Chapter 3
Rain lashed against the small windows of the cottage as Draco stood in the dim light of the kitchen lamp, trying to sterilise a baby bottle. It was past midnight, and Scorpius was finally asleep—for the moment. Who would have thought a baby could wake from a nap with such a piercing scream, only to refuse all attempts at comfort except, inexplicably, Potter’s singing? Draco was certain the baby would wake within the hour and unleash another round of terror on the world.
Harry leaned against the doorframe, watching Draco. He was wearing an old T-shirt that belonged to Draco—slightly too snug for Harry’s liking—and a pair of grey jogging bottoms that were a far cry from his usual Auror attire.
“I can’t believe you’re staying here willingly,” Draco muttered without turning around.
“I can’t believe you’ve managed this long without help,” Harry countered, stepping closer. Draco turned to look at him. “I’ve managed, haven’t I? He’s alive. Clean. Relatively quiet. That has to count for something.”
“Of course it does.” Harry offered him an encouraging smile. “But honestly, Draco, you look like you’ve died three times and come back to life.” Draco scowled. “Thanks. Just what I wanted to hear.”
It took some time to get the kitchen reasonably tidy—at least enough for Draco not to feel as though he was being suffocated by bottles and burp cloths. But despite the cleared counters, the chaos in his mind lingered.
“Do you ever regret it?” Draco asked suddenly, wringing out a damp towel.
“What?”
“Your marriage.”
Harry froze. He stood there with a tea towel in hand, staring at Draco as though the question had caught him off guard. “No,” Harry said slowly. “But I often felt empty. Like an actor playing a role he didn’t want to play.”
Draco nodded. “I know what that’s like.”
Harry set the towel aside. “What about Astoria?”
Draco drew a sharp breath. “She was… complicated. Charming and brilliant in public, but behind closed doors—” He trailed off, turning away.
Harry stepped closer. “What happened?”
Draco hesitated before answering. “She was unpredictable. And sometimes—sometimes angry in a way that scared me. Especially in the months leading up to Scorpius’ birth. She said things. Did things.”
“Did she hurt you?”
Draco let out a bitter laugh. “Mostly just my pride. But eventually, I realised I couldn’t trust her. Not with him.” He glanced over at Scorpius’ crib. “I didn’t want him growing up in that kind of home. So I gave it all up. The legacy, the name, the security.”
Harry was quiet for a moment before speaking softly. “That was incredibly brave.”
“Was it?” Draco shook his head. “Or was it just stupid and weak? Too weak to stand up to a tyrannical witch? I’ve lost everything. And now I don’t even know if I’m capable of being a good father.”
Harry placed a hand on Draco’s shoulder, firm and warm. “You’re a good father. That much is obvious. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be this exhausted but still willing to get up every night. And as for Astoria, leaving an abusive partner isn’t weakness, Draco. It’s strength. Especially when you’ve lost as much as you have. I’m proud of you.”
Draco looked at Harry’s hand on his shoulder, then said quietly, “Thank you.”
They worked in silence after that, finishing the last of the bottles and wiping down the counters. As Draco reached for a pot, they both stumbled and tumbled to the floor, landing in a heap—Harry sprawled over Draco.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
“Should I sue you or just point out that this is wildly inappropriate behaviour, Auror Potter?” Draco asked dryly.
Harry grinned. “I could argue that you provoked it. Walking around here like—” His gaze drifted downward. “By the way, where did you get those pyjama bottoms?”
Draco followed Harry’s gaze, then raised an eyebrow mockingly. “You wouldn’t be the first to admire my fashion choices, Potter.”
Harry laughed, and despite himself, Draco’s lips twitched.
“I mean it. They’re… something, if you’re into silk.”
Draco rolled his eyes. “If I weren’t too tired to deal with you, I’d throw you out. Assuming I don’t get crushed by you first.”
Harry made no move to get up, instead smirking as he said, “You won’t throw me out.”
“Oh, no?”
“No. Because you’re glad I’m here. And because you know you’ll need me to make breakfast in the morning.” With a quick movement, Harry got to his feet, leaving Draco on the floor, suddenly missing the warmth of his proximity. Instead of saying so, Draco shot him a long look, then sighed theatrically. “Merlin, I hate it when you’re right.”
Harry grabbed a mug from the cupboard, pouring himself another cup of tea. “I know.”
When Draco finally sank onto the sofa, Harry stretched out beside him, their bodies separated by only a few inches. The tension between them lingered—not the uncomfortable kind, but the sort that hinted at something unsaid, something too early to name but impossible to ignore.
Harry glanced at him as he tucked a pillow under his head. “If Scorpius wakes up, feel free to wake me. I’m pretty good with babies—you might have noticed.”
“Sure, Potter,” Draco muttered, pulling a blanket over his legs. “You’re the saviour of all sleepless souls.”
But before Harry could respond, Draco had already drifted off—half sitting, half lying on the sofa, finally feeling a rare sense of security for the first time in days.
Harry watched him for a moment, his expression softening. “Merlin, you must be knackered, mate,” he murmured quietly, before closing his own eyes.