The weight of new beginnings
**Chapter Eight: The Weight of New Beginnings**
The morning after their conversation by the river felt different—lighter, though still full of tension. Draco had said little during breakfast, his eyes lingering on his plate more than anyone else’s face, but there was an unspoken understanding between him and Harry. Neither of them needed to speak about it—not yet. There was still so much to untangle. But Harry could feel something new in the air. Not resolution, not yet. But something tentative and fragile.
Harry wasn’t sure if Draco even realized it, but something about the way he held himself had changed. The walls were still there, but they had cracks in them now—fissures that hadn’t been there before. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. Harry couldn’t help but watch him more than usual, not just the way he carried himself, but the way his lips curved ever so slightly when he was lost in thought. It was almost as if Draco had let go of some of the weight he’d been carrying around for so long.
Draco wasn’t ready to talk yet, and Harry wasn’t going to force him. But every small gesture—every shared glance, every word unsaid—was a quiet step forward.
---
Later that afternoon, Harry found Draco sitting alone in the library, a book open in front of him, though it looked like he wasn’t reading at all. His brow was furrowed in concentration, but there was a faraway look in his eyes. The kind of look Harry had seen in the mirror more times than he could count—the look of someone trying to figure out who they were after everything they had been.
Harry hesitated, unsure whether to approach. But something in him—some unspoken, inexplicable pull—urged him forward. He didn’t know what he wanted to say, didn’t know if there were even words that could make a difference. But he knew that the quiet between them, the tension that had lingered since they’d first met, was still too thick, and he needed to break through it.
“Malfoy,” Harry said, his voice soft.
Draco’s eyes flicked up to meet his, a quick, almost instinctive reaction, before he quickly masked it again. But Harry saw it—the vulnerability in his eyes, the hesitation that lingered there. For a brief moment, Draco seemed unsure of how to respond.
“What is it, Potter?” Draco’s tone was cool, but Harry could hear the edge of weariness behind it.
Harry stepped closer, leaning against the table where Draco was sitting. He didn’t want to crowd him, didn’t want to make things harder, but he also couldn’t ignore the way his heart quickened just by being near him.
“You’ve been quiet all day,” Harry said, voice steady but with an underlying softness. “Is everything alright?”
Draco didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he glanced back at the book in front of him, his fingers tracing the edge of the pages absently. For a long moment, Harry thought he wouldn’t answer at all. But then, just when Harry was about to turn away, Draco spoke again.
“I’ve been thinking,” Draco said, his voice quieter than usual, “about everything. About what you said last night.”
Harry’s heart skipped a beat. “What I said?” he echoed, a little unsure.
“The part about us all being broken,” Draco continued, eyes still cast downward. “I don’t know if I can just… let it go, Potter. The things I’ve done. The things I’ve said. I don’t think I deserve… forgiveness.”
Harry took a step closer, his pulse thudding in his ears. He had no idea how to fix this, no idea how to reach Draco without pushing him too far. But he knew one thing. He couldn’t let him believe that.
“You don’t have to *deserve* forgiveness, Draco,” Harry said, his voice low but firm. “It’s not about deserving it. It’s about *choosing* to move forward. It’s about taking those steps, however small, and not letting the past define you forever.”
Draco looked up at him then, his expression a mix of skepticism and something else—something Harry couldn’t quite name. A flicker of hope, maybe. A crack in the armor.
“Why are you so insistent on this?” Draco asked, his voice tight. “Why do you care so much?”
Harry’s heart thudded in his chest, the question hanging in the air like a challenge. Draco was staring at him now, waiting for an answer, and Harry had to decide if he was ready to speak the truth.
“Because,” Harry began slowly, “I know what it feels like. To think you don’t deserve better. To think you’ve done things so awful that there’s no coming back from it. I know what it’s like to carry that weight, to feel like it’s crushing you.”
Draco didn’t say anything for a long time, but Harry could see him processing the words, trying to make sense of them. Draco’s eyes flickered away, his jaw tightening as if he was fighting back something—maybe anger, maybe guilt, maybe fear. But then, just as quickly, his gaze returned to Harry, and for the first time, there was no mask. Just vulnerability. And something else—something deeper, more complicated.
“I don’t know how to *fix* it, Harry,” Draco said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know how to fix myself.”
Harry took another step closer, his breath steady but his heart racing. “You don’t have to fix yourself, Draco. You’re not broken beyond repair.”
Draco shook his head, the words a quiet frustration. “You don’t understand—everything I’ve done... everything I’ve been.”
Harry reached out without thinking, his hand gently resting on Draco’s arm. It was a subtle gesture, a simple touch, but it felt like everything. He could feel the tension in Draco’s body, the hesitation, but he didn’t pull away. Not this time.
“I do understand,” Harry said softly. “Maybe not all of it. But enough.”
For a long moment, there was nothing but the quiet between them. Draco didn’t pull away, didn’t look away either. Instead, he seemed to breathe a little easier, like Harry’s words were sinking in, like the weight of the past was starting to feel just a little lighter.
Draco’s lips parted, but he didn’t speak right away. Instead, he closed his eyes briefly, a brief flicker of something—maybe relief? Maybe acceptance?—crossing his face. When he opened them again, they were softer. More open.
“Maybe I can try,” Draco murmured, his voice quieter now, almost uncertain. “Maybe... I can start with you.”
Harry’s breath caught in his throat. The air between them seemed to shift in that moment, a delicate tension stretching thinner, until it was barely there at all. It wasn’t a promise—not yet—but it was a beginning.
Harry squeezed Draco’s arm gently, offering him a half-smile, a silent acknowledgment that they were both still figuring this out. Together.
“That’s all I’m asking,” Harry said, his voice soft but steady. “We’ll figure it out, Draco. One step at a time.”
Draco didn’t answer, but for the first time since they’d met, Harry saw something in his eyes that wasn’t just uncertainty—it was *hope*. And that hope, fragile and tentative as it was, felt like the first real crack in the wall Draco had built around himself for years.
---
Later that evening, after dinner, the house had fallen into a quiet lull. Harry found himself sitting next to Draco again, this time on the worn leather couch near the fire. The others had retired to their rooms, leaving the two of them alone for the first time in what felt like days.
The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable now. It was full of potential. The space between them felt smaller than it had before, and Harry could feel the tentative warmth of it.
“Thank you,” Draco said suddenly, his voice softer than usual. “For... not giving up on me.”
Harry’s heart skipped a beat at the sincerity in Draco’s words. “I’m not going anywhere, Draco. Not this time.”
And for the first time, as he looked into Draco’s eyes, Harry believed that maybe, just maybe, they had found something that could last. Not an easy, perfect fix—but something real. Something they could build on, step by step, until they had something they could both stand on.