Features and foundations
Chapter Seven: Fractures and Foundations
The silence between Draco and Harry had stretched into something comfortable, like the space between two people who had no need to fill the quiet with words, not yet anyway. It wasn’t the same kind of silence they’d shared before—one thick with animosity and bitterness. No, this silence felt different, less hostile, more tentative. But still, it was a silence that spoke volumes.
Back at Grimmauld Place, the weight of the night seemed to follow them inside. The house, cold and echoing with the ghosts of its past, seemed to press in on them from all sides. It was the kind of place that made you feel like you should be quiet, like it expected you to keep your thoughts and emotions locked up tight. But tonight, that wasn’t possible.
Harry led Draco inside, the flickering light from the hallway sconces casting long shadows over their path. He didn’t say anything at first, unsure of what to do with the strange, tender feeling that had settled in his chest. Draco, for his part, didn’t say much either. He had his hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his coat, his posture still stiff, but not as defensive as it had been earlier.
Hermione and Ron were sitting in the sitting room, their faces lighting up with mild surprise as they caught sight of the two of them.
“Harry, Draco—" Hermione started, her voice a bit hesitant. She exchanged a glance with Ron, who looked just as uncertain.
Harry gave them a small nod. “We’re back.”
Draco barely acknowledged their presence, making a beeline for the farthest corner of the room. His eyes were still distant, guarded, and Harry could sense that Draco was trying to pull back into himself. He didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad thing.
"Draco," Hermione said softly, taking a few steps toward him. "You’re alright, aren’t you?"
Draco’s sharp gaze flicked over to her, then away again, almost too quickly to catch. He didn’t answer, but the tension in his shoulders seemed to loosen just a fraction. It wasn’t much, but it was something.
“I’ll be fine,” Draco muttered, the words barely audible. He seemed to be talking more to himself than to anyone else. "I just need some space."
Harry watched the exchange, feeling the weight of the moment press on him again. It wasn’t just about Draco and the war anymore. It was about everything that had happened since then—about the walls they’d all built, the things they hadn’t said, the forgiveness that hadn’t yet come. There were cracks in all of them, but none of them knew how to fix them.
Hermione didn’t push. Instead, she nodded and returned to her seat next to Ron, who was watching Draco carefully but didn’t say anything. The tension hung in the air, palpable, thick.
“You should rest,” Hermione finally said, breaking the silence that had settled between them all. “We’ll talk more in the morning.”
But Harry wasn’t sure if he could sleep tonight. He glanced over at Draco, who was standing near the window, staring out into the dark night. The glow from the fire cast flickering shadows over Draco’s face, making him look even more distant and unreachable than usual. It hurt Harry to see it—this man who had been through so much, and yet still felt like a stranger to him.
“I’m sorry,” Draco said, the words so soft that Harry almost missed them.
Harry frowned, stepping closer to him. “For what?”
Draco didn’t answer right away. He was still staring out the window, his voice low and edged with frustration. “For being so… difficult. For making everything harder than it needs to be.”
Harry could feel the walls Draco was trying to build again, but this time, Harry wasn’t about to let him slip back behind them. Not after what had happened by the river.
“You don’t have to apologize, Malfoy,” Harry said quietly, stepping closer, close enough to feel the tension in the room shift. “You’ve been through a lot. We all have.”
Draco’s lips tightened, a small but noticeable flinch. “You don’t understand, Potter. You don’t understand what it’s like, what it feels like, to live with what I’ve done. The things I said, the people I hurt.”
Harry took a slow breath, his gaze steady. “You don’t get to decide that for me,” he said, voice firm but not unkind. “I’m not going to pretend I know everything you’ve been through. I can’t. But you can’t keep pushing people away, either. Not when they’re trying to be there for you.”
Draco opened his mouth to argue, but Harry held up a hand, cutting him off before he could.
“Look, I’m not asking you to be anyone but yourself. But don’t make it harder than it has to be. We’re all just trying to figure out how to live in this world after the war. We don’t have all the answers, Draco. But you’re not alone in this. Not anymore.”
There was a long pause, and for a moment, Harry wasn’t sure if Draco was going to say anything at all. But then Draco’s shoulders sagged just slightly, and he let out a long, shuddering breath.
“Maybe I’m not ready for this,” Draco said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe I’m not ready to… let people in.”
Harry nodded, understanding more than he could express. “You don’t have to be. But you can take the first step. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll see that we’re all a little broken, but we’re still here. We’re still trying.”
Draco turned his gaze toward the fire, his expression distant again, but this time, there was something softer in it. He didn’t respond, but Harry could see that there was a shift, however small, in the way Draco was carrying himself. The wall hadn’t come down, but a crack had appeared.
“I’ll try,” Draco said after a long while.
Harry smiled softly. “That’s all anyone can ask for.”
Draco didn’t meet his eyes, but for the first time, Harry didn’t feel like he was walking on eggshells. There was something unspoken between them now, something fragile but real. A beginning, maybe.
As Harry made his way toward the stairs to his room, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of quiet optimism settle in his chest. It wouldn’t be easy, and there would be setbacks, but maybe—just maybe—they were both on the right path.