Harry was thirty-one when love—fierce, unwavering, eight years strong—was forced to make room for something else. Something colder. Sharper.
Draco Malfoy—his husband of six years, his lover for two, his friend for three, and his rival for almost seven.
And yet, tonight, Harry could not look at him without feeling something unsettled clawing at his chest.
It started two days ago when Lyra, their bright-eyed, unshakeable seven-year-old started behaving oddly, as though she’d been practising dark magic behind closed doors, but all the while feeling guilty about it. And Lyra, who wouldn’t lie, who didn’t know how to lie, had lied.
Harry had seen it in the way she hesitated, in the way she chewed her lip before forcing out, Nothing, Daddy.
It chilled him. Not because she’d fibbed—every child did at some point—but because she was ashamed of it.
So Harry, not wanting to frighten her, had bided his time. He waited until Draco came home from whatever damned urgent meeting had stolen his Sunday.
By the time the fireplace roared green and Draco stepped through, it was gone nine.
“Did my darling fall asleep waiting for me?” Draco murmured, smoothing a hand over Lyra’s curls where she lay curled on the bed.
Harry, who had been sitting by her side, gave a tired smile. “Yeah, but I’m waiting for you. Not falling asleep.”
Draco chuckled softly, leaning in to press a fleeting kiss to Harry’s lips. But when Harry didn’t melt into it—when he pulled back with that look—Draco stilled.
“I need to talk to you,” Harry said, voice quiet but firm. “Freshen up, then come on.”
Draco frowned, his silver eyes narrowing.
“What about?”
“Your daughter. Now go.”
At that, Draco hesitated, then said, “Oh. Well, now you’ve said that, I don’t think I can wait. Just tell me what’s happened.”
Harry sighed. Of course, Draco wouldn’t wait. He never did.
As they moved to the sofa, Harry didn’t waste time. “She’s been looking guilty these past two days. Like she’s done something unthinkable. I asked her what’s wrong, and guess what? She lied, Draco.” His voice dropped, raw with worry.
Draco, who had been all concern a moment ago, suddenly went unreadable. That in itself was telling.
“Draco?” Harry prompted, frowning.
Draco exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. “It… it might be because of me.”
Harry stilled. “What?”
Draco sat forward, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on some distant point beyond the fireplace. “I took her to the Manor on Thursday.”
Silence stretched between them.
Then—Harry stood. His breath came sharp, his magic prickling beneath his skin like a live wire.
“You took her?” he whispered, as if he didn’t trust himself to speak louder.
Draco lifted his chin, gaze meeting Harry’s. “Yeah. And I asked her not to tell you.”
Again.
Harry’s stomach turned. Again.
“You asked her?” The words scraped out of him, raw with disbelief. “Like you did last time?”
“I know it was wrong—”
“No, you don’t.” Harry’s voice was low, dangerous. “You don’t do things after knowing they’re wrong, Draco. You just—don’t.”
Draco exhaled through his nose, shifting forward. “Potter,” he said tightly, “asking her to keep it from you was wrong. But taking her to the Manor wasn’t. My mother wanted to see her.”
Harry let out a bitter laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Your mother?” His voice dropped to a furious whisper. “The same woman who didn’t want to see our daughter for a year because she was an adopted child? That mother?”
Draco flinched. And good.
Because what the hell was he thinking?
“You took her there?” Harry’s voice cracked, eyes dark with something old, something jagged. “To that place? Where I nearly died? Where Hermione was tortured?”
Draco stood then, his face unreadable once more. He was always so good at that, wasn’t he? At hiding things. At playing composed. But Harry knew him too well. He saw the flinch in his fingers, the way he balled his hands into fists at his sides.
And yet—Draco said nothing.
He just stood there.
Then—
"Daddy…”
A sleepy voice from the bed.
Harry’s breath hitched, the fire in his chest dimming instantly.
He turned, stepping away from Draco, kneeling by the bed once more. “Shh, sweetheart,” he murmured, brushing a hand over Lyra’s hair. “Go back to sleep, love. I’m here.”
Lyra sighed, tiny fingers curling into his sleeve. “’Kay…” she whispered before drifting off again.
Harry pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead, whispering a soft sorry against her skin.
And when he turned back—
Draco was gone.
The door clicked shut in the quiet.
And for the first time in years, Harry didn’t know if he wanted to go after him.
_____
When Harry awoke the next morning, the bed beside him was cold and empty. Draco had already gone. Harry rubbed his eyes and pulled himself out of bed, his mind still clouded with the remnants of the argument. He shuffled into the kitchen, the sunlight creeping through the windows, but the space felt too quiet. Lyra was sitting on the kitchen counter, munching away on a piece of chocolate.
"Chocolate for breakfast?" Harry asked, a hint of disapproval in his voice, though he couldn’t fully muster the energy to scold her.
Lyra, with chocolate smeared on her face, smiled up at him. "No, Papa. I already had breakfast. Daddy made my favourite today."
Harry grunted in response, his gaze drifting to the empty kitchen table. "Hmm, and then disappeared before I even woke up," he muttered to himself, his anger still lingering, though he tried to ignore it.
Lyra hopped off the counter with a speed only a six-year-old could manage, her energy seemingly boundless. "Weasleys or shop today?" Harry asked, making himself a mug of coffee, the rich aroma filling the space between them.
"Shop!" Lyra answered quickly, already halfway up the stairs, her tiny feet barely making a sound.
_____
The shop was quiet as ever, nestled in its familiar corner of Diagon Alley. Harry’s place. Lyra was already perched on her usual stool, swinging her legs in time with the soft hum of the shop, her gaze fixed on Harry as he moved around, preparing the space for the day. He found comfort in the rhythm of his work, though his thoughts remained elsewhere.
It was Lyra’s voice that broke through the stillness. "Papa, are you okay?" she asked, concern in her young eyes.
Harry paused for a moment, taking in the softness of her tone. "Yeah, sweetheart," he replied, trying to sound reassuring. "But Lyra, next time, don’t go to the Manor. Say no to your daddy."
She blinked, her brow furrowing as she processed his words. "Oh," she said quietly. Then, after a long pause, she added, "Sorry, Papa. I won’t lie again." Her eyes darted away briefly before she looked back up at him. "But, Papa... why don’t you want to go to Daddy’s other home?"
Harry froze. Her words hit him like a gust of cold wind.
Home. She had said it so simply. Home.
The words hung in the air, slow and heavy. Harry’s heart skipped a beat as he considered her question. Home. It was such an innocent word, yet it struck him like a distant thunderclap. Draco’s other home—Malfoy Manor. Harry had always seen it as a place of shadows, a place where darkness had lived and where Draco had made choices he couldn’t reconcile. A place where betrayal and hurt had taken root.
Lyra, not really understanding the weight of her words, kept talking. "It was fun there, Papa! Daddy showed me his room. It was really nice. And the garden was HUGE! Like a place from a storybook. Daddy told me he used to play there with Grandma. He said when he was little, he got lost in the garden and couldn’t find his way back! And I saw lots of pictures of Daddy when he was little. He looked funny, like me!" She giggled, completely unaware of the thoughts racing through Harry’s mind.
The words hit Harry slowly, one after the other. Home. Draco had called that place home. The same place Harry had always seen as a symbol of pain and regret. But Draco had lived there, loved there, laughed there. The garden—where Draco had once played, as a child, as innocent as Lyra. His childhood had been spent there, as hers was spent here. And now, Harry was hearing it through Lyra’s eyes—how Draco had once cherished that place, how he still must, perhaps.
Before he could stop himself, Harry crossed the room and pulled Lyra into a tight embrace. She squirmed slightly at first, but then melted into him, her small arms wrapping around his neck.
"Papa?" she whispered, her voice soft with concern. "Are you alright?"
Harry closed his eyes, holding her a little longer than usual, feeling the weight of everything that had shifted in his heart. "I’ll be," he murmured, his voice thick with unspoken things. "Once I see your daddy again."
As he held her, his mind raced. Draco’s past wasn’t just a series of mistakes or choices he regretted—it was a life. A life that Harry had never seen, never understood. Maybe it wasn’t too late to understand it.
______
When Draco finally returned home that night, it was well past midnight. Harry had been awake for hours, but he had stayed quiet, unable to find the right words, unsure of how to approach the moment. His pulse quickened when Draco stepped through the door, but instead of rushing to him, Harry stood still, watching him move through the familiar motions. Draco went straight to Lyra’s room, murmuring a soft goodnight to their daughter. Harry stayed silent, letting Draco have his moment. The tension between them was palpable, yet neither of them spoke.
After Draco had gone upstairs to freshen up, Harry slowly made his way down to the kitchen. He found Draco standing by the counter, his back to him, as if he was waiting for something. The quiet was thick, as if the words Harry wanted to say were choking him from the inside.
"Draco," Harry finally said, his voice steady but tinged with an edge of sadness.
Draco looked up, but didn’t speak, merely raising an eyebrow, waiting.
"Lyra told me how fun it was at the Manor," Harry continued, forcing a small smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "She said you looked funny as a kid, just like her."
Draco’s shoulders stiffened slightly, but he said nothing. Harry took a breath and pressed on, his words coming slower now, as if they were escaping him before he could stop them. "She even called it home. Daddy’s other home, she said." His voice faltered at the last words, the weight of them sinking in as soon as they left his mouth.
Draco’s gaze softened, but Harry could see a flicker of something—maybe guilt or regret—cross his features, though he remained silent.
Harry took another step forward, his chest tightening as a realisation began to settle over him like a storm. He cleared his throat, his voice growing quieter. "I never thought of it that way. I never thought of the Manor as a place where you had once been happy... where you ran through the garden, where you learned your first spells, where you must have laughed with your family." He let out a small, shaky breath, trying to hold back the emotions that were threatening to surface. "I always saw it as a place full of darkness, of mistakes and regrets… but Lyra made me realise something. She made me see that it wasn’t just that. It wasn’t all wrong. It was your home once. A home where you were a child, where you did all the things children do, and where you—" His voice caught for a moment, and he laughed, though it was more bitter than anything. "Where you must have plotted all sorts of things for me during the holidays."
He smiled, but there were tears in his eyes, and the weight of the words hung heavily in the space between them. "I’m sorry, Draco. I never thought to see it like that. I never understood it. I didn’t realise…" His voice trailed off as the realisation fully sank in.
The room fell silent, and for a long moment, Draco didn’t speak. He simply stepped toward Harry, his eyes softening as he closed the distance between them. When he reached him, Draco pulled Harry into an embrace. The gesture wasn’t rushed or desperate, but gentle—tentative, as if Draco was waiting for Harry to pull away. But Harry didn’t. Instead, he let the tension ease from his body as he pressed into Draco’s chest, his hands trembling slightly.
"I’m sorry too, Harry," Draco whispered softly into his hair, his voice raw. "I never meant for you to see it that way.I hate it too, but I can’t forget it either."
Harry nodded slowly, not trusting his voice to speak just yet. No more words were needed; in the silence, they shared their regrets, their forgiveness, and the understanding that maybe, just maybe, they could finally begin to see the same place in the same light.
Harry was thirty-one when he finally realised there was so much more to love than he'd ever understood—more to forgiveness, more to patience, and more to acceptance.
_________________ The end ___________________