned his attention back to the ground, brushing aside some dirt, revealing the faint carvings beneath.
He didn’t see Malfoy watching him, expression unreadable.
Didn’t see the way Malfoy’s grip on the camera tightened, like maybe—just maybe—he was remembering too.
—
The evening light stretched long and golden across the cobbled streets as Harry left the site, his mind still tangled with the remnants of ancient magic. The ward he had uncovered was unlike anything he had encountered before—centuries old, its power frayed but not yet broken. Someone had buried something here, something they never wanted found. And now, it was Harry’s job to unravel it.
It would take time. Days, maybe even weeks. But he could feel it, humming beneath his fingertips.
By the time he reached the shop, exhaustion dragged at his limbs, and for once, he didn’t fight it. He fell into bed and slept through the night, dreamless and heavy.
Morning came too soon. Harry woke to his stomach twisting with hunger, the kind that made him move before his mind fully caught up. He washed up quickly, ran a hand through his mess of hair, and hurried downstairs.
That’s when he saw it—a dark green bicycle standing just outside the shop.
He frowned. It hadn’t been there yesterday.
Through the glass front, Matilda caught him staring. With a knowing smirk, she gestured to the bike.
"Take it," she called, her voice light with amusement. "You look like a man who could use a proper ride."
Harry hesitated for all of two seconds before straddling it. It had been years since he’d ridden a bike, but the motion came back easily enough. The wheels wobbled slightly as he adjusted, but then he was off, pedalling down the street, letting the crisp morning air wake him properly.
Matilda had suggested a small café just a few turns away, one she promised had the best breakfast in town. He found it easily enough, tucked between two bookshops, the scent of coffee and fresh bread spilling onto the street.
But as soon as he stepped inside, he spotted a familiar figure at one of the corner tables.
Malfoy.
He was seated by the window, a cup of tea in front of him, his camera resting on the table. He looked up as Harry approached, one pale brow arching.
"So you really can’t stay away, can you, Potter?"
Harry sighed, smiling despite himself. "Believe me, Malfoy, I was hoping for a peaceful morning."
Malfoy snorted but didn’t protest when Harry grabbed a sandwich and a glass of lemon juice before sliding into the seat opposite him.
Should he say it now? No. Not here. Not in a café.
So he let it be.
They ate in comfortable silence, the clatter of cutlery and the low hum of conversation filling the space between them. But the quiet felt oddly familiar—like those long-ago Christmas holidays at Hogwarts, when Harry would always end up sitting near Malfoy at meals, neither of them speaking much, but never quite ignoring each other either.
The memory made him smile.
"Does your mother still send you pictures?" he asked, voice light with old amusement.
Malfoy stilled.
His fingers curled slightly against the edge of his cup, and he didn’t look up as he said, "No."
Something in his tone made Harry’s stomach twist.
"What, she got bored of you?" he teased, trying to bring back the ease of a moment ago.
Malfoy’s gaze flicked up then—sharp, unreadable.
"She died two months after I left school." His voice was quiet, steady. "She was ill."
The breath caught in Harry’s throat. He hadn’t known.
The papers had been filled with news of Lucius Malfoy’s death in Azkaban last year, but not a single line had been written about Narcissa.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Harry didn’t offer empty condolences—he knew Malfoy wouldn’t want them. Instead, he nodded once and took another bite of his sandwich.
They finished their meal in silence and left.
—
Harry set out for the cliffs later that evening, having spent the day buried in research. When he stepped into the hallway, he noticed Malfoy’s door was locked. He thought nothing of it at first. But when he returned some time later, the door remained shut.
Malfoy wasn’t there.
For a brief, ridiculous moment, Harry felt a flicker of unease. What if Malfoy had simply left? Packed up his things and vanished after finishing whatever hobby had brought him here?
He shook the thought away, telling himself not to be absurd, and retreated to his own room. Still, when he went downstairs for dinner and found no sign of Malfoy, the unease settled into something heavier. He ate in silence, feeling unreasonably off-balance.
But when he returned, stepping onto the landing, he exhaled in relief. Malfoy’s door was there, just as before. Occupied. Present.
Later, after freshening up, Harry wandered onto his balcony, drawn by the cool night air. And there, on the other side, was Malfoy.
He was seated in a chair, elbow propped against the armrest, chin resting lightly on his hand as he gazed out at the quiet street. He looked… peaceful, almost. Unbothered.
Without thinking, Harry whistled.
Malfoy startled slightly before turning, his brows rising in mild disbelief.
"You weren’t here all day," Harry said, leaning against the railing.
Malfoy scoffed. "What, spent the whole day looking for your ex-enemy, did you?"
Harry rolled his eyes, dragging his own chair closer to the divider and sitting down. "Yup."
Malfoy huffed a quiet laugh. "Finally admitting it, are you?"
Harry smiled. "How was your day?"
Malfoy blinked, as if the question surprised him. "That’s new," he muttered, then shrugged. "It was good. Yours?"
Harry hesitated for half a second. It was such an ordinary exchange, yet coming from Malfoy, it felt oddly foreign. And stranger still—it felt easy.
"Busy," Harry admitted. "A lot of work."
Malfoy hummed in understanding, then let the silence settle between them. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but Harry felt the weight of something unsaid pressing at his ribs. He swallowed.
"Malfoy."
Malfoy turned to him again, tilting his head slightly.
Harry inhaled deeply, steadying himself. "I’m sorry."
Malfoy didn’t reply immediately. He simply watched him, the same way he had the last time Harry had said it. And then—
"You already said that."
"Yeah, but…" Harry exhaled sharply, gripping the railing. "I’m sorry for lying. Sorry for stealing. Sorry for—well, for every bit of madness I put you through when you tried to help me. These past few years, the guilt never left me." He hesitated, then forced himself to go on. "And thank you. For… fighting me. For challenging me."
For keeping me going when I wasn’t sure I could.
Malfoy’s expression remained unreadable, but after a moment, he stood.
For one terrible second, Harry thought he was leaving.
But Malfoy merely crossed the small space between them, leaning against the railing opposite Harry, so close now that the flickering streetlight illuminated the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the cool grey of his eyes.
"Did I not say ‘alright’ last time, Potter?" Malfoy said, lips twitching slightly.
And then—so simply, so easily—he added, "I forgive you."
Harry’s breath caught.
Malfoy arched a brow. "Now, are you going to extend me the same courtesy? Or shall I start listing every terrible thing I ever did to you and we’ll be here all night?"
Harry let out a breathless laugh, shaking his head. "You know I already have."
Malfoy smiled—small, wry, genuine.
"Now what, then?" he asked, tilting his head. "Are you off to another hotel now that you’ve made peace with me? Ticked me off your list and all that?"
Harry snorted. "No. Turns out I quite like living next to my ex-enemy."
Malfoy hummed, considering that. "And the thank you?"
Harry hesitated, then met Malfoy’s gaze squarely. "Because you helped me," he said quietly. "Helped me get over the war. I know that probably doesn’t make sense to you, but…" He trailed off, uncertain how to explain it.
But Malfoy didn’t look confused. He stayed quiet for a long moment, then said, just as quietly, "No. I understand."
And then, to Harry’s utter shock, he added, "You helped me, too."
Harry stared at him, completely thrown.
Malfoy chuckled. "Merlin, we’re dramatic, aren’t we?"
Harry laughed, shaking his head. "Yeah. We are."
"Coffee," Malfoy said suddenly.
Harry raised an eyebrow.
Malfoy smirked. "Oh, come on, Potter. I gave you my forgiveness—would I not offer you a coffee as well?"
Harry snorted, shaking his head. "Alright, fine."
Malfoy disappeared inside and returned a few minutes later, carrying two cups, the steam curling into the cool night air. He handed one to Harry, then settled back into his chair.
Harry took a careful sip—and nearly groaned. It was perfect.
Malfoy caught his expression and looked insufferably pleased with himself.
"Alright," Harry admitted, taking another sip. "So you’re not just good at Potions, then."
Malfoy chuckled. "Obviously."
The warmth of the drink seeped through Harry’s fingers, and for a moment, the quiet between them felt almost… comfortable.
Strange, really. That this was happening. That it felt easy.
But of course, it was only because it was Malfoy.
Harry found himself speaking before he thought better of it. "When are you leaving?"
Malfoy glanced at him, one brow quirking. "Why, Potter? Hoping I’ll clear out soon?"
Harry huffed. "I told you—I like being in the same place as my ex-enemy."
Malfoy smirked. "And I told you—I know you can act."
Harry rolled his eyes.
"I’ll leave when I get bored," Malfoy added casually, taking another sip of his coffee.
Harry hummed, then glanced at his cup, swirling the liquid absently.
"What about you?" Malfoy asked.
Harry nearly smiled. He liked that Malfoy was asking him things now. Actually trying.
"It’ll take weeks," he said simply.
They sat there in silence after that, the occasional clink of a cup against the railing the only sound between them.
Eventually, when it grew too late, Malfoy pushed himself up, stretching slightly before heading inside.
Harry stayed a little longer, letting the night settle around him, the taste of coffee still warm on his tongue.