House arrest

**Chapter Two: Tension Beneath the Surface**

The first week of Draco's house arrest passed in a blur of uncomfortable silences and cold exchanges. Every morning, he would wake up to the strange, bitter reality that he wasn’t in a cell in Azkaban, but in Grimmauld Place with Harry Potter—*Harry Potter*, of all people.

There were no bells of redemption, no grand gestures or epiphanies. Instead, the days were filled with the quiet drone of life moving forward despite the wounds of the past. Draco would find himself staring at the chipped walls, the peeling wallpaper, and the dusty corners of the house as if they could offer some sort of answer. But the house gave nothing, except the occasional creak or groan, like it was echoing the emptiness he felt inside.

The mornings were the worst. Harry had always been an early riser, and despite Draco’s tendency to sleep in after the long nights of restless thoughts, Harry had a way of getting things done. By the time Draco made his way downstairs, Harry had already started the mundane chores of the house: sweeping the floor, tidying the shelves, or brewing some tea. It seemed pointless, this busywork, but Harry did it without complaint, as though it was a ritual that helped keep the darkness at bay.

"Morning," Harry would say each time Draco appeared, though his tone was neutral, almost polite.

"Morning," Draco would mumble, avoiding eye contact as he settled at the table, a deep unease settling in his stomach. He hated this—hated how things had come to this. But there was no escape from it. Not anymore.

It had been almost a week since Draco had arrived, and they hadn’t exchanged more than a handful of words. Draco would take his breakfast in silence, trying to ignore Harry’s constant presence. He couldn’t quite bring himself to fully relax. There was always the knowledge that he was being watched, scrutinized by the very person he had once tried to ruin. The irony wasn’t lost on him.

Today, as Draco reached for the kettle to pour himself some tea, Harry spoke again, his voice cutting through the silence.

“You’re not really trying to stay out of trouble, are you?”

Draco froze, his hand still gripping the handle of the teapot. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Harry’s gaze flickered up from the book he was reading. “You’ve been sneaking around a bit.”

Draco stiffened. “I haven’t done anything.” He placed the teapot down with more force than necessary, the contents sloshing slightly. “I haven’t tried to escape. I’m not interested in running off.”

“You sure about that?” Harry raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. “It’s been quiet around here. Too quiet, actually.”

Draco looked at him, his chest tightening. “You’re not the Ministry. You can’t *watch* me like that.”

“Actually, I can,” Harry replied coolly, pushing his glasses up his nose. “If you try something stupid, I’m responsible for you. It’s my neck on the line, Malfoy.”

The words hung in the air between them, heavy with unspoken tension. Draco opened his mouth to argue, but then closed it. He couldn’t deny the truth in Harry’s words. No matter how much he wanted to push back, no matter how much he hated the situation, there was no getting around the fact that he was stuck. Harry had the power here, not him.

Silence followed, and this time, Draco didn’t feel the need to fill it with words. Instead, he stood, grabbed his cup of tea, and walked toward the library. There were books there, ones he had not touched in years, forgotten relics of his past life. Some were books on dark magic, others on history, some even on wizarding politics. A part of him wanted to reach for one of those, but he resisted. Instead, he picked up a random volume on transfiguration and settled into an armchair by the window, staring out at the dreary landscape beyond.

Harry didn’t follow him. But Draco felt his presence everywhere—like a shadow that refused to fade. He tried to ignore it.

The hours passed slowly. At some point, Harry left the kitchen to attend to some other task in the house, but Draco barely noticed. His mind was still preoccupied, his thoughts spinning as they often did these days. *What am I even doing here?* he wondered. *What does this even mean?*

He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do next. His entire life had been about gaining power, about preserving the Malfoy name, about doing what his family expected of him. But now… everything had changed. There was no path back to that life. No easy road forward.

Eventually, Harry returned, but instead of starting another conversation or giving some half-hearted instruction, he simply sat down across from Draco, folding his hands on the table. For a long moment, they said nothing, and Draco could feel Harry’s eyes on him, studying him in that quiet, persistent way.

"You ever think about it?" Harry asked, his voice soft.

"Think about what?" Draco asked, his fingers tightening around the edge of his teacup. He didn’t want to talk. He didn’t want to think about the war, or his choices, or the things he could never undo.

"The war," Harry said, his gaze never wavering. "The people we lost. What we did."

Draco swallowed hard. He didn’t want to open that door, didn’t want to confront the ghosts that lurked there. But he couldn’t lie. The war had changed everything. And for all the anger he had felt, all the bitterness and resentment toward Harry and his side, Draco had to admit that it had also broken him.

He finally looked up, meeting Harry’s gaze. “I don’t know what to think about it.”

Harry didn’t look away, his expression more thoughtful now. “No one does. But you’re here now, Malfoy. You’re not the same person you were. I’m just—" He paused, seeming to hesitate before continuing. "I’m just trying to help. You don’t have to like it.”

Draco clenched his jaw. "I don’t need your help," he muttered. But the words didn’t feel right even as they left his mouth.

Harry seemed to sense this, and instead of responding with anger or frustration, he simply nodded. "You don’t have to admit it now. But maybe, just maybe, we can figure this out together."

Draco stared at him, his heart a confusing mix of defiance and something else—something he couldn’t quite name. He didn’t respond. Instead, he stood up abruptly and walked toward the door.

“I’m going out for a walk,” Draco muttered, his tone sharp. “I need some air.”

Harry didn’t stop him, but there was a brief flicker of concern in his eyes. “Just… don’t do anything stupid.”

Draco shot him a glance. “You’re not the boss of me.”

But Harry simply sighed, turning back to his book, and for a moment, Draco thought he saw a small, almost imperceptible smile tug at the corner of his mouth.

---

As Draco left the house and stepped into the cool, damp air outside, he couldn’t help but wonder what Harry’s words had meant. Could he really change? Could they both? The weight of the question was heavy on him as he wandered through the overgrown garden, trying to escape the confines of both the house and his own thoughts.

One thing was certain—life here would never be easy. But perhaps, for the first time in his life, Draco was starting to wonder if that might not be such a bad thing.