Chapter 12
When Harry returned to Grimmauld Place, he already missed Draco Malfoy. Which was… unexpected. Unsettling, even. Missing Malfoy felt like a glitch in his brain, something that shouldn’t be happening but was. It reminded him of Hogwarts—of that odd, unspoken thing that happened after Christmas holidays when he’d find himself glancing across the Great Hall.
Later that evening, an owl arrived, dropping a thick envelope into his lap. Inside were photographs—ones Draco had taken in Bath. Harry shuffled through them, pausing at a shot of them both, mid-laugh, slightly blurred from movement. A strange warmth stirred in his chest.
It hit him, then—he loved being with Draco.
Which meant it was time to tell Ron and Hermione.
They stared at him.
Ron was the first to break. "Malfoy?" he repeated, like maybe Harry had misspoken and actually meant to say "Mandy Brocklehurst" or "a particularly interesting tree."
"You're friends with him?" He stressed the word friends like it was some rare and highly questionable species of magic.
Harry nodded. "He’s fun."
Ron blinked. "Fun."
"Okay," Ron exhaled, rubbing his face. "I’m going to need several days to process this information."
"Same," Hermione agreed, still staring at him as if he’d confessed to adopting a dragon.
That was all, though. No arguments, no lectures—just mild existential distress. Feeling victorious, Harry hugged them both and immediately ran off to write a letter to Draco.
The next morning, after filing a mind-numbingly dull report at the Ministry, Harry rushed to pick up The Arcane Observer.
Flipping straight to Phantom Focus, he grinned. There were Draco’s photographs—haunting, beautiful, brimming with magic. And there, among them, was Bath. Their Bath.
Harry decided he needed to do this more often.
And so he did.
Over the next five months, Harry and Draco travelled. Sometimes Draco refused because, apparently, running a magazine was a valid excuse. But more often than not, he agreed. And those were the best times.
They cycled through winding streets and soared through open skies. They took ridiculous photos, worked in comfortable silence, and spent countless evenings on balconies. Oddly enough, they only ever booked hotels with balconies, as if they were making an unspoken rule of it.
Harry learned a lot about Draco. And, somehow, he knew Draco was learning about him, too—because they let each other. There were no barriers, no pretences.
One night, Draco spoke about Lucius—how he’d hated him, and yet, somehow, still loved him. Harry didn’t fully understand, but he listened. Another night, Harry talked about Sirius and Remus, and Draco listened, too. Always, after the heavy conversations, they shifted back to laughter, as if instinctively knowing when to pull the other out of the dark.
And Harry loved that. Loved how Draco always knew what to do. He always had, he realised. Even back at Hogwarts. He’d always known exactly how to get under Harry’s skin, how to rile him up, how to make himself seen.
Draco had changed so much after the war, he took efforts to change himself.
Smiling at the thought, Harry sipped his coffee, watching the sky turn dusky from his window. The air was getting colder. December was only two months away.
Maybe it was time to introduce Draco to Teddy.
—
"No." Draco said firmly.
Harry frowned. "Why? Are you scared?"
Draco let out a sharp breath. "Obviously, Potter."
Harry blinked. That wasn’t the answer he’d expected.
"Draco, it’s only Teddy. I mean, look at us now. I hated you back at school, but now—"
Draco cut him off. "Yes, and that only proves you’re mad. Befriending a Death Eater?"
Harry's expression hardened. "Because you’ve changed. And you’re not a Death Eater, Draco." His voice was quiet but firm.
Silence stretched between them.
Then—"Please, Draco."
Draco exhaled, rubbing his temples. "Let me think about it."
Harry grinned. That was a yes.
—
Andromeda hesitated when Harry first brought it up. Her expression was guarded, her eyes searching his face as if weighing the risk. But when Harry spoke about how much Draco had changed, how he wasn’t the same boy raised in that house, she finally nodded.
"He can come," she said. "But I’ll be watching."
Harry took it as a win.
Draco met Teddy on Christmas Eve at Andromeda’s house.
Ron and Hermione were there too, which only added to the tension crackling in the air.
At first, Draco was awkward—stiff, hands twitching at his sides, answering Teddy’s questions in clipped, formal sentences. To Harry’s amusement, Teddy didn’t seem to notice. If anything, he found Draco fascinating.
Within an hour, Teddy had declared Draco his new ‘cool friend’ and latched onto him like a Niffler to gold. Harry had to bite back a laugh at the absolute terror in Draco’s eyes when Teddy asked if he could show him his toy broomstick.
But, slowly—almost reluctantly—Draco warmed up. He let Teddy sit beside him at dinner. He even helped him charm his Christmas crackers to pop with extra glitter (earning a fond but exasperated sigh from Andromeda).
By the end of the night, Andromeda gave Draco an approving nod. And Harry felt something settle in his chest, something light and warm.
His friends, however, weren’t as quick to adjust. Ron and Hermione didn’t speak to Draco, nor did Draco speak to them. They just exchanged occasional glances—wary, measuring. Harry didn’t push. He understood. Some things took time.
But as far as Christmases went? This one had been a success.
—
Harry decided to spend New Year’s with Draco.
It wasn’t work—his next project didn’t officially start until January 3rd—but for some reason, the idea of leaving before December 30th had lodged itself in his brain, refusing to budge.
At first, he hesitated. New Year’s wasn’t just another day; it was a holiday. A time for family, for friends, for—well, anyone but Draco Malfoy, apparently, because for some unfathomable reason, Harry wanted to spend it with him.
And that realisation unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
He told Ron and Hermione the project was complicated and needed urgent attention. That he had no choice but to leave early. They had stared him down, sceptical and silent, before finally letting it go. He felt guilty for half-lying.
Because, in truth, the project was serious—Director Bagshaw had made that clear.
"Prague, Potter," Bagshaw said, tossing a thick folder onto the desk. "You leave by the end of the week."
Harry frowned. "Prague?"
Bagshaw exhaled, rubbing his temples. "Yes, Prague. The Czech Ministry has a problem—something’s off with their magical geography. Spells are misfiring, enchantments are breaking, entire streets are disappearing from magical maps. They think it has to do with some ancient wards from the 15th century. But their own cartographers keep—how shall I put this?—'misplacing' themselves."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Misplacing?"
"Yes, Potter. As in, some of them have vanished. The ones who made it back don’t remember where they went. Or what they saw."
Harry glanced at the folder. Inside were faded maps of Prague’s magical districts, covered in frantic Ministry notes: "Unstable ley lines?" "Vanishing streets?" "Residual dark magic?"
Bagshaw leaned forward. "They need a fresh perspective. And you’re the best at this."
Harry smirked. "That so?"
Bagshaw ignored him. "You’ll be working with the Czech Ministry, but they want an outsider—someone who isn’t stuck in their way of thinking."
Harry exhaled. "Right. So my job is to map the instability and try not to get lost in time or whatever’s going on over there?"
Bagshaw was already dismissing him. "Exactly, Pack warm, Potter. Prague isn’t as forgiving as London this time of year."
But that was only half the reason Harry wanted to leave early.
The other half? Draco.
Time with Draco was easy. It was exciting. It was different. And Harry wanted more of it.
But instead of asking him outright, he wrote a short, casual, vague letter.
Want to join me?
And to his great surprise, Draco said yes.
Harry almost wrote back—Don’t you have other plans?
Because he knew Draco usually spent New Year’s with his employees, Astoria included.
But Draco had agreed without hesitation.
And instead of questioning it, Harry let the thought settle into something warm and unfamiliar in his chest.
—
Their hotel was near the Czech Ministry, a practical choice, but Harry liked it for another reason—the balcony.
And that’s where they found themselves on New Year’s Eve, sitting outside, the city humming with distant celebrations. The air was cold, but neither of them seemed to care.
Draco held a small, neatly wrapped package. Harry held one too.
They exchanged them at the same time. “Happy New Year,” Harry said, and Draco nodded, murmuring the same.
Harry frowned at the package in his hands, fingers working at the wrapping. The paper crinkled, fell away, revealing a pendant—a deep, reddish-orange stone, glowing faintly in the dim light. It felt warm, almost alive, as if embers were hidden just beneath the surface.
Magic pulsed from it—old, steady, familiar.
Harry turned it over between his fingers, mesmerised.
“You can feel the magic of places more clearly if you wear it,” Draco said, his voice softer than usual. “It’ll help with your work. Make it easier. Faster.”
Harry looked up, about to speak, about to say something—but the words never made it out.
Because Draco was smiling.
Not his usual smirk, not something sharp or teasing—but something real. Something almost… proud.
And just like that, something shifted.
Harry shook his head, “Thank you, Draco.”
Draco rolled his eyes, but his smile didn’t fade.
“Go on, then,” Harry urged, nodding at Draco’s package.
Draco unwrapped it carefully, peeling back the paper, revealing a small collection of photographs.
Harry watched as Draco sifted through them.
Pictures of Draco, all of them—candid, unguarded, taken when he wasn’t looking. Draco standing by old ruins, squinting at his camera; Draco frowning at his map, nose scrunched in thought; Draco laughing at something Harry had said, eyes bright, mouth open.
And then, at the bottom of the stack—Draco with Teddy.
Draco blinked, quiet as he took them in.
Harry, who had seen these photos before, suddenly felt strange about it now—because he’d realised, as he packed them together, how many he had taken. And looking at them…
Draco was beautiful.
Not in the way people usually meant—not neat, not polished, not perfect. But something else. Something Harry hadn’t noticed before, or maybe something he just hadn’t allowed himself to see.
Draco smiled. Small, quiet.
“You look beautiful,” Harry said—before he even realised.
Draco’s head snapped up, startled.
“Well, for once, you’re appreciating someone’s beauty that isn’t a Weasley.”
Harry laughed, a little breathless.
Then, without a word, Draco stood up and disappeared inside the hotel room.
Harry blinked, confused, until Draco returned—holding a single photograph.
He handed it over.
Harry took it, turning it towards the light—and stopped breathing.
It was his eyes.
Just them, behind his glasses, sharp and bright, framed with strands of messy hair.
Harry swallowed.
He looked at Draco, who had already sat back down beside him, calm as anything.
Their hands brushed.
It was nothing. A small thing. A fleeting thing.
But Harry noticed it.
Noticed it too much.
Something stirred in his chest—unfamiliar, warm, terrifyingly real.
Draco smirked, but it was softer now, lacking its usual sharpness.
“Happy New Year, Potter.”