Felix Miseris

"In adversity, find the strength to turn lead into gold."

The first sip had a horrible medicinal taste. Harry felt his head spinning painfully, as if a seed had sprouted inside his skull and the plant was trying to break through the surface. The pain was unlike anything he had experienced with his scar before. Eyes closed, head clutched in his hands, he waited for the agony to subside, a torment that seemed to stretch on for endless hours.

"Mr. Potter, are you feeling unwell?" asked the voice of an elderly woman, one he struggled to recognize.

How could this be possible? He had planned for no visitors that day, and the cottage door had been sealed with Level Four charms. Could his headache have prevented him from hearing the alarms? Who could have bypassed his protective spells? An ex-Death Eater seeking revenge?

Harry pulled his hands away from his eyes. The light was strangely white—not the expected brightness of snowy weather, but rather the sad, cold whiteness of a hospital.

His gaze met the concerned eyes of a woman with graying hair. She wore the official uniform of a St. Mungo’s nurse. Glancing around, Harry realized he was lying in a bed with pristine white sheets, in a private room. So, the potion he had consumed had caused such severe harm that they’d had to rush him to the hospital.

"How long have I been asleep?" Harry asked, trying to blink and focus on the nurse’s face without his glasses.

"I’d say only a few hours," the old woman reassured him with a kind smile.

Relieved, Harry relaxed and sank back against his pillow. He had feared falling into a deep coma or a long illness that would keep him away from Teddy.

"Who brought me to the hospital?" he asked, rubbing his eyes, glad that the headache was fading.

"Who?" the old woman echoed, seemingly surprised by his question.

"Yes, I was conducting an experiment in my Potions lab," Harry explained, his patience wearing thin under the strain of the headache. "Hermione or Ron must have suspected I’d do something reckless, but who intervened to get me here so quickly?"

A heavy silence answered him, forcing Harry to open his eyes again and meet the nurse’s puzzled expression.

"Mr. Potter," she enunciated as if speaking to a confused child, "you’ve been here for a week already. You needed a full medical evaluation after... after..." She seemed uncomfortable continuing.

"After what?" Harry asked, increasingly disoriented.

After a moment’s hesitation and a furtive glance around to make sure they were alone, she leaned closer and whispered, "After your battle with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, of course!" The old woman seemed annoyed that he had made her say the dreaded words.

"But that fight was two years ago..." Harry groaned, incredulous.

The nurse watched him with a look of doubt and suspicion.

"I came to deliver your test results. I think we have good reason to keep you here longer, young man. You are in dire need of rest after that year-long escapade across England."

"What are you talking about? Where are Andromeda and Teddy?" Harry cried, feeling increasingly agitated by this woman who seemed intent on driving him mad.

"They visited an hour ago while you were asleep. What an adorable little godson you have," she cooed, then her expression darkened. "We were told his parents died in the Battle of Hogwarts... What a tragedy, so young, only a few weeks old, and already an orphan..."

"A few weeks? But Teddy is..." Harry trailed off, unwilling to finish the sentence. He was beginning to wonder if he was simply experiencing the effects of the potion he had just ingested.

"Excuse me, miss?"

"Miss Persephone Dowell," replied the elderly woman, lifting her chin with a prim air.

"Miss Dowell," Harry repeated, his heart racing. "Forgive me, but I’m losing track of time here. What day is it, please?"

"Today is May 9th, 1998," she replied, casting a warming charm over his blankets. "You should get some more rest, Mr. Potter. You look dreadful."

With that, she left him alone, facing a whirlwind of questions.

As soon as the old woman had closed the door, Harry practically lunged for the newspaper on his bedside table. Miss Dowell hadn’t been lying: it was indeed May 9th, 1998—two years in the past!

So, Snape’s potion had sent him back in time? How had the Potions master managed to create such a complex brew? Dizzy with confusion, Harry fell back onto his bed, but as he sat down, he felt a hard object in the back pocket of his pajamas. Grimacing with pain, he pulled it out. It was Snape’s potion! But how... Then, it hit him: he had found the Philosopher’s Stone in his pocket in a similar way before. It was Snape’s magic at work, undoubtedly. Now he had to figure out why this date was so important to the Potions master. After all, wasn’t Snape already dead at this point?

From his own memory, Harry recalled spending most of his time at St. Mungo’s during the week following his battle with Voldemort. He had undergone a barrage of tests and examinations to reassure everyone about the health of the boy who had become the savior of the British wizarding world. He had even received a letter from Queen Elizabeth herself, thanking him for his services in protecting the crown from the forces of evil. She seemed to regard his actions as more of a holy crusade against the Devil than a genuine magical victory.

Harry hadn’t realized just how extensive his list of injuries was. In addition to numerous physical wounds—cuts, bruises, headaches—he also suffered from malnutrition and deficiencies that, according to the healers, could seriously stunt his growth. He hadn’t dared explain his disastrous childhood with the Dursleys and the many privations he endured even before knowing he was a wizard.

On top of all that, he had apparently been diagnosed with what the healers called post-traumatic stress disorder. Mental and emotional exhaustion compounded his physical fatigue, likely due to the fact that he had saved his school and the wizarding world from countless dangers over the course of seven consecutive years. The nurses had forbidden him to get out of bed for over a month, enforcing strict rest. The hospital had wisely banned all interviews, visitors, and unwanted journalists during his recovery, giving Harry a much-needed respite.

In just over a month, St. Mungo’s had skillfully treated his fatigue and catatonia with a regimen designed for war veterans—ironic, considering his young age. The nurses had been patient and gentle with him until he was finally well enough to enjoy the peace he had brought to the wizarding world.

“Think,” Harry told himself, twirling the iridescent liquid between his fingers as he lay on the hospital bed. “Why would a man like Snape want you to end up on this precise date when he’s already dead? What was so important to him that he couldn’t handle anymore, but that I still can?”

Harry pondered this for hours, eventually turning to the newspaper on his bedside table to catch up on the events of 1998. Ollivander had reopened his wand shop, as had many other merchants in Diagon Alley. Gringotts claimed the recent break-in at the Lestrange vault was due to a deliberate lack of surveillance as an act of resistance against the Dark Lord, and then...

Suddenly, Harry’s eyes widened. May 9th marked the trial of Draco Malfoy, accused of serving He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, along with much of his family. Everyone knew how crucial a role the Malfoys had played in Voldemort’s rise to power, especially in allowing their manor to serve as the base for all his monstrous plans aimed at plunging the wizarding world into chaos.

At the time, Harry had been far too unwell to attend the hearing; he had hoped that the Malfoys would, as always, find a way out of their predicament through their influence. But after the war, circumstances had dictated that someone be held accountable, to absolve the public of the weight of their own cowardice. The Malfoys had been chosen to play that role. Lucius had been sentenced to life in Azkaban, and Draco would soon join him. As for Narcissa, her fragile health would lead her to die in a small rented room on Diagon Alley, stripped of her wealth and in the most miserable solitude.

Harry felt his stomach twist at the thought. He had tried to reason with Kingsley Shacklebolt, the new Minister of Magic, after his discharge from St. Mungo’s, but the damage was already done. The justice system, flawed as it was, had branded Draco as Public Enemy Number One, and the jurors had congratulated themselves for months on locking away such a "vermin." Then life had gone on, and everyone had forgotten the sad fate of one of Britain’s once most influential wizarding families.

It made sense now. This potion had been created for Harry to save Severus Snape’s godson: Draco Malfoy.

*

Harry perhaps should have devised a plan before launching headfirst into his new mission. After all, sprinting through the London Underground in an open-backed hospital gown wasn’t exactly his idea of a discreet operation. He’d never imagined he would go to such lengths to save his lifelong nemesis from a tragic fate behind bars. And yet, the astonished stares of the passengers, scandalized by his rather inappropriate attire, were a challenge in themselves.

The nurses had certainly put up a fight. Miss Dowell had even threatened to cast a Petrificus Totalus if he didn’t get back into bed immediately.

"But I urgently need to get to the Malfoy trial! They need my help!" Harry had cried as he tried to push his way through.

"The wizarding world can do without its hero for a few more weeks, Mr. Potter. You’ll need to discuss this ‘savior complex’ of yours with your therapist, if you ask me," Miss Dowell had retorted, arms crossed and brow raised.

"I have a mission to accomplish, Miss Dowell, please let me pass!"

"Oh yes, of course, but first, you need to take your medication!" she said with a saccharine smile that boded ill.

Escaping the entire hospital staff had been a challenge worthy of the Triwizard Tournament. Finding something else to wear besides his charming, open-backed hospital gown had been nearly impossible, short of stealing a nurse’s uniform—which, he admitted, would hardly improve his situation. While an army of furious nurses chased him, he had miraculously found refuge in a broom closet. A cruel irony, but at least no one would think to look for him there. At least, he hoped not.

Racking his brain for a spell or a clever idea to get out of this mess, Harry first thought of Dobby with a pang of nostalgia. The brave elf would undoubtedly have been able to help him and transport him directly to the wizarding court, while also providing him with decent clothes. But Dobby was no longer there to rescue him. Then another bat-eared face came to mind.

"Winky?" he called out in a low voice, not really expecting an answer.

With a characteristic "Pop," the house-elf appeared in the cramped closet, nearly knocking him over with the shock.

“Hic...,” the elf hiccuped, staggering slightly. “Master Potter called Winky? Winky will always answer the call of Dobby’s favorite friend! Hic!”

Harry winced at the sharp smell of alcohol wafting from the elf. Winky had always drowned her sorrows in drink since she was dismissed from her previous job and forced to work in the kitchens at Hogwarts. But her dependency seemed to have worsened since Dobby, the only elf who had cared for her and shown her kindness, had passed away. Guilt stabbed at Harry, realizing that part of Winky’s misery was his fault. Perhaps this time travel could allow him to save more than just Draco Malfoy?

Clearing his throat, Harry declared as seriously as he could:

“Winky, I, Harry James Potter, would like to employ you. Would you accept a position in the service of the Potter family?”

The little elf’s eyes widened, seeming on the verge of popping out of their sockets.

“Master Harry Potter wants to employ Winky? Winky accepts with joy!” she exclaimed, bowing so low her trumpet-like nose brushed the floor.

Harry knew that Hermione, or even Dobby, would never have tolerated him making Winky his servant; he had carefully worded his proposal to make her a paid employee instead.

A silver thread of light wrapped around them, sealing the agreement. Then Winky burst into tears and, before he could react, blew her nose loudly on Harry’s hospital gown.

“Winky will stop drinking, promise! Winky will do whatever the master wants!” she sobbed between sniffles.

Harry sighed, feeling slightly overwhelmed by the situation. He realized that teaching her about wages and independence was going to be a challenge. But one step at a time.

Straightening up as much as he could in his hospital gown, he adopted a more authoritative posture and said: “Very well, I don’t want you ruining your health with alcohol, Winky. I want you to live happily and for a long time. I really need your help.”

Winky let out another wail, this time of joy, and began crying so loudly that Harry feared the nurses would discover them. It took all his effort to calm her down, while he wondered how he had ended up in this predicament.

After all, it wasn’t every day one hired a drunken house-elf in a broom closet to escape a horde of angry nurses. But if it helped him save Draco Malfoy, and perhaps even improve Winky’s lot, then it was worth the trouble.

“Listen carefully, Winky, I need to get to the wizarding court in London. I have to testify in defense of the Malfoys before it’s too late.”

The elf’s face suddenly darkened.

“The Malfoys are not kind—they were cruel masters who were mean to Dobby!” she snapped vehemently.

Then, realizing she had just contradicted a wizard, Winky clapped her hands over her mouth and looked at him in horror.

“Winky is a bad elf! Winky disobeys! Please, Mr. Potter, friend of Dobby, don’t dismiss me! Winky promises to be obedient from now on!” she cried, starting to weep again.

“You’re allowed to voice your opinion, Winky,” Harry reassured her, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Narcissa and Draco helped me during the war at critical moments. It’s my turn to help them now, do you understand?”

The little elf’s eyes brightened, and after a final tear-filled hiccup, she nodded in understanding.

Winky, still half-drunk, managed to Apparate them out of St. Mungo’s with some difficulty. The court, protected by anti-Apparition laws that even applied to house-elves, forced her to land them in a dark alley far from their destination. Harry didn’t complain; at least they were out of the hospital hallways and had a real chance of making it to the trial on time. As Winky turned invisible beside him, he opted for the Underground, even if it meant looking like an escaped mental patient. After all, it wasn’t entirely untrue.

Standing before the imposing courthouse, flanked by two golden griffon statues symbolizing justice, he approached a man who looked like a journalist.

“I’ll trade you your coat for an exclusive interview,” Harry declared, to the astonishment of the man.

“Mo... Mr. Potter?” the poor fellow stammered in a strong American accent. “But what on earth are you doing here dressed like that?”

“I just left St. Mungo’s to testify on behalf of the Malfoy family,” Harry replied, already tired of explaining. “I need someone to report the truth to get the public on our side. Can I count on you, sir?”

“Arlo Bloom, of the Salem Broom,” the man said, hurriedly tipping his hat.

“That’s an American paper, I presume?” Harry guessed.

“Indeed, and it would be an honor to write an article on this case, if you still desire my services.”

“Your coat?” Harry asked plaintively, starting to shiver.

“Oh, of course!” the man exclaimed, hastily removing his coat and draping it over Harry, who now looked even more incongruous, wrapped in a stylish black coat over his blue polka-dotted hospital gown.

“We could probably find you something more appropriate to wear,” Arlo suggested, noting his discomfort.

At that very moment, the clock struck ten.

“No time!” Harry shouted, racing inside. “We’re already late!”

Arlo Bloom chased after him, fumbling to pull a notebook and quill from his pocket as he ran. “Wait, Mr. Potter! A word about your defense strategy?”

“My strategy? To expose all these so-called judges who stayed safe at home while children fought their battles for them,” Harry growled, already irritated by the persistent journalist. But if he had to tolerate an insistent American reporter to increase Draco’s chances, he would.

They stepped through the courtroom doors, instantly drawing everyone’s attention. A stunned silence greeted the entrance of the Boy Who Lived, clad in a hospital gown under an oversized coat, followed by a breathless reporter and a house-elf.

Harry was surprised to see, just as during his last visit to the Ministry, that the room was filled with Dementors. He had thought that after Voldemort’s fall, this practice of using these infernal creatures during trials would have ended on its own. Clearly, he had been too optimistic. He could see Draco Malfoy’s hunched form in the center of the room, bowed under the crushing aura of the Dementors, while a trembling Narcissa awaited her turn to be judged. To think that Harry had allowed such a thing to happen in his own timeline. Sick or not, he had no excuse for not intervening, and he silently thanked Snape for giving him the chance to right his wrongs.

With a silent spell, he summoned Prongs, his Patronus, which filled the room with a dazzling blue light. The majestic stag trotted into the center of the room, forcing the audience and judges to shield their eyes.

“You really know how to make an entrance, Mr. Potter,” remarked the journalist with a smirk, chasing after his quill that had flown off.

Harry turned to the clerk. “I’m here to testify on behalf of Draco Malfoy. I hope I’m not too late.”

The clerk, still in shock, stammered, “No... well, almost, but the trial isn’t over yet.”

Nodding respectfully, and acting as though he was entirely unaware that he wasn’t wearing any underwear, Harry and his unlikely companions took a seat on an empty bench in the room. He noted that his attire was causing quite a stir: the whispers and astonished glances followed him like a shadow.

It was then that Harry noticed the steely gray gaze fixed on him. Draco Malfoy, his hands bound in anti-magic chains, was staring at him, mouth slightly agape in shock.

Their eyes met, and time seemed to freeze. Draco’s usually cold and distant eyes shone with a mix of surprise, confusion, and maybe... hope. Harry felt a surprising warmth rise within him, as if he had swallowed a cauldron of Pepperup Potion. Draco’s delicate features were highlighted by the dim courtroom light, and despite the circumstances, he exuded a natural elegance. A stray blond lock fell across his forehead, adding a touch of vulnerability to his usual composed demeanor.

Harry gave a thumbs-up, trying to reassure him that now he was here, everything would be alright. But judging by Draco’s incredulous expression, he wasn’t sure he had succeeded.

The judge banged his gavel, bringing everyone back to reality. “We will now hear the third witness. Please step forward to the stand.”

Harry stood, smoothing his oversized coat unnecessarily, and made his way to the witness stand. As he passed by Draco, he felt the blond relax slightly as Prongs trotted gracefully around them, dispelling the last remnants of the Dementors’ presence. Being in constant proximity to those creatures would make anyone sick, even a Malfoy. Harry couldn’t help but notice the slight dark circles under Draco’s eyes, the pallor of his face, but also the delicate curve of his jawline.

“Focus, Harry,” he scolded himself, shaking his head. This was definitely not the time to admire the chiseled jaw of his former rival.

“Mr. Potter, please state your identity for the record,” said the judge in a solemn voice.

“Harry James Potter, uh... hero against his will,” he replied, eliciting a few muffled laughs from the audience.

The judge raised an eyebrow but did not comment. “Very well. You know the defendant, Draco Malfoy?”

“Yes, since our first year at Hogwarts.”

“Alright, you may testify.”

Harry took a deep breath. “I’m here to attest that Draco Malfoy is not the criminal he’s portrayed to be. He acted under the coercion of Voldemort and his own family. He had many opportunities to harm me, but he didn’t.”

A murmur ran through the crowd. The judge raised his hand to restore silence.

“Can you be more specific, Mr. Potter?”

“During the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco chose not to betray me when he had the chance. He also hesitated to carry out the missions Voldemort gave him, showing that he didn’t truly align with the Dark Lord’s ideals.”

He glanced at Draco, who was watching him with an intensity that could be felt across the room. Harry felt his cheeks warm slightly, but he continued: “I believe he deserves a second chance. Condemning him would only perpetuate the cycle of hatred and revenge.”

The prosecutor stepped forward, eyebrow raised. “Mr. Potter, isn’t it true that you and the defendant had a... tumultuous relationship during your years at Hogwarts?”

Harry shrugged. “Like many teenagers, we had our disagreements. Let’s just say our interactions were... lively.”

More stifled laughter rippled through the room.

“And what makes you think Mr. Malfoy has changed?”

Harry smiled slightly. “Well, when someone risks their life to avoid betraying a supposed enemy, it says a lot about their true nature. Plus, I believe he has untapped potential for good. After all, if he survived seven years at Hogwarts without casting an Unforgivable Curse at me, there’s hope, isn’t there?”

The prosecutor looked taken aback. “Very well. Do you have anything else to add?”

“Yes. If we want to build a better future, we need to learn to forgive. Draco Malfoy can contribute a lot to our society, given the chance. And let’s be honest, the wizarding world would be much less entertaining without him.”

Amused murmurs filled the room. The judge allowed himself a faint smile before regaining his composure.

“Thank you, Mr. Potter. You may return to your seat. The judges will now deliberate.”

As the audience filed out, Harry heard a faint clinking of chains. It was Draco, trying to take a step toward him.

“What’s your game, Potter?” Draco hissed, his aristocratic pride clearly wounded.

“Uh, let’s see, I’m trying to keep you from a one-way trip to Azkaban,” Harry retorted, losing a bit of his fervor at the blond’s sour tone.

“Who do you think you are, with your savior complex? There are people in this room better equipped than you to get me out of this. My father has connections...”

“Your father is in Azkaban, mate. I’m afraid all the connections he had have turned their backs on him to save their own skins. Half the people here are either guilty or cowards. They need a scapegoat, and you’re the perfect candidate.”

If it was possible, Draco turned even paler under Prongs’ blue light.

“I’m going to face the same fate, aren’t I? They’ll snap my wand, and it’ll be straight to Azkaban.”

“They won’t snap your wand, Dray,” Harry said with a reassuring smile. “I have it, and there’s no way I’m telling them. I’ve got an American journalist on my side—well, I think. If the verdict goes against you, I can guarantee public opinion will push for a review of your case. You’ll be a free man before long.”

Draco stared at him, eyebrows raised so high they nearly touched his hairline.

“Since when do you have a knack for politics, Potter?” he whispered, visibly bewildered.

Harry shrugged nonchalantly. “Ever since I started running around with a pink-haired baby in my arms. You learn quickly when you’re godfather to a little Metamorphmagus cub.”

Seeing Draco’s incredulous look, Harry felt compelled to add, to avoid sounding completely insane: “By the way, you have the cutest little cousin. Hard to believe you’re related. His name’s Teddy.”

Draco blinked several times, as if trying to decipher a secret code. “You’re completely delusional, Potter. A pink-haired baby? My cousin? Am I supposed to understand any of this?”

Harry flashed a mischievous grin. “Well, I guess the Malfoys aren’t the only ones with family secrets.”

Before Draco could retort, the judges returned, and the audience resumed their seats. The head judge, a wizard with a beard as imposing as his stature, announced the verdict:

“After deliberation, the court finds Draco Malfoy guilty. However, given his young age and mitigating circumstances, he is sentenced to ten years’ imprisonment, suspended, on the condition of good behavior.”

A cry of despair rose from the defendant’s box. Narcissa, as pale as a ghost, seemed ready to faint. To Harry, her cry echoed painfully, reminding him of his own mother’s scream—the sound the Dementors loved to make him relive.

Before Draco was led away, Harry grabbed his shoulder. “Trust me, Dray. My plan will work. Don’t lose hope.”

For the first time, Draco’s cold eyes were clouded with worry. In a small, uncharacteristically vulnerable voice, he murmured: “I don’t want to go back there.”

Harry felt a sharp pang of compassion. He knew how Azkaban could break a person. Even Hagrid, who had only spent a short time there, had been scarred for life.

Desperate to find a way to lift Draco’s spirits, a wild idea suddenly came to Harry’s mind. Glancing around to ensure all eyes were on them, he declared, “Take Prongs with you!”

“Prongs?” Draco repeated, frowning. “What on earth are you talking about, Potter?”

Without giving Draco a chance to protest or hurl one of his usual snarky remarks, Harry stepped forward and, with a boldness he hadn’t known he possessed, kissed Draco full on the mouth. A stunned silence fell over the courtroom. From jurors to judges, and even the journalists, everyone was left speechless. The flash of cameras crackled wildly, capturing the moment from every possible angle. No one noticed that Prongs had vanished.

The guards, snapping out of their shock, hurried to drag Draco away, his wrists bound in chains. The blond’s expression was a mixture of disbelief and anger, but for the first time in years, he found himself at a loss for words—perhaps because his mouth was otherwise occupied.

Harry, feeling the heated stares of the crowd on him, shrugged with feigned innocence. “What? Haven’t you ever seen a display of affection before a parting?” he quipped, a mischievous gleam in his eyes.

In truth, Harry wasn’t particularly proud of his stunt, but it was the only way he could discreetly transfer his Patronus to Draco. After all, that was what Dementors sought to take with their kiss: the very essence of the soul, symbolized by the Patronus. Harry had just lent it to his nemesis without a second thought about the consequences of such an act. All he knew was that for his plan to succeed, Draco needed to keep his courage, and Prongs would help him endure until Harry could secure his release.

The guards, having regained their composure, led Draco out of the room. Draco’s gaze was inscrutable, but for the first time in seven years, he didn’t utter a single insult.

Arlo Bloom, who hadn’t missed a single detail of the scene—or an opportunity to sell newspapers—exclaimed with excitement, “Mr. Potter, that was... breathtaking! A declaration of love right in the courtroom! My article will be on the front page of the wizarding world!”

Harry turned to him with a playful grin. “Just make sure to emphasize that we’re young, passionate, and full of dreams. And don’t forget to mention that I plan to free my so-called Death Eater lover from prison. That should boost your sales, right?”

The journalist nodded vigorously, his eyes sparkling like a child in a candy shop. “You’re a marketing genius, Mr. Potter! I’d hire you as a publicist any day!”

Meanwhile, Narcissa was called to the stand, her face as pale as the courtroom walls. Harry knew he couldn’t leave her alone in such distress. This time, he didn’t need any bold strategies to sway the court. With heartfelt emotion, he recounted how Narcissa had lied to Voldemort to protect her son and, indirectly, save Harry himself. His words struck a chord with even the toughest judge, and his intervention secured her release.

Outside the courtroom, Harry offered to accompany Narcissa to Andromeda’s home, her sister whom she hadn’t seen in decades. The two women reunited, their eyes brimming with tears, in an embrace that even made Winky sniffle. Tears of pain, remorse, and forgiveness flowed freely, sealing their reconciliation. Standing a little apart, Harry couldn’t help but feel that reuniting a broken family was a good day’s work.

It felt strange for Harry to see his godson, Teddy, so tiny again. The little Metamorphmagus was babbling happily, his hair changing color with every new emotion, a living kaleidoscope. Harry smiled as he watched the curls shift from pink to blue to green, though a pang of nostalgia passed through him. He sincerely hoped that Snape’s potion would allow him to return to his own timeline once his mission was complete. He wasn’t ready to relive the sleepless nights and the diaper changes every half hour. Once had been more than enough.

While waiting for Arlo Bloom’s article to be published, Harry busied himself tinkering with an old sewing machine, crafting clothes in Winky’s size. When the little elf saw him working with fabric, she burst into tears, convinced he intended to free her by giving her clothes—a true nightmare for a traditional house-elf. But since their relationship wasn’t based on a servitude contract but rather on paid employment (even though the concept of wages was still a bit unclear to Winky), he patiently explained that he couldn’t tolerate his employee walking around with nothing but a dishrag. He added that it would be "bad for business," which finally convinced Winky to don the lovely purple dress he had sewn for her, complete with small lace gloves, a hat with holes for her large ears, and charming moccasins made from giant toad leather. It was true high fashion for a house-elf—if such a thing existed.

Narcissa, observing the scene from an armchair, watched his antics with a stoic elegance, a delicate teacup in her fingers. Finally, she broke the silence:

“You’re really doing all this for a house-elf? Don’t you think she might look... well, a bit ridiculous in that outfit?”

Harry raised an amused eyebrow. “My friend Hermione would kill me if she thought I was mistreating a house-elf. She plans to reform the laws on servitude once she has a foothold in the Ministry. We need to set an example now, especially with prominent figures, if we want change to happen quickly and improve the situation for house-elves. Besides, admit it—Winky looks adorable in that outfit. She looks like a true ambassador of elf fashion.”

Winky blushed and gave a small curtsy. “Master Harry Potter is too kind. Winky is honored to wear these beautiful clothes.”

Narcissa took a sip of her tea, contemplating his words. “You free house-elves, save Death Eaters from life imprisonment... Why this passion for lost causes, Potter?”

Harry remained silent for a moment, his eyes focused on the fabric he was carefully cutting. Then, with a slight smile, he replied, “Because I believe no one is truly a lost cause. Everyone deserves a second chance. And maybe, by helping others rebuild, I’m rebuilding myself too. After all, if we don’t take care of the ‘broken things,’ who will?”

Narcissa absentmindedly examined her nails, still stained from her time in Azkaban, which she hadn’t managed to completely clean. A silence settled over them, broken only by the rhythmic clinking of the sewing machine.

"I remember the first time I took Draco to get his school robes," Narcissa began, her voice slightly trembling. "He was so proud to be in the same year as the famous Harry Potter. Lucius kept urging him to befriend you, most likely to keep an eye on you. But Draco was still too young and innocent to understand the stakes. He simply thought he might finally make a true friend—someone not tied to our family or conditioned to obey blindly. He told me he saw you at Madam Malkin’s, but out of respect, he pretended not to recognize you. He was so proud of himself for daring to speak to you... I found myself dreaming that someone could pull him out of all this... Someone who would save him from Lucius’s twisted grip, because I never had the strength to do it myself..."

Her eyes filled with tears, and a solitary drop trailed down her pale cheek. Overcome with compassion, Harry stood up and approached her to offer comfort, knowing Draco would hardly appreciate his mother’s suffering on his account.

"You were a good mother, I’m certain of it," he said, placing a warm hand over hers. "I know firsthand how hard you fought to protect him."

Narcissa jerked her hand away as if she had been burned. "No, I wasn’t!" she cried, her voice cracking with emotion. "I was weak! I let Lucius crush my entire identity, even to the point of disowning members of my own family. And then I let him do the same to Draco! What kind of mother worth the name would allow such a thing?"

Slowly, Harry moved closer, like approaching a wounded animal that might bolt at any moment. He gently took Narcissa’s hand again and slipped onto her fingers a glove he had knitted himself. The stitches were so fine they looked like lace. It was Molly Weasley who had taught him how to sew and knit. He had always associated knitting with his first Christmas gifts—those famous sweaters with his initial on them. He had wanted to master the craft of making clothes, and Teddy had been his test subject for several months, until his creations became passable. For Narcissa’s gloves, he had truly outdone himself.

"Sometimes love makes us blind," he said softly. "We want so desperately to please the one we love that we lose ourselves in the process. Don’t lose yourself anymore, Narcissa. Allow yourself to be the beautiful person you truly are. That’s how you’ll attract people who truly deserve you."

She looked at her gloved hands in surprise, as if she could hardly believe it. The fabric was so delicate it could easily be mistaken for lace.

"Is this made from Bengal spider silk?" she asked, instantly recognizing the quality of the material.

Harry smiled slightly. "No, it’s acromantula silk. Professor Slughorn finds it too costly to import from Bengal, so he asks Hagrid to collect it for him in the Forbidden Forest."

Narcissa raised an eyebrow, looking both impressed and perhaps a little horrified at the idea of wearing something spun by those creatures. "You’re far more mature than your age suggests, Mr. Potter," she said as she stood up with her usual grace.

Harry shrugged. "I had to grow up fast to survive..."

She regarded him for a moment, an unreadable expression in her eyes. "Perhaps you are the one who can save my son, after all."

He answered with a shy smile. "I’ll do my best."

Narcissa left the room, leaving Harry alone with his thoughts.

*

The morning after his strange conversation with Narcissa Malfoy, Harry was unpleasantly surprised to find the kitchen of the Tonks' house transformed into an aviary. A veritable swarm of owls awaited him, bearing newspapers and scathing letters. Apparently, his gesture at the trial had stirred up quite a... passionate response.

Harry grabbed a Howler, which exploded with Hermione’s furious voice: “You were supposed to stay at St. Mungo’s to rest, Harry, not go kissing Malfoys in the middle of a courtroom! Can’t you go a single day without playing the hero?!”

He snapped the letter shut, irritation creeping in, and picked up Ron’s. No Howler this time, but the bitterness was evident in every line. “Honestly, Harry, do you realize what you’ve done? Kissing that ferret Malfoy? It’s like spitting in our faces. I care about you, but this time, you’ve gone too far.”

Harry clenched his teeth. The support he had hoped for from his two best friends seemed far out of reach. A wave of bitterness washed over him, but he pushed it aside, sifting through the pile of letters until he found the latest issue of The Quibbler.

The Cosmic Mystery of Twin Souls Finally Revealed!

Dear readers,

According to our astrological sources, the rare retrograde alignment of Mars with the constellation of the Crumple-Horned Snorkack has caused an inversion of affective energies. Lunar vibrations from the seventh orbit have converged into Gemini, creating a unique space-time distortion. Furthermore, the influence of migrating Nargles, particularly active this season, has heightened latent emotions. The centaurs had predicted that “when the Lion kisses the Serpent under the blood moon, secrets of the heart will be unveiled.” This event confirms that cosmic forces are at work in ways the Ministry prefers to ignore. Stay tuned, for the stars still have many surprises in store!

Harry shook his head, amused despite himself. Lovegood and his astrological theories... He decided not to dwell on whatever Xeno was trying to imply this time. With a dismissive wave, he pushed the Quibbler aside and picked up Witch Weekly.

In bold letters, an article by Rita Skeeter awaited him.

Scandal at the Ministry: Harry Potter Kisses Draco Malfoy in Court!

The wizarding world is abuzz following the shocking events that unfolded yesterday at the Ministry of Magic’s courthouse. Harry Potter, our beloved Savior, once again made headlines—and not for the most glorious reasons. As Draco Malfoy’s trial was nearing its end, Potter made a dramatic entrance, dressed in a hospital gown beneath an oversized coat—a questionable fashion choice for such an occasion. But the true shock came when he approached the accused and kissed him full on the mouth! Yes, you read that right: Harry Potter kissed Draco Malfoy in front of a packed and stunned courtroom. Was it a desperate ploy or a declaration of affection? Either way, the gesture has left many bewildered. Potter has always had a flair for the dramatic, but has he crossed a line this time? After securing Narcissa Malfoy’s release, is he now taking the son under his wing? Is he seeking to curry favor with the former wizarding elite? The Ministry remains silent, but it’s clear that explanations are needed. The public deserves to know if their hero is losing his grip or if he harbors darker motivations.

Harry, exasperated, crumpled the newspaper and tossed it into the fireplace with a furious gesture. He looked up to meet the stunned gazes of Andromeda, Narcissa, and little Teddy, who were watching the scene without daring to say a word.

“Well, here’s something interesting!” Harry exclaimed, grabbing the last newspaper. A smile spread across his lips as he recognized Arlo Bloom’s article.

Exclusive Interview with Mr. Potter: “Everyone Deserves a Second Chance”

In an unexpected turn of events, Mr. Potter recently defended Draco Malfoy during his trial, raising many questions within the wizarding community. I had the opportunity to speak with him to understand the motivations behind his bold actions.

Arlo Bloom:Mr. Potter, thank you for taking the time to speak with us. Your intervention during Draco Malfoy’s trial surprised many. What prompted you to testify in his favor?

Mr. Potter:Thank you, Arlo. To be honest, I firmly believe that everyone deserves a second chance. Draco grew up in an environment where his choices were often dictated by his family and circumstances. I think he’s capable of change and can contribute positively to our society.

Arlo Bloom:Some might say your gesture was unexpected, even shocking, especially when you kissed him in the middle of the courtroom. Was that a deliberate strategy?

Mr. Potter (with a grin):Let’s just say I like to surprise people. More seriously, I wanted to draw attention to the importance of forgiveness and redemption. Sometimes it takes a bold gesture to make a point.

Arlo Bloom:You mentioned forgiveness. Do you think the wizarding community is ready to forgive Draco Malfoy and others who strayed down the wrong path?

Mr. Potter:I hope so. We’re emerging from a dark period, and clinging to hatred will only drag us down. It’s time to rebuild together, without excluding those who are willing to change.

Arlo Bloom:How would you describe your current relationship with Mr. Malfoy? Is this the beginning of a new friendship?

Mr. Potter:We still have a long way to go, but I’m open to the possibility. The important thing is to leave the past behind and focus on the future.

Arlo Bloom:Some critics believe you’re taking a risk by defending a former Death Eater. What would you say to them?

Mr. Potter:The real risk would be doing nothing and letting the same patterns repeat themselves. If we want a better world, we must be willing to extend a hand, even to those who have made mistakes.

Arlo Bloom:You also helped Narcissa Malfoy reunite with her sister. Why was that important to you?

Mr. Potter:Family is crucial, especially after everything we’ve been through. Bringing people back together can help heal deep wounds and foster reconciliation.

Arlo Bloom:Some see you as a hero, others as a provocateur. How do you see yourself?

Mr. Potter (laughing):I see myself as someone trying to do the right thing, even if it’s not always easy or well understood. If I can inspire others to act with compassion, then I’ve done something good.

Arlo Bloom:Do you think your gesture will influence the outcome of Draco Malfoy’s case?

Mr. Potter:I sincerely hope so. But beyond his personal case, I hope it will encourage people to think about how we treat those who have made mistakes.

Arlo Bloom:One last question, Mr. Potter. What message would you like to send to the wizarding community during this time of rebuilding?

Mr. Potter:Let’s not be afraid to forgive and believe in everyone’s capacity to change. Only together can we build a better future.

Arlo Bloom:Thank you very much for this enlightening interview.

Mr. Potter:Thank you, Arlo. It was a pleasure.

Harry had barely a moment to hope that all wasn’t lost yet when the front door slammed so hard that the whole household jumped. Teddy immediately burst into tears, and Narcissa Malfoy brought a hand to her mouth in surprise. Andromeda turned her head, looking annoyed.

“I’ve never received this much mail in my life, Mr. Potter!” exclaimed Arlo Bloom, disheveled, his tie askew, looking like a man who had spent the night in gossip-filled bars. Without giving Harry a chance to process the interruption, he dropped a pile of letters in front of him.

“The Witch and the Elder Wand, Nevada Witch Closet, Washington Potion Times... They all want your exclusive interview! You’ve managed to capture the public’s attention worldwide, Mr. Potter.”

“So... does this mean my Draco will be freed?” Narcissa asked in a trembling voice, hope shining in her eyes.

Arlo’s triumphant smile faltered slightly in the face of her desperate hope. He took a more measured tone.

“I don’t want to give you false hope, Mrs. Malfoy. Your family is still seen as having been the staunchest supporters of the Dark Lord. If no sentence is passed, many will see it as a denial of justice. You know what that would mean: a disastrous reputation for magical Britain and an open invitation to wrongdoers everywhere. Mr. Potter has stirred empathy about the need for forgiveness, but the real fight is still ahead if we want to secure your son’s release.”

Narcissa, her shoulders slumping with disappointment, lowered her head. Feeling the tension in the room, Harry spoke up.

“What do you suggest, Arlo? You must have an idea.”

Arlo adjusted his tie with a theatrical gesture, his face suddenly taking on an expression of calculated seriousness.

“We need to convince the public that Draco Malfoy isn’t the Death Eater they imagine. He must be seen not as an heir to hatred, but as an innocent soul—someone deserving of a second chance. In short, we need to clear his name completely, make him appear... as pure as snow.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “As pure as snow? Arlo, that’s quite the feat you’re suggesting. You might as well ask Peeves to be polite or Dumbledore to come back from the dead!”

Narcissa straightened abruptly, her fists clenched with determination. “My Draco is a good boy! He’s always tried to live up to his father’s expectations, but he was only playing a part. All he ever wanted was to be accepted. I can tell you who he really is: a quiet, sensitive young man who only aspires to beauty and art. He never had it in him to be cruel. He was awkward in the role Lucius wanted him to play, almost pathetically so, because it never suited him.”

Harry was taken aback by this passionate portrayal. Was she really talking about Draco Malfoy? The same Draco who had spent his years at Hogwarts mocking Hermione for her Muggle-born heritage, bullying Neville, belittling Ron, and treating Crabbe and Goyle like lackeys?

“A role?” he repeated, doubtful.

Narcissa locked eyes with Harry, defiant, as if she could read his thoughts. “The Draco I know is introverted, reserved, terrified of his father. He wasn’t allowed a single mistake without risking the cane. But with me, he showed a gentleness you would never suspect. He excels in Potions, but he’s never been skilled at dueling spells. Our blood, however pure, has weakened over generations. The Malfoys and similar families are becoming less powerful, or showing signs of intellectual decline. My son has been spared the latter, but he’s far from a great wizard.”

Harry fought the urge to grimace. Narcissa wasn’t pulling any punches, painting a portrait of her son that was both flattering and brutally honest.

“Does Draco have a talent, something that could elicit empathy from the public?” Arlo asked, clearly searching for the perfect angle for his next article.

“Music,” Narcissa replied without hesitation. “Draco is an accomplished musician. That’s where his true talent lies.”

“Music?” Harry, Andromeda, and Arlo exclaimed in unison, looking as perplexed as if Narcissa had just told them Draco knitted Gryffindor scarves in his spare time.

Narcissa nodded, a mysterious smile playing on her lips. “He’s been singing since he was a child. It’s an aspect of him that few people know. Music is his refuge, his way of escaping the suffocating expectations of his father.”

Harry blinked, his mental image of Draco Malfoy, the little prince of Slytherin, suddenly shifting. He pictured Draco alone in his bathroom, using his famous silver comb as a microphone, singing melancholic ballads while meticulously smoothing his hair. The image, both absurd and endearing, made Harry smile despite himself.

Andromeda raised an eyebrow, amused despite herself. “Well, I suppose you can never truly know someone, can you?”

“Perhaps not,” Harry murmured thoughtfully, a spark of unexpected curiosity glimmering in his eyes.

*

The newspapers continued to debate and speculate over the Malfoy case to the point where the Ministry of Magic had no choice but to reconsider Draco’s sentence. Harry, relieved, clung to the hope that his testimony had not been in vain. Yet, he couldn’t shake the image of Draco, locked away in a cold cell in Azkaban, alone amid the icy waters of the North Sea. He silently prayed that Prongs would be strong enough to fend off the despair lurking in the blond’s heart.

Arlo Bloom, never one to miss an opportunity to make headlines, had managed to secure an exclusive interview at Azkaban to get updates on the most talked-about prisoner of the moment. Upon his return, Harry was waiting for him, a burning impatience in his eyes. But true to form, Arlo took his time recounting his adventure, detailing every drop of water seeping from the prison walls, complaining about the dampness and the darkness. He even went as far as to compare the situation with that of the United States, where, according to him, “they have the decency to offer criminals a quick death rather than letting them rot in filthy cells.”

Harry had to restrain himself from throttling him, urging Arlo to get to the important part. At long last, the journalist decided to share his impressions of Draco: “Thin as a Thestral in winter, but he stands tall, almost proud. Odd for someone you’d expect to be broken.” This description did nothing to reassure Harry or Narcissa, leaving them more anxious than ever, gnawed by uncertainty as they awaited the date of the second trial.

At last, the summons arrived.

The courtroom was packed, overflowing with witches and wizards eager to witness what was already being called “the trial of the decade.” Draco Malfoy stood in the center of the room, pale and trembling. To say he looked gaunt would be an understatement; he was but a shadow of himself, skin and bones, swaying gently back and forth, clutching an invisible treasure to his chest.

The tension in the room was almost palpable, the air heavy and oppressive, as though the entire world was holding its breath. Harry glanced at Narcissa. She was deathly pale, her back stiff, her hands clenched on the edge of her seat. Despite her impassive expression, Harry could sense the fear eating away at her.

The head judge, an elderly man with silver hair and piercing eyes, stood and struck his gavel three times. Silence fell immediately, dense and heavy.

“The court is now in session. We are here to determine the fate of Draco Malfoy, accused of complicity with the Dark Lord, conspiracy against the Ministry, and endangering the safety of Hogwarts. These are serious charges, and though there have been testimonies in your favor, Mr. Malfoy, we must examine your actions with the utmost rigor.”

Harry stood up, his heart pounding in his chest.

“Honorable judges, I am here to attest that Draco Malfoy, though manipulated by his father and coerced under threat from the Dark Lord, never truly adhered to their ideals. During the Battle of Hogwarts, he had several chances to turn me in, but he chose not to. I sincerely believe he deserves a second chance.”

The judges exchanged glances, their expressions inscrutable. Harry felt his stomach twist into knots. He knew his testimony was crucial, but would it be enough?

Narcissa rose as well. Her emaciated face betrayed days of exhaustion and anxiety. She took a deep breath before addressing the court.

“My son was trapped in a role he never wanted to play. From his childhood, he was conditioned by his father’s excessive expectations, by ideals of blood purity and dominance he never fully understood. But I am here to tell you that beyond all of that, Draco is a sensitive young man who longs for peace. He was crushed by impossible expectations. He deserves a chance to show who he truly is, far from the shadow of Lucius Malfoy.”

Her voice faltered slightly on the last words. Harry placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, and she gave him a small, grateful smile.

The head judge nodded, his face remaining impassive. He leaned towards his colleagues, whispering in hushed tones. Then, straightening, he prepared to deliver the sentence.

“Draco Malfoy, despite the testimonies in your favor, this court cannot overlook your past actions. As a proven supporter of the Dark Lord and accomplice to multiple crimes, you must answer for your deeds. The Wizengamot is ready to deliver its verdict.”

But before the sentence could be pronounced, a strange murmur escaped Draco’s lips. At first, it was just a whisper, barely audible. Then, he began to hum a soft, almost childlike melody, his eyes fixed on a distant point as though he were gazing into a world invisible to everyone else. Harry knew Draco was simply putting their plan into action, but he couldn’t help genuinely worrying about Draco’s mental state in that moment.

The first words of the song were fragile, as if they were surfacing from a sea of memories. Draco began to sing with a wavering but strangely pure voice:

song

You can't take my past
You can't take my history
You could take my pa
But his name’s a mystery
Nothin' you can take from me was ever worth keepin'
Oh, nothin' you can take was ever worth keepin'

The melody, gentle and melancholic, floated in the air, filling the room with raw, disarming emotion. It was an old song, almost a lullaby, but from Draco’s lips, it sounded like a desperate incantation, a prayer from a lost soul he seemed to have become.

The judges exchanged stunned looks. Some murmured that Malfoy had lost his mind. A woman in the audience even stifled a sob. Harry, however, remained frozen, his heart clenched tight. He had never seen Draco like this, stripped of his usual arrogance, a startling fragility etched across his pale face. It was as if he were witnessing a silent confession, a glimpse of the child Draco had once been before the world had twisted him beyond recognition.

Can’t take my charm
Can’t take my humor
Can’t take my wealth
’Cause it’s just a rumor
Nothin’ you can take was ever worth keepin’
No, nothin’ you can take was ever worth keepin’
You can’t take my sass!

Draco’s voice cracked on the final word, and he dropped his head, breathless. The silence in the courtroom was absolute, almost sacred, as if no one dared to move. Narcissa covered her mouth with a trembling hand, tears welling up in the corners of her eyes.

The head judge, who had risen to pronounce the sentence, remained frozen, his mouth slightly agape. He glanced around at his colleagues, seeking some kind of confirmation in their eyes. Finally, he cleared his throat.

“It appears... we are faced with a complex situation,” he said, his voice less confident than before. “Draco Malfoy, your behavior may indicate a serious mental disturbance.”

A murmur rippled through the audience. Harry could hardly believe it. Their plan was working!

The judge, after conferring with the other members of the Wizengamot, took a deep breath and straightened. “Instead of a life sentence in Azkaban, the court has decided to place you under house arrest so you may receive the necessary care.”

A collective sigh of relief swept through the room like a wave. Narcissa broke down in tears, covering her face with her hands. Harry gently took her by the shoulders, his eyes shining with emotion. He caught Draco’s gaze, and for the first time, he saw neither defiance nor arrogance but a quiet, almost imperceptible gratitude.

Draco whispered a barely audible “thank you” before lowering his eyes. Harry nodded, his heart swelling with a feeling he never thought he’d experience for his former rival.

*

The return to the Tonks' cottage was shrouded in a heavy silence. Narcissa clung tightly to her son’s hand, as if she feared he might vanish again. Draco, for his part, walked slowly, his gaze vacant, shoulders hunched under the weight of everything he had endured in Azkaban. No words seemed capable of reaching the young man, let alone comforting him after weeks spent surrounded by Dementors.

That evening, Harry busied himself in the kitchen alongside Andromeda, preparing a simple yet comforting meal. They left the Malfoys by the crackling fireplace, giving mother and son a moment of privacy. Despite their efforts, Draco managed only a few spoonfuls of soup. His gaunt face and trembling hands were stark evidence of the deep distress that haunted him.

It quickly became apparent that Draco needed a proper bath. The grime in his hair and under his nails made it clear he hadn’t had a chance to wash properly in a long time. But at eighteen, it was understandable that he didn’t want his mother’s help with such an intimate task. Winky, the house-elf, eagerly offered her assistance, but the silent look of disgust Draco gave her made it clear that this wasn’t an option.

Taking a deep breath, Harry volunteered. After all, they were the same age, and perhaps his presence would be less embarrassing for Draco.

He rolled up his sleeves and drew a warm bath, adding a few drops of orange blossom and bergamot oils prepared by Andromeda’s expert hand. Steam filled the small bathroom, creating a soothing atmosphere.

When Draco entered, the silence became almost palpable. Harry felt his cheeks flush without quite knowing why. He was used to bathing Teddy, but helping a boy his own age was an entirely different matter.

Draco held something invisible against his chest, like a precious treasure he refused to let go of. Harry wondered if Draco’s mind had truly been affected. What horrors had he faced in prison to end up like this?

A thought crossed Harry’s mind, and he felt compelled to test his theory. Trying to appear casual, he broke the silence.

“Do you want me to help you with your clothes?”

Draco instinctively recoiled, tightening his grip on the invisible object, his eyes widening like those of a cornered animal.

“Hey, it’s all right,” Harry said, raising his hands in a calming gesture, palms open. “It’s just the two of us here. No judgment. I just want to help.”

The blond seemed to hesitate, his wariness slowly melting away under Harry’s reassuring tone, but he still wouldn’t loosen his grip.

With infinite gentleness, Harry extended his hands.

“Listen,” he said softly. “If you lend it to me for a moment, I promise I’ll give it back to you as soon as you’re all clean.”

Draco remained still, his muscles taut, but slowly, almost reluctantly, he handed over a small ball of blue energy, weak and flickering.

Harry’s suspicion was confirmed: it was Draco’s Patronus, reduced to a tiny, weakened form. He had likely fought to keep it alive, like a flickering flame against the oppressive darkness of Azkaban.

Harry took the delicate little light, feeding it a bit of his own magic. Prongs flared briefly before stabilizing, and Harry placed it gently on the edge of the sink, within Draco’s line of sight.

“There. It’s here, and it’s waiting for you,” he murmured.

The blond gave a small nod, his shoulders sagging slightly, as if a great weight had just slipped from his back.

Harry then helped him remove his worn-out sweater, riddled with holes, and his pitiful prison trousers. Draco’s body was a frightening sight—so thin it was almost skeletal, his ribs protruding beneath his translucent skin. A wave of sadness washed over Harry, reminding him of the state Sirius had been in after his time in Azkaban.

The bathwater quickly turned murky, darkening to a grim gray. Harry had to change it several times, using Scouring Charms. He continued, methodically, washing Draco from head to toe, taking special care with his tangled hair. Gradually, the blond began to relax, closing his eyes as Harry’s skilled fingers gently massaged his scalp. He had learned this skill while taking care of Teddy, and it seemed it was working wonders on Draco, too.

Suddenly, Harry heard quiet, muffled sobs. Draco was crying silently, his tears mixing with the soapy water. Harry knew this wasn’t mere sadness, but deep, almost visceral shame. For a Malfoy, being bathed by his former rival had to be an unbearable humiliation.

Harry took a deep breath, feeling a familiar hesitation rise within him. He had never shared this part of his life, not even with Ron or Hermione. These memories, buried deep in a dark corner of his mind, were like an old scar he had never wanted to reopen. But seeing Draco so broken and vulnerable, he decided that maybe it was time to share a fragment of his own fragility. After all, if they were going to find common ground, they needed to level the playing field, just this once.

“You know,” he began with a sad smile, “when I was a kid, I used to bathe in the kitchen sink. The Dursleys weren’t exactly generous with comfort.”

Draco lifted his head, frowning skeptically. It was a look Harry knew well—the disdainful expression of the teenager who had been his rival for so many years.

“Oh, stop it,” Draco rasped. “As if they’d ever let the precious Potter wash in a sink. You’re mocking me, aren’t you?”

Instead of getting offended, Harry chose to continue, determined to dismantle the idealized image Draco had always had of him. He leaned in a bit closer, his hands still gently rinsing the blond’s hair.

“I was taken in by my aunt and uncle—Muggles who hated magic. I didn’t even know I was a wizard until I got my Hogwarts letter at eleven.”

Draco’s eyes widened in surprise, and he turned abruptly to face Harry, looking stunned.

“Impossible!” he exclaimed. “Dumbledore would never have allowed his golden boy to be treated like that.”

Harry let out a small, mirthless laugh. “It was Dumbledore himself who left me on their doorstep, wrapped in a blanket, in the dead of night, when I was only a year old.”

Draco’s face froze. Slowly, he turned away, staring at the white tiles of the bathroom with a pensive expression. Harry could almost see the pieces of the puzzle falling into place in Draco’s mind.

“I remember you,” Draco murmured, almost to himself. “The first time I saw you at Madam Malkin’s, you looked so scrawny... I thought it was just your look... But now that you mention it...” His voice trailed off, and he seemed to hesitate before asking the question burning on his tongue. “Did those Muggles... mistreat you?”

Harry shrugged, his hands still gently massaging Draco’s scalp. “I’d say it was mostly neglect. They just ignored me most of the time. To them, I was just a burden.”

Draco remained silent for a moment, then shook his head, his expression resolute. “If I were you, I would have made them pay. Not just them, but all the Muggles. I would have joined the Dark Lord rather than become Dumbledore’s puppet.”

Harry paused in his task, knowing that these words weren’t spoken out of cruelty but from a survival instinct that Draco had always known. He gave him a small, sad smile, full of understanding.

“Not all Muggles are bad,” he said gently. “There are good ones and bad ones, just like among wizards. You can’t judge people by their background. It’s their actions that matter.”

Draco rolled his eyes, but Harry caught a flicker of something in his gaze—an emotion, a hesitation, as if he wasn’t entirely sure he could still defend his old convictions.

“You seem to believe that everyone deserves a second chance, even those who haven’t earned it,” Draco murmured, his voice softer, almost broken.

Harry nodded slowly. “Yes. Because I know what it feels like not to get one. And I think you know that feeling too, Draco.”

The blond stayed silent, the words hanging in the air, unanswered. Yet, that didn’t stop him from rushing over to Harry’s Patronus as soon as he stepped out of the bath. Harry chose not to intervene. He knew that Draco wasn’t ready to part with that fragment of hope...Not yet.

*

They never spoke of it again. Not the next day, nor the one after. Draco retreated into a pensive silence, only broken by his agitated nightmares. Harry often heard him cry out in his sleep—muffled screams haunted by a fear Harry knew all too well. He himself had endured those sleepless nights after the war. Without Andromeda’s support, he wasn’t sure where he would be now. And he found himself wanting to offer Draco that same kind of help, if only the other boy would accept it.

One sunny afternoon, Harry approached with a generously packed sandwich in hand. Draco, for his part, seemed absorbed in a dusty book: Quidditch Through the Ages. Harry smiled; it was, in his opinion, the best therapy there was.

“Fancy a flight?” he asked nonchalantly.

Draco looked up, as if he hadn’t heard correctly. He slowly closed the book, marking his page with a distracted finger before fixing Harry with a frown.

“Flying?” he repeated, skeptical. “You’re joking, right?”

Harry shook his head, still smiling. “Not at all. The weather’s great, the wind is perfect for a ride. I thought it might help clear your head.”

Draco eyed him warily. “I’m under house arrest, Potter. Does that word mean anything to you?”

“The estate is several acres wide. Unless you plan to fly straight to the Ministry, I think we’re safe,” Harry replied, holding out the sandwich. He’d made it his mission these past few days to get some strength back into Draco, and that evidently involved plenty of snacks and a bit of sport.

“Listen, Potter,” Draco growled, clearly annoyed, “I don’t need you mothering me. I can take care of myself.”

Harry raised his hands in a placating gesture. “Alright, alright. But seriously, sulking in a corner with an old Quidditch book? I doubt that’s going to help you get back in shape.”

Draco crossed his arms, lips pressed together in a thin line. “I’m not sulking, Potter. I’m meditating.”

“Oh, right, I forgot how profoundQuidditch Through the Ages can be,” Harry quipped with a playful grin.

Draco’s cheeks flushed a light pink. “Maybe I’m meditating on all the ways I could shut you up.” He snatched the sandwich from Harry’s hand, examining it as if expecting to find a spider inside. “What is this? A trap to poison me?”

Harry pretended to ponder. “Let’s see… there’s some mayonnaise, a bit of pickle… and maybe a dash of Veritaserum. Just to get you to admit that you actually enjoy spending time with me.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Merlin, you’re insufferable.”

Harry shrugged. “And yet, here you are. So, are you coming to fly, or would you rather stay here muttering to yourself? Or maybe you’re afraid I’ll beat you?”

Draco feigned shock, placing a hand over his heart. “You should be the one afraid, Potter. I could still beat you with my eyes closed.”

Without further ado, they headed to the broom shed. Draco marveled at a collection of vintage brooms that belonged to Tonks, enthusiastically pointing out a limited edition from 1995. Harry, amused, realized for the first time that Draco shared his passion for Quidditch. He couldn’t help but tease him, performing an exaggerated bow before one of the brooms.

“Oh, my precious, don’t mind this philistine,” Draco cooed as he mounted his broom with a practiced grace.

“Talking to your broom now?” Harry asked, raising an eyebrow. “That’s a bit worrying.”

“What can I say, Potter? I have to find intelligent conversation somewhere,” Draco retorted with a mock-innocent smile.

Harry took off and performed a few aerial maneuvers to warm up. Then he turned to Draco and shouted, taunting, “Come on, Malfoy, can you keep up? Or would you rather stay there caressing your broom?”

Draco’s eyes lit up, and he shot forward with a sudden burst of speed.

They flew at full tilt, exchanging jabs and laughing breathlessly. In that moment, Harry realized he was genuinely having fun—maybe for the first time in months. He forgot that this was all part of a mission left to him by Severus before his death. There was only the wind, the speed, and their old rivalry, now tinged with an unexpected camaraderie.

“You know, Potter,” Draco said as he leveled beside him, panting but grinning, “you’re almost tolerable when you lose. Almost.”

Harry winked at him. “I’m going to frame that compliment, Malfoy. It’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

That evening, Draco finally agreed to sit down for dinner with them. Harry was thrilled; he considered it a successful day. The night, however, promised to be more challenging: Teddy was teething and spent most of his time crying or chewing on anything within reach. It was Harry’s turn to care for the little werewolf who howled at the moon as if trying to wake the entire neighborhood.

Just as Harry was about to heat a bottle in the kitchen, he jumped at the sight of Draco sitting at the table, illuminated by a yellowish light that made him look like a ghost.

“Can’t you shut that wailing creature up?” Draco complained, pulling a face.

“That ‘adorable’ creature is called Teddy, and he’s your little cousin, in case you’ve forgotten,” Harry shot back, irritated by Draco’s snide remarks about his godson.

“That thing looks more like a goblin than a human,” Draco grumbled. “I already can’t sleep, and now his whining is echoing through the whole house at night. Can’t you calm him down?”

“You’re not the only one who’s having trouble sleeping!” Harry snapped, his voice so loud that Teddy burst into even louder tears.

Ignoring Draco, Harry focused on the task at hand: preparing the milk while carefully measuring out a pain-relief potion.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake!” Draco exclaimed, exasperated. “Give him to me.”

Harry hesitated for a moment, then, without really knowing why, he handed Teddy over to Draco. The baby stared up at him, frowning in the exact same way Draco did. At that moment, there was no denying their family resemblance. Harry suspected Teddy was about to make a big mess, given the intense look on his face.

But to Harry’s utter shock, Draco began to hum a lullaby.

Deep in the meadow, under the willow.
A bed of grass, a soft green pillow.
Lay down your head, and close your eyes.
And when they open, the sun will rise.
Here it's safe, and here it's warm.
Here the daisies guard you from every harm.
Here your dreams are sweet, and tomorrow brings them true.
Here is the place where I love you.

Draco’s voice, soft and surprisingly soothing, filled the kitchen. The baby stopped crying instantly, as if under a spell.

Harry stood frozen, mouth agape. Seeing Draco Malfoy—the former prince of Slytherin—rocking a baby while singing a lullaby was... unexpected, to say the least.

“What?” Draco snapped, irritated by Harry’s incredulous stare. “Are you going to stand there gawking all night, or are you going to finish preparing that damn bottle?”

Harry shook his head, breaking out of his stupor, and got back to work. “I... I’ve never heard that lullaby before. Is it a family song?”

Draco shrugged, his eyes downcast as he looked at the now-sleepy Teddy. “My mother used to sing it to me when I was little,” he admitted in a small, uncertain voice.

“I have to say, I didn’t expect to see you as... a makeshift nanny,” Harry joked as he finished making the bottle.

“Don’t get used to it,” Draco retorted, a glint of irony in his eyes. “This is the first and last time.”

Teddy let out a little whimper, and Draco awkwardly patted his back. The baby burped loudly, making Draco jump. Harry burst out laughing.

“Well, Malfoy, I think you’ve made a new friend.”

Draco glanced at the baby nestled against him, a tuft of hair changing color to a pale blond, almost identical to his own. A faint, unreadable smile tugged at Draco’s lips.

“You look like you’re starting to grow attached to him,” Harry observed, folding his arms, amused.

“Attached?” Draco shot Harry a glare. “I’m not getting attached. I’m being attacked by a teething gremlin. There’s a big difference.”

But despite his words, Harry could see that Draco was taking care of Teddy. The baby had even stopped crying, seemingly comforted by Draco’s touch. Teddy’s hair shifted to a shade of silvery blond, a perfect imitation of Draco’s.

Harry laughed. “You’re much better with babies than I would’ve expected. I might just let you babysit Teddy from now on.”

Draco feigned a shudder. “Don’t threaten me, Potter. I’m not ready to sacrifice my sanity for your little wolf cub.”

Harry leaned back against the counter, watching Draco thoughtfully. It was so strange to see him like this—so natural, so at ease, far removed from his usual arrogance. A fleeting thought crossed his mind: what if, behind that cold exterior, Draco had always been like this—someone gentle, capable of caring for others, if only given the chance?

“Thank you, Draco,” Harry finally said, his voice softer than before.

Draco glanced up, surprised by the sincerity in Harry’s tone. “Don’t get used to it, Potter. I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing it because, unlike you, I still have some dignity left.”

Harry chuckled, shaking his head. “Of course, Malfoy. Everything you do is out of pure dignity.”

He stepped closer and gave Draco a light pat on the shoulder, a spark of genuine gratitude in his eyes.

A peaceful silence settled between them, broken only by the soft, even breathing of Teddy, who had finally drifted off to sleep in Draco’s arms. Harry took a deep breath and, almost in a whisper, said:

“You know, Malfoy, you’d make a great father someday.”

Draco shot him a glare, but his lips twitched into the faintest of smiles. “And you, Potter, should learn to keep your mouth shut before I decide to hex you.”

*

Despite his protests and detached airs, Draco spent more and more time with Teddy. Harry found it amusing. He remembered the effect the little wolf cub had once had on him: a grounding presence, a reason to get out of bed, to step away from dark thoughts in order to care for someone more vulnerable. By looking after his godson, Harry had gradually pulled himself out of his destructive mindset, determined to be worthy of this small, precious life. Watching Draco now, Harry couldn’t help but feel the blond was on a similar path, much to Narcissa’s quiet relief.

The days passed in a routine of playing with Teddy and exchanging jabs with Draco. But the nights were a different story. Draco’s nightmares were persistent and relentless, tearing through the fragile calm of their days. Harry often heard him murmuring in his sleep, his voice laced with a fear Harry knew all too well. After the war, he’d endured the same sleepless nights, haunted by the same demons. Without Andromeda’s support, he didn’t know where he’d be now. He found himself wanting to offer Draco that same anchor, if only the blond would accept it.

One night, around one in the morning, Harry was jerked awake by a scream that chilled him to the bone. Draco’s scream. It wasn’t a normal cry; it was a raw, primal sound, filled with terror. Harry couldn’t stand by any longer. He got up and rushed to Draco’s room.

The door was ajar. Harry hesitated for a second, then gently pushed it open. The sight before him broke his heart: Draco, curled up on his bed, his body wracked with uncontrollable sobs, his frail shoulders shaking under the thin blanket. He looked so young, so small—nothing like the arrogant heir Harry had once known.

Taking a deep breath, Harry walked over and sat on the edge of the bed without a word. He hesitated, then reached out, his fingers lightly brushing through the tangled blond hair before slowly threading through it. Draco flinched at the touch but didn’t pull away. Instead, he seemed to lean into it, his sobs intensifying, as if they were being pulled from a place deep inside him, long sealed shut.

After what felt like hours, Draco’s cries finally subsided. He took a shuddering breath and wiped his cheeks awkwardly before whispering in a hoarse, broken voice:

“Do you think… do you think some people are chosen to live, and others to die? To suffer, while others find happiness?” His voice cracked, and he turned his gaze away, staring into the darkness of the room. “When I look inside myself, I wonder… maybe I wasn’t meant to be okay. Maybe I wasn’t meant to be at all.”

A wave of sadness washed over Harry. He had never heard Draco speak like this, with such raw despair.

“I don’t believe anyone is meant to suffer,” Harry said gently. “Pain comes, it breaks us sometimes. But it doesn’t define who we are or what we deserve.”

Draco was silent for a long moment, then turned his head to look at Harry, his gray eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Then why me, Harry? Why does it feel like that’s all there is for me?”

Harry didn’t answer right away. He knew words couldn’t erase the guilt, the invisible weight Draco carried.

“Maybe because no one ever told you that you don’t have to carry it all alone,” Harry said quietly. “Maybe because you’ve always believed you had to atone, even for things that weren’t your fault.”

Draco’s eyes widened, as if struck by a truth he had never dared acknowledge. A tremor ran through him, and he buried his face in his hands.

Harry moved closer, wrapping an arm around Draco’s trembling shoulders. It wasn’t much, but it was all he could offer: his presence, his silence, his understanding. This time, Draco didn’t pull away, didn’t try to shield himself. He leaned into Harry, allowing himself, for the first time, to let his guard down completely.

In the following days, a strange new habit formed between them—a silent, unspoken ritual. When the house fell asleep, Harry would join Draco in his bed. No words were exchanged, just the comfort of each other’s presence. If one had a nightmare, the other was there, instinctively, to ward off the shadows. Slowly, Harry found himself waking up in the arms of the boy he once considered his sworn enemy, and Draco didn’t push him away. If anything, he seemed to cling to this new closeness, as though it were a lifeline.

Their days took on a new rhythm, filled with a shared ease they hadn’t known before. They walked together, exploring the acres of forest surrounding the estate, following winding rivers and weaving through the underbrush. The fresh air and the scents of the woods worked wonders, as if with each step they shed a little more of the weight on their shoulders.

They found themselves running, jumping over fallen logs, daring each other to absurd, childish challenges. Harry suggested a race to the oldest tree in the forest; Draco accepted with a feigned indifference before sprinting off, laughing like a child. They climbed rocks, tried to scale trees, playfully shoving each other and sometimes collapsing on the ground, breathless from laughter.

For a brief moment, they were teenagers again—the ones they had never had the chance to be. The war had stolen their youth, but here, away from everything, they rediscovered a lost sense of freedom and joy.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a golden light through the leaves, they lay side by side on the soft grass, the sound of the river murmuring nearby. Draco began humming a soft tune, almost like a lullaby. Harry closed his eyes, letting himself be carried away by the melody. But when he opened them, Draco was watching him, an enigmatic smile on his lips.

“It took some time… but I’m ready now,” Draco whispered, his words hanging in the air like an unfinished promise.

Harry sat up, intrigued by the look in Draco’s eyes. “Ready for what?” he asked, a nervous flutter in his stomach, a bittersweet premonition he couldn’t quite name.

Draco looked away briefly, watching the river flow, serene and untroubled. Then he turned back to Harry, his gray eyes lit with an unexpected tenderness. “Ready to give back what you lent me,” he said softly, almost a whisper.

Before Harry could understand, he felt Draco’s lips on his. It was a light kiss, tentative, like a leaf drifting onto the surface of a still pond. Time seemed to stop; the sound of the river faded away, and Harry lost all sense of reality. There was only the gentle warmth of that touch, the softness of Draco leaning into him like an innocent child.

In the midst of the kiss, a familiar silver glow passed between their lips. Harry realized what it was—Draco was returning his Patronus, the protective force Harry had lent him to shield him from his darkest fears.

Harry’s heart clenched, overwhelmed by a wave of conflicting emotions. Part of him wanted to respond, to lean into the kiss and give in to a feeling he’d never dared to name. But fear gripped him. What if he had misunderstood? What if his own emotions were betraying him? It was all too much, too fast. Panicked, he pulled away abruptly, as if burned.

Without a word, he turned and ran.

His feet pounded against the ground with a desperate urgency, the pounding of his heart loud in his ears, drowning out the sound of Draco’s voice calling after him, pleading. But Harry didn’t turn back. He ran, blinded by his own fears, his thoughts swirling like leaves caught in an autumn storm.

At last, he reached the Tonks’ cottage and stumbled inside, gasping for breath. The silence of the house seemed to scream his cowardice back at him. He leaned against the wall, trying to steady his breathing, and his eyes fell on the small vial of Severus’s potion, left abandoned in a dark corner. He hadn’t thought about it in months. Yet now, it seemed like a way out, an escape from the emotional chaos consuming him.

Without thinking further, Harry grabbed the vial and took a swig. The bitter taste burned down his throat, and almost immediately, a dull pain surged in his head, like the onset of a brewing storm. This time, the sensation was different: it felt as if some unseen force was clawing its way out of him, pressing down his throat, squeezing his chest until he couldn’t breathe.

He dropped to his knees, clutching the vial tightly. A wave of darkness crashed over him, and the room around him dissolved. Everything became hazy, then black.

*

When he came to, he was drenched in sweat, lying on a bed that felt strangely familiar. He shot upright, grabbing his glasses from the bedside table, and found Ron leaning over him, looking worried.

“Harry, are you okay?” Ron asked, his voice edged with nervousness. “You looked like you were having a nightmare…”

Harry stared at him, still disoriented, his thoughts struggling to settle. It took him a moment to realize he wasn’t in the cottage anymore. He was in the Gryffindor dormitory, surrounded by the familiar red curtains he knew so well. But something felt off, an odd sensation that he had traveled much farther than he’d intended.

“No snakes tried to bite you, I hope?” Ron joked, trying to ease the tension.

But Harry didn’t respond. He jumped out of bed, ignoring Ron’s protests, and sprinted towards the bathroom mirror. The sight that met his eyes took his breath away: his own reflection, several years younger. His face was softer, almost boyish, showing the features of a sixteen-year-old.

He hadn’t returned to his own time. He’d been flung even further back into the past, landing in the middle of his sixth year at Hogwarts. A cold shiver ran down his spine, and he felt fear settle like ice in his veins.

He had traveled through time, but not to where he had intended.