Sleep together?
Three weeks had passed since the heated confrontation between the Weasleys and Draco, and though the tension remained a lingering presence, the storm had somewhat quieted. Draco and Harry, despite the unresolved feelings and awkwardness still hanging between them, had fallen into a routine. They shared custody of Teddy, and although there was no major conflict, the air between them remained thick with things unsaid. Their once frequent exchanges had dwindled, and their time together was now a rare occurrence, swallowed by their demanding schedules.
Draco had finished his Healer training months ago, and though he was eagerly awaiting an opening at St. Mungo's, he wasn’t idle. He worked night shifts at a small hospital nearby, providing the only real structure to his otherwise chaotic days. Between that and his attempts to manage the endless responsibilities that came with taking care of Teddy, Draco barely had a moment to himself. The house, a constant source of frustration, was an ongoing challenge. Learning how to keep it in order and functioning, particularly without the help of magic for most chores, had become a task in itself.
Meanwhile, Harry was consumed by his work, his days stretching long into the evenings with barely enough time to breathe. Between his duties as an Auror and his commitment to the Order, there was little left for anything else, let alone conversations with Draco. His long hours at the Auror office had left him drained, and his exhaustion was starting to show—he had become quieter, his usually sharp eyes now carrying a fatigue that was hard to hide. Ron, as always, seemed to sense when something was off with Harry, and the two of them had been in the office long enough for the silence between them to feel more like an unspoken understanding.
The room where Harry and Ron were sitting had the faint hum of magic in the background, typical of the Auror office. Sparse yet functional, it smelled faintly of parchment and ink, with a gentle flicker of enchanted lanterns casting light over their desks. Papers were scattered across Ron’s workspace, a chaotic testament to his peculiar working style, while Harry’s side was meticulously organized.
Ron broke the silence first, leaning back in his chair. “Hermione’s angry.”
Harry glanced up from the file he was reading. “Hmm? With me?”
“No, with my dad,” Ron replied, his tone carrying both awe and resignation. “I was surprised, honestly. She’s been trying so hard to be accepted by my family—working overtime to be the perfect Weasley daughter-in-law, you know? But the moment she heard about what he did to Malfoy, she practically gave him a lecture on the judicial system.”
Harry smirked, the image of Hermione sternly explaining magistrate procedures to Arthur Weasley playing in his mind. “I imagine there aren’t many women who’ve spoken to your dad like that.”
Ron snorted, shaking his head. “You’d think. But the most shocking part? She defended Malfoy. And—” he hesitated, giving Harry a pointed look, “—she didn’t even look surprised when I mentioned he was living with you.”
Ah, there it was. Harry felt a pang of guilt twist in his chest. Of course, this was where Ron was going with it. He knew it hadn’t been fair to confide in Hermione and not Ron, but the truth had spilled out so naturally with her. Their conversations had a way of flowing, and before he knew it, Hermione knew everything. Besides, she’d likely have figured it out even if he hadn’t told her. That was Hermione Granger, after all.
“Sorry,” Harry said, setting the file aside. “I should’ve told you properly. I don’t know what I was thinking. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“It wasn’t,” Ron said bluntly but without heat.
Harry winced. “Yeah, I know. Malfoy wasn’t exactly thrilled about it either, if that helps. Look, Ron… I get how you feel about him. I felt the same way for years. But Draco’s…” he paused, searching for the right words. “He’s a person, too. And all this—it really upset him.”
Ron scoffed, his expression darkening. “Didn’t seem too upset while he was offending us at the top of his lungs.”
“That’s just his way of defending himself,” Harry argued, his tone earnest. “It’s how he was raised. Try to see his side of things.”
Ron let out a heavy sigh, leaning forward with his elbows on the desk. “Fine, maybe I can understand that. What I don’t get is why are you defending him so much?”
Harry opened his mouth, but no words came out. He looked down at his hands, as though the answer might be scribbled on the desk in front of him. Finally, he admitted, “I don’t really know.”
…
The first time Draco met Morgana, it had been entirely by chance. A rainy evening had left him and Teddy stranded without an umbrella, their initial errand forgotten as they sought shelter from the downpour. The Copper Kettle, with its warm, glowing windows and cozy atmosphere, had been a beacon on the gray, wet street. Draco hesitated outside the door, unsure of whether they’d be welcome, but Teddy’s insistent tug on his coat made the decision for him.
Stepping inside, Draco was greeted by the comforting hum of chatter, the scent of freshly baked bread, and a woman who immediately radiated warmth. Morgana, with her soft smile and calming presence, approached them without hesitation, offering a towel to dry off and a seat near the fireplace. She didn’t flinch at his last name, didn’t recoil from the sight of his face. For the first time in a long while, Draco wasn’t treated like the sum of his mistakes.
From that evening on, The Copper Kettle became something of a refuge for him and Teddy. Draco hadn’t expected to find kindness here, let alone in a Ravenclaw woman who, by all accounts, should have been wary of him. Instead, Morgana seemed to have an unshakable intuition, one that told her exactly how to disarm his defenses.
Draco’s visits to The Copper Kettle had started as a convenient escape, a way to reduce the mounting responsibilities at Grimmauld Place. After all, he could see Harry becoming increasingly drained by their shared duties. While he didn’t mind looking after Teddy, Draco found it impossible to ignore how overwhelmed Harry had become, shouldering more than his fair share of everything.
Harry worked long hours, leaving early, coming home late, and every night, Draco could hear him tossing and turning in bed, plagued by nightmares and sleeplessness. He kept his exhaustion hidden behind a smile for Teddy, making sure he had his fun with the boy, even taking time off to explore Muggle London with him on Sundays. Draco couldn't understand it. Harry was clearly at the edge of a breakdown, but he kept pushing forward, grinning through it all, as though pretending everything was fine could make it so. Draco found it infuriating.
Harry was, as always, the loyal Gryffindor, the one who would sacrifice everything for the people he cared about. Yet, in the process, he was wearing himself to the bone, and Draco resented it. He couldn’t understand why Harry insisted on doing it all, as if the weight of the world depended on him alone.
That’s where Morgana came in. Draco hadn’t admitted it to anyone, least of all Harry, but he found himself going to the restaurant more and more, not just for the comfort of her cooking and friendly way, but because it allowed him to take something off Harry’s plate.
Draco could handle some of the chores, especially now that Morgana had taken a soft spot for him and Teddy. The older witch’s calm and maternal presence was a stark contrast to the cold distance that had been his mother’s way of "looking after him." Narcissa, though fiercely protective, had always been distant, her affection more a duty than a natural instinct. Morgana, by contrast, exuded a maternal warmth that enveloped not only Teddy but Draco as well. She didn’t seem to see him as a former Death Eater or a broken man trying to redeem himself, just a person doing his best.
He also tried to help with the cleaning and organizing at Grimmauld Place, keeping the house in order when Harry was out. Draco knew the last thing Harry needed was to come home to a mess when he was already running on empty. But his efforts didn’t pay off. He wasn’t good at it and couldn’t ask Harry for help so had to figure it out alone, also he didn't have magic to handle anything.
Teddy, perched on Draco’s hip, wriggled with excitement as his little face lit up at the sight of Morgana bustling behind the counter.
“Well, if it isn’t my two favorite troublemakers!” Morgana greeted warmly, brushing her graying hair back and stepping out from behind the counter. Her deep blue eyes sparkled as she wiped her hands on her apron. “Let me guess, hungry as ever?”
Draco gave a sheepish smile, shifting Teddy slightly. “More like completely unprepared for dinner. Again.”
Morgana chuckled, her voice carrying a soothing, maternal cadence. “Well, that’s why I’m here.” She crouched slightly to be at Teddy’s eye level. “And how’s my little helper today? Did you bring me another drawing for the wall?”
Teddy giggled and held up a crumpled piece of parchment he’d been clutching tightly. “It’s a dragon! Dwaco helped with the fire!”
Morgana accepted the drawing as though it were a masterpiece, holding it up to the light. “Why, it’s magnificent! We’ll have to make room for it right over here.” She turned to Draco with a grin. “You know, I’ve been meaning to ask: how are your lessons coming along? Or should I assume I’ll be feeding you forever?”
Draco huffed, though there was no malice in it. “I’m improving,” he said with a tilt of his chin. “I managed toast this morning. Didn’t burn it this time.”
“That’s progress!” Morgana teased before turning her attention back to Teddy. “Do you think Draco should learn how to make my famous stew?”
Teddy’s eyes went wide with enthusiasm. “Yes! Can I help?”
“Of course, sweetheart,” Morgana said, ruffling his turquoise hair affectionately. “You can be my official taste-tester.”
Draco settled at one of the small wooden tables, watching as Morgana bustled around the kitchen with Teddy toddling behind her, eagerly accepting small tasks. She showed him how to stir the pot and add sprigs of herbs, narrating each step in a way that was both educational and entertaining. Teddy soaked it all in, his giggles occasionally rising above the clattering of pots.
For a moment, Draco allowed himself to relax. The atmosphere was soothing, almost surreal in its normalcy. Morgana’s easy kindness was something he wasn’t used to—especially after the war—but it was a balm he hadn’t realized he needed
…
Draco and Harry had spent the morning rearranging Teddy’s room in Grimmauld Place. The day was unusually quiet, with the rain tapping gently against the windows, filling the space with a peaceful rhythm. The room was still cluttered with boxes, half-built furniture, and scattered toys. Draco had, as usual, taken charge of the smaller details—arranging the shelves, placing some stuffed animals here and there. He’d been fascinated by this concept he’d learned about—Montessori rooms—where furniture was at a child’s level, designed for their independence. And so, he’d placed the toys on the lower shelves, organizing them in neat rows.
Harry, on the other hand, was struggling with the new dresser. His brow furrowed in concentration, but the task seemed more complicated than it should have been. He was twisting his wand in different angles, trying to enchant the screws into place, but they kept slipping from his grasp. It wasn’t the first time he’d found himself frustrated with something mundane, but this felt different—his mind was far away, wandering through responsibilities that didn’t seem to end.
Draco paused, watching Harry for a moment, his hands still occupied with the toys. He could see the lines of exhaustion around Harry’s eyes, the set of his shoulders too tense for comfort. He hadn’t had a full day off in what felt like forever. The weight of Harry’s responsibilities was suffocating, and Draco felt an odd mixture of frustration and sympathy for him. That part of Harry’s character—the endless drive to do the right thing, no matter the cost—was both admirable and maddening.
“Do you remember Fleur?” Harry asked, his voice cutting through the quiet, seemingly out of nowhere.
Draco looked up, raising an eyebrow. “The half-Veela from the Triwizard Tournament?”
Harry nodded, seeming to feel the need to continue. “Yeah, well, she married Bill. Ron’s older brother.”
Harry paused, waiting for a reaction. All he got was a soft chuckle and murmured, “A Weasley.” he muttered, his voice betraying more than a hint of sarcasm. But his words weren’t meant to insult Harry; they were more an attempt to deflect, to hide the tightening in his chest. He wasn’t interested in hearing about the Weasley family’s latest drama, but he knew Harry wasn’t making small talk for the sake of it.
“They had a daughter,” Harry continued, his voice softer now. “Her name’s Victoire.”
After a beat, Harry spoke again, his voice quieter this time, more tentative. “I was wondering if you’d mind Teddy visiting their family with me.”
Draco froze, his grip tightening on the toy he was holding. The question caught him off guard. He hadn’t expected Harry to ask for permission. It wasn’t that he didn’t want Teddy to meet Harry’s extended family. It was that Harry hadn’t even thought to consult him before. It was like Draco’s opinion didn’t matter in the decisions about the child he was helping to raise.
Draco shouldn’t have cared, but he did. It made him feel a flicker of warmth, thinking that Harry was genuinely trying not to hurt him as he had before. Yet it also made Draco want to pull away. The more hope Harry gave him, the more painful it was to harbor feelings for him. He turned his face as he couldn't stand looking to him.
Before Draco could fully process, Harry crossed the room in a few quick steps, grabbing his wrist and spinning him to face him. Draco’s breath hitched, surprised by the sudden closeness.
Harry's face was a mix of frustration and confusion, his voice low but firm. "You don’t have to look at me like that. I’m just trying to be considerate."
Draco’s pulse quickened, and he quickly pulled his wrist from Harry's grip, his tone defensive. "You can do whatever you want," he muttered stiffly, not wanting Harry to see how much the question had affected him. "You don’t need my permission for that."
But Harry wasn’t about to let it go. He could feel the tension rising between them, the space narrowing. “I'm just being nice, but guess you don't know how to not be an ass.”
Draco snapped. “The great Saint Potter, condescending even to a heinous criminal like me,” he drawled, his words coated with sarcasm as he returned to his task, trying to regain control over the situation. He wasn’t going to let Harry see how much it hurt. He couldn’t.
“Why are you doing this?” Harry asked, his voice rising with confusion. “It doesn’t suit you to wallow in self-pity.”
Draco shot him a sharp look, his defenses flaring up. “Well, that ridiculous shirt doesn’t suit you, either, and I hadn’t said anything,” he snapped, his tone biting.
Harry’s frustration finally broke through. He moved closer, his voice softening as he reached out, “I’m just trying to understand why you’re acting like this. Why push me away?”
Draco felt a flicker of something—guilt, perhaps, or an instinct to retreat further. He couldn’t explain it, the way Harry’s kindness was both comforting and unbearable. Every time Harry looked at him with those damn hopeful eyes, it made Draco want to pull back, to shut down. But Harry’s presence, the way he was so determined to include him, made it all the harder.
Harry’s frustration was clear now, the space between them shrinking by the second. He reached out, gently taking Draco’s wrist, forcing him to face him. Draco’s breath caught in his throat. For a moment, everything else ceased to matter. For a heartbeat, they were so close that they might have kissed without much effort. The storm in Draco’s gray eyes betrayed too many emotions, but in a blink, all that was left was the fiery glint of anger.
“That hurts, you brute,” he muttered, wrenching his wrist free and stepping back, his voice low with something that could’ve been pain, or something darker.
“I thought we were getting along. Why are you picking a fight?” Harry’s voice was confused, frustrated.
Draco shook his head, his mouth twisting into a mockingly sweet smile. “A mere Death Eater like me could never quarrel with the Savior,” he said with exaggerated surrender, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
Without another word, he turned and walked out of the room, leaving Harry standing there, heart pounding in his chest. The room felt colder without Draco’s presence. Harry collapsed onto the floor, staring at the ceiling, wondering what had just happened between them.
What the hell had just happened?
...
The image of Draco sleeping peacefully that morning still lingered in Harry’s mind. The door to Malfoy’s room had been slightly ajar, and Harry had glanced in without thinking. What he’d seen had caught him off guard: Draco sprawled across the bed, his face uncharacteristically relaxed, his sharp features softened in sleep. The sight had been... disarming.
"Malfoy’s kind of... pretty," Harry muttered to himself at his desk, shaking the thought away.
"Do you think so?" Hermione’s voice cut through his muttering like a hex.
The women stood at the doorway, holding a stack of files, one eyebrow raised in curiosity.
Harry jumped, nearly spilling his inkpot. "Merlin, Hermione! Don’t sneak up on people like that!"
"I didn’t sneak up; you were too busy muttering to yourself." She set the files down and crossed her arms. "What were you saying about Malfoy?"
"Nothing!" he said, far too quickly.
Hermione gave him a long, knowing look as she set a stack of parchment on his desk. "Right. Nothing. You’ve been distracted all day, Harry. And now you’re muttering about Malfoy. Care to explain?"
Harry groaned, leaning back in his chair. "It’s stupid, okay? This morning, I saw him asleep, and it just... threw me off. He looked so... peaceful. It was weird."
"Weird," Hermione echoed, her tone deliberately neutral.
"Yeah, weird. Because it’s Malfoy," he added hastily, as though that explained everything.
Hermione hummed thoughtfully, tapping her chin. "You know, some people might interpret that as you noticing something nice about him."
"It’s not nice! It’s just... unexpected," Harry argued, flailing slightly.
"Unexpected can be nice," she countered, her lips twitching in amusement. “Are things good between you two?”
“They are strange, as always”, Harry groaned again, dragging a hand through his hair. "Can we not do this, Hermione? I’m not... whatever you’re thinking, I’m not that."
"I’m not thinking anything," she said, a little too innocently. "But you seem to be doing enough thinking for both of us."
"I’m not thinking about him!"
Harry glared at her, but she simply smiled and gathered her things. "Just a thought, Harry: maybe let yourself think about why you’re so adamant you aren’t thinking about him."
With that, she walked off, leaving Harry staring at his desk in frustration. "Brilliant," he muttered, shaking his head. But later, as he tried to focus on his paperwork, her words kept circling back in his mind, refusing to let him go.
Of course, Hermione had harbored her suspicions about Harry’s feelings toward Draco for years—perhaps since sixth year, when Harry’s obsession with Malfoy had been nothing short of relentless. It wasn’t that she faulted him; their world had been teetering on the brink of collapse, and Draco had undeniably been at the center of so much intrigue and danger. But there was something about the intensity of Harry’s focus, something more than strategy or mistrust.
While Ron treated it as typical Harry behavior—overly determined, singularly focused—Hermione saw something more. She couldn’t ignore the subtle contradictions in Harry’s actions. His expressions when Draco's name was mentioned, his constant need to prove something about or to Malfoy, and the way their confrontations seemed to carry an unspoken weight. She had seen those lingering glances, the way Harry spoke about Draco with a fervor that felt too personal to be rooted solely in hatred.
And then there was Draco himself. Hermione was observant enough to notice the subtle shifts in Malfoy’s demeanor whenever Harry was around. She had caught the fleeting looks—half longing, half defiant—and the way Draco’s sharp retorts seemed designed not just to wound but to capture Harry’s attention. It was almost adolescent in its transparency, like the antics of a boy desperate to disturb the girl he fancied.
But it wasn’t simple. It wasn’t a schoolyard crush. Hermione had also seen the weight of guilt and fear in Draco’s eyes, the way he sometimes looked at Harry as if he were both salvation and torment. It was as if Draco carried a quiet, unspoken admiration for Harry—perhaps even a longing for the kind of courage and integrity that Harry seemed to embody so effortlessly. Draco’s need for Harry’s attention had always been palpable, even when it came in the form of sneers and insults. It was the need of someone who had been denied something vital, who didn’t know how to ask for what they truly wanted.
Hermione didn’t bring it up to Harry. She knew her best friend well enough to understand that he wasn’t ready to confront those kinds of truths about himself, let alone about Draco. But she kept her observations close, piecing together the nuances of their interactions, and waiting for the moment when Harry might start to see what had been right in front of him all along.
Hermione had always prided herself on being analytical, but this? This was tricky. She understood Harry better than anyone, and it seemed to her that he might not fully understand himself when it came to Draco Malfoy.
…
Teddy slept with Draco. The plan was for the adults to take turns on different nights, but Harry moved too much during the night, and now that the little one had outgrown his crib and slept in a bed, Draco feared his cousin might get squished by Potter during one of his nightmares.
Draco had his bad nights, of course, but most of the time it didn’t give him nightmares—instead, it kept him from sleeping. Which wasn’t exactly advantageous, but it didn’t pose a risk to Teddy, and that was enough.
However, that particular night, the little Metamorphmagus was sick with a simple cold, and he decided he wanted to sleep with his godfather.
“Teddy, could you please get out of that damn bed and come sleep?” Draco asked for the thousandth time. The little boy just crossed his arms and sat on the bed.
Harry couldn’t help but laugh, which only made Malfoy angrier. Draco hated messing up the schedule and had no idea how long he’d been trying to convince Teddy. He was on the verge of giving up.
“What are you laughing at, Potter?”
“Sorry, it’s just that he has the same arrogant face as you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” It was impressive—without even realizing it, Draco made the same expression, and Harry had the privilege of comparing it to the one the little boy had beside him.
Both had their arms crossed, chins raised, and lips pressed into a slight line. Some of Teddy’s blue hair began to shift to a more platinum hue, and in that moment, Harry truly thought that the strange family they’d built might actually work.
“The color of Teddy’s hair doesn’t lie.”
“You’re ridiculous, and I want to sleep.” Draco was wearing a bathrobe over his silk pajamas. Harry couldn’t stop laughing every time he saw it. The shimmering fabric had the initials D.M. embroidered in cursive.
“Stay, stay, stay!” Teddy exclaimed, throwing himself onto the bed and kicking his legs. This wasn’t like him, so the two adults exchanged surprised looks.
“Don’t be like that, little monster. This isn’t my room, but if you want to sleep here, it’s fine.”
“You wouldn’t be a bother either,” Harry even surprised himself with what came out of his mouth. “I mean, the bed is big enough. Ted can sleep in the middle, and you don’t actually have to sleep, just stay until he falls asleep.”
A million things ran through Draco’s head at that moment, and he didn’t know if accepting the invitation was a good opportunity to improve his relationship with Harry or just a new form of torture.