Chapter 10
Harry couldn’t stop thinking about what Malfoy had told him. It lingered in his mind, turning over and over, until it must have shown on his face.
“What is it, Potter?” Malfoy asked over breakfast, eyeing him as he took a sip of his tea.
Harry hesitated, then finally said, “Just… thinking about what you said. About magic leaving imprints.”
Malfoy hummed, setting his cup down. “Oh.”
Silence stretched between them, comfortable but heavy. And then, Malfoy spoke again. “Is there something you want to capture?”
Harry froze, his breath catching. How? How had Malfoy known?
“I—” He exhaled, pressing his lips together before nodding. “Yes. But I don’t know if it’s possible. I mean—”
“Potter.”
“Yeah?”
“Calm down. Where is it?”
Harry stared at him. “You’d do that?”
“Why not?”
Harry swallowed. His fingers curled around his mug. “It’s… Godric’s Hollow.”
Malfoy didn’t flinch. Didn’t hesitate. He only nodded. “Alright.”
Harry blinked. “Alright?”
“Yes, Potter. I’ll do it once I leave here. You can come with me if you want.”
Harry stared at him, unable to find the words. It felt too easy. Too simple. And then, he realised why.
Malfoy understood him.
And that startled him more than anything.
—
As they left the café, Harry swung his leg over his bicycle, pedalling slowly to keep pace with Malfoy, who strolled along the pavement.
“Malfoy.”
“No, Potter.”
“Just once.”
“I said no before we even started eating, and you agreed.”
“Please.”
Malfoy glanced at him, brows lifting slightly in surprise, before looking away and continuing his walk.
Harry huffed. “Please, please, please—”
“Merlin, shut up,” Malfoy muttered, but there was a twitch at the corner of his mouth, betraying his amusement.
Harry grinned. “Come on, Malfoy.”
Malfoy sighed, long-suffering. “Fine. But only if you keep your mouth shut.”
“Absolutely.”
“I mean it, Potter.”
Harry smirked as Malfoy climbed onto the bike behind him, his hands hesitating before gripping Harry’s waist.
And then, with a sharp push off the pavement, they were flying down the street, the wind in their hair, the world rushing past in a blur of salt air and fading sunlight.
The days slipped by, and Harry’s work was nearly done. It was the evening before his final day when Malfoy spoke the words Harry had been expecting—but dreading all the same.
“I’m leaving tomorrow.”
Harry stilled, then turned to look at him. “So you got bored of me.”
“Yes,” Malfoy said easily, but the small smile that played at his lips took the sting out of the words.
Harry exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Will we meet again?”
Malfoy didn’t answer immediately. He just held Harry’s gaze, that same knowing smile still in place.
“I don’t know,” he said at last.
But Harry did.
Because that smile told him everything.
—
When Harry returned to Grimmauld Place, he was beaming. He told Hermione and Ron all about his time in Dorset—the places he’d been, the work he’d done, the odd little moments that had made it feel like something more than just another job.
But he left out Malfoy.
And he wasn’t sure why.
Or maybe he was.
—
Three days later, an owl arrived for Harry.
There was no letter, no note—just a single photograph tucked inside the envelope.
A white building stood in the distance, small against the stretch of green that surrounded it.
Harry huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head.
A challenge. From Malfoy.
And, of course, Harry took the bait.
Luckily, after weeks of relentless work in Dorset, he had a few well-earned days off. It took him a day and a half of searching—following clues, tracing the landscape, cross-referencing maps—but eventually, he found it.
The building was even lovelier up close. It wasn’t grand or imposing, not what he’d expected. It looked more like a home than anything else—warm, inviting, with ivy creeping along the edges and large windows letting in the soft afternoon light.
But the sign near the entrance told a different story.
The Arcane Observer.
So this was Malfoy’s place.
Harry pushed open the door and stepped inside.
When Harry stepped inside, Malfoy was already waiting.
“Took you long enough,” Malfoy said, leaning casually against a desk.
Harry glanced around. “So this is your place?” His brows lifted. “It looks nothing like a press.”
Because, really, it didn’t. The Arcane Observer was nothing like the cold, rigid offices of the Ministry. Instead of harsh lighting and cramped desks, the space was open and filled with warmth. Large windows let in the afternoon sun, casting golden patches across polished wood floors. People worked quietly, focused but at ease, chatting in hushed tones or laughing softly over cups of tea.
It felt… calm. Lived-in.
“Is that a compliment or—?” Malfoy drawled, tilting his head.
“Definitely a compliment.”
Malfoy smirked but didn’t argue. Instead, he took Harry through the place, introducing him to the staff. None of them stared. None of them whispered behind their hands. They greeted him like anyone else, and for once, Harry wasn’t The Boy Who Lived. He was just… Harry.
And he liked that.
Then he met Astoria. She was sharp and quick-witted, eyes bright with amusement as she shook his hand. “So you’re the one keeping Draco distracted,” she teased. “About time he found a hobby other than being insufferable.”
Malfoy rolled his eyes, but Harry only laughed. He liked her instantly.
After the introductions, Malfoy led him through the rest of the building—his office, the kitchen stocked with far too much coffee, and finally, the garden.
It was quiet here, tucked away behind the building, with ivy climbing the stone walls and a small gazebo in the centre. They sat beneath it, the air cool, the scent of earth and parchment lingering as they sipped their hot chocolate.
“So,” Malfoy said after a moment, voice casual, “do you want to come with me?”
Harry knew exactly what he meant.
“Godric’s Hollow?”
Malfoy nodded.
Harry hesitated, fingers tightening around his mug. He wasn’t sure why the thought made his chest feel so tight. Maybe because it had always been his place, his grief, his past.
“Whenever you’re ready,” Malfoy added, softer now.
Harry took a breath.
“How about now?” Malfoy prompted, watching him closely.
“Now?” Harry’s heart thudded. “Just—just like that?”
“Yes, Potter. Just like that.”
Harry exhaled. Then, with a shaky smile, he said, “Okay. Brilliant.”
And in the blink of an eye, they were standing in Godric’s Hollow.
Godric’s Hollow hadn’t changed much. The village was still quiet, the cottages still quaint, their windows glowing warmly against the early evening light. The church stood solemn and steady, its spire cutting into the sky, and the war memorial shifted as they passed, revealing the familiar statue beneath—the quiet tribute to James and Lily Potter.
Harry barely heard Malfoy’s footsteps beside him as they walked. He felt the weight of it all settle in his chest, the strange pull of memory and magic that always lingered here. But this time, it was different. This time, he wasn’t alone.
When they reached the ruins of his parents’ house, Harry stopped.
The cottage stood just as it always had—frozen in time. The right side of the roof was still blasted open, jagged edges of brick and wood untouched since that night. The ivy had grown thicker along the walls, creeping over broken windows and trailing down towards the ground. The air around it hummed, magic woven into its very foundation, untouched yet ever-present.
Malfoy said nothing. He simply waited.
Harry stepped forward, pushing open the old iron gate. It creaked loudly, breaking the silence. As he moved closer, he could see the plaque, its inscription as clear as ever:
"On this spot, on the night of 31 October 1981, Lily and James Potter lost their lives. Their son, Harry, survived. The only one to have done so."
Harry exhaled slowly, running his fingers over the worn lettering.
Then, just as he always did, he reached out—his magic brushing against the house, searching for something, anything.
But this time, he wasn’t just feeling.
This time, Malfoy was capturing it.
The soft click of the camera was barely audible, but Harry felt it like a shift in the air. A moment preserved.
"Still here," Malfoy murmured. Not a question, just a fact.
Harry swallowed, glancing at Malfoy.
"Yeah," he murmured. "Still here."
He watched as Malfoy worked, the way he lifted his camera, the quiet precision in every movement. It was different from how Harry had ever seen photography before—not just a means of capturing an image, but of feeling something, of preserving something unseen.
When they finally left the house, Harry led the way towards the graveyard. Malfoy didn’t follow at first. He hesitated at the edge of the path, as if unsure whether to intrude.
Harry hesitated too. Then, without thinking too much about it, he reached back and tugged Malfoy forward.
And that’s when it hit him.
He was letting Malfoy in.
That realisation brought another one.
Malfoy had already done the same. He’d let Harry into his world—his place, his people, his work. The Arcane Observer wasn’t just where he worked; it was a piece of him. And he had let Harry see it.
Harry smiled to himself as they walked together towards the graves.
When they finally returned to Malfoy’s office, Malfoy told Harry to wait. Then he disappeared into another room.
Harry sat there, restless, the weight of the day pressing against his chest. It felt like an hour had passed before Malfoy returned.
He was holding a stack of photographs.
Without a word, he handed them to Harry.
Harry took them carefully, turning the first one over in his hands. And then he felt it.
Not just a picture. Not just a memory.
Magic.
It was there, woven into the images—subtle, shimmering, alive. He could see it. Feel it.
Something lodged in his throat, a quiet, overwhelming ache.
His fingers trembled slightly as he looked up at Malfoy.
He smiled, eyes misty.
—
The next day Harry sent Malfoy a picture of his own kitchen. He didn’t expect an immediate response, but he still found himself checking for an owl more often than he’d like to admit.
Instead, there was a knock at his door.
Harry schooled his expression, trying to tamp down the mix of curiosity and excitement as he pulled it open.
Malfoy stood there, smirking, his white shirt casually unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves pushed up.
“So fast, Malfoy,” Harry said grinning, as he was leaning against the doorframe.
Malfoy’s smirk deepened. “Well, you did send me the most elusive of landmarks—your kitchen. Truly a mystery.”
Harry stepped aside, letting Malfoy in. Without a word, he made his way to the kitchen, knowing Malfoy would follow.
As they reached the doorway, Malfoy pulled the photograph from his pocket and held it up, glancing between it and the actual kitchen. He squinted theatrically.
“Yup. I’d say this is the place.”
Harry huffed a laugh, shaking his head. Without thinking, he stuck out his hand toward Malfoy.
"Friends?"
Malfoy blinked, caught off guard. His expression flickered—surprise, hesitation, something unreadable—before he let out a quiet scoff, lips curling in amusement. But he didn’t take Harry’s hand.
"Let me think about it first, Potter."
Harry didn’t pull his hand back. He simply waited, smiling.
Malfoy’s eyes flickered to him, sharp and searching. “You sure about this?”
Harry nodded. "A hundred percent."
A pause. Then, slowly, Malfoy reached out, gripping Harry’s hand in a firm shake.
Something settled between them.
Then, just as naturally, Harry turned and shoved a basket into Malfoy’s arms.
Malfoy frowned down at it. “What’s this?”
Harry gave him a look. “What do you mean, what? Carrots. Cabbage. Chop, Malfoy. You’re not a guest.”
Malfoy scoffed, but he rolled up his sleeves all the same. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, reaching for a knife.
And just like that, they cooked together.
After lunch, they lounged in front of the telly, neither really paying attention to whatever was on.
Harry, feeling particularly mischievous, turned his head and called, “Draco.”
Malfoy glanced at him, brow furrowed. "What?"
Harry just grinned and called again, “Draco.”
Malfoy’s expression twisted. “That is weird, Potter.”
Harry burst out laughing. “It is, isn’t it?”
Malfoy rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth twitched.
"So, Draco—”
"Stop it."
"—I’ve got my next project lined up. Bath this time. You coming?"
Malfoy gave him a flat look. “Potter, I run a newspaper. I can’t just gallivant across the country whenever you get the urge to stare at maps.”
Harry smirked. "Draco, I think you can. You’re the boss."
Malfoy scoffed. "That’s not how it works. Also, stop saying my name like that."
"Like what, Draco?"
Malfoy threw a cushion at his face. Harry caught it, cackling.
"Alright, fine," Harry said, flopping back against the sofa. "So you won’t join me."
Malfoy hesitated. "Do you want me to?"
Harry shot him a look. "No, Malfoy, I just love being rejected."
Malfoy snorted. "Let me think about it."
Harry huffed dramatically. "Fine."
They sat in silence for a moment.
Then Harry muttered under his breath, “Draco.”
Malfoy groaned and chucked another cushion at him.