Chapter 9
The next morning, they met at the same café for breakfast, just as they had the day before.
Malfoy sighed theatrically, shaking his head. "Salazar, you really won’t leave me alone, will you?" His face twisted into something mockingly tragic—though the small smile at the corners of his lips gave him away.
Harry, determined, mimicked his expression. "No."
Malfoy let out a suffering groan, but they ate in companionable silence all the same.
When they stepped outside, the morning air was crisp, the wind picking up slightly. Harry’s gaze landed on the bike propped against the café wall, then flicked back to Malfoy.
"Get on."
Malfoy blinked. "What?"
Harry smirked. "Come on, Malfoy. We’re going for a ride."
Malfoy gave him a long, incredulous look. "Absolutely not."
Harry rolled his eyes, swinging his leg over the bike. "Scared, Malfoy?"
Malfoy scoffed, bristling. "Don’t be ridiculous."
"Then get on."
Malfoy hesitated for another second before exhaling sharply, muttering, "This is the most idiotic thing I’ve done in years."
Still, he climbed on, hands hovering uncertainly before gripping Harry’s shoulders.
"If you drop me, Potter, I swear—"
Harry didn’t let him finish. He pushed off, pedalling faster than necessary, just to hear Malfoy’s startled curse as he lurched forward.
The wind rushed past them, sharp and bracing.
Harry laughed—properly laughed—as Malfoy swore again.
"Potter, slow the hell down!"
Harry only grinned, steering them through the narrow streets. "Relax, Malfoy. Matilda asked me to grab some flowers."
Malfoy huffed. "The flower shop’s in the opposite direction, you absolute tosser."
Harry didn’t bother correcting himself. Instead, he turned the bike sharply, and within minutes, they pulled up in front of a small florist’s shop.
Malfoy climbed off immediately, raking a hand through his wind-ruffled hair before fixing Harry with a glare. "You are a menace."
Harry chuckled. "You looked like you were enjoying yourself."
Malfoy gave him a flat, unimpressed stare before brushing past him into the shop.
Inside, the scent of fresh blooms filled the air, and Harry realised—somewhat belatedly—that he had no idea what to buy.
Before he could figure it out, Malfoy sighed dramatically and pushed him aside.
"One bouquet of these roses," he told the florist smoothly.
Harry snorted. "Roses? How predictable."
Malfoy smirked, tucking his hands into his pockets. "Yes. Just like your name, Potter. Predictable."
Harry rolled his eyes but didn’t argue as they left the shop.
The ride back was slower. The bouquet rested in the basket, and Malfoy sat behind him, noticeably more relaxed now, his grip on Harry’s shoulders looser.
The wind carried the scent of salt and roses, and for once, Harry let himself enjoy the moment.
It reminded him of something—not the past, not the potion-induced haze of laughter from years ago, but something different.
Something new.
Something real.
—
Throughout the day, Harry found his thoughts drifting back to the morning—back to the wind in his hair, Malfoy’s indignant swearing, and the easy banter that felt… natural. He didn’t know how things had shifted so quickly, how just one night of conversation and coffee had undone years of distance.
Maybe it was because they had been like this once before, though that had been under the influence of the potion—too giddy, too carefree to dwell on anything deeper. But this was different. And what baffled him most was how easily Malfoy had gone along with it all.
That evening, as Harry settled onto his balcony, it was Malfoy who whistled this time.
Harry turned, smiling as he dragged his chair back to its usual spot.
"Coffee?" he asked before Malfoy could speak.
Malfoy merely nodded, and Harry disappeared inside, returning moments later with two steaming mugs.
Malfoy took his with a quiet "Cheers," then, without a word, mirrored Harry’s position—chair pulled up, feet propped lazily against the railing.
"So," Malfoy drawled, taking a sip. "Is this where I ask how your day was?"
Harry huffed a laugh. "It was good. Thought I might run into you at the site, but you were nowhere to be found."
Malfoy tutted. "Well, hard luck, Potter."
Harry rolled his eyes. "And yours?"
Malfoy smirked. "Eventful."
Harry thought about pressing for details but chose instead to nod, letting the quiet settle between them.
Minutes passed, the night cool and still, before Harry spoke again—asking something he never thought he would.
"Do you still have them?" he asked quietly. "The photos?"
Malfoy looked up, eyes sharp with interest. "Yes."
Harry swallowed. "Oh."
There was a pause before Malfoy tilted his head. "Do you want to see them?"
Harry hadn't expected that. He nodded, throat suddenly dry.
Malfoy disappeared inside, returning with a box—larger than Harry had anticipated.
Carefully, Malfoy handed him a stack of photos, and Harry drew in a slow breath as he saw them.
The first was of Malfoy—the very first picture Harry had ever taken of him. Then another, this time of Harry, taken when he hadn’t been looking. And then more—so many more.
Shots of them grinning like idiots, laughing, pulling ridiculous faces. Frozen moments of something that, potion or not, had been undeniably real.
"They’re beautiful," Harry murmured, almost to himself.
When he glanced up, Malfoy was holding something small and familiar.
Their camera. The tiny, battered yellow camera that had once captured all those moments.
"Smile," Malfoy said, lifting it.
Harry smiled.
The camera clicked.
—
When Harry lay in bed that night, staring up at the wooden beams overhead, the realisation settled over him like a slow, inevitable tide.
He liked Malfoy.
Not the boy he had grown up loathing—the arrogant, sharp-tongued prat who had once made his life hell. No, he liked the man Malfoy had become. The one who still carried that same sharp wit but wielded it differently now. The one who smirked but also smiled—smiled at Harry.
And Harry, against all logic, found himself wanting to see more of it.
—
The next day, Harry didn’t see Malfoy at all. Not until the evening—only this time, it wasn’t on the balcony.
A knock at the door.
When Harry pulled it open, Malfoy stood there, hands tucked into his coat pockets, expression unreadable.
"Have you eaten?" Malfoy asked, voice even, like he hadn’t been missing all day.
Harry shook his head. "No."
Malfoy nodded once. "I know a place."
A slow smile crept across Harry’s face. "Yeah, let’s go."
Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, "And let’s bring the camera."
They decided to walk.
The evening air was cool, carrying the faint scent of the sea. Harry felt lighter than he had in days, almost giddy. Every so often, he pulled out the little yellow camera, snapping pictures—of the streetlights, the ivy-covered brick walls, and of Malfoy, walking ahead with his hands clasped behind his back.
Malfoy rolled his eyes at him but said nothing.
The restaurant was tucked away down a quiet street, warm light spilling onto the cobbled pavement. It was small and unassuming, but inviting.
They took a corner table.
Harry liked Dorset. No one stared here. No whispers followed him down the street, no second glances at the sight of him sitting across from Malfoy. It was easy. Quiet. And for once, he didn’t have to think about what anyone else thought.
Malfoy reached for his drink, watching as Harry flipped through the photos they had taken that evening.
"Stop staring at them and eat," Malfoy drawled.
"Yeah, yeah," Harry muttered, still smiling. He hesitated, then asked, "Hey… can I have some of the pictures from Hogwarts? I’ll give you some of these in return."
Malfoy shrugged. "Sure."
Something warm settled in Harry’s chest. He didn’t say anything—just tucked the camera away and picked up his fork.
They ate in comfortable silence.
On the walk back, Harry nudged a loose stone along the pavement, watching as it skidded forward and bounced lightly off the edge of the road.
To his surprise, Malfoy kicked it too.
Harry glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. Malfoy only smirked.
That was it. The game had begun.
They took turns, knocking the stone back and forth, elbows jostling, the occasional huff of laughter slipping between them. Neither spoke, both silently determined to win whatever ridiculous, unspoken competition this was. By the time they reached their building, they were breathless, grinning like fools.
The stone rolled to a stop just in front of the steps. Harry turned to Malfoy, ready to declare himself the winner. But before he could say anything, Malfoy beat him to it.
"I’m leaving tomorrow."
Harry stilled.
The laughter drained from his chest, warmth giving way to something hollow.
"Oh," was all he managed.
And then—
Malfoy barked a laugh, loud and utterly unapologetic. "Merlin, Potter! You should’ve seen your face."
Harry blinked. "What?"
"I was joking."
The relief was instant—and infuriating.
"You absolute—" Harry lunged, but Malfoy was already halfway up the stairs, laughing as Harry chased him all the way to their doors.
That night, they sat on their balconies as usual. Malfoy handed him half the old photos, and Harry gave him some of the new ones in return. Malfoy only rolled his eyes but took them anyway.
Harry smiled to himself, fingers brushing over the edges of the photographs. He didn’t know what this was—this strange, easy thing between them.
But he knew he didn’t want it to end.
—
The next morning, Harry woke to the sound of wings beating against his window. His owl had returned, clutching the usual bundle—a letter from Hermione and Ron, along with The Arcane Observer.
After scribbling a quick reply to his friends—telling them about his adventures but, for some reason, leaving out Malfoy—he reached for the newspaper, flicking through the headlines without much thought. Then, on instinct, he picked up the magazine that came with it.
He skimmed the pages until he found the section he was looking for.
Phantom Focus.
It had always been his favourite—the ghostly photographs that appeared every week, each accompanied by sparse, poetic captions. The images were never obvious, never explained. Detached, yet strangely intimate.
The photographer, Sissa Faulks, was a mystery. They never gave interviews, never appeared in public. Some speculated they were a Seer, capturing echoes of magic unseen by ordinary eyes. Others whispered that they were a ghost themselves—someone who walked the line between the living and the dead, slipping between worlds like mist.
Harry had never cared for the theories. He just liked the photos.
But as he turned the page, his breath caught.
The images weren’t just familiar—they were places he had stood.
The cliffs beyond the town. The quiet backstreet with its hanging greenery. The little florist’s shop where he and Malfoy had laughed over roses.
His fingers tightened on the page.
It couldn’t be.
But it was.
Malfoy.
Draco Malfoy was Sissa Faulks.
Harry stared at the name, his mind reeling.
Of course.
Without thinking, he shot to his feet, the magazine clutched in his hand, and stormed down the hall. He knocked furiously at Malfoy’s door, impatience bubbling under his skin.
When Malfoy finally opened it, hair tousled, eyes heavy with sleep, Harry shoved the magazine into his face.
"Oh."
That was all he said.
Harry gaped at him. "Oh? That’s your answer, Sissa Faulks? So this is your big hobby, then?"
Malfoy blinked. "Didn’t think you read The Observer."
Harry huffed. "I’m a magical cartographer, Malfoy. This paper helps me explore new places."
Malfoy smirked, stepping back inside. "Well, I’m glad. Now leave me alone to sleep."
"Malfoy! That’s it? That’s all you have to say?"
"Yes."
And with that, Malfoy shut the door in his face.
—
Harry spent the day drowning in paperwork, determined to focus on his actual job.
It was late afternoon when there was a knock at his door.
He opened it to find Malfoy standing there, arms crossed. Without waiting for an invitation, Malfoy stepped past him and sank into the chair by the window.
"Don’t tell your friends that I’m Sissa Faulks."
Harry leaned against the desk, raising a brow. "I won’t."
"Good."
Harry couldn’t help but grin. "So… you’re what, a ghost photographer?"
Malfoy rolled his eyes.
Harry tilted his head. "Why ghosts?"
Malfoy looked slightly taken aback by the question. For a moment, he said nothing.
And Harry waited.
"Truth or lie?" Malfoy asked, his expression unreadable.
Harry, amused, chose, "Lie."
Malfoy smirked. "Well, the rumours are true. I’m a Seer—I can capture echoes of magic unseen by ordinary eyes."
Harry snorted. "Of course, you’d go for the coolest rumour."
Malfoy only smiled.
"Now tell me the truth," Harry pressed.
But Malfoy didn’t answer. Instead, his gaze flickered to the map spread across Harry’s desk. He tapped a finger against a familiar marking. "This is the cliff, right?"
Harry understood then—Malfoy didn’t want to talk about it.
So, he let it go. Instead, he explained his work, tracing the lines on the map, detailing the places he had charted. And Malfoy listened. Properly listened.
By the time evening rolled around, they went out for dinner, settling into easy conversation. And later, as if it were their usual routine, they returned to their balconies with coffee in hand.
It was Malfoy who spoke first.
"It was my mother."
Harry inhaled sharply. Déjà vu.
"You know," Malfoy continued, staring out at the horizon, "people think ghosts are just—" he waved a hand vaguely, searching for the right words, "—remnants. Echoes. Trapped souls. But that’s not really it."
Harry remained silent, letting him speak.
"Magic leaves imprints. Not just in objects, not just in places, but in time itself. The stronger the emotion, the stronger the trace." His fingers drummed lightly against the table. "Grief. Love. Fear. They don’t just disappear. Some of them settle. Some of them shape the world around them."
Malfoy exhaled, voice quieter now. "When she was gone... it was unbearable, Potter. I hadn’t even fully come to terms with—well, everything—when it happened. And suddenly, she was just gone." His throat bobbed as he swallowed. "I didn’t know what to do. And then I felt her. Her magic. It was faint at first—just a whisper, a lingering warmth in a room she used to sit in. But then it was everywhere. And I realised—it wasn’t going to leave. She wasn’t going to leave. She wouldn’t let it."
Harry said nothing, barely breathing.
"I started capturing it. In photographs. Little traces of her magic, woven into the walls of the Manor, the light through the windows, the air itself. And I loved it. Loved seeing her in the pictures, feeling her presence." Malfoy let out a soft chuckle, almost self-deprecating. "Then I started finding it elsewhere. Other places. Other people’s magic. I fell in love with it."
Harry sat in quiet awe. He understood. Of course he did. As a cartographer, he had always felt the magic of places—the way it lingered, the way it told stories long after people had gone.
But this—this was something else.
Not just places. People.
Because even when they left, even when they were gone… something of them remained.
"And then one day, Astoria came to me. She had this mad idea—starting a newspaper and publishing house. Something different. Something real." Malfoy huffed a small laugh. "And we did. The Arcane Observer."
Harry stared at him. "Your newspaper and publishing house," he breathed, realisation hitting him all at once.
Malfoy only grinned, as if amused by Harry’s reaction.
Harry opened his mouth, struggling for words, but Malfoy beat him to it.
"Shh, Potter. Don’t strain yourself." He smirked, sipping his coffee.
And Harry laughed. He didn’t know why. He just did.